Peevat Ramras Lagi Khumari #10

Akhilanand, Marx, Freud, and Adler are all right—and all wrong. Right, because each has stated a partial truth. Wrong, because each tried to prove that partial truth to be the whole.

Desires can be three, or thirteen, but their spring is one. Understand it this way: existence may show three dimensions, but existence is one. So too, desire is one; these are its three dimensions, its three facets—the triangle. Each corner, by itself, is valid. But the moment any corner declares itself to be the whole palace, falsehood begins.

What is the center of desire? What is the source? The source is one: man does not know himself—self-ignorance, self-unconsciousness. Because man does not know himself, he makes all kinds of efforts to cover this ignorance, to forget it, to hide it from himself and from others. From this attempt at self-deception, these three dimensions arise.

If you have wealth, you can create an illusion—indeed, a very great illusion. With wealth, even donkeys receive full prostrations. Wealth brings respect, honor, worship.

Our word for God, Ishwar, comes from aishwarya—opulence. One who possesses opulence can easily fall into the delusion of being God. Opulence can weave such a web of illusion that the need to know oneself no longer seems to matter.

We live by looking at our image in others’ eyes. We have no recognition of our own. What others say becomes our information about ourselves.

If people say, “You are beautiful,” we accept that we are beautiful; if they say you are not, it hurts—like a thorn. If they say you are intelligent, flowers shower; if they say you are a fool, you fall into a pit.

One who has wealth can have anything said about himself. What can wealth not buy! It can buy respect, flattery, praise.

In emperors’ courts there were bards who were taken to be great poets. Their only job was to write songs in the praise and glorification of the emperor—false songs, empty fancies, impossible imaginings! And yet the human mind believes them.

When someone praises you, even if you sense it is false, you cannot deny it. It gives a taste, a tickle; inside, the heart swells. Call even a king of fools a great pundit and he will not refuse, for secretly he has always longed to hear exactly that—only no one had said it to him before.

There is an Arabic proverb: when God fashions people and sends them into the world, he plays a prank. After making a man, just before throwing him into the world, he whispers in his ear, “Never have I made, nor will I make again, anyone as beautiful, as intelligent, as unique, as talented as you. You are matchless, one in a million. Among stones, you are a diamond—the Kohinoor.” This is what everyone carries buried within. He wants to declare it, but needs an occasion. Wealth provides the occasion: you no longer have to say it yourself—others begin to say it. That is why you see sycophants clustered around leaders. These toadies are nothing new; they are as ancient as man.

And your so-called mahatmas speak the same language as these sycophants. They flatter God as if flattering a nawab of Lucknow: “Who is as wicked, crooked, and lustful as me? I am a base ingrate!” They make themselves abject and inflate God. Two sides of the same thing: make yourself small; make God big. “I am nothing, dust, a sinner. And you—you are the Pure, the Holy Place, the Redeemer, the sole support of sinners. Who is as great a sinner as I!” They shorten their own line as much as possible and lengthen God’s as much as possible.

This is courtly language. People thought: if kings and the wealthy are delighted by praise and flattery, surely God must be, too. So the same language is used for God. And when a saint speaks like this, you think, “How humble! How egoless! ‘Who is as crooked, wicked, lustful as I!’ Ah, what an astonishing saint!” But if you look closely, there is ego here, too. He is saying, “None is as wicked, as crooked, as lustful as me. I am unique! No one is lower than I. You are the highest—I am the lowest. You are unique—and I too am unique! And if the two of us unite, what a wonder, what a miracle!” This is not egolessness. Egolessness cannot speak such language. It is the language of ego—only the ego is standing on its head.

Wealth can buy praise, flattery, songs, poetry, epics. Your great epics are praises of the wealthy and the imperialists. Not only the little poets; even your great poets were courtiers, bards. They wrote for money, for position and prestige.

Wealth can buy people’s eyes; they begin to show you the picture you want to see—whether it is true or not is another matter.

Power does the same. If someone is president, emperor, an Alexander, a prime minister—praises begin. As long as he sits on the seat, eulogies rise from all sides. The moment he steps down, he sees that no one even asks after him.

