Nahin Sanjh Nahin Bhor #10

You did not understand what I said. Acting means only this: the doer is the Divine; I am not the doer. That is the truth. How can falsehood enter into that? The doer is God.
As long as we think “I am the doer,” we are the lie. The moment He is known as the doer, the lie is gone.
So there is no opposition between acting and authenticity. Only acting can be authentic.
And you have imposed your own meaning on acting—that inside is one thing and outside another. Acting simply means: the deed is not mine. If a flute were to think that the song flowing through it is coming from it, that would be false. And if the flute understands that the song coming through me is only coming through me; the one who sings is someone else; the lips are someone else’s; the voice is someone else’s; the notes are someone else’s. I am merely an instrument. Then the flute steps aside from being the doer and becomes an actor. Here there is no division of one thing outside and another inside.
So acting does not mean a lie. Acting is the greatest reality of this world, the highest authenticity.

No. If you remain a doer, you are not an actor. If the feeling remains that “I am the one who is doing,” then where is acting? Then falsehood has entered. Falsehood means ego.
In this world there is no lie greater than ego. “I am”—this is the lie. “God is”—this is the truth. That my being is separate from God’s being—this is the lie. My being is contained in That—I am a wave of His ocean, nothing more than a wave—this alone is authentic; this is the truth.
So the moment you become a doer, the lie enters. Become a non-doer and the lie is gone. Falsehood has nothing to do with merely telling lies. The lie is this very feeling “I am”; from it all other lies are born. This single lie of ego becomes the cause of thousands upon thousands of lies. On this tree of ego the leaves of lies grow, the fruits grow, the flowers grow.
To cut this ego from the root is what is called the state of non-doership. Call it non-doership, or call it acting—it's the same thing. But this question must have raised questions in the minds of many.
The second question is also related to this:

There is a great difference between knowing the art of acting and becoming a non-doer. Knowing the art of acting is one thing; turning life itself into acting is quite another.

An actor knows the art of acting when he is on the stage. The moment he steps down, he forgets the whole art. He comes home and becomes a doer again.

On stage, when he plays Rama and Sita is lost, he will act; the tears will be false; he will ask the trees; all will be unreal. He will weep, call out, shout, set out to search—everything will be false. But if, on coming home, he finds his wife has run away, he forgets to “act” again. Then he really begins to cry; real tears will flow. On the stage there was acting; the moment he comes home, the sense of doership returns.

Stage-acting will not help. Let life in its entirety become a stage.

And this is what often happens: when advising another, you become very wise. That wisdom is of no use; it is not worth even two pennies. Wisdom is useful only when the trouble is upon yourself and the wisdom still functions.

Everyone is intelligent when it comes to explaining things to others, and yet you won’t find these “wise” people resolving the problems of their own lives. There their entanglement is as great as anyone else’s.

It is very easy to advise others, because nothing of yours is at stake. “No turmeric, no alum, yet the color comes out rich.” You spend nothing; you have nothing to do. But when you try to bring it into your own life, it is difficult. A thousand difficulties arise—because thousands of old habits must be broken, conditionings erased, transformation must happen. One has to pass through a revolution. That revolution is costly—not cheap.

Religion is costly; it is not cheap. One must pay with one’s very life.

So acting on the stage is one thing; for your whole life—waking and sleeping—to be suffused with acting is quite another. That will happen only when you are steeped in meditation; only when you surrender yourself completely at the feet of the divine. Become subordinate—as Charandas has said: “Muktimool adheenata” (the root of liberation is surrender).

He who has made himself utterly subordinate will be free; who has said, “Now let Your will be done; I am a toy in Your hands. I have no will of my own. For if I am not, how can there be my will? If I am, then my will arises like a shadow. If I am not, no shadow forms. Now, whatever You make happen, let it be. Now only You are. The doing is Yours, the non-doing is Yours.” Understand this. The question is right.

Actors come to me; their problems are the same as yours. There is no difference. And they do know the art of acting. But they have not been able to bring that art into their lives. The art remains merely a profession. Their own life is not colored by that art. It’s a trade; they perform it; they earn by it. That will not be enough.

What I am saying will not work if you just drape it on the surface. It will not do to throw on a “Rama-shawl.” Let this Rama arise in the very life of your life; let it become your awareness—that “I am not.” If you can dissolve yourself, then whatever remains is nothing but acting.

And let me tell you what acting means then: do not think you are doing anything. If you are even “doing” the acting, you have become a doer. If you take even this attitude—“Look how skillful an actor I am, how perfectly I am acting”—then you have become a doer.

This is exactly what happens to your actors. They act, but even in acting they become doers. When someone praises an actor—“Your acting was so skillful”—his chest swells. He is a doer even of acting: “I did it; this skill is mine; this fame, this glory is mine.” He has become a doer even in acting.

The grip of the doer extends that far; the disease of ego has sunk so deep that even in acting, one becomes a doer.

A saint is an actor even in his actions; and an actor becomes a doer even in his acting! A saint would never say, “Look, I am acting—O God! See how skillfully I am acting.” Then it becomes false; then it is clear he has missed the very root.

For the saint there is not even anything to say about what he is doing. I am not; whatever You are making happen, is happening.

There is a saying: without His will, not even a leaf stirs. He is the one who stirs it. Everything is entrusted to Him—everything, unconditionally. Nothing is kept back. This state I call non-doership.

Learn this non-doership and you will become authentic.

Become an actor, and you will become true. The statement seems paradoxical, but look within it and you will see its harmony.

If you dissolve, you will be. If you become zero, you will become whole. If you remain, you will go on missing. You are the obstacle. You alone are the only obstacle to the joy of your life. In the celebration of your life, there is no discord other than you.

You yourself are hell; otherwise heaven is showering. You stand smeared in sorrow; otherwise nectar is flowing everywhere in this world. And why do you stand far and apart? Because you have taken yourself to be the “I.”

“The root of liberation is surrender.” Become subordinate to Him; surrender.

