Peevat Ramras Lagi Khumari #3

Surendra Saraswati, it is simple—that is the very difficulty. Had it been difficult, it wouldn’t be difficult, because the ego craves difficulty. In what is difficult, the ego feels challenged, invited, summoned. The more difficult—if it is impossible, all the better—the more man resolves to do it: he’ll climb Gaurishankar. There is nothing to be gained there, but the ego wants the thrill of being unparalleled. He’ll go to the moon and bring back pebbles and dust. Are we short of pebbles and dust here? He’ll reach Mars, someday even the far-off stars; nothing will come into his hands. But the conceit remains: I am the first to climb Gaurishankar; I am the first to walk on the moon! All life long people have lavished themselves on such foolishnesses.

Someone wants to be president, someone prime minister. Nothing is truly gained, yet in a nation of hundreds of millions only one can be president—so the ego is nourished.

Keep this in mind: what is difficult does not feel difficult; what is simple has become difficult. To find oneself is so simple—that is why so few have found.

You too have made a small mistake in translating Bulleh Shah. I do not know Bulleh Shah’s tongue, but I do know the language of emperors—and so I tell you, you have erred.

Bulleh Shah says: Rabb da ki paana!
What is there to attain of God? For God is already attained. He is already given. He already abides within you. You have never been apart from Him, never separated. That from which you can never be separate—that is what we call God. The One whom you cannot lose even if you try, from whom you cannot run even if you flee—that is God. A fish might perhaps leave the ocean, for beyond the ocean there are other things: fishermen, their nets, scorching sands, rocks along the shore. But where could man go leaving the ocean of God? Your breath is His, the heartbeat is His. Life means God. You are born in God, you will live in God, and one day you will melt back into Him and be absorbed.

People ask me, “Where can we find God?” And I would ask them, where did you lose Him? When did you lose Him? If you have lost Him, I can show you the way to find Him—tell me where you lost Him and we’ll search there. But He is not lost, nor can He be lost—yet you ask about attaining Him! The ego knows only one language: to attain. So the ego asks, “How can God be attained?” And it is this ego that has seated God far away, beyond the seventh sky. Only if He is placed that far does the ego feel its juice: now there is something to walk toward, something to achieve. To become a siddha, a saint, a mahatma, to be liberated—to attain nirvana.

Bulleh Shah is saying: Rabb da ki paana!
Why get caught in such insane talk? What is there to attain of God? He is already attained! It is only a matter of knowing, of recognizing. God means self-recognition, knowing one’s own face. If someone looks at his face in a mirror, would you say he has “attained” a face? The face was always there—even when there was no mirror. If you drop the mirror and it shatters into a thousand pieces, do you imagine your face has shattered into a thousand pieces? The mirror is broken, but the face remains whole. The mirror may be lost, but the face is not lost. The mirror gave a little help, only so much as to reflect what is already yours, showing it to be yours. That is all meditation does. Meditation is a mirror.

When Alexander was returning from India, a fakir gave him a gift: a very strange gift—a small mirror. The story is lovely. Alexander said, “Look at the elephants, the camels, the horses loaded with diamonds, jewels, gold, silver that I am taking home—and you offer me this little mirror! Do you think my country lacks mirrors?”
The fakir laughed: “This mirror is of another kind. When you look into it, your body’s image will not appear—your shadow will. Your real face will be revealed. Not the face that falls within the grasp of the eyes, but the face that remains beyond the eyes’ grasp.”
Alexander looked into that mirror and was astonished, amazed—he could hardly believe it. There was no reflection of the body, but there was a glimmer of consciousness, a flame of awareness, an aura of light.

It is a story. It only says that the fakir must have given Alexander some method of meditation, that’s all. Meditation is the mirror—and the mirror makes you recognize what you already have.

Rabb da ki paana!
Let go of the language of attaining. That language is the language of greed, of ambition, of madness. It is already given. First see what is already with you. Whoever has seen That has attained all; the very urge to attain falls away.

But in the second half of the saying you have slipped.

Rabb da ki paana, etthon puttiya te ethe laana.
You translated: “What is there to attain of God—uproot from here and plant there.” No—uproot from here and plant here. It is clear:
Ethon puttiya te ethe laana.
Bring it from here to here. With “here” and “there” you have created a gap. Even that much distance gives the ego its relish. “Here to there” is the language of ignorance. “Here to here” is the language of knowing. And this is clear. I may not know Bulleh Shah’s language, but you can see it too:
Ethon puttiya te ethe laana.
He is seated right here, and you have to bring Him here—nowhere else. There is nowhere to go, nothing to uproot from elsewhere, nowhere to plant elsewhere. He is planted here already. Only forgetfulness has set in; remembrance is needed. God is not lost—only your memory is lost.

