Peevat Ramras Lagi Khumari #7

Anand Maitreya, the great poet Rabindranath never became free of the worn-out, personified idea of God. In that very notion lies the whole misfortune of man. It is as if Nietzsche’s proclamation never reached Rabindranath’s ears: God is dead—long dead—and man is now free.

Nietzsche himself is a poet of the same order as Rabindranath. He too is wrestling with life’s profound problems, as Rabindranath is. But their ways of struggle differ. Rabindranath walks the old rut; Nietzsche is breaking a new path through rock. Naturally, he had to suffer the lethal consequences of that. Those who walk the beaten tracks face no danger; those who hew new ways face every danger.

In Rabindranath’s mind the centuries-old, decrepit notion persisted that God is a person, a ruler, without whose will not even a leaf can move; by whose command all happens and by whose command all stops; who made the creation and who one day will destroy it. From this notion Rabindranath’s mind could never be free. Therefore prayers did arise within him, but not the flame of revolution. And such prayers as if the live ember had gone out and only cold ash remained. To say the ember went out is not even right; there never was an ember—only ash upon ash. Call that ash “vibhuti,” sacred ash, if you like; it makes no difference.

Rabindranath’s prayers are impotent—because the God for whom they are offered, such a God is nowhere.

So first I would answer: To which God are you praying? The sky is empty. There is no God anywhere who will hear your prayers and fulfill them. Whom are you talking to? You are talking only to yourself; this is derangement, nothing more. Meditation has meaning; prayer has none. Meditation means: the experience of godliness. Prayer begins with the presumption of God. There is godliness. Life is brimming with godliness—petal to petal, flower to flower, wave to wave, gust to gust.

But understand the difference.
Godliness is a quality; “God” is a person. It is all right that the one who has known godliness you call “a god,” the one who has experienced godliness you call “divine,” but there is no creator. No one has ever made this world, no one will ever destroy it, and no one is its controller. This existence is eternal.

Even the word “creation” is not right, for it carries within it the delusion of a creator. The right word is “nature.” That is why Mahavira and Buddha never used the word “creation”; they used “prakriti,” nature. “Creation” means that which has been made; and if made, there must be a maker, and if a maker, then a caretaker—and then the questions begin, a queue of questions without end.

Buddha and Mahavira used the word “prakriti.” It is a beautiful word. Break it and see: prakriti means “prior to the act”—that which has never been made; which has no doer behind it; which exists before every doer—prakriti; which is prior to every deed—prakriti. Nature is. And nature is not only matter; it also contains consciousness. Truly, matter is the sleeping state of consciousness; and godliness is the awakened state of consciousness. So the question is to awaken what sleeps within you. There is no one to pray to. There is no one to worship. And if you worship and pray, then all these questions begin to arise. Rabindranath says—

“Today my throat is choked,
the flute’s music is gone; the prison of the new-moon night
has drowned my world beneath a nightmare;
therefore, with tear-filled eyes, I ask you—
those who have poisoned your air, who have put out your light,
have you forgiven them, have you loved them?”

But still—whom are you asking? Yourself? There is no one there. There is no listener, no answerer.

“With tears in my eyes I ask you: those who are poisoning your air, who are extinguishing your light—have you forgiven them? Have you loved them?”

The question is meaningful, but the one you are asking is not there. He never was. All your prayers have been lost in the empty sky. You have battered your head in vain. Yet, once you assume that there is a God, then these questions begin to arise.

“God, in this merciless world,” says Rabindranath, “you have, age after age, sent messengers again and again.”

There is no sender, and no messengers have ever been sent. Yes—those who experienced godliness, what they said became the message. They are no one’s couriers, no prophets, no emissaries. What awakened within them, they sang. What arose within, they molded into words, into music, into images. Whoever has realized the witness within has tried, from every side, to point toward it. But they are not messengers. Yet once we start with the premise that God exists as a person, trouble begins.

Understand God as presence, not as person. Understand God as fragrance, not as flower. Then all these questions of Rabindranath will change. And these are not only Rabindranath’s questions; they have been asked for centuries. Rabindranath has only bound them into beautiful lines.