Psychologists have concluded that as soon as a person steps down from office, his life is shortened by ten years; he dies ten years earlier. Praise creates warmth; it gives strength. The old look young; even the dead look alive.

Ambition for position, for power—but the cause is the same: someone please tell me who I am. Someone give me a certificate, magnify me to the summit of Everest. I do not know who I am; I must depend on others.

Think a little about the knowledge you have about yourself—what is it? Clippings of others’ opinions. You are collecting scraps of what others think, heaping them up and sitting on them—then assuming: this is me. Hence your predicament. One calls you good, another bad; one calls you dear, another a villain; one calls you a saint, another a sinner—you get thoroughly confused: then who am I?

Opinions about you differ from person to person. Every mirror shows a different picture. Have you been in a hall of mirrors? One mirror makes you tall, another makes you a dwarf; one makes you fat, another reed-thin; one makes you beautiful, another ugly. In such a hall you are in great difficulty: who am I?

Whoever depends on others will be in trouble. The servant will say to his master, “There is none as beautiful as you.” But your master will not say that to you. Why would he? He will make you say, “I am the most beautiful,” and also make you say, “You are ugly.” All these judgments are relative and comparative. Hence your mind becomes conflicted.

Wealth can buy as much praise as you like, but it cannot buy freedom from inner conflict; it cannot buy non-duality. Office can bring honor, but somewhere or other thorns will sprout among the flowers. Therefore the one seated in office never becomes carefree. Office cannot purchase ease.

Those who cannot run in the race for wealth and office—for that race is full of struggle; to run for power means to spend an entire life in strife—well, not everyone has that stamina, nor is everyone so foolish as to waste a whole life that way.

Emerson has a famous line: to become an American president, a man must labor at least thirty years. And he adds: anyone who labors thirty years solely to become president is utterly unfit to be president. To be willing to waste half your life only to become president—that itself proves you are a fool; it proves you are not fit to be president. Such an intense craving for position betrays a deep inner inferiority.

People run their entire lives for wealth. By the time they die, perhaps they will have managed to gather a little. When they could have used the wealth, they were racing to acquire it; and when they can no longer use it, that is when the wealth falls into their hands. See the irony! When there was youth, and wealth could have been of some use, they were busy breaking their heads to amass it; and when old age is at the door and some little pile has been gathered—what will you do with it then?

It often happens that by the time a man becomes rich, he can no longer eat properly or sleep properly. Sleep is lost; the capacity to digest is lost. He can no longer enjoy anything. All his life he kept the hope: “When money comes, then I will do everything.” But the one who was to do got lost in earning the money. Money is obtained, but the wealthy man is no longer there. A heap of wealth accumulates, and the very man who went in search of wealth is crushed to death beneath it.

So not everyone goes in pursuit of wealth and position. Nature, biology, has made arrangements for the rest too: at least sex; at least let one woman say, “You are unique.” Let one man say, “There has never been a beauty like you; Cleopatra was nothing.” If even one person says it, that is enough. One mirror to tell me what my picture is.

And sex is the simplest in this regard, because as many men as there are on this earth, there are as many women—born in proportion. Yet even here, in the old days, there was great competition. Krishna’s sixteen thousand women! In those times a man’s strength, capacity, position, even prestige, were measured by how many women he had. A person like Krishna had to have sixteen thousand.

At first I thought this must be mere legend. But it is not. Only fifty years ago, in 1930, the Nizam of Hyderabad had five hundred wives. So what is the difference between five hundred and sixteen thousand? Only thirty-two times—no great difference. Five thousand years ago, stupidity too must have been thirty-two times greater.

If the Nizam of Hyderabad could keep five hundred women in this century, it is no surprise if Krishna kept sixteen thousand. It seems true. A man’s status used to be measured by this; his power was understood from it.

Whether wealth, position, or sex—behind these three triangles the urge is one: somehow let me gain the assurance that I am, and that I am not futile; that I am, and I am meaningful; that I am, and I am not inferior. Let me have some dignity, some glory. Give me a prop. My swaying edifice, my palace built of playing cards—let it not collapse. For this we look for supports.