A thousand drops, granted—yet it feels like a shoreless sea;
That single moment of pain—yet it seems eternal.
Who would choose to enter the mirage of the wasteland?
To me, the town looks like caravans upon caravans of the thirsty.
Shadows of expediency fall across hearts—
Even the purity of longing now seems a cheapened commodity.
A broken dream is no extraordinary calamity;
If it befalls someone, alas, it strikes like a bolt from the blue.
Who knows if it is dust of the road or the churn of a storm—
Wherever I lift my gaze, it all appears smoke-filled.
The winds are steeped in the fragrance of frenzy;
Today again it feels like a test of spotless dignity.
It may be that friends mistook me for a man of few words—
My state is such that every word seems a tale.
A strange suspicion—that every doorstep-stone
Looks annoyed with me, as if harboring ill will.
Like a garden of wounds bursting into bloom, O Taabaan,
The age seems kind to the people of love.
A thousand drops, granted—yet it feels like a shoreless sea;
That single moment of pain—yet it seems eternal.

When a single drop is recognized, the whole ocean is recognized.

A thousand drops, granted—yet it feels like a shoreless sea.
It seems just a small drop—the drop of experience, of knowing, of thirst for the Beloved. But begin to seek, and in that very drop you find the unfathomable sea.

That single moment of pain—yet it seems eternal.
That one small instant of remembrance, of longing, of burning in His love…
That single moment of pain—yet it seems eternal.
It feels as if eternity itself has been found. Without Him, without recognizing Him, you could live to the end of time and only decay and die. If even the longing to find Him awakens, if the inquiry arises, if the pain, the fire of separation is lit—then a single moment is enough; it feels eternal. For in that moment the door opens; from that one drop the gate to the ocean opens.

Who would care to enter the desert of mirages?
To me, the city looks like caravans of the thirsty—
Yes, they are thirsty indeed, but they do not seek water. And the water is within—springs and fountains within. They search the world over, run everywhere—in wealth, position, prestige. They find nothing; not an ounce of thirst is quenched. They live and die, empty-handed. They come empty-handed and go empty-handed—indeed a little poorer. For when a child is born, at least the little fist is clenched—even if empty, still clenched. “Closed, it is worth a lakh; opened, it is dust.” At least the child’s fist is closed. When we die, even that fist is opened—the lakh becomes dust. We bring nothing; we take nothing. And yet what a commotion of futile striving!

Who knows if it is dust of the road or the churn of a storm—
So much dust and turmoil!
Who knows if it is dust of the road or the churn of a storm—
Wherever I look, it seems filled with smoke.
Lift your eyes and see—everyone is in a haze. No one’s lamp of life truly burns. In this tumult you call the world, the key that opens all locks, all doors—you have brought it with you. But because you brought it with you from birth, you forget. To see, a little distance is needed. If you press your eyes right up against the mirror, nothing will be seen: even the mirror becomes a wall. A little distance is needed. And between us and God there is not even the slightest distance; there is no way to create it, because we ourselves are God. Aham Brahmasmi! Ana’l Haq! The Upanishads say: Tat tvam asi—Thou art That.

No, Surendra Saraswati, do not translate it as, “What is there to attain of God—uproot from here and plant there.” Between “here” and “there,” who knows how much distance you may imagine! “Here-and-there” is the very mischief. Here, and nowhere else. Ethon puttiya te ethe laana—He is here, and has to be brought here. That is why the talk of religion seems so elusive.

One has to think: What was missing in a house with doors and windows?
And what is there in the wilderness of frenzy—what was not in my own home?
The dust of distances has blurred every scene;
Otherwise, what was lacking in the gaze of us wanderers?
Apart from a few memories, a few wounds—
What is there in the evening of life that was not in the dawn?
It was only turbulence upon turbulence—life upon life;
Think, what was not in that single tuft of down and feather?
Let it go; what is the use of this seeking and search now!
Yes, there were days when in the city of the heart—what was not there!
Poor reason got entangled in arguments;
Otherwise, Taabaan, what was not in that brief glance?