“God, in this merciless world you have sent messengers again and again.”
If God is the maker of this world, what need was there to make a merciless world in the first place? What need at all? This is sheer madness! If there is a God, he must be deranged: first create merciless people—wicked, murderous, violent, unjust, sinful, depraved—create them; then send messengers to reform them. What a notion! First make people sick—give them disease from birth—then send physicians! And if they don’t listen to the physicians, be angry with them, punish them, throw them into hell. If they do listen and obey, be pleased with them and give them the reward of heaven. What kind of insanity is this?

But once you accept the notion of a personal God, such things begin to seem meaningful. Then God sends messengers. First he makes the world and gives every person the seeds of sin—desire, lust, anger, hatred, enmity, greed—at birth! Then the giver himself is responsible. What fault is it of the people?

You did not create sin with your own hands. You are not its maker. You did not make your life, nor the passions hidden within it. You came carrying life. And who gave you these passions? Then come saints and prophets and avatars, and they explain: renounce the passions. God makes the world, and the saints explain: renounce the world. What a conjurer’s trick! If the world is to be renounced, why make it at all? And if saints are to be sent, why does God take on the whole arrangement of creating the world? Better not create it. No bamboo, no flute. Make the bamboo, and the flute, and the player—and then send messengers to say: Do not make noise! Do not play the flute! Playing the flute is a great sin! You will rot in hell! If you do not play, you will enjoy heaven! Then make hell, make heaven, arrange pleasures and pains. But what for? All this commotion arises from accepting the notion of a personal God.

So Rabindranath says, “God, in this merciless world you have sent messengers again and again.”
I say: there is no God—and no messenger.

And then he says, “They said: forgive everyone; they said: love everyone—destroy the poison of hatred within.”
Now think a little: all these so-called messengers and prophets say “love all,” while God himself does not love all. He loves the one who goes along with him; not all. His love is conditional. He forgives the virtuous. The virtuous have no need of forgiveness. He forgives the one who needs no forgiveness, and he throws the sinner—who does need forgiveness—into the flames of hell, fries him in cauldrons of oil. What arithmetic is this? What justice?

Therefore Buddha and Mahavira rejected the notion of God—twenty-five centuries before Nietzsche. They said plainly: there is no God. Then the question doesn’t remain whether God forgives or rewards. The whole matter changes. You reap the consequences of what you do. Do the wholesome, and you receive the wholesome; do the unwholesome, and you receive the unwholesome. There is no giver. Put your hand in fire, and it burns. Touch a flower, and your hand is perfumed. So it is: a natural law. Walk carefully and you won’t fall, your limbs won’t break. Walk in intoxication, in unconsciousness, and you’ll fall and break your limbs.

These saints, these “messengers,” said: forgive everyone. Should we forgive even those who committed great massacres? Should Tamerlane, Genghis Khan, and Nadir Shah be forgiven? Should even they be loved? It is by forgiving and loving such people that, in those countries where religions and these so-called divine messengers have had great influence, the people have become cowardly. This country has been enslaved for twenty-two hundred years—because it forgave even those who enslaved it; forgave those who sowed thorns in its breast, who trampled it with bayonets—because the great men were preaching: forgive all, love all!

Therefore Rabindranath rightly asks, “I ask you: have you, too, forgiven them? Have you, too, loved them who extinguished your light and are poisoning your air?”
But before Rabindranath asks whether you have forgiven them, he should ask: why did you make them?

A painter makes a dirty, obscene picture—who is responsible? Is the obscenity the picture’s fault, or the painter’s? A sculptor makes a crude and vulgar statue—who is answerable? The statue? Will you punish the statue, put handcuffs on it, throw it into prison? Or is the sculptor responsible? If there is sin in this world, if there are people who extinguish the flame of life, if there is exploitation and oppression, then who is responsible? Why is this not asked?
Rabindranath did not ask the fundamental question. He should have asked: “God, do you even exist?” Looking at this world, the solid evidence is that you do not. You have often been told that by looking at the world there is proof that God exists—otherwise who would run the world?
I tell you: looking at this world, the fullest proof is that if there is anyone running it, it would be the devil—God it cannot be. And the way this world lurches along—awkwardly, upside down, stumbling and colliding here and there, moving in blindness—shows there is no maker behind it. People are asleep and sleepwalking; that is why they collide. Yes, people can awaken.