Inside, there is emptiness. Inside, there is a void and darkness. We want to forget this darkness with outer light, to push it down and cover it. We want to fill this inner emptiness with outer wealth, position, indulgence. But this emptiness does not fill that way. Fortunately, it does not. If it did, there would be no possibility for religion.

If Freud were right, or Marx were right, or Adler were right, there would be no possibility for religion. Adler says: power—once obtained, that is the basic urge. Then Alexander the Great should have found the same contentment we see in Buddha’s eyes—the same peace, the same joy. He did not.

What greater evidence does Adler need than this: Alexander died unhappy. He conquered the whole world known at that time—he was the only world conqueror—yet he died restless. He said to a naked fakir, Diogenes, “If I am born again, I will ask God: this time, do not make me Alexander; make me Diogenes.” He saw in Diogenes the intoxication he could not find by conquering the world; and Diogenes had nothing—absolutely nothing. Buddha at least kept a begging bowl. Diogenes too used to keep one, but one day, seeing a dog drink water, he burst out laughing: “If a dog can manage without a bowl, am I worse than a dog?” He flung the bowl into the river. From that day, he had nothing at all.

When Alexander went to meet him, Diogenes was lying naked on the sand, taking the morning sun. He did not even sit up. Emperors would stand in welcome for Alexander; standing was the minimum—Diogenes did not even move. Alexander felt a slight unease: how to begin?

Alexander said, “I have come from far away. I had heard great praise of you, and seeing you I feel you are indeed such a man. You are the first person who is not afraid of me, who did not rise to flatter me. What can I do for you? I am very pleased with you.”

Diogenes said, “Drop it—drop this foolish talk. You poor man, what will you do for me? Ask me what I can do for you. You ask me for something. Drop this delusion that you can give me anything. What will you give? What do you possess? I have seen many people; you are the poorest of all—you are a beggar!”

Every word fell on Alexander like a hammer-blow. But it was true—he could not deny it. Bowing his head, he said, “Even so, I am the world conqueror. I did not speak to show favor, only to express respect. If I can do anything, tell me; I certainly will.”

Diogenes said, “If you must do something, step a little aside. You are blocking the sun from reaching me. That is the most you can do. I can ask for nothing more. I have no need—and you have nothing.”

When Alexander was dying, he said to his ministers, “Let my hands hang out of the coffin.”

They protested, “What are you saying? Hands are always inside the coffin. Do you want to start some new custom? Hands hanging out will not look good. It has never happened; no one has seen or heard of it.”

Alexander said, “Whether it has happened or not—let my hands hang out.” When they asked why, he said, “I want people to see that after so much running, panting, and hurly-burly, I am going empty-handed. I lived empty-handed; I die empty-handed. Let people see my empty hands—that my hands are not full. I am not going full.”

What greater testimony does Adler need? Many have attained position and power, but what did they attain?

Marx says: wealth, property—this is man’s desire. Equally wrong. This earth has seen countless wealthy men.

Buddha came to Vaishali. The city’s great merchant—said to be the richest man in India at that time. Hundreds of emperors borrowed from him; hundreds were in his debt. Whosoever needed, he lent. Yet he came to Buddha’s feet and said, “Show me a path. I am disturbed, restless. Life slips from my hands every day. I have much wealth—but what shall I do with it? Inside I remain the poorest of the poor.”

And he truly had immense wealth. Buddha was staying in a garden—hundreds of acres. A monk told the merchant, “This is a lovely garden. Buddha often comes to Vaishali; it would be a good place for him to stay. You buy it.” The merchant said, “I will buy it and donate it to the sangha.” But the owner was stubborn. He said, “I will sell, but you may not be able to pay my price.” The merchant’s pride was pricked. “Price! I will pay whatever you ask—not a penny less. Speak!”

The owner named a price no one would ordinarily agree to: “Spread gold coins; as much land as you cover with gold coins is yours. Keep spreading. Whatever area you cover with gold coins will be yours.” The merchant had the entire hundred acres covered with gold coins, bought the whole garden, and donated it to Buddha’s sangha. Surely he had immense wealth. But what will wealth do? Land can be bought; kingdoms can be bought. But there is another empire within; that cannot be bought.