This is the mind, thought, argument—caught up in petty tangles. Otherwise, one brief glance, a short look, and every secret is revealed.

Poor reason got entangled in arguments;
Otherwise, Taabaan, what was not in that brief glance?
In that brief look—in a way of seeing, a little courtesy—every secret opens.

The dust of distances has blurred every scene—
It is the haze of distance, the dust of distance—“here to there,” and distance is born.
The dust of distances has blurred every scene—
For that very reason all visions have grown dim. When the eyes are clouded, the sights grow dim.

Otherwise, what was lacking in the gaze of us wanderers?
We have become vagabonds—running from here to there, from one halt to another.
Otherwise, what was lacking in our gaze?
All is hidden in our manner of seeing.

It is only turbulence upon turbulence—
Revolution is within us, upheaval is within us, the fire is within us.
It was only life upon life—and life upon life is within you; life, more life, infinite life!

Think—what was not in that single tuft of down and feather?
When you see a bird flying in the sky, have you ever thought—just a handful of clay, a few feathers—and what a flight! The vast sky gives way to two small wings. We too seem small—a handful of dust, a few feathers, a few hairs—yet the whole sky can be ours. We are a drop, and the ocean can be ours. But we are entangled in one thing:

Poor reason got entangled in arguments;
Otherwise, Taabaan, what was not in that brief glance?
Just change the eye. The moment you talk of “here to there,” you are trapped. Where will this race end? Wherever you arrive, that place will be “here”—and God will be “there.” Wherever you go, you will not find Him—because He will never be “here,” and you will never be “there.” You will be “today,” and God will be “tomorrow.” And whenever He comes into your hands, it will be today—for tomorrow never lands in anybody’s palms. How then will you attain? He will remain distant like the horizon.

Therefore I say: the very view that thinks God is outside is wrong. The very feeling that He is far is wrong. Do not worship Him in temples, nor call Him in mosques, nor search for Him in churches or gurudwaras. That quest is futile. Go within. Close your eyes; dive into yourself.

After the storm, the sea becomes as it has always been;
A single boat strikes and shatters.
These days, the color of His rigors looks more radiant—
Now the complaint of the short-sighted has faded.
The heart was never in need of the Friend’s favors;
Having been broken, it grew even more proud.
The hem of grace was never far from the hand of asking—
But I was constrained by the throw of the dice.
A mere tremor of the gaze changed the whole scene—
The entire world grew brimful with beauty.
Taabaan, with the rebuke of His coyness, the heart’s affair—
Again today, another Sinai has happened.

There is a small storm—but the storm too is part of the ocean. Before the storm, the ocean was tranquil; after the storm, the ocean will be tranquil again. This is the storm of thoughts in the ocean of our consciousness. Before thought, there was silence; after thought, there will be silence. Before thought, meditation is; after thought, meditation is. Before thought, God is; after thought, God is. It is a small storm of thought—let it settle.

After the storm, the sea becomes as it has always been—
The storm passes, the sea returns to its original state.

After the storm, the sea becomes as it has always been—
A single boat strikes and shatters—
In the meanwhile a small boat crashes and is broken—that boat is your ego. If you save it, you will keep missing God. You will have to learn to drown, to disappear. This boat crosses only when it sinks. Sink, and only then do you reach the other shore. Whoever drowns, rises. If you lack the courage to drown, you will never rise. But the ego wants to be saved.

The heart was never in need of the Friend’s favor;
Broken, it became even more arrogant.
The more you lose, the more the ego stiffens: “No matter—we lost this time, next time we’ll win; one more throw, one more effort.”

We teach small children: don’t worry—if you lose today, you’ll win tomorrow; if you failed this time, you’ll succeed next time. Keep pushing—don’t be discouraged.

And that is what goes on all life long. No one ever wins here, no one ever can. In this world nothing comes into your hands except defeat.

Yes, a few do win—but not in the world; they win within. A Buddha wins, a Mahavira, a Lao Tzu, a Zarathustra, a Kabir, a Nanak—but within. That victory happens inside, not outside. That empire is inner, not outer.

The hem of grace was never far from the hand of asking—
The Giver’s robe is not far from the hand that begs—not far at all.
The hem of grace was never far from the hand of asking—
But the ego hesitates to hold out the hand; it balks at asking.