The third question is also related to this:

In love it is the easiest. I understand your difficulty. You are thinking that if you act in love, then love will become false. You missed my point. You didn’t understand what I was saying. The matter is a little subtle—so missing it is understandable. It is not gross. You caught it in a very gross way.
Now you ask: “How can there be acting in love?”
Because if you act even in love, it will become false. Then what value would false love have?
Look from the other side—look from my side. When I said: let life become pure acting, it applies most of all to love. Because in love there has never been a doer. That is why love is so close to the Divine, so close to prayer.
Have you loved? Or did love happen?—reflect on this. Give it a little attention. Your bond of love with someone—did you do it, or did it happen? What is there to do in it? What did you do? Did you make some effort? Practice something? Perform yogasanas? What did you do?
Someone appeared; you saw someone, and suddenly a wave of love swept through; every hair on your body thrilled. Your eyes met someone’s and it happened. A moment before, there was not even a thought of love. You weren’t even thinking about love. There was nothing of love. Your eyes met someone’s and it happened. Nothing was “said,” yet it was “said”—and you were bound forever.
Do you call this doing? What did you do? Where is your doership in this? It happened. Love happens—it is not done.
Therefore I say, if you maintain the sense of being a doer in love, then you have gone too far. There, the doer does not exist at all. That is why the wise have said: love alone leads to the Divine. If you understand love, you have understood something very profound about life.
Who has “done” love? No one has ever done it. It all happens. And if it happens, then how can there be a doer? The sense of non-doership will deepen by itself. In that non-doership is the acting.
So when I tell you: understand acting, I am not telling you to “act.” I am telling you that if you understand, the doer will dissolve; what remains is only acting.
If the Divine makes love happen, then love happens. Otherwise, what was ever in your power? Will you succeed by trying? If I say, “Love this person,” what will you do? You will say: it just doesn’t happen—what can we do?
It may be that you embrace this person, but there is no love in an embrace. Bone will meet bone. Skin will touch skin, but inwardly you will know there is no love at all. Nothing is surging; no song is being born; no music is rising. You will be in a hurry: when will I get free of this? How long will this person keep holding on? Don’t squeeze any harder! He’ll crack my ribs—what is he up to? Let him let go now!
If you are told: love—what will you do? You won’t be able to do anything. That is why love has become false in the world. Meaning?
From childhood you were told to love, and love cannot be done. So you learned to “do.”
Mother says: love me, because I am your mother. What has being a mother got to do with love? Father says: love me, because I am your father.
The expectations we place on a small child are enormous. What is this little child to do? You are the father—fine. But if love happens, it happens; and if it isn’t happening, what is the child to do?
He cannot refuse; he cannot protest; he cannot rebel. He is dependent—on the parents. Slowly he will begin to fabricate the pretense of love. Little by little, when the mother comes, he will smile. He can do nothing more yet. The mother will think: how much my son loves me! The smile is false. The child has learned politics. Mother is pleased; there is benefit in pleasing her.
Father comes home; the child runs to the door to welcome him. He has grasped the trick just like the dog—when you come home, the dog starts wagging its tail. Does the dog love you? The dog is doing politics. The dog is a politician. The dog has understood one thing: if he wags his tail, you are such a simpleton that you become very pleased. So wag it—what’s the harm? If he wags his tail, you give sweets. You bring toys; you fondle him.
As a dog learns to wag its tail, so the child learns to smile; to run and grab the father’s hand; to clutch the mother’s sari. He keeps holding on to her pallu. The mother is very pleased. If she is pleased, there is benefit, there is safety.
Thus love began to be false from the very start. Then one day you will be married and told: this is your wife, this is your husband—now love this person. “The husband is God”—love him. How will you love? Love has been falsified.
Love simply cannot be done. If it happens, it happens. It descends from the sky. It comes by unknown pathways and surrounds your life-breath. It comes like a gust of wind.
You see: the trees sway—the wind has come. If it doesn’t come, they don’t sway. Love is like that. The sun rises and light spreads. If it doesn’t rise, there is darkness. Love is like that.
Love is not in your hands; love is not in your control; love is not in your fist. You are in love’s fist. This is the meaning of surrender.
So love is the closest thing to prayer. Therefore if you understand love, you will find: nothing is done by you; the Divine is making it happen. This is my meaning—by acting.
By acting I do not mean that you are doing something. If you do something, it becomes false. You realize: I am not the doer; the One who makes it happen and the One who does—it is He. I am only an instrument, a puppet in His hands. “Dependence that is the source of liberation.”

Politicians have dirtied the word “revolution.” Words get soiled by overuse. Just as religious leaders have dirtied the word “God,” politicians have dirtied the word “revolution.”

Anything at all gets called a revolution! A minor change is called revolution. A small reform is made into revolution.

And Jayaprakash went to the limit! He calls it a total revolution—what has happened isn’t even a revolution—let alone total. Where is the revolution in it?

One party of politicians was removed, another took power. And there is no basic difference between the two. Chips off the same block—kissing cousins. Whether it’s Sister Indira or Brother Morarji—what difference does it make? Where is revolution in this? The truth is we’ve stepped two paces back.

The country got angry with Indira precisely because she was attempting some revolution. Revolution is not tolerated. In the attempt, some excesses happened. The excesses were not only Indira’s doing; the reason was that people cannot tolerate revolution.

The population of this country keeps rising. The country is becoming poorer by the day. But tell anyone to practice birth control and he gets offended—because this country has always believed that children are given by God. And no one is concerned that with such explosive population growth, we will become poorer day by day.

When people get poor, they shout: “Eradicate poverty!” This very country shouts: “Eradicate poverty!” But when an effort is made to eradicate it, obstacles arise, because the measures go against its cherished beliefs.

The first step to eradicate poverty is total control over population growth. But people get angry!

No one agrees to family planning. People think their freedom is being attacked—their freedom to have children has been stolen.

They think at least this much should be our freedom—to decide how many children we will have. They do not think that the children they have deepen poverty.

These same people scream: “Remove poverty!” But the moment you start removing it, they themselves become the obstacle. And when they obstruct...

Indira tried to break through these obstacles; in breaking them, some excesses occurred.

Indira was attempting revolution.

In five months, the regime Jayaprakash seated on the throne looks extremely counter-revolutionary.

I also welcomed this government—only in the hope that a sincere man like Jayaprakash stood behind it; with a man of integrity at the back, perhaps something could happen. But the story of these five months is astonishing.

In these five months nothing happened; the country slipped downward. Even the little that Indira had done, they spoiled.

In these five months they only managed one thing: they made no mistakes. But is “not making mistakes” a virtue? In truth, mistakes occur to those who do something. If you do nothing, how will you err?

Indira tried to do something; naturally mistakes happened. They should not have—but when anyone attempts anything, mistakes are natural. One should accept that mistakes are natural.

If you sit an exam, mistakes will occur. If you don’t sit the exam at all, how can you make mistakes?