Sex! The most beautiful women and the most handsome men have been had—but within two days all beauty fades. Beauty is at a distance; closeness ruins it. Drums sound sweet from afar.

In Buddha’s time, Amrapali was famed as supremely beautiful. Emperors lined up at her door—an audience with her was rare even for kings; her price was hard to pay. Yet one day Amrapali donned the yellow robe and came to Buddha’s feet: “Initiate me.” Buddha said, “You are so beautiful; emperors are mad for you—what do you lack?” She said, “Let them be mad. I have seen it all. There is no substance in it—children’s toys.”

Has anyone ever been fulfilled by sex? Or by wealth? Or by power? No. Yes—delusions, hopes, dreams—plenty. But no dream is ever complete; hopes turn into disappointments; sooner or later the illusion shatters.

All three miss the mark. If any one of the three were right, religion would have no place. If all three were wholly right, religion would have no place. Religion has a place precisely because there is a fundamental mistake in all three. They have taken symptoms to be the source. As if a man has a high fever—his body is burning at 105, 106 degrees—and you conclude he suffers from “heat disease” and pour cold water over him, dunk him in ice, trying somehow to reduce the heat. You are treating a symptom! The fever will hardly go, but the patient will surely die.

What appears on the surface are only symptoms—property, power, sex. These are not the diseases. The disease is one: man is empty within, filled with darkness. And the remedy is also one: there must be light within; there must be an inner filling of bliss.
If you ask me—as you have asked—then here is my final verdict: the illness is the absence of meditation. The disease is the absence of meditation. And the medicine is meditation. The nectar is meditation.
The person who becomes quiet and silent within, who becomes steady; who recognizes himself; who sees himself directly with his own eye; who savors himself with the inner eye; who illumines the inner void; who lights the lamp within—that person becomes fulfilled; supremely fulfilled; liberated.
That is the search. That alone is the real question. These three are the angles of man’s striving—to escape that real question. But no one has ever escaped, and no one ever will.
The absence of meditation, not knowing oneself, is self-stupor, self-unconsciousness. There is a pit within us, and it will remain until we sit within; the moment we sit, the pit is filled. The moment we come to rest, the pit is filled. And those three keep us running. Wealth, position, sex—they keep us running and running. They do not let us stop. They are not the cure; they are causes that aggravate the disease. They multiply it many times over; they make it proliferate. The disease remains where it is, while we go very far from it. Then returning to oneself becomes increasingly difficult.
The farther one goes on the journey of position, in politics, the harder it becomes to return to oneself. And only in returning to oneself is the solution. That is why we have given the name “samadhi” to the knowing of oneself. Samadhi is born of samadhan—“solution”: where all agitations and afflictions have ended; where no disease remains.
Likewise, our beloved word is swasthya—health. One who is situated in oneself is swasth, healthy. And the one established in oneself is samadhisth—established in samadhi.
Akhilanand, this is my verdict. And this has been the verdict of all the Buddhas for ages upon ages. And in this verdict there will never be any difference. This verdict is eternal. Esa dhammo sanantano.

Sahajanand, Shankaracharya did not really answer the questions; he simply revealed his own state of mind.

The question was: “What is impossible for everyone to know?” And his answer? A two-bit answer: a woman’s mind and her character! As if Shankaracharya had been busy only trying to know this. A woman’s mind and her character—what on earth will you do by knowing them? Is there nothing else to know? Why this obsession with woman? What’s the obstacle?

That’s why I keep saying: a repressed mind—one that has somehow beaten itself into submission, controlled its desires by force… Exercise, pranayama, asanas… somehow thrashing oneself about, standing on one’s head, roasting in cold and heat and sun, starving and thirsting—somehow holding it all together—somehow.

There is a scientific fact: if you don’t feed a man for three weeks, his sexual desire wanes, because sexuality requires surplus energy. After the body spends what it needs for breathing, blood circulation, standing, sitting, sleeping, bathing—after these daily needs—if there is energy left over, it gets channeled into sexual vitality. If a man is not fed at all, his stored energy is consumed in a few days. Then if desire fades in a hungry man, it’s no surprise. Many experiments have shown this.