If you ask me, whatever a sleeping person does will be wrong. And what punishment can you give to someone who is asleep? He was asleep; in his sleep he muttered, he babbled—what punishment can you give? And the awakened one does not do wrong. Through him light does not go out; through him light grows.

But Rabindranath’s conception is the same, stale notion of a personal God. He is praying to that. Doubts have arisen in his mind, but not very deep ones. He has doubted the messengers, but not the sender of the messengers.

He says: “They are venerable; granted, the messengers you sent are venerable because you sent them; they are to be remembered—but even so, in this inauspicious time, from the outer door I have sent them back with a futile salutation.”

Rabindranath speaks with such sweetness. He says—
“They are worthy to be chosen, worthy to be remembered; yet today, on this ill-starred day,
I turned them back from the outer door with a meaningless bow.”

“I have sent back your messengers—granted, they are venerable, granted, they are to be remembered because they are yours—yet in this dark day I returned them from the threshold with an empty, futile salutation.”

That is exactly what all of you have done. Why have you installed idols in your temples? To perform empty, futile salutations. In your mosques, your gurudwaras, your churches—what are you doing there? The same empty bows. A compulsion: they are God’s messengers, so one must make their images, one must offer a couple of flowers. But Rabindranath has eyes. Though they see dimly, he does have eyes. He sees:

“I have seen it: hidden violence and deceit have wrapped the night like a shadow; the helpless are struck down.
I have seen it: at the crimes of a power that cannot be resisted, the voice of justice weeps silently in secret.
I have seen it: a young boy breaks loose in frenzy—
how much torment he suffered, dying as he beat his head in vain upon the stones.”

Little children die. They have no fault, no sin. And if they did have sins from past lives, why give them birth at all? Why give them the torment of dying? The questions are arising, but they do not go deep enough. They are vague, blurry.

“Today my throat is closed, the music of my flute is asleep. The prison of the new moon night has erased my world into a sorrowful dream; and so, with tears in my eyes, I ask you...”

But still—whom are you asking? Fill your eyes with tears, fill them a thousand times, weep your heart out—whom are you asking? There is no one there to answer. Not even an echo will arise. You are alone. It is a monologue. All your prayers are monologues, not dialogues. And centuries have passed praying—when will you awaken?

If you must doubt, then doubt God. And I tell you: if doubt arises, utterly and completely, and in the fire of your doubt your so-called notion of God is burnt to ash, a revolution can happen in your life. Then you will not stretch your hands outward. You will not fold your hands outward. You will turn within. You will search within. Outside there is no one. In the sky there is no one at all. Beyond the seven heavens there is no one at all. Then only one place remains: “Let me look within and seek—perhaps there.” And those who have looked there have found with certainty. It is you. At your very center that lamp is alight. And that lamp cannot be found through prayer—because prayer goes outward. That lamp can be found only through meditation—because meditation turns inward.

Rabindranath remained with prayers. The Gitanjali for which he received the Nobel Prize is only a collection of prayers. If only he had turned a little toward meditation. Perhaps then Gitanjali would not have been born, perhaps the Nobel Prize would not have come—but the benediction of life would surely have come to him. The godliness of life would surely have come.

A revolution is needed—a great revolution that turns you from outer seeking to the inner, and awakens your sleeping consciousness. Then you will find: there is no God, no messenger, no holy book of his. All books are inventions of men—be they the Vedas, the Bible, or the Qur’an. All words are proclamations of men. Yes, within there is an emptiness that is beyond man, beyond his trance and sleep. There is an inner realm of awakening before which a thousand suns grow pale. And there is a fragrance which, once found, is found forever—timeless, deathless. And the moment it is found, the whole style of your life changes. Then in this world you will fight injustice, yet in your fighting you will not be shaken. Within you all will remain silent and still, and on your circumference revolution will arise. Peace at your center, and revolution on your periphery. Unbroken silence within, and resistance to injustice on your periphery. Then you will not consent to be a slave—whether the slavery be political, economic, mental, or spiritual. You will consent to no form of slavery. You will tear away the veils of all bondage. If you come to taste liberation within, you will begin to share that taste of liberation without.