The hem of grace was never far from the hand of asking—
But I was constrained by the throw of the dice—
The old habit of ego does not allow the hand to open; it keeps you stiff. Not far at all—just hold out your hand and it is given. Become simple, and it is given now. Become humble, and you attain now.

Jesus has said: Blessed are the meek, for theirs is the kingdom of God.

And with the slightest shift, everything changes.

A mere tremor of the gaze changed the whole scene—
A faint quiver in the way of looking!
A mere tremor of the gaze—
A mere tremor of the gaze changed the whole scene—
The whole panorama is transformed.

The entire world grows brimful with beauty—
The world overflows with the Beauty of God. A slight tremor of the gaze, a change in the way of seeing. Today you look assuming God is far. The day you look assuming He is within, in yourself—just that slight tremor!

Taabaan, with the rebuke of His coyness, the heart’s affair—
Again today, another Sinai has happened—
On Mount Tur (Sinai) the light of God appeared to Moses. Just change your gaze a little, and within you Mount Tur will appear, and the light of Tur will blaze. That mountain is not outside you.

Taabaan, with the rebuke of His coyness, the heart’s affair—
Again today, another Sinai has happened—
Within you the same radiance will occur that happened on Mount Tur. That mountain is not outside—it is your own height, the peak of your awareness.

Surendra Saraswati, do not say: uproot from here and plant there. No—He is here; plant here, see here. In this very moment, everything is. I agree with Bulleh Shah. Of those few fakirs, he is one who truly deserves to be called shah, shenshah—a king among kings.

He speaks rightly: Rabb da ki paana, etthon puttiya te ethe laana.