Keep a man hungry for three weeks and then lay before him the most beautiful nude pictures—he won’t care. No juice in it for him. No purpose. The pictures can lie there; he won’t even pick them up. Even to pick them up you need a little strength! And what will he do with them? Right now the biggest question in his mind is food. If you ask him, “What is the most impossible thing for people to attain?” he will say—food! Whatever you ask him, the answer will be “bread.”

A poet got lost in a forest and went hungry for three days. Then the full moon rose and he was astonished! Always in the full moon he would see the face of his beloved—beautiful faces. This time he saw a flatbread! He was shocked. He rubbed his eyes: what happened? Where did those beautiful women go? A roti is floating in the sky! A shining roti! His mouth watered: if only I could get one!

When the stomach is empty… You’ve heard the saying: “On an empty stomach, even Gopal won’t be worshiped.” If even Gopal cannot be worshiped on an empty stomach, do you think a film song will arise? If even God’s praise stops when the belly is empty, a film song is certainly impossible.

Shankaracharya didn’t answer the question; he exposed his mind. I could not have imagined it! If someone asks me, “What is it that is impossible for everyone to know?”—in this vast existence of animals, birds, plants, mountains, the moon and stars—so much! And all that comes to his mind is: a woman’s mind and her character!

That thought is telling. It reveals the state of Adi Shankaracharya’s psyche. What has been suppressed has surfaced.

“Gyātum na shakyam cha kimasti sarvaih?—yoṣit mano yach charitram tadīyam.”
But what is there in a woman’s mind? Nothing different from a man’s. It is simply the other pole of the same thing. Woman and man are two sides of one coin. If the male mind is aggressive, the female mind is receptive. There is nothing so profound to understand here—no great mystery.

And what difference is there between the character of a man and a woman? If the man is deceptive, so is the woman. If the man is hypocritical, so is the woman. If the man wears masks, so does the woman. There is no essential difference in the character or mind of the two. One side of the same coin here, the other side there. Whoever has understood himself has understood all—he has understood woman and man alike.

Sahajanand, I wouldn’t give that answer. I know only one thing that is impossible to know: oneself. And it is impossible to know oneself because, there, the division between knower and known collapses.

For knowledge in the world, three things are required: there must be a knower; there must be an object to be known; and the relationship between the two is called knowledge. But where the realm of the self begins, only one remains—the knower is the same as the known, and the knowing too is the same. Hence this is the toughest of all matters—the most “impossible.” Don’t take “impossible” to mean it never happens. It does happen. But in essence it is impossible—yet it happens! That is why self-knowledge is a miracle. Walking on water is no miracle—you can devise a method. Flying in the air is no miracle—some method can be found; after all, birds fly, fish swim—man will find a way. These aren’t miracles; science will manage them.

The true miracle is to know oneself, because that event is impossible. Where only one remains—how to know? By whom? Who will know whom? That is why Bodhidharma’s famous answer is so dear to me.

When Bodhidharma reached China, Emperor Wu welcomed him and asked him a few questions—pertinent and substantial questions. But Bodhidharma’s answers were very odd.

A real fakir answers oddly. Shankaracharya’s answer is very ordinary—street-stall stuff! Any group at a paan shop could say, “Brother, a woman’s mind is hard to know! And her character, very hard to discern!” Though women laugh, “What fools! They can’t understand a woman’s mind or character? What is so hidden or mysterious here?”

Everything is straightforward; you have entangled it yourself. If you’ve tried to avoid woman, how will you understand? If you’ve run away, how will you understand? If you’ve turned your face, how will you perceive? You’ve become Ranchhod-dasji—the one who flees the battlefield—so how will you understand woman?

That is no answer. Whoever gives it—Adi Shankaracharya or anyone else—I don’t bother with the person. The answer itself is worth two pennies. What can I do with it?

It’s very ordinary—rustic. Only a village bumpkin could give it. What’s in it? But what Bodhidharma said is worth pondering.