And then we can build a new world. Until now we have not built a new world. Until now we have merely minted new gods.

Every new shoot cast a fresh idol,
ever new images, new temples, new rules of worship.
Conches kept blaring, gaudy lanterns kept burning;
the soul kept dissolving, and man stayed forlorn.

From royal palaces fell sapphires and topaz,
and the helpless masses kept swallowing broken glass.
The flowers of charity kept turning into dry thorns,
a gold-inlaid bridle kept clamping parched jaws.

Beauty kept selling behind brocade curtains,
love kept hearing the clang of iron.
Caravans were looted, destinations stayed estranged;
moons were snuffed out, captive partridges kept gazing.

Each new age arrived with a hundred hopes—and letdowns;
life stayed battered, ailing, and helpless.
One emperor rose, another ascended;
in that same cycle, since forever, this earth stayed shattered.

Suddenly a smoke-thick window rattled—
a playful candle leaned out, the tongue of its flame trembled;
rising from the slopes of rustling darkness,
it sang the songs of a crimson dawn.

The redness on the horizon is the glint of a new age;
these henna-stains are for a new beauty.
Heights and depths have settled to the same plane—
what human now will claim to be God?

The redness on the horizon is the glint of a new age;
these henna-stains are for a new beauty.
Heights and depths have settled to the same plane—
what human now will claim to be God?

The time has come when we cast no more idols, raise no new temples, weave no new rituals and rites. Too many books have descended, too many prophets, too many doctrines. Now the time has come for all this nonsense to stop—and for us to go within, to seek within. The outer search has lost, it is exhausted, it is finished. If any place remains to be searched, it is the inner sky of man.

That is why my emphasis is not on prayer but on meditation. Not on temples or mosques; not on the Gita, the Qur’an, the Bibles; but on the profound silence within you. If only you can know the inner emptiness, godliness is yours. And then you will know there is no God—though the whole existence is suffused with godliness.

Panchanan Pathak, first we have to ask: what proof do you have that these wives prayed to Krishna for deliverance? Yes, it is written in books composed to flatter Krishna. If Ravana had won, there would be a Ravana-lila, not a Ram-lila—and it would certainly say that Sita herself prayed to be delivered.

You have heard the maxim again and again—Satyameva Jayate, that truth always triumphs. The fact is just the reverse. Whoever triumphs, people start calling him the truth. Whether truth triumphs or not is uncertain, but once someone is victorious, people declare him the truth. You worship Ram because Ram won. You would have worshipped Ravana had he been the victor. It is victory that is worshipped. Don’t they say: people salute the rising sun; who salutes the setting one?

Who wrote these scriptures that say those sixteen thousand women prayed for deliverance? And in such a vast country, only sixteen thousand women were persecuted? They say one and a quarter billion people died in the Mahabharata war. If 1.25 billion could die in the war, then at least three or four billion must have lived in this land. There would have been two billion women. And if 1.25 billion men died, then their 1.25 billion wives must at least have been miserable. Only sixteen thousand women! There is no mention anywhere that after the Mahabharata 1.25 billion women decided to immolate themselves as satis. If 1.25 billion women had burned, the fire would still not be out. The women must have been very unhappy. They surely would have prayed—what else was there to do? Even poor Rabindranath was praying! What else would the rest of the women do?

Only sixteen thousand women—and all of them beautiful, at that! Not a single plain woman prayed? Only beautiful women were oppressed? And suppose we grant even that—did not a single husband pray? Because in my observation, the experience is quite the opposite: husbands are far more harassed by their wives. If sixteen thousand wives were whisked away, then at least thirty-two thousand husbands should also have been whisked away. Go and ask the husbands.

Mulla Nasruddin’s son once asked him, “Papa, why did you marry Mom?”
Mulla looked at him closely and said, “You scoundrel, so you’re surprised too?”

Seeing a cricket bat in his wife’s hand, Mulla asked, “Can you hit sixes?”
She said, “I don’t know about hitting sixes, but I can knock the daylights out of you.”