Chaitanya Kirti, first of all, Swami Akshayananda Maharaj is American, yet he says, “In our scriptures it is mentioned that in Kali Yuga there will be people like Ravana...”
Nothing gratifies the Hindu ego more than a white-skinned man saying “our scriptures.” Hearts overflow. Flowers bloom, lamps light up. If only I had coached my foreign sannyasins to endorse these rotten scriptures, to carry these corpses on their heads, to sing their praises and offer eulogies—then they too would be worshiped and honored! India would lift them onto its head and eyes. Red carpets would be rolled out; festoons would be strung everywhere. But stones will be thrown at you; you will have to endure abuse; you will be called a demon—because you are not propping up this country’s decayed and stinking ego.
When only one American lady, Nivedita, came with Vivekananda, there was a countrywide hullabaloo that Vivekananda had achieved something great—he transformed a foreigner and made her a Hindu! I have two hundred thousand sannyasins all over the world, but that gives no support to the Hindu or Indian ego; that is the rub, that is the difficulty.
And these scriptures Akshayananda Maharaj is invoking—does he have any real idea of them? An American dolt—what would he know of the shastras? But his guru, Bhaktivedanta Prabhupada, was a “miraculous” man. His miracle was that wherever there were dolts and dunces in the world, they were drawn to him like iron filings to a magnet. I will grant him at least that talent: fools would gather around him in droves. They would shave their heads, tie knots in their tufts, chant Hare Krishna–Hare Rama, beat drums and cymbals, and parrot Indian scriptures like trained birds—without knowing their meaning or context.
Now, about the scriptures he cites—look at whom India has called “God.” Consider Parashurama. He was called God. His very name came from the axe he always carried: the axe-bearing Rama. He was the original chieftain. It is said he emptied the earth of kshatriyas eighteen times. What a Brahmin! Eighteen times he slaughtered every kshatriya on earth. And I am the demon? I have not killed a single kshatriya—indeed not even a cockroach. Yet I am Ravana, I am the demon—while Parashurama, who wiped the earth clean of kshatriyas eighteen times, is God! He must have been a villain of the first order. His father suspected his mother, ordered Parashurama to go and behead her. Obedient to his father, Parashurama went and cut off his mother’s head. Such a man is God! What then is violence?
And Rama—he is the bow-bearing Rama, the very symbol of violence. He set Lanka ablaze—burned it to ashes. And I am the one inciting violence? I am Ravana? In Rama-rajya, men and women were sold like slaves in the marketplace, women were auctioned—and still that was the Golden Age! A Brahmin’s son died, and that Brahmin went to Rama’s court and complained that his son died even though the father was still alive; somewhere wickedness must be occurring. Rama ordered an investigation. They discovered that a thousand miles away from that Brahmin’s home a shudra had overheard a Vedic mantra. That was the wickedness! That was the atrocity responsible for the Brahmin’s son’s death—who died a thousand miles away. And in that thousand-mile span, no one else’s son died! Women being sold in the markets—that was no sin. Men being bought and sold like chattel—that was no sin. Burning all of Lanka to cinders—that was no sin. Casting a pregnant Sita into the forest—that was no sin!
When Rama returned after rescuing Sita from Ravana, the first words he spoke to her were crude: “Remember this, woman, I did not fight this war for you. I fought for the honor of the Raghu lineage. It was a matter of family prestige.” Not for any woman would he wage war!
Then he demanded the fire-ordeal of Sita. If he tested Sita, fairness would require that he pass through fire as well, for he too had lived long without his wife. If a woman’s fidelity is suspect, why not a man’s? In truth, women are more trustworthy than men. In those days there was no birth control; had Sita strayed, she might have conceived. But if Rama had strayed, who would know? Hence the double standard. Sita alone was tested in fire—some justice that is!
And even after the fire-ordeal, just because a washerman told his wife, “Where were you all night? I am no Rama to take you back,” some informer carried this to the court, and Rama had the pregnant Sita cast out. What then of the fire-ordeal? There should be some limit to injustice. First you require a fire trial of Sita alone, you refuse to undergo it yourself; then after she passes it, one washerman raises an objection and Sita is not even granted a hearing—no chance to say why she is being banished to the forest. If justice was intended, the washerman should have been summoned, his statement heard in court, and Sita’s as well. She had the right to speak her grief. But she was given no opportunity. A one-sided verdict! And some random washerman made the decision. Such is the honor accorded to womankind! No—it was all about the prestige of the ego. And if that was the case, Rama could have gone with Sita into the forest. But he kept the throne and abandoned his wife. Why give up rule! Why give up wealth! Why give up honor! To keep his image spotless, he discarded the pregnant woman, flung her into the forest—no shame, no modesty. And still you call Rama “God” and “the supremely righteous man”! He had molten lead poured into a shudra’s ears for hearing the Veda—at the behest of a Brahmin. Still you call him God!
I haven’t poured molten lead into anyone’s ears. At most I’ve put a few Vedic mantras into people’s ears—but not molten lead. Yet I am the demon! And as for Krishna—the very deity whom Swami Akshayananda and his departed guru, Bhaktivedanta Prabhupada, worship—look carefully at Krishna’s life, whose scriptures they recite. These people run a Krishna movement, they worship Krishna, they chant the Srimad Bhagavatam and the Gita.