In these five months, since this government did nothing, you cannot blame it for any mistakes. If they didn’t walk, how could a thorn prick? They sat where they were!

And what did they do? Only this much: how to smear the old regime’s name. Is this any occupation? What purpose is there in wasting so much time on this? What is gone—is gone.

Such indecency doesn’t happen in any other country. If every incoming government spends its time ferreting out the previous government’s misdeeds, the world’s work would grind to a halt. One gets five years; it will spend them in witch-hunts. Then the next government will come and hunt this one; and it will find just as many mistakes—because those who hold power will naturally err. Even if you do nothing, you will err. Even doing nothing leads to errors, no matter how carefully you try to avoid them.

And you weren’t sent there merely to avoid mistakes. If your aim was to make no mistakes, you were better off staying home!

If, seated in power, your only purpose is to make no mistakes and to investigate the previous regime, that’s a very strange business.

It is like a new teacher comes to a school and spends all his time exposing the last teacher’s errors. These are children; they need education. The previous teacher at least taught something—even if imperfectly. This gentleman wastes all his time on the last teacher’s mistakes!

So many commissions have been set up! The whole work seems to be: how to unearth the past government’s mistakes. I am not saying there were no mistakes. There certainly were. But to spend so much time on them will itself become a grave mistake.

Jayaprakash calls this total revolution! There is not a trace of total revolution in this. Not even revolution. It cannot even be called small reform. The truth is: it is counter-revolution. A fall below revolution.

Those who have come to power are more antiquated. More reactionary. More sticklers of the dead line.

Indira had a little courage. That very courage brought her trouble. Had she not shown courage, she would still be worshiped as Devi, Durga. She dared—and you got offended. You were inconvenienced. Your beliefs, your traditions, your arrangements were slightly shaken and you were thrown into difficulty.

Every day people shout that the shanties of Bombay, Delhi, Calcutta should be cleared. But when you try, there’s trouble! The moment you try, the hundreds of thousands living there get angry. They refuse to move. “You are taking away our homes.” Even if you give them better homes—outside the city—they are upset. They will sit tight right there. If you want to move them, you will have to use force. And if you don’t, they spread filth. If you don’t, they are like a festering wound.

Consider: if your foot develops a wound, you go for surgery. The maggots in your wound—if you ask them—they’ll be very angry. “We are being removed. Our home is being taken!”

If you get TB, the bacilli feeding on your life—what is the treatment? Kill them. But ask them and they’ll say: “What injustice! To save this one man you’re killing millions of bacilli! Think a little!”

Clear a slum-dweller and he is angry. And if he is angry, those who want power stand with him. “This is an injustice to the people!”

In this world, anything worth doing can avoid “excess” only when people willingly welcome it. Otherwise excess cannot be avoided—or else nothing can be done. And if nothing can be done...

If poverty is to be removed, if the country is to become prosperous—and people have become habituated to poverty; their way of life ensures that they remain poorer and poorer—then that way of life will have to be broken. Only then is revolution possible.

As I see it, a state that is not in thrall to the people’s past but is oriented to the future alone can create revolution. A state power that tries to keep in step with the people’s past and keep them pleased cannot create revolution.

The story of these five months is very strange. Hope turned to despair. And Jayaprakash did what Gandhi had done before. The same mistake, the same naivety. It’s important to understand this too.

Gandhi fought the British; and when power came into his hands, he refused to take the responsibility. He saved himself—because even Gandhi understood clearly: if he took power, it would soon be obvious that the slogans he had given the people could not be fulfilled. The people’s problems are very hard. They were not caused by the British—otherwise, with the British gone, all problems would have ended. The problems are difficult, complex.

Gandhi was a clever politician. He clearly saw that if he sat in power, he would lose his prestige—because the problems would not be solved. Solve one and ten others get entangled. It’s a vast country; the problems are huge; the knots numerous. And to keep the people happy—that is the greatest nuisance. The people themselves are the obstacle—even to their own good.

So Gandhi sidestepped. And we applauded that sidestep. This is our pleasure—the stupidity of the masses! “This is a saint,” we said, “Power came into his hands and he didn’t take it!”

But it’s as if a surgeon lays a patient on the table, opens his belly, and then says, “I won’t operate.” Will you call him a saint? He says, “My assistant will do the surgery.” Because once he opens the belly and sees the man’s chances are poor, he thinks, “Why should I take the risk? I’ll stand back. I’ll save myself. Let the assistant cut. If the patient lives, I saved him—because I began, and he is my assistant. And if he dies, the assistant made a mistake!”

So Gandhi saved himself; he didn’t go into power. He should have. Not to take it was a kind of dishonesty—an artful move. And the people felt very pleased. “A Mahatma indeed!”

Such is the stupidity of the masses! They should have insisted: “You fought; you made us fight; now power has come—do what you said you would! Self-rule has arrived; now bring good rule. You talked of Ram Rajya—now is the time. Bring it.”

“You spoke for fifty years. Now you have the opportunity—where are you running?” Had the country been intelligent, the people would have compelled him to take power. Two things would then have become clear: either Gandhi could have done something—and the country would have benefited. Or at least the country would have been rid of him. My hope is that we would have been rid of him—because the country would have seen the matter through to the end.

Yesterday I read Raj Narain’s statement. It is important. He said: “When I was not a minister, I had more prestige. Now my prestige has declined.”

He is a simple, clean man. Few say such things. Brother Morarji will not say it. This man said the truth—when I wasn’t in power, I was more respected; in power, less.

Power will always decrease prestige—because the problems you carried in will not be solved. People gave you prestige because you made a racket—“Such and such should be done and isn’t being done, and I will do it.”

People sent you there. Then you sat down—and even what was being done is no longer being done. You aren’t doing anything—your prestige naturally declines.

Had Gandhi stayed in power for two years, what Godse could not do, power would have done: he would have been politically dead forever. The country would have been rid of him forever. Now there will never be deliverance, because the hope will always linger: if only someone had followed Gandhi, good rule would have come; Ram Rajya would have come. And now? Gandhi slipped away, and we have no way left to test it.

Jayaprakash has repeated the same thing.

People say Jayaprakash is Gandhi’s legatee. I say so too. He has proved it—by avoiding power!

You fought; you labored; you uprooted the old regime. Now you had the chance to show by doing that you could do something—and you slipped away!

Now Jayaprakash’s samadhi will also be built at Rajghat, beside Gandhi’s. People lay flowers on one—now they will lay them on two. That’s the only “revolution” that has happened.