Chandulal said to Mulla Nasruddin, “Magic is what gets on your head and speaks.”
Hearing the idiom, Nasruddin replied, “That’s not magic—that’s a wife.”

A tonic-making company received a testimonial from a lady: “Your tonic is undoubtedly very effective. Earlier I couldn’t even hit my child. After taking the tonic, besides finishing all the housework, I also give my husband a couple of sound thrashings.”

A husband and wife quarreled; both were furious. The husband, crying, said, “God, O God, take me away!”
The wife shouted, “God, take me too!”
At once the husband said, “Then, God, don’t take me where you take this lady. Otherwise I’ll die for nothing!”

In a life-insurance office, the officer asked Mulla Nasruddin, “Mulla, you want to insure your arms and legs? Fine, but if your wife breaks them, we won’t count that as an accident.”
That’s an everyday occurrence. That’s no accident.

Their wedding anniversary was near. The wife asked the husband, “How shall we celebrate it this time? Have you thought of anything?”
“In my view, how about five minutes of silence on the anniversary?” the husband proposed.
Silence? If we manage five minutes of silence, that would be a lot!

A precious Chinese cup slipped and broke; Mulla Nasruddin was crouching under the bed. His wife said, “Come out, I tell you!”
Mulla replied, “I am the master of the house. I will sit wherever I please!”
And there was a reason to sit under the bed: the wife was stout and couldn’t get under; it was the only safe place.

Not a single husband prayed to Krishna! Sixteen thousand wives—you say, Panchanan Pathak, that I should add that all of them were oppressed by their husbands and prayed to Krishna for deliverance.

So only women prayed? Or did he only listen to women’s prayers and reject all petitions from husbands? If he had delivered even a few husbands, I too would have said yes, he is a redeemer.

He kept stealing women’s clothes and perching in the trees; at least sometimes he could have stolen the men’s! He kept lengthening Draupadi’s sari, lengthening and lengthening; at least lengthen some man’s loincloth too! Men’s loincloths have been snatched away as well. Those who were considered staunch “loincloth-wearers” lost theirs too. He could have so lengthened the loincloth that, no matter how hard anyone tried to strip it away, they could not—given such a sturdy loincloth. But no—only the protection of women! What a wondrous redemption!

And by “redeeming” these sixteen thousand women, did the persecution of women cease? I would certainly call him a redeemer if he had abolished marriage itself. Then men would be redeemed, women would be redeemed. He could have invented something new; proposed a new style of relationship between man and woman. This rotten, decayed style—whose consequences women are suffering, men are suffering; both living in hell! What is achieved by redeeming one or two, a thousand or two thousand, or even sixteen thousand? The institution itself is rotten. If he had suggested a new structure in its place, I would surely have said he was a redeemer.

Therefore, Panchanan Pathak, I will stand by what I said; I cannot add anything to it.

Bharat Bhushan, I agree. I will not give you the name Bharatanand Bharati. And I am delighted that you have gathered the courage to take sannyas. More delighted still that this is your last question. Because one who becomes questionless is not far from Buddhahood. The one who has asked the last question—after that only the answer remains; nothing else remains.

As for my way of working, it is certainly foolish. But not so foolish that, if you look a little, you would not understand.

You ask, “You make certain statements about enlightened ones and religious leaders which inflame their followers.”

At least they wake up. Otherwise they are asleep—snoring. If they get inflamed, that’s fine. If a hundred get inflamed, one or two will come to me. But if all hundred remain asleep, there isn’t even the possibility of one coming. So I don’t bother about the ninety-nine who get angry—they will go back to sleep anyway. How long can they stay inflamed? I have provoked many; after a few days they fall asleep again, and start snoring. But the one or two who are stirred by that provocation, they come. That’s not an expensive bargain. After throwing a few abuses at me, they too will go back to sleep.