There is as much violence in Krishna’s life as perhaps has never been attributed to any single person in human history. Historians estimate that if the Mahabharata war took place as described, at least one billion, two hundred and fifty million people died—one and a quarter billion; a full third of today’s world population. India’s current population is about seven hundred million; nearly twice that number died in that war.
Arjuna, poor fellow, was ready to take up the drum and do bhajan-kirtan. He wanted to become a Swami Akshayananda—beat the drum and chant Hare Krishna–Hare Rama. But Krishna stopped him. And what arguments did Krishna give? If the followers of the Hare Krishna movement trust Krishna’s arguments, how can they accuse me of supporting murder by abortion? For Krishna says: “Na hanyate hanyamane sharire”—the soul is not killed when the body is killed. Fire cannot burn it—“nainam dahati pavakah.” Weapons cannot cleave it—“nainam chhindanti shastrani.” The soul does not die. He argued with Arjuna: Why worry? Kill without worry; no one dies. The army of Kauravas before you—hack them like carrots and radishes. Only bodies die; souls are immortal.
This is the Gita’s fundamental argument: the soul does not die. If the slaughter of one and a quarter billion people is not violence, then how is abortion violence? Krishna is God! If you measure by nonviolence, then the Jaina scriptures are right—they put Krishna in the seventh hell. If Akshayananda had even a little intelligence—which I doubt entirely… These people who guzzle panchamrit—what intelligence can they have? Do you know what panchamrit is? Cow dung, cow urine, milk, yogurt, ghee—mix the five and gulp: that is panchamrit. This is the old fare, the “prasad,” of Krishna devotees: panchamrit. It is not cow dung as cow dung? Then Gandhi had a disciple, Bhansali—he was a true Krishna-bhakta—he ate actual cow dung. Just as Morarji Desai drinks his own urine—he has gone beyond cow urine; why depend on outsiders? Bhansali, a great devotee of Gandhi and one of his close disciples, was the most “miraculous” man in the Wardha ashram; he would live for months on cow dung alone. Gandhi too regarded him as a tapasvi—Bhansali even outdid Gandhi.
The Jainas consigned Krishna to hell precisely because he sanctioned great violence. Krishna’s first argument to Arjuna was: no one dies by killing. His second argument—if the Krishna devotees would understand their own scripture—is that only whom God wants to die will die; Arjuna, you are only an instrument. You are not the killer; God is the killer. He has already killed these Kauravas; you are merely the occasion—give a push and they will fall. They are already as good as dead. If God is the one who kills and revives, if not even a leaf moves without Him, then how can abortion cause any death?
And the delicious irony is that I do not advocate abortion. Those who cause abortions are Mahatma Gandhi, the founder of this Krishna movement, Prabhupada, the Pope, Mother Teresa—people like these. They forbid people to use birth control. I support the full use of science: let the child not even come into the womb; then the question of abortion does not arise. These people cause abortions. First they say: do not use any methods of contraception; that is a sin. Then poor people have children—or women become pregnant; they have no means to raise them. What should they do? They resort to abortion. And I am blamed! If I had my way, there wouldn’t be a single abortion in the world, because I support using science completely. When a pill can prevent conception, why bring a child and then abort it? Why all that upheaval?
But Mahatma Gandhi said do not use birth control; the Pope says do not use birth control. If you must limit births, do it through celibacy. Even Gandhi could not limit births; he fathered five children. In Gandhi’s ashram, where celibacy was the rule, it was broken daily. Gandhi’s own private secretary, Pyarelal, broke celibacy and was expelled from the ashram—and Pyarelal wrote the finest authorized biography of Gandhi.
Who is causing abortions? Am I responsible? If my advice were followed, not one abortion would occur—only these kinds of fools are creating the conditions for abortions.
And the second accusation is “relations with other men’s wives.”
Tell Swami Akshayananda Maharaj that Krishna had sixteen thousand women. They were not his lawfully wedded wives; they were other men’s married women. And they did not come willingly; they were abducted by force. Krishna is God—and I am a demon! Not sixteen thousand—I have not abducted even sixteen women. If one must abduct sixteen thousand other men’s wives to qualify as God, then certainly I am not God—and do not wish to be. Better to be a demon. If Ravana’s entire guilt is that he abducted one woman—Sita—Krishna abducted sixteen thousand. If abducting one woman makes Ravana a demon, then by that logic Krishna is sixteen thousand times a demon. And if abducting sixteen thousand is required to be a God, then even Ravana must be accorded one-sixteen-thousandth of divinity by Krishna’s measure. I have abducted no one—not another’s, not even “my own.” By that reckoning I am not even one-sixteen-thousandth God—nor a demon, since I have not stolen anyone’s Sita. Plainly, set against your so-called gods of the Golden Age, I cannot be called a god at all.
If one must accept Godhood, a new category would be needed for me. I carry neither bow nor axe. I have nothing of Krishna’s deceit, trickery, fraud, lies, or oath-breaking—he swore he would not lift a weapon, then picked up the Sudarshan chakra. I have no Sudarshan chakra—nothing at all.