It is a dishonesty. What difference has come? And a difference of such a kind that has no value.

The truth is, the new class in power says only this: they freed the country from the Emergency. But the irony is: the Emergency came because of their own agitations. Otherwise there was no need to declare it. They were the cause.

The disturbances started by Jayaprakash and Morarji brought the Emergency. Now they say: “We got rid of it!” But you were its begetters. Had you not created the disorders, Indira was not eager to impose it. You agitated; she had to declare it. Now your agitation has succeeded; you have ended the Emergency. The country stands where it stood. Nothing has changed.

It is not fair to put the whole responsibility for the Emergency on Indira. Ninety percent of it lies on those who are now in power. It was a compulsion; it had to be brought.

Jayaprakash began to say things like: the policeman, the army jawan should also revolt. If such things are said, any government, for the security of the country, will do something; it must. It was a compulsion.

Now they have come to power. Jayaprakash has escaped—he will never be held responsible. And those who have the reins are more reactionary than Indira.

Did anyone ever think Brother Morarji was a revolutionary? Someone said to me: his real name is not Morarji Bhai, but Magrurji Bhai—Mr. Arrogant!

No one ever thought he was revolutionary or that he could bring revolution!

With Indira at least power was in youthful hands. Now power has gone into the hands of the dead.

And what are they doing that has anything to do with revolution? Will banning cow slaughter bring revolution?

This country is dull-witted! It delights in foolish issues. If cow slaughter is banned here, people will think revolution has happened! Will that fill the stomach of the hungry? He will be a little hungrier—because the cows saved will also have to be fed.

I’m not saying cow slaughter should happen. I am saying: this will not be revolution.

Now Brother Morarji is obsessed with prohibition. Will prohibition make a difference? Will the country become prosperous with prohibition?

In fact, for the poor, the distressed, the tormented, those almost dead—alcohol is their support. On it, they make it through. They forget themselves a little. And you want to snatch even that! After a day’s troubles and pain, in the evening he drinks and forgets: let tomorrow take care of itself.

Prohibition will not remove people’s suffering. Yes—if people’s suffering is removed, prohibition will happen by itself.

I too am in favor of a world without alcohol—but not in favor of prohibition as the first step.

I say: people are distressed; so distressed that alcohol is their crutch. Who chooses poison knowingly? Does any happy person drink poison? People are anxious. And don’t imagine the wealthy are not anxious. They are as anxious.

This country is so poor that to be rich here is an even greater worry. If one man stands clothed among a thousand naked men, how long can he remain clothed? When a thousand naked men stand around you, ready to tear your clothes off—will they stop at your clothes? Will they spare your skin?

Among a thousand naked men, one clothed man—you cannot imagine his worry. He is more troubled than the naked. He feels: if not today, tomorrow these clothes will be snatched. Someone is tugging here, someone there. He fears: not only will the clothes go, will my limbs be spared? Will my neck survive?

Prohibition will do nothing. It deceives the country. It is not revolution. It replaces real questions with fake ones—and the fun with fake questions is that people approve. Even the drinker, as far as lip service goes, says, “Yes, alcohol is bad.” Everyone agrees it is bad—so who will publicly oppose prohibition?

And even one who is not a cow devotee will not say cows should be cut. Even a Muslim won’t say they should be—because the point seems straightforward: violence cannot be good.

These things sit snug in our popular mind: cows should not be slaughtered; alcohol should not be drunk. To go along with the collective mind is easy. But nothing will be solved by it.

Suppose cow slaughter is banned. Suppose prohibition is imposed. What difference will it make? How much? Will the poor’s poverty vanish? Will the illiterate become educated? Will the homeless get homes? What will happen? Only new dangers will grow.

Psychologists say: for the poor, the hungry, the harried, if there is no alcohol, one cheap recreation remains: sex. If the husband comes home drunk at night, he sleeps. Or makes a bit of noise, wanders about, stumbles in and sleeps. If he doesn’t come drunk, there is only one outlet—sex.

Prohibition will increase this country’s population. It will increase people’s tension and restlessness. And when people are more taut, more restless, more harried, there will be more strikes, more riots, more stabbings, Hindu-Muslim riots, Maharashtrians versus Gujaratis—this and that—disturbances of all kinds.

Alcohol is a sedative. And remember, I am not an advocate of alcohol. I too want it to go—because it causes harm, to health and otherwise. But let it go by removing its roots. Otherwise, there is no point.

Cow slaughter should certainly stop. But where human beings are being killed, cow slaughter cannot be stopped.

Many sannyasins have come to me from the West; they all say they have never seen cows as emaciated as here. Western cows are magnificent. Giving thirty or forty seers of milk is natural for a cow. Sixty seers a day is common. Here? If a cow gives three quarters of a seer, that is a lot!

People are dying; where is the fodder for cows? Yet you will increase their numbers. There is no water to drink, no grass to eat—and you increase the herd.

I am not in favor of killing cows. How can I be in favor of killing anyone? Understand my difficulty.

I know cows should be saved. But when people are dying here, cows cannot be saved first. First, man must be saved. When man is saved, cows can be saved some day. Saving cows will not save man. What will the cow do? The greater the number of cows, the less milk per cow, because the feed is divided.

In the West, the number of cows is not large. Cows are fewer, but they get full nourishment.

If you have fifty cows and the feed is limited, it gets divided. Together they may give fifty seers of milk.

In the West, one cow does the work—there aren’t fifty. One cow gives fifty seers. And one cow costs less. Fifty cows are a nuisance: housing, care, staff, everything.

In the West, rivers of milk and curds still flow—the very rivers your Puranas talk about. But our stupidity is such that trivial things seem revolutionary to us—worth two pennies, of no real value, not a glimmer of understanding in them.

But the masses are dull. If you want to remain their leader, do what they believe.

And then a miracle occurred! For the first time, the Jan Sangh, the RSS, and the Muslims stood together against Indira. Eternal enemies became allies! Hindutva ideologues and Muslims joined to defeat Indira. How did this happen? They who had always stabbed each other in the chest—how did they come together?

That family-planning experiment—because of it they united. The Muslims were very angry. Indira’s defeat in Uttar Pradesh is Muslim anger—nothing else. The Muslim could not tolerate interference in his reproductive “freedom.”

The Muslim is tangled in some strange notions—for instance, the rule that a man can marry four women! Whoever obstructs that angers him. This is utterly unethical—that a man may marry four women. And if you call that ethical, then why is it unethical for a woman to marry four men?