Take the Parsis, for example—I have just provoked them. They will fall asleep quickly. Parsis are good people; even when they flare up, how much can they flare up! They’ll jump around a bit and then say, “What’s the point now!” Pull their blanket over themselves and sleep again! If they were so very brave, why would they have run from Iran…! They left Iran; the whole of Iran is gone to them, and only a few are left now. Even those are just within Bombay and around it. Ninety percent in Bombay, and ten percent—say—Khandala, Lonavala… if they venture very far, then Poona! And if they become very brave indeed, then Panchgani! That’s it—the whole map ends here. Simple, innocent people. In this way they don’t listen at all; they just sleep—so a little provocation was necessary. Of those who have been provoked, some will certainly come to me. And those who are intelligent will surely understand. The intelligent have a different way of thinking.

Bhagwan, I seek your blessing, so that I may quench some unknown thirst that has arisen in the heart. By speaking on Kabir you have completed all the work.
Now, could you expect such a thing from the mahant of any temple? But when a few people wake up—and they wake up by being set on fire—among those who wake, some will certainly be drawn and come. If a mahant accepts that the thirst for Hari has arisen, the longing for Hari’s darshan has arisen, and he is eager to come, then to inflame is not a costly bargain. The other ninety-nine were asleep; they will go back to sleep. Why worry about them!
This is the straightforward style of my work; it is mathematical. After all, how are so many people gathering around me? I sit here, I don’t even leave my room—and I keep the whole world stirred up. What else do you call a miracle? I don’t even step out of the room!
Just yesterday news reached me—a poster arrived—that the University of Amsterdam has arranged a six-month series of lectures about me, pro and con. For six continuous months many people will be giving talks. Scientists will speak, psychologists will speak, philosophers will speak, religious leaders will speak, priests will speak, my sannyasins will speak.
In Holland—whose exact place on the map I don’t even really know! Because I have always been weak in geography. To tell the truth, weak in everything—history, geography... I have never had any taste for such useless things. If you suddenly asked me where Holland is, I could not tell you exactly. But where I am, everyone in Holland knows. That is the real point. That is what is called knowledge of geography.
Three days ago a very large Dutch newspaper set questions to test how much contentment you have within. The first question carries ten points; the second, forty; answer “yes” and you get fifty, answer “no” and so many. And whoever gets two hundred forty points—the editor’s suggestion is: then go to Bhagwan in Poona. Your contentment has become more than necessary. With so much contentment, what are you doing here?
There is an uproar in Germany, a big uproar. There is uproar in Italy, in England; in Japan it is increasing. Do you think there is some mistake in my way of working? There is no other way the work can be done. These are all just my pretexts; what have I to do with Mahesh Yogi, or Sai Baba, or Muktananda, or Tulsi, or Teresa, or the Shankaracharya? Let them all go to hell—what have I to do with them? Let them go wherever they want. But by saying a few things about them, I provoke the crowds that follow them. Some of those who get provoked come over here to see what the matter is! And once they come here, they have come.
Now, for example, Bharat Bhushan—you came. You would never have thought you would have to take sannyas! You were just chatting, pulling out questions from questions; you got entangled, and kept getting more entangled. Now the matter has come to the point of going awry. Now you will have to take the plunge. After you have taken off your clothes and are standing naked on the bank, you cannot turn back. Don’t worry! I will give you a lovely name! Now, dive!
I have my own ways of working.

Yog Shukla, this is the kind of trouble that comes. Take me, for example: right now I am provoking people, waking them up. If more and more people get stirred and awakened, and the crowding becomes such that living here gets difficult for me, then I too will say:
Come, Bulleh, let us go there
where only the blind dwell.
Where no one recognizes our caste,
and no one acknowledges us.

What else will I do? I will say, “Saint Maharaj, come—Bulleh, let us go where only the blind dwell!” Only a saint will understand this language. Where no one recognizes our caste, and no one acknowledges us. When the fair here gets too crowded—like a Kumbh Mela—I will take a saint and disappear! After all, there is a limit to what one can endure.

That is what happened to Bulleh Shah. Too many devotees gathered around him. And that was a different era and style. I live in an organized way; however many devotees gather, such a situation won’t arise. There are so many guards—where will you get in? I live alone. However large the crowd is here, it makes no difference to me. Do you think these guards are for nothing? They are here precisely to prevent what happened to Bulleh Shah from happening to me.