Wu asked him: “I have built many monasteries and temples; installed hundreds of thousands of Buddha images; feed hundreds of thousands of monks daily; opened orphanages and hospitals; planted trees along roads for travelers’ shade; opened water-stalls for the thirsty; founded homes for widows and the elderly. What merit will I gain from all this?”

Bodhidharma said, “Nothing. Forget merit—you will fall into the seventh hell.”

Bodhidharma must have been a man after my own heart—plainspoken, blunt. He lifted the club and brought it down. Emperor Wu was shocked. He had met many other saints before, and all had said, “The seventh heaven is assured! Who has done so much merit! No one ever.”

Wu established Buddhism in China; he made the entire land Buddhist. The monks and saints lived on his largesse, in his dharamshalas, as priests in his temples—their livelihood depended on him. Of course they praised him, flattered him.

But people like Bodhidharma speak it as it is. The emperor was cultured and hid his hurt. He asked again, “Well, let that be. But surely there is some purity in religious conduct—rising early, worshiping the Buddha, study and contemplation during the day?”

Bodhidharma said, “Purity? There is no such thing as purity or impurity in the world. All is the same—neither pure nor impure, neither saint nor sinner.”

Now the blow cut deeper. Wu asked, “Then tell me one thing—who are you?” Perhaps he got angry, shedding the polite skin of culture, refinement, imperial pride. Bodhidharma kept striking: “You’ll go to hell; nothing is pure; no merit; what you’ve done is futile; your scriptures, your study, your contemplation—nonsense!” The wound went so deep he forgot himself for a moment and, in irritation, asked, “Then who are you?”

Bodhidharma laughed and said, “I don’t know. I know nothing.”

Socrates says, “I know only this much—that I know nothing.”

The Upanishads say, “He who says ‘I know,’ know that he knows not. He who says ‘I do not know,’ know that he knows.”

In Bodhidharma’s small answer—“I don’t know; I know nothing”—there is not ignorance, but supreme knowledge. The whole essence of the Upanishads is there, the essence of all the Socrateses—but who will understand such a thing!

So Wu said, “If you don’t even know yourself, I wasted my years waiting for you.”

Hearing this, Bodhidharma turned and left. Later Wu greatly regretted it. He asked other monks, who said, “You did not understand. He said something very deep. When one reaches within, the knower disappears. How then can anyone claim, ‘I have known’? Who could claim? Claiming is impossible.”

He only said, “I have reached that place where all claims dissolve. I sit where there is neither knower nor anything to be known—only vast silence, absolute emptiness.” He declared nirvana—you failed to understand.

Wu repented and sent messages again and again. Bodhidharma said, “You missed. I have turned back and will not return. If you want, you can come.”

He stayed just beyond Emperor Wu’s borders, on a mountain. The emperor himself had to go for his darshan. He said, “Take me to that place where you are.”

Bodhidharma said, “Come early tomorrow—three in the morning. Come alone. Remember—alone!”

As Wu climbed down the steps of the mountain at night, Bodhidharma shouted after him, “Remember—come alone. Don’t bring your mind with you! Come absolutely alone!”

Wu thought, “This man seems mad. How am I supposed not to bring my mind? And to come absolutely alone… I’ve never gone anywhere alone. My guard is always at my side with a naked sword. This man looks dangerous—and he carries a staff too. He might crack my skull! Three in the morning, no one around!” Again and again he thought, “Should I go? Should I not?” He couldn’t sleep all night. Then he thought, “What if I miss? At worst he’ll hit me—take a blow or two, so what!”

The taste had been kindled; he went. He sat before Bodhidharma. Bodhidharma said, “Close your eyes and look within. As soon as you find the ‘I,’ let me know. I’ll settle it then and there—finish it off. You catch it, and I’ll finish it. Here I sit with my staff.”

Wu closed his eyes. At first he was afraid—this man with a staff! He hadn’t slept, was drowsy, but fear kept him alert. Back straight, watchful. He searched within, long and hard—no “I” anywhere. Morning came; the sun rose. When the rays touched his face, his face was so radiant you’d think rays had risen within, a sun had dawned inside.