It is oppression. But if you try to make a law that a man can marry only one woman, the Muslim gets angry. His freedom is being curtailed. He has exploited women forever.

Women are not honored in Islam; they are greatly dishonored. What greater dishonor than to become the owner of four women! The man sees benefit: he gets four women to work; his income quadruples.

And this is why people obstruct birth control. They put small children to work. They won’t send them to school. If you insist on sending to school, their “freedom” is curtailed!

They don’t send to school; they put the little ones to work—grazing cows, cutting grass, digging pits, chopping wood. The more children, the more hands to earn a little money.

To such a person this looks beneficial, but the life of the whole community becomes diseased. Whoever tries to touch these practices becomes the enemy.

Indira fell for this reason: she was trying to bring a little revolution, and if she had to be excessive, the reason was not Indira. The reason was the people who created the obstacles.

You yourselves will create obstacles—against your own interests!

Those who have come to power—I welcomed them too, hoping that Jayaprakash is a man of integrity. But he deceived us just as Gandhi did. He inherited the will perfectly! Now he sits in Patna, and the very things he fought Indira over continue as they were. No difference anywhere.

Yesterday I was reading a song by Bal Kavi Vairagi. I liked it. Understand it.

The destination the same, the intention the same,
the orders the same, the rights the same,
the custom the same, the strategy the same,
the revenge the same, the counterblow the same—
whoever calls this revolution, blessed be his “thinking”!
To call mere change a revolution
is perhaps helplessness.
When moss grows on thought,
when the whirl of upheaval stalls,
know the generation has lost;
the west wind has felled the east wind.

What is this violent and nonviolent?
What definition, what language?
What speech, what rebuttal?
What acting, what spectacle?
Revolution is only revolution—
first admit at least that much.
Then, unconditionally, play messiah—
first recognize this generation.
When the wound is the same, estrangement the same,
the talk the same, the scattering the same,
was the offering then wasted?
The west wind has felled the east wind.

When the singer of the fire-lyre
loses himself in Megh Malhar,
I feel like setting fire
to the strings of the fire-lyre.
You light a blaze and say,
“O Mother Flame, now go to sleep,
while we sing Raga Darbari,
you turn into water for a while.”
When piety is the same, faith the same,
when the corpses and the cremation grounds are the same,
whom did the storm make resound?
The west wind has felled the east wind.

They licked away that monsoon;
they will drink up this spring.
Both have sworn oaths—
how will this garden survive?
Rahu has sat in the seventh house;
perhaps the horoscopes of the gardener
and the branch did not match
for this redness and this greenness.
When the bees’ statement is the same,
and the butterfly’s fate the same,
whom does the sweet season adorn?
The west wind has felled the east wind.

I sang Bhairav yesterday,
I am singing Bhairav now.
I woke you yesterday,
I am waking you now.
That was the conspiracy of darkness,
this is the conspiracy of light.
Every sun has joined the dark moon
to murder this generation.
When blow and counterblow are the same,
when kohl and vermilion are of the same caste,
whom does the dawn beautify?
The west wind has felled the east wind.

Those who needed fire yesterday
now carry monsoons on their heads;
those who carried monsoons yesterday
today weep for fire.
They are all smugglers of seasons,
all in collusion with cleverness;
all merchants of dreams,
all cousins to one another.
The slogans in the sky are the same,
and the blind stars are the same;
a witch, veiled, has struck and killed—
the west wind has felled the east wind.

The destination the same, the intention the same,
the orders the same, the rights the same,
the custom the same, the strategy the same,
the revenge the same, the counterblow the same—
whoever calls this revolution, blessed be his “thinking”!
To call change revolution
is perhaps helplessness.
When moss grows on thought,
when the whirl of upheaval stalls,
know the generation has lost—
the west wind has felled the east wind.

Nothing has changed. Everything is as it was.

And let me tell you: this is not just what happened here—till today, no political revolution anywhere has been revolution.

The very science of revolution has become futile. Talk of revolution is no longer revolutionary. All revolutions have lost. The French lost; the Russian lost; the Chinese lost—none has won.

From this we should understand one essential point: revolution does not happen by changing those in power. It happens by changing the very quality of people. Revolution does not come from the state; not from society; only from the individual. Only in the individual consciousness does the lamp of revolution light.

Therefore, I have no excitement about state, power, society. My interest is in you—in the individual. If individuals are transformed in large enough numbers, society will change too. But there is no direct way to change society. How will you? The very society you want to change—you must seek votes from it. Understand this mechanism.

You must ask for votes from those you intend to change. They will give their vote only when you suit them. If you go against them, they won’t vote. And if you are to change them, you must go against them. Now the arithmetic gets tangled. You must take permission from them and then work against their old ways. First they won’t give permission; and if they do—under some promise or delusion—the moment change begins, they will be angry. “We were deceived! We were told one thing, another is being done.”

This crowd is lost in darkness. It doesn’t know what is in its own interest. If it knew, its interest would have been served long ago. It doesn’t even know what harms it. It keeps doing harm to itself—chopping its own feet with its own axe. If you stop it, it gets angry.

So whoever wants revolution will not be able to take votes from the people. And whoever needs the people’s votes must talk revolution, but should not do it, should not get into the trouble of revolution.

Indira got into that trouble. She began to feel she could do something.

I remember—years ago—I met Indira. Morarji was then her Deputy Prime Minister. She said to me, “I read you; what you say feels right. But you know I am tangled with people like Brother Morarji. Nothing can be done. Whatever you try, obstacles arise. To keep all these tied together is very difficult. Try to do anything new and they stiffen and stand in the way. They don’t want to cooperate.”

I told her: those who stiffen like that—bid them goodbye, slowly. She did; slowly she sent them off. But she sent off so many that they all gathered together—and together they killed the very possibility of revolution.

So I cannot see revolution ever happening on the basis of state power.

Stalin had to kill at least ten million people in Russia. And those who were killed were not millionaires. Where would you find so many millionaires? Had there been so many, there would have been no need! They were poor people. But they created big obstacles to revolution. Forced great compulsions. These are the truly stubborn ones. They put up so many barriers that they had to be removed from the path. But it was a dictatorship—so Stalin could do it.

Whatever little wealth Russia has today is because of Stalin’s coercion. If there had been democracy, even that would not have been possible.

Though I am not in favor of killing ten million people. That price is too high. Nor am I in favor of destroying all freedom—putting people into a prison.