Many times I feel the word “God” is sullied. As soon as the new commune is established, this word must be discarded, because I do not wish to stand in the same line as those with whom people have associated that name.
He says, “An Acharya who supports relations with other men’s wives and abortion is not God but a first-rate demon.”
He should indeed be a first-rate demon—because none of those “virtues” are in me. I do not roam about like Parashurama with an axe, slaughtering any kshatriya I see. Nor do I abduct anyone’s wife. And those gods—Rama, Krishna—were all meat-eaters.
The Jaina scriptures mention that Krishna’s cousin, Neminath, is a Tirthankara. Neminath’s wedding was arranged—indeed, the procession had set out. When it arrived, he heard thousands of animals crying and bleating—they had been tied up to be slaughtered for the wedding feast. Neminath asked why the animals were crying. He was told they were to be sacrificed for the guests’ welcome. His heart was so pierced that he said, “Then I will not marry at all. If such violence inaugurates a wedding, I am done with it.” He felt such disgust for violence that he abandoned the wedding procession and set off for the forest. He was Krishna’s cousin. Krishna was an Ahir—a herdsman—meat-eaters, not vegetarians.
Rama too was a kshatriya, a meat-eater. Your meat-eating gods—while I am a vegetarian; how could I be a god by your standards? And this Swami Akshayananda Maharaj is a knower of the scriptures? What on earth does he know? In Rama’s life there is the episode of Ahalya, turned to stone, waiting for his feet to fall upon her so she might be revived. And they sing great praises: Rama’s touch revived a rock! But who asks how Ahalya became stone? I do not leave such matters so easily. Ahalya was cursed by her husband.
The Purana’s story is delicious. Indra deceived a rishi’s wife—Ahalya. The rishi went at brahma-muhurt to bathe. Rishis were advised to bathe at that hour, so that in the meantime the gods could pursue their escapades. The rishi left; Indra arrived at the house disguised as the rishi. What is beyond a god—any miracle is possible. The wife was deceived; she did not know another man had come in the rishi’s guise. Indra enjoyed Ahalya. When the rishi discovered it, he cursed Ahalya. Now see the injustice. The curse should have been on Indra; what was Ahalya’s fault? He should have cursed Indra: “Become a rock!” But Indra is a man; why curse a man? The woman was cursed—though she was faultless. How could she refuse if someone arrived exactly like her husband? Where was her mistake? She was cursed to lie as stone until Rama’s feet would fall upon her.
This double standard is a symbol of dishonesty and injustice. Nowhere in the world’s scriptures have women been so mistreated as in the Indian Puranas. And these are the scriptures they praise and extol. These rotten, decayed texts deserve to be burned. But the Hindu ego is titillated whenever someone says, “our scriptures.” Let an American, tufted, head-shaven drummer chant Hare Krishna–Hare Rama and say “our scriptures,” and the Hindu heart turns into a garden—dancing in intoxication, “What profound words!”
Open your scriptures and you will hang your head in shame. Your gods are thorough rakes. I am helpless; I must speak what is. Not one of your gods is a decent man. And what is their work in heaven? To make the apsaras dance, what else! And when bored with apsaras, they descend here to harass the wives of rishis. If a rishi practices austerity, send apsaras to unsteady him and corrupt him. What noble work your gods have! Let them keep their women dancing—and ensure no sage completes his tapasya. Splendid gods, protectors of religion—who strive that no rishi succeed in austerity. The moment a sage rises high, send Urvashi or Menaka at once and corrupt him—because Indra’s throne starts to wobble: if a rishi succeeds, he may become Indra. That is politics, not religion—protecting a throne. Your gods are politicians; their seats are insecure; someone else might take over. Same old stories of ordinary men.
And those gods have exquisite apsaras—Urvashi, Menaka—forever sixteen; what arrangements! Bodies without sweat, exuding fragrance. Even of such women they tire. However delicious, the same taste, day after day—always rasmalai, and a man will recoil; sometimes one craves pakoras. So they come down to earth. Ordinary husbands do not rise at brahma-muhurt, but the rishis do—off to bathe in the Ganges—and the gods’ job is to corrupt their wives. And here’s the real joke: if a rishi succumbs to Urvashi, he is corrupt; when the gods corrupt the rishis’ wives, they are not corrupt!
Open your scriptures. Brahma created the earth—and fell in love with her, for Earth is feminine. As creator he was the father—yet he lusted after his daughter. The scriptures say desire arose in him; he pursued her. If I do not call him lecherous, what shall I call him? The poor woman, ashamed, tried to hide—that is how, they say, the entire creation unfolded: the process of hiding. How did she hide? She became a cow; Brahma became a bull. She became a mare; he a stallion. She became a she-ass; he a jackass. She turned into this and that; he kept becoming her counterpart—the “sister,” the “brother.” Thus the world was populated.