Bodhidharma shook him, “Now get up. You didn’t find it, did you? I can see it on your face—you didn’t.”

Wu said, “Don’t disturb me. Don’t interrupt. I am in a silence and peace I have never known. The ‘I’ I didn’t find—but what I did find cannot be bound in words.”

He bowed, touched Bodhidharma’s feet, and said, “Now I understand what you meant—your secret in saying, ‘I do not know who I am.’ I too do not know. But in this not-knowing, all knowing is hidden.”

So if you ask me, Sahajanand, I will say: knowing oneself is the most impossible. And what will you do by knowing a woman’s mind? Let women know it. Why should Shankaracharya be bothered! Let them know their own mind—understand their own character. What business have they with a woman’s character?

This excessive curiosity about women is a symptom of a sick, repressed mind.

Ask a woman and she’ll say, “A man’s mind is impossible to know—and his character too!” Ask the he-goat; he’ll point to the she-goat. Ask the she-goat; she’ll point to the he-goat. Ask Mother Cow; she’ll say, “Understanding the bull’s mind and character is very difficult!” Ask Nandi Baba; he’ll say, “Everything else is fine, but Mother Cow’s mind and character are completely incomprehensible!”

What kind of answer is that! Hollow words are not an answer.

And then: “What is extremely difficult for everyone to renounce?” Again the same thing—“wicked desire!” The same wound. Whatever question you ask, the same pus oozes out.

“Wicked desire…”

No. There’s nothing to it. Desire disappears as easily as darkness—if you know how to light a lamp. Light a lamp and darkness is gone. But if you fight darkness, it won’t go; it will become very difficult. You’ll say, “Wretched darkness! It doesn’t budge. I wrestle with it, do squats and push-ups, throw punches—useless. Darkness won’t move a hair. Bring a sword—slash away; darkness won’t be cut.”

But light a small lamp—and where does that powerful darkness go? You won’t even find it. You couldn’t drive it out; now you can’t even find it.

“Wicked desire…”

Calling it “wicked” only hides your own pain. It doesn’t go, so you abuse it. We abuse only what defeats us. We get angry only at what troubles us.

They must have been harassed and tormented by desire. They pushed it—it didn’t move; it returned again and again. Drive it out the front door—it comes in the back. But it comes. So they call it “wicked.”

But desire is not at fault. What fault is it of darkness if you don’t light a lamp? Desire is only an absence—of meditation, of awareness, of wakefulness. Desire means stupor, sleep. Wake up—and where is sleep? Have you ever found sleep while awake? Have you ever found darkness when a lamp is lit? It is only the absence of light; the only way is to light the lamp. Then you will not abuse desire.

So I would not say the hardest thing to renounce is “wicked desire.” What wickedness is there in desire? None. Desire has no strength of its own. How can it be impossible to drop? If you fight it, that’s your mistake.

What is hard to drop, then?—Stupor, unawareness. The way we are living: mechanical, drunken with negligence—that is hard to drop. To bring wakefulness is hard. To light the lamp is hard.

Someone asked Mahavira: Who is a muni, and who is not?

Mahavira gave a lovely answer: Asutta muni—one who is not asleep is a muni. Sutta amuni—one who is asleep is not a muni.

That says the whole of religion—like distilling thousands of roses into a single drop of attar; the whole fragrance is there.

What is hard to drop?—Stupor. And the only way to drop it is meditation.

In answer to the first question I told you this; I say the same in answer to the second. And notice: Shankaracharya too, in answering the first, is saying exactly what he says in the second: “woman” becomes “sexual desire,” now “wicked desire.”

I know only one method for the transformation of life, and that is meditation. With meditation, what cannot be known is known; and what cannot be removed is removed.

Third, he asked, “Who is an animal?—one without learning.”

That too is very ordinary.

Understand the word pashu and you’ll see. My answer will be the same. Ask a thousand questions—my answer is one. Pashu means “bound by pash”—by fetters. One who is unconscious is a pashu. Bound in a thousand snares—greed, attachment, anger, lust—bond after bond, layer upon layer, chains upon chains. And you can gather all the learning you want—memorize the Vedas, become a great pandit—what will happen?