Mao too could do a lot in China—but with the gun at the chest.

Those whose interests you want to serve—you must press the bayonet against their chest to make them act; otherwise they won’t.

What Mao did, what Stalin did...

Indira had slowly begun to understand: if anything is to be done, a little force will be needed. Because of that force she had to go—this is a democracy. Here every five or seven years you must go back and get a fresh certificate that the people approve you. In five years, the world does not change.

Every five years you must ask the people’s permission. If you have done even a little against them, after five years you will be thrown out. And you must act against them—otherwise there will be no revolution.

As I see it, through state power there is only one way: either dictatorship—which exacts a huge price; it steals people’s souls. It can give bread, work, a roof—but people’s souls die. That is what happened in Russia and China.

Or democracy, which preserves freedom—but cannot bring revolution. Democracy and revolution do not fit well.

So what is the way? Only one: reach the individual directly. Catch hold of the person. Begin the revolution within the person. As one by one people change—understanding changes, beliefs change—the group thus formed will be able to accept revolution. That is what I am doing.

I have nothing to do with politics. I am utterly apolitical. I have no use for power. But the foundation of revolution is being laid. If in this country there are enough of my sannyasins, whatever revolution comes will need no violence. My sannyasin will welcome it—shower flowers on it. By then his beliefs will have changed; he will be filled with a new consciousness and a new flame. New understanding and new waves of thought will be in his mind. He will recognize where the obstacles are, how to break them, and be able to cooperate in breaking them.

Indira tried—but people were not ready. People had to be prepared.

Stalin tried—people were utterly unprepared; so they had to be killed. Then people took revenge. The moment Stalin died, they took revenge—wiped his name from Russia.

They are taking revenge on Mao too. Mao’s wife sits in prison. Though they still place flowers on Mao’s tomb, not for long. What Mao had done—in one year after his death—the new rulers wiped it away.

Life’s mesh is tangled, intricate. It is not as simple as Jayaprakash imagines—that you just change the men; seat one in another’s place, and revolution happens! This is not even reform. Revolution is far off.

If you want revolution, you will have to sow seeds in people’s souls. Transform one person at a time. Yes—when the number grows large, the transformed will become its vanguard. And whatever revolution comes, they will welcome it. Then excess will not be needed. The collective mind will itself be ready to welcome it.

As I see it, all revolution is personal. All growth is personal. Crowds do not grow—persons do. Only the person can—because the crowd has no soul. The person has soul, consciousness, awareness.

Revolution is nothing but a revolution of awareness. Therefore the real revolutions were not made by Stalin, Mao, Lenin, Tito. The real revolutions were made by Buddha, Mahavira, Christ. But even they face a compulsion.

People are in such darkness, so crawling, that a few lamps light up, but even then the darkness does not vanish.

Yet now the possibility keeps growing. It has been 2,500 years since Buddha. In 2,500 years, man has changed enough. Many rigidities have fallen away.

Had those rigidities remained, you would not even listen to me; you would put me on the cross. Two thousand years ago you would have crucified me at once. And even today, those who carry minds two thousand years old still wish the same for me. They are still angry. Their beliefs are not contemporary.

Some sit with beliefs two thousand years old; some three thousand!

Times have changed. Man has evolved more. What can happen today could never have happened before. Here you will find Christians, Muslims, Hindus, Jains, Buddhists. People of all religions are gathered. This had never happened. In a Jain temple you find Jains; in a Hindu temple, Hindus; in a mosque, Muslims.

This is the temple of the Divine—not of Hindu, Muslim, Christian, or Jain. Here you will find everyone.

Sannyasins are here from nearly every country. Only Russia was missing; a few days ago a Russian came and took sannyas. Now there is no country without sannyasins.

Today there is a possibility to break all boundaries—of caste, nation, religion. To shatter all old conditionings. Man today can agree to step out of his small enclosures—into the open sky.

As the number of such people grows, there will be revolution in the world.

And revolution is not a matter of haste—that it happen today. Man evolves slowly over thousands of years.

So my understanding is directed to the person. I have no taste for the state; no taste for society. But I do have a taste for the person. In the person, total revolution can happen.

Whatever a person established in samadhi does is a benediction, it is auspicious. Whatever a meditative person does will bring the auspicious, not the inauspicious. Because the energy of meditation makes you full of awareness. Your awareness saturates your actions. A person without meditation, whatever he does, will do it wrongly. So I know only one revolution: how meditation can be joined to your life. If you receive the wealth of meditation, you have attained the supreme wealth. And if meditation happens to you, the possibility arises that you can also kindle the light in your neighbors.

Let one flame kindle another. And if from one to one the flame keeps spreading, I can fill the whole world with fire. That is why these ochre robes have been chosen. This is the color of fire; they are symbols of the flame. In them you are to be consumed. In them you are to turn your past completely to ash. In them only pure consciousness should remain—no Hindu remains, nor Muslim, nor Christian, nor Jain. In them neither Indian, nor Pakistani, nor Chinese... let all beliefs and all pettiness be burned, reduced to ash. And ultimately, let even your ego be burned. That is what I call total revolution.

When even the ego is burned, total revolution has happened.

Total revolution happens in the individual. And if it happens in one individual, then around him the sparks begin to spread of their own accord. If it happens in one, it will happen in ten. If in ten, then in a hundred. Happening like this, one day flowers of revolution can bloom over the whole earth.

But this revolution cannot be imposed from above. This revolution can only be spiritual.

Certainly, those who preach “eat, drink and be merry” also say there is no certainty about tomorrow—so eat now, drink now, make merry now. I say it too; all the awakened ones say it. The reasoning is the same, but the aim and destination are different.

Those who follow the philosophy of eating, drinking, and making merry say: tomorrow is uncertain—so eat now, drink now, enjoy now.
The awakened ones say: tomorrow is uncertain—so meditate now, enter samadhi now, realize the Divine now. The targets are different, the destinations different. Do not postpone to tomorrow.

So the logic sounds the same, but the goals are vastly different.

The drunkard says: who knows about tomorrow? Whatever happens, happens then. You tell him, “You will starve tomorrow; save some money. Eat and drink tomorrow.” He says, “Who can rely on tomorrow? We’ll see tomorrow when it comes. Even Jesus said, ‘Do not think of tomorrow,’ so why should I think of it? Even Buddha said, ‘Do not postpone to tomorrow,’ so why should I postpone? What is in my hand today—let me enjoy it now; tomorrow we’ll see.”