These are your Puranas, your scriptures—and you never tire of praising them. You are so worn out you now import fools from abroad who know nothing of your shastras to praise them for you. And they call me a demon! Define “demon” properly once, and all your gods will stand exposed as demons; of those you have called “God,” not one will remain worthy of the name. There is godliness in Mahavira—but the Hindu scriptures do not even mention him. There is godliness in Buddha—but Hindu scriptures mention him only with treachery. They say: Brahma made heaven and hell. But no one was going to hell, because no one committed sin. The officials of hell petitioned God: “Why have you appointed us? We sit idle—no one ever comes.” Out of pity for them, God said, “Do not worry. Soon I will descend as Gautam Buddha and lead people astray.” So, out of pity for the staff of hell, he incarnated as Buddha, corrupted people, and since then hell has been so crowded there are queues—no admission available. Since then, who would go to heaven? He might have dissolved hell; what need to preserve it? If no one was sinning, why manufacture sinners? He could have given the hell staff leave, brought them to heaven, found them work there; shut down hell—simple enough that even a small mind could grasp it. If the shop has no customers, why forcibly create them?
So he incarnated as Buddha—to corrupt people! And people were corrupted; since then hell is overflowing, while heaven must be facing shortages. Buddha manifested godliness in full, in a way Rama, Parashurama, and Krishna never did. But see what story they invented! In this land the Brahmins, priests, and pundits have spun such fraud, such obscurantism and superstition without end. Those who could truly be called divine were not called God; those they did call God show no signs of godliness.
They say he criticized my sannyasins too. On what grounds?
“Because misguided foreign nationals dress like saints...”
Who is misguided? According to the Jainas, the Hindus are misguided; according to the Hindus, the Jainas are misguided. According to both, the Buddhists are misguided; according to the Buddhists, the Hindus and Jainas are misguided. According to Muslims, Christians are misguided; according to Christians, Muslims are misguided. According to both, all Hindus, Buddhists, Jainas are misguided. Who is misguided?
They claim the simple are being led astray by me.
Drop that delusion. Simpletons have not gathered around me; highly reflective people have. The dolts have all joined the Hare Krishna movement.
There are three “great men” in this country: Prabhupada, Morarji Desai, and Muktananda. None can beat these three. Prabhupada is dead, but that changes nothing—fools die but leave offspring. Now the offspring are tinkling their bells. Swami Akshayananda Maharaj—his offspring. His guru had no connection with intelligence—nor does he.
Those who have gathered around me are educated. There are hundreds of graduates, PhDs, DLitts—people educated in the great universities of the West: professors, psychologists, doctors, engineers, scientists. This is not a mob of simpletons. They are cultivated and educated in every way. And if today they choose to be simple, it is after living through all the crookedness of life; their simplicity is born of experience. Their simplicity is not a sign of stupidity; it is the sign of their sainthood.
And he says as criticism that “they shamelessly display love in public places...”
And for someone who worships Krishna to say this—that is beyond endurance. At the very least, my sannyasins do not snatch the clothes of women bathing in the river and climb trees. What did Krishna do? The flute under the Vamshi Vat tree, the raas-leela, the dancing of the women—were these not public places in Vrindavan? Those river ghats, that Vamshi Vat! For a Krishna devotee to say such things is the limit of absurdity. My sannyasins do not tease other men’s wives; if they walk hand in hand with their own beloveds, what is that to anyone? If they embrace their beloved, what is that to anyone? Those who object are distorted, ugly within; they are full of repressed desires.
And the poor fellows in the Hare Krishna movement are utterly repressed; they have been taught the same foolishness that has run in India for centuries—repression. And the consequences of repression can be dreadful.
Yesterday I read a news item: a Catholic nun, after forty years as a nun, at the age of sixty-seven—no ordinary nun but the head of a convent, a Mother Superior like Mother Teresa—ran away and married an old man. After forty years of being a nun, running away at sixty-seven to marry an old man! When I read it, I was a bit amused. Sometimes such thoughts come to me—good thoughts! I sometimes imagine: if Mother Teresa had married Morarji Desai, what would their offspring be like? Just a thought, an imagination—a poem, if you like. The earth has been deprived. We have a saying: “A match made by Rama—one blind, one leprous.” A pair like Mother Teresa and Morarji Desai—their child would be a spectacle, unique!
For a nun to elope and marry at sixty-seven—what does it prove? It proves that for forty years the poor woman repressed and repressed, and this is the result.
“He expressed concern and anger.”
Let him express concern and anger. I feel neither for such people—only laughter. The man is laughable, nothing more. Yet such people keep influencing others; such people trade in empty talk; such people presume to guide. They are dishonest and deceptive—neither thought nor understood nor reflected; meditation is far off. But they are shopkeepers.
And the Hindu mind is very wounded; it longs for anyone to butter its ego a little: our scriptures, our religion, our gods!
I will say only what is—as it is—whatever the consequences. What is wrong I will call wrong; what is right I will call right. I am as clear as two plus two equals four—let the consequences be what they may. I am ready to stake everything on truth. Those who are with me must be equally ready. To be with me is to be with fire. But to be burned in this fire is blessed—because only the false and the trivial will burn away, and what remains will be pure gold.
That is all for today.