I lived in Jabalpur for some ten or fifteen years. There was a fakir there—Magga Baba. A very lovely man. No one knew his given name. People called him Magga Baba because he always carried a mug in his hand. He ate from it, drank water from it, someone would drop money into it—his mug was everything; hence, Magga Baba. He never told anyone his name; if asked, he would say “Magga.” So people began to call him Magga Baba. What else to do!

People wouldn’t let him sleep. Service for him went on all day—and all night. He lived under the awning of a shop. When the shop closed he slept outside. At night the rickshaw pullers would gather there. They had no work at night—only when a train arrived would they ferry people; the rest of the time they sat idle. On cold nights a fire burned by Magga Baba; he would lie there and the rickshaw men would be pressing his feet, someone massaging his forehead, someone his hand. Sometimes I visited him. As far as I recall, perhaps he spoke to no one but me!

When no one else was around he would say to me, “Save me! These wretches won’t let me sleep. All night they keep pressing my feet! When am I to sleep? And not just one or two—four or six at a time. They’re doing their service.” And Magga Baba, a simple straightforward man, would neither say no nor yes—he never told anyone to serve, nor ever told anyone not to.

The rickshaw pullers were his special devotees because they served him through the night. So he would sit in any rickshaw and go off—wherever the rickshaw was going, because he had nowhere to go. He had already arrived where one needs to arrive. He would just sit in any rickshaw, and the puller would be delighted—what good fortune! “Baba, where should we go?” Baba would say, “Anywhere.” So the rickshaw-walla would circle around—wherever. People, seeing Baba riding, would drop money into his mug—rupees, coins. And people would also take rupees out of his mug—still no problem. Someone would come and empty the whole mug, and he would let them empty it. If it filled, he let it fill. He was robbed many times—many times! A rickshaw-walla would even steal him—take him off to another town. After a month or fifteen days it would be discovered that someone had abducted Magga Baba. Then he’d be brought back from the other town. And the last time he disappeared, to this day no one knows what happened.

As far as I can see, that last time he wasn’t stolen at all—
Come, Bulleh, let us go there
where only the blind dwell.
Where no one recognizes our caste,
and no one acknowledges us.

He must have been utterly shaken—and fled: “Bulleh, come, let us go to the place where only the blind live, where no one recognizes our caste and no one acknowledges us.”

Such a predicament cannot arise for me. Because however big the crowd, I am alone. Even if the whole world gathers here, I remain alone.

But Bulleh Shah’s way was not like that. I have my own way of living. I am no rule-bound fakir. Even if I am a fakir, I am one in my own style—a fakir with a royal touch. No sound reaches my room. And in the new commune the room I am having built is completely soundproof. Because in the new commune the numbers are going to be huge. So many people I am stirring up around the world! Then I will have to reap the fruit of it. He who does karma must bear its fruit. All kinds of crazies, all kinds of cranks, all kinds of people will come. So the room must be soundproof.

And air-conditioned—so I don’t have to bother about cold or heat or rain or what is happening in the outer world. I live at my own temperature, in my own emptiness and my own ecstasy. In the morning and evening I come out a little to see how things are going: How far have the blind come? Has anyone opened their eyes or not? How many eyes have opened? To those who haven’t I say, “Open them.” To those whose eyes have opened I say, “Close them.” Because those who are still blind, if they see a man with open eyes, they get angry—they’ll gouge the eyes out. They fly into a rage.

This is how it was: Vimalakirti attained enlightenment. When my father died and attained enlightenment, it didn’t cause much trouble—people felt, “He was Bhagwan’s father; it should be so.” But when Vimalakirti attained enlightenment, it bothered many. That is why I announce it only after someone has died—then what can anyone do to the poor fellow? He’s gone. There are many others here who, while alive, have attained enlightenment, but I will not take their names. I will keep silent. I say to them, “My child, die first; then I will tell.” Otherwise, others will kill you. Suppose I say, “Ajit Saraswati has attained enlightenment”—he’ll be beaten up at once! There will be a jostling mob. A thousand people will raise questions: “How did you attain? A Marathi man, and enlightened! Come on, go fool someone else! It can never be!” They will raise a thousand questions, create a thousand hassles, impose a thousand tests—until the man, frightened, says, “Forgive me, brother, I’m not enlightened.”