He too is citing a sound point. The point is sound; the conclusion he draws is completely wrong.

The Buddha also says: drink—but drink the Divine, for tomorrow is not certain. If you squander today drinking wine…!
Tomorrow is uncertain, and today you waste in wine. Then when will you drink God? Tomorrow is uncertain, and you spend today in eating, drinking, dressing up—then when will you invite the Divine? Today will pass in vain, and tomorrow is uncertain. What was certain—today—was lost; what is uncertain remains uncertain.

And then, tomorrow you will still be you. If you spend today in eating and drinking, the full likelihood is you will spend tomorrow the same way. If tomorrow comes, you will spend it in eating and drinking, for people become slaves to their habits.

If today you sow anger, you have sown the seed for anger tomorrow. If today you are filled with ego, tomorrow you will be filled with ego, because tomorrow arises from within you; it does not descend from the sky. You will carry forward your rubbish and debris.

If today is spent in meditation, the possibility of meditation grows tomorrow. If tomorrow comes, you will thank the Divine: another day has been given to pray, to worship, to adore, to dance… thank you!

The Sufi fakirs say: each night, as you go to sleep, give thanks as if the last day has come, the last night—the night of Judgment. Thank God: “Immense gratitude—You gave me one more day, and I lived it in Your bliss.” And go to sleep as if dying, for who knows—you may die in the night and not rise in the morning. To die without giving thanks would be unseemly. God might ask, “You couldn’t even say thank you at the end?”

So each night, sleep as if you are dying. And each morning, when your eyes open, give thanks again—as if rebirth has happened, because on your side you did die in the night; now you have been given life again. The Lord has given one more day. We will celebrate it, sing its song, set the Name to rhythm, sit in satsang, sink into meditation. He has given one more day, one more opportunity. At night, again go to sleep with thanks.

Thus the logic seems the same, yet there are great differences.

“Walk smiling along the path through the garden;
the clouds are drunk—walk with a swaggering sway.
Tomorrow this pride of youth will turn to dust—
Josh, today at least show off your jaunty grace.”

On one side are those who say: since tomorrow we turn to dust, today let’s strut. Since tomorrow we perish, today let’s put on airs.

“Tomorrow to dust will go this vigor of youth…”
This youth will be dust tomorrow—so today, strut; today, hold your head high; today, flaunt your glory!

The saint too says that tomorrow you will turn to dust. But then, what is there to strut about? If dust is the destiny, what is the point of arrogance today? If in the end you hold only ash, why waste time in vanity? See now that all is ash.

In such understanding, ego melts. In such understanding, you disappear—and in your disappearance the Divine enters.

“Bring the goblet of the wine of joy;
some other time we will sip sorrow’s poison.
It is the night of union—do not stir talk of separation;
if we must live through that too, we will.”

The sensualist says: it is the night of union, the wedding night… do not talk of death and parting; do not raise the tune of renunciation now. If we must manage later, we will. If tomorrow we must turn to dust, we will—but don’t bring it up today.

The knower says: that which is bound to be has, in essence, already happened. Whether you mention it or not, it will happen; better to bring it into the light now—perhaps something can be transformed. Some time is still in hand.

“Give me to drink today, to my heart’s fill, the honey—
Think not of tomorrow, O bright-eyed one!
Think not of tomorrow!
It may be that by tomorrow
the mind’s attraction to nectar is gone;
It may be that tomorrow there is no omen in the sky
for drinking at all;
It may be that tomorrow we ourselves are not here
to pour or to drink—this too is possible;
Time’s mighty hand shakes, moment by moment,
the hem of life’s garment—
Who knows at which instant it may tear into shreds,
this flimsy robe woven of breath, O bright-eyed one!
Think not of tomorrow!

Who knows whether tomorrow
this heart-pleasing cloud will gather in the sky?
Who knows whether tomorrow
this soft breeze will stir the honey-grove?
Forget heaven and hell—today the crimson fairy
is singing her song;
Who knows whether tomorrow
that mad ecstasy will still live in the mind,
that unasked boon by which the vessel of life
overflowed with nectar?
Who knows whether that very fount will turn to poison tomorrow,
and the dream fall to its end, O bright-eyed one!
Think not of tomorrow, O bright-eyed one!”

The sensualist says: do not bring up tomorrow; beloved, do not bring up tomorrow. Who knows about it? Let us enjoy today; what is here, let us drown in it, be drenched in it.

But what you are wallowing in is ash. You have seen Hindu sannyasins sit smeared in ash. There is no need—they are already smeared in ash. Everyone is. There is nothing but ash in this world. You may fancy it is golden dust and roll in it as though you were becoming gold. But when your eyes open you find: all is ash.

The sooner the eyes open, the better—for if they open, something can be done. Otherwise you will keep rolling in ash.

The same food and drink; the same office, the same living; the same crying, the same laughter—you have done this enough. Till today nothing has come to your hand; your hands are still empty. Do something whereby the hands be filled, the breath be filled; something by which flowers may blossom, fruit may grow; something by which, before you go, you can thank the Divine; by which you can celebrate before you depart; that before death, the great festival arrives.

If not, life has been wasted; then you will have to come again; you will be thrown back—again here, again in the same filth, the same heap of ash.

I too say: do not worry about tomorrow, for tomorrow is not certain. But I do not say: eat, drink, be merry. Man does not end there.

Eating, drinking, making merry—at best they beguile the body for a little while.

And even from eating, drinking, “merriment,” where is real joy? It is nominal—a word, a pretense. You persuade yourself you are enjoying. Have real joy.

I too say: rejoice—but rejoice in the true. Real joy is only by being joined to the Divine. When the Beloved’s hand is in your hand, only then is there real rejoicing.

True fulfillment too comes only by drinking the Divine. If you must drink, drink that. Why drink the grape—drink the soul!

If you must drink, drink such that the intoxication never wears off. That which wears off is of little worth. Drink something that, once it rises, remains ever risen.

Real wealth is that which, once found, is forever yours. When such wine exists, why do you drink the paltry when the vast is present!

That is why the Sufi fakirs named God “wine.” Read the Sufis—do not misunderstand. Read Umar Khayyam—do not mistake him. Wherever he speaks of wine, he is speaking of samadhi. Umar Khayyam is a Sufi fakir, an accomplished saint, a siddha. Where he speaks of the tavern, he means the temple of God. Where he speaks of the wine-maid, he speaks of the Divine—God pouring, like a wine-maid, decanter upon decanter; and this whole world is His tavern.