The great pandit Dhabbhuji was sitting on the river sand, drinking. A sadhu passed by—perhaps Adi Shankaracharya! From a distance he said, “Child, do not drink wine. Do not drink! Chant Rama’s name. Bhaja Govindam, mudha-mate!”

Dhabbhuji saluted him—and kept drinking. That’s the pandit: talks of erudition and lives the same unconscious way—wine and gambling within, while reciting the Vedas without. What difference does it make? Can the Vedas cut through desire?

The sadhu said, “Don’t you listen, child? I told you—throw that bottle into the river. Remember God. Swear never to drink again.”

Dhabbhuji picked up the bottle, poured all the liquor into his glass, threw the bottle far into the river—and resumed drinking.

Such is the pandit: he finds tricks!

What will learning do? You’ll parrot the Gita like a trained bird. Will that bring revolution to your life?

The sadhu couldn’t contain himself: “Give up liquor, man! Say ‘Rama, Rama.’ That alone will bring your welfare. Tell me at least—how did you pick up this dirty habit?”

Dhabbhuji said, “My cousin’s maternal uncle’s friend’s neighbor’s beautiful young daughter died in a car accident; that’s why I’m drinking.”

The sadhu exclaimed, “What are you saying! What has your cousin’s maternal uncle’s friend’s neighbor’s daughter’s death to do with you? Rama, Rama!”

Dhabbhuji replied, “The cousin’s maternal uncle’s friend’s neighbor’s daughter—there could at least have been some connection. But you are a complete stranger—no relationship whatsoever. What connection do you have with my not drinking? And what did throwing the bottle into the river have to do with quitting liquor? You saw it—throwing the bottle didn’t stop the drinking. And as for my welfare and chanting ‘Rama, Rama’—what connection is there? My welfare died more than four years ago—from too much drinking.”

A pandit reads one thing, says another, lives something else. The pandit lives in self-deception.

“Without learning”—an animal! If you stuff yourself with learning, you’ll be a learned animal—what else? A donkey loaded with scriptures. Put the Gita on a donkey—will it change the donkey? Give him a little whack and you’ll know—it’s still “hee-haw,” not verses from the Gita. Load him with the Gita, the Quran, the Bible, the Talmud—he’ll carry them all. He’s a donkey—why would he refuse? But a donkey loaded with learning is still a donkey.

Hearing of an exhibition featuring a “trikālajña” computer that knows past, present, and future, the great scholar Dhabbhuji went to test it. He asked about his late father: “Where is my father now, and what is he doing?”

The reply: “Your father is seated in padmasana on the banks of the Ganga in Rishikesh, initiating his disciples into brahmacharya while chanting the Gayatri mantra.”

Dhabbhuji told the manager, “Completely wrong. My father passed away eight years ago. This is outright fraud. Your computer is not omniscient.”

The manager said, “Don’t be upset. Try phrasing the question differently—you may get the correct answer.”

Dhabbhuji asked, “Where is my mother’s husband right now, and what is he doing?”

The computer replied, “Your mother’s husband died eight years ago; he has passed on.”

The manager smiled, “Try to understand. Why would I cheat you? And what could I do? Someone else has already done that—with your father!”

Dhabbhuji roared, “Stop this nonsense. Don’t make a fool of me.”

This time the omniscient computer answered, “Why would we make a fool of you? God has already done that.”

What will learning do? You can know all the scriptures and still remain an animal. You will be free of animality only when all your bonds fall—and all bonds are bonds of unawareness.

There is no answer except meditation. Ask a thousand questions, Sahajanand—my answer is one: meditation. Without meditation you are an animal; without meditation you will never become human. With meditation, everything arrives, because meditation breaks open the hidden springs of the nectar of life within you.

So I have one answer. The hardest thing is this—meditation. The most difficult thing to drop is non-meditation. And who is an animal?—one without meditation.

I put no emphasis on learning. Learning is information—not knowing, not wisdom. Only meditation is true knowledge—and that is liberation.

Enough for today.