That is why, when someone dies, I announce whether that person had attained enlightenment or not. Like Vimalakirti. Those who worked alongside Vimalakirti—he sometimes worked in the garden; all the gardeners say, “Impossible! We haven’t become enlightened yet—and he?” Vimalakirti worked as a guard too. At the place where his samadhi has been built, there is a guard; even he refuses to accept that Vimalakirti attained enlightenment. He was explaining to someone, “Bhagwan was making a joke. I haven’t attained yet! I’m an older guard than Vimalakirti! And has anyone ever heard of a German becoming enlightened? It was a joke.”

If Vimalakirti had been alive, these people would have made life impossible. They simply wouldn’t accept it. They wouldn’t believe.

Human beings are very strange. People like Bulleh Shah land in trouble—and of their own doing! No one asked them to. But there are troubles one cannot avoid. When bliss is attained, one has to share—it becomes inevitable. When awakening happens, one has to rouse the sleeping fools—it becomes inevitable. A restlessness arises from within. When in every other way peace settles, a new restlessness comes: “Wake them up!” As a cloud heavy with water cannot help but rain; as a lamp lit cannot help but spread light; as a flower in bloom cannot help but release fragrance—so Bulleh Shah must have fallen into trouble, Yog Shukla. The crowding must have become too much.

Bulleh Shah was truly a sovereign among men. He is one of those rare, extraordinary ones who have known. He sent out the message. When he sent it, he didn’t know—when he wrote the note, he didn’t know—how many would come; yet they came in crowds. And he had no arrangements like mine. So people must have been pressing his feet, putting garlands on him—one stranger than the next!

In France there was a custom: if a person attained knowledge, tear a piece of his clothing and make an amulet of it—great merit comes from that.

Now think what happens! If a man attains knowledge, if he wants to save his clothes, he had better keep quiet. Otherwise his clothes will be snatched and he will return home naked. Not only the clothes get taken—there is such jostling that scratches happen, blood comes out.

People have the strangest notions.

There is a story: A pundit from Kashi came to a village, filled with the knowledge of Kashi. In that village there was also a fool, who—until the pundit came—was regarded as the local scholar. He was a village fool, but the villagers were even more advanced—greater grand-fools. Among them he was a one-eyed king among the blind. The Kashi pundit challenged him: “Defeat me; otherwise you’re no pundit—become my disciple.”

A debate ensued. What could the poor villager do! But he was no ordinary fool—he was extraordinary. The pundit spoke lofty matters. He asked, “How many Vedas are there?” The villager didn’t even know that. A simple man, he said, “How many Vedas? You tell me.” The pundit said, “There are four.” The village pundit turned to the villagers: “Listen to what he says—four! And how many wives do they have?”

The Kashi pundit was alarmed: “This is too much—the Vedas and wives?” But the villagers were delighted: “He’s nailed it! Finished him off in one stroke!” And the village fool continued, “If there are four Vedas, there must be four wives—vednis—mustn’t there? And how many children do they have?”

The Kashi pundit was dumbstruck. And the village fool thought of another trick: “This man is very accomplished—see how silently he sits! Pull out hairs from his beard! Whoever gets a hair is guaranteed liberation.”

You can imagine what happened to the Kashi pundit. Not just his beard—his head was stripped bald. He was thrashed and pummeled. He screamed and shouted—but who would listen? Everyone was busy grabbing whatever they could. And not only for themselves—for their children, their wives, their neighbors, their guests, their relatives—“Pull them out!” The Kashi pundit went back in tears.

Bulleh Shah must have landed in just such trouble. So he said, “Let us go to a place where all are blind, where no one recognizes our caste. Where no one can recognize a sadhu. Where no one can recognize a buddha. Such a place. And no one acknowledges us. If they cannot recognize, why would they accept?”

Shukla, it is a lovely utterance:
Come, Bulleh, let us go there
where only the blind dwell.
Where no one recognizes our caste,
and no one acknowledges us.

That’s all for today.