From everywhere the wine is being poured—from flowers, from birds, from the moon and the stars—on all sides His fragrance, His sweet breath, His sap is dripping. Drink this sap. Drink it and you will be truly fulfilled.

Jesus once came to a well—tired and dusty from travel. To a woman drawing water he said, “Give me water to drink.” She looked and said, “Forgive me—perhaps you are a stranger and do not know. I am of a low caste; people do not drink water I have touched. As you wish.” Jesus laughed and said, “Do not worry about that; you give me to drink, and I will give you to drink as well. Your water will quench me for a little while; my water will quench your thirst forever. I asked you for water only so that by this excuse we might meet, and I may pour into you what I carry within.”

She must have been extraordinary. Perhaps that is why Jesus stopped at that well; there were other wells, others drawing water. She looked into his eyes. No one had ever said such a thing: “I can give you water by which your thirst will be quenched forever.” She looked into those supremely serene eyes—innocent eyes—and the words rang true. Simple woman that she was, she said, “Wait; I will bring the villagers. Let them too look into your eyes; we have never seen such eyes!”

To the villagers she said, “An incomparable man has come,” because no one had ever spoken such words. “He says he can give water that quenches thirst forever; and I am certain he has that water, for I have seen it in his eyes—brimming over!”

A Buddha, a Christ, a Krishna, a Kabir, a Nanak—they come carrying that honey. They are the flagons of the Divine.

If God is the wine-maid, if this world is His tavern, and if samadhi is the wine, then the saints are the wine-jars into which God keeps pouring.

I too say: drink; and I too say: eat; and I too say: be merry. But I speak of true joy, and I speak of that nectar which, once drunk, never leaves you thirsty again. Eat that food which satisfies the soul—not only the body.

When Jesus was about to die, on his final day, do you know what he said to his disciples? “Drink me and eat me.” Strange words: “Drink me and eat me. Digest me. Make me the flow of your blood.”

Even now, the followers of Jesus celebrate a yearly sacrament. They break bread and eat it as the body of Jesus. But bread is bread; you cannot deceive yourself that way. You must find a living Jesus, a true Master.

The followers of Jesus also pour ordinary wine—in remembrance of that real Wine which Jesus once poured. They drink it.

Last year in London, my sannyasins celebrated my birthday and sent me photographs. I was surprised—they had prepared quite a feast, and there was a bottle of wine as well. I asked what it was about. They were all Christians. They said, “When we celebrate Jesus’ birthday we drink wine, because he said, ‘Drink me.’ So we drank you that way.”

I said, “Fools, I am still alive. Drink me directly now. When I am no more, fine—make do with some other wine. When the real is available, why tie yourself to the counterfeit?”

I too say: eat, drink, and be merry. I too say it. But understand what I mean. And I too say: tomorrow is uncertain—so whatever is to be done, do it today. Tomorrow has never come, nor will it come. Tomorrow never arrives. Do not postpone to tomorrow. Whoever postpones to tomorrow postpones forever; union will never happen for him. He will keep missing, because today you postpone to tomorrow, and tomorrow never comes. When tomorrow comes, it comes as today; and when it comes as today, your habit of postponing will again say: we’ll do it tomorrow. There are many people like this here. Today itself someone has asked a question:

Sannyas—whose permission will you take? Are those from whom you’ll ask permission themselves sannyasins? If they could bless your sannyas with such joy, they would have become sannyasins already. Would they have waited until now? How will you ask their leave? And how will it be granted?

Even for sannyas you will seek permission from the household? Then will you ever do anything that is truly yours? Or will you go on forever obeying others’ orders?

Let there be at least something in life that is yours—utterly yours.

Do not reduce sannyas to someone else’s command. Let it remain a movement of your own heart. If the wave has arisen, dive in. And don’t be afraid. Families come around. Even if you die, they reconcile. Then what is sannyas in comparison? Do you think if you die, they will weep for you forever?

And my sannyas does not snatch you away from home. If you are a husband, it will make you a better husband. If you are a wife, a better wife. If you are a mother, a better mother. Because I am not against the world.

My God is vast—so vast that the world is contained within him. I am not talking of little, petty gods—so mean they cannot contain the world.

My God is in all, pervading the whole existence. Therefore there is nowhere to run, nor any need to be against anyone. There is no need to leave your wife.

For I call those who run away cowards. Those who drop their responsibilities are spineless. Those who abandon their tiny, suckling children and flee to the forest—are these sannyasins? When God catches hold of them, they will be punished.

Sannyas means only this: wherever you are, remain filled with the remembrance of the Divine. Sannyas means only this: wherever you are, live in surrender to the Divine—like the lotus in water.

And do not wait for permission. Do something from your own being.

Mulla Nasruddin was sitting in the mosque. The priest gave a long sermon and at the end asked, “Those who want to go to heaven, raise your hands.” Everyone raised their hands—except Nasruddin. He was sitting right in front.

The priest was amazed. He asked, “Nasruddin, everyone wants to go to heaven—except you! Don’t you want to go?” He said, “I do want to go. But when I was leaving home, my wife said, ‘Come straight back from the mosque.’”

You came here; the feeling for sannyas arose; now you ask: permission from the people at home? Will you even go to heaven after asking your wife? At the time of death, from whom all will you ask? Will you get the chance to take permission?

Have a little courage! Don’t insult yourself so much.

And if your wife loves you, she will love your sannyas too—because she will honor your freedom and your soul. And if your husband loves you, he will respect your sannyas—because love is not against freedom. And the love that is against freedom is not love at all; it is something else, a deception.

The wife who says, “Follow only my command,” is not a wife; she is trying to make you a slave. She wants a slave, not a husband; not a friend—a slave. And the husband who says, “Stand as I say, sit as I say, walk as I say,” is denying your soul. How can he love you?

Love always liberates. That which liberates is love.

So don’t be afraid. Whom are you to ask? Ask your own heart. If the heart says yes, take the plunge.

And don’t postpone it till tomorrow. Because “permission” means: now you will go home, you will ask, you will think; the wife will cry, the children will be upset, the father will say something, the brother will say something. The whole neighborhood will counsel you, “You are going mad.” And there is no guarantee of tomorrow—whether it will come or not.

One should live moment to moment—and each moment by the heart’s prompting. This is sahaja-yoga. This is the essence of all the sages’ words.

Enough for today.