Phir Amrit Ki Boond Padi #2

India is both, because here I am—and so are you. India has touched the highest peaks of consciousness in this world, and now I also see you lying in the gutters. You have become so accustomed to the gutters that you have turned them into temples. You don’t even wish to get out!

There was a revolution in France. There was a central prison, the Bastille, where only those sentenced for life were kept. Their handcuffs and shackles were broken only when they died. Once the locks were closed, the keys were thrown into wells. In dark cells, bound in heavy chains, thousands of prisoners lived in the Bastille. When the revolution came, naturally the revolutionaries felt that the first thing to do was to free these prisoners. They had suffered the most.

They broke the gates of the Bastille. But the prisoners were not willing to leave the prison, because some had been there for sixty years, some for fifty. No responsibilities; food on time—even if it was garbage. And by then their chains had become part of their bodies.

But revolutionaries are stubborn. They forcibly broke the chains and shackles and set the Bastille’s people free. Weeping, the prisoners came out, saying, “Where will we go? We have even forgotten our names and addresses. We have forgotten the people who knew us. Perhaps they are no longer in this world. Our wives, our children—what happened to them, where did they go—no idea. There is no roof to sleep under, no food to eat, no bed to lie on. A revolution by force!”

There is one difficult thing in the world: revolution by force is difficult. Revolution is a flower—if it blossoms within you, it blossoms; nobody can make it blossom by force.

By evening, more than half the prisoners had returned. They said, “We have been hungry all day; no one is willing to give us a job, nor do we have the capacity now to do any work. We cannot even obtain the dignity due a human being. And the greatest trouble is that those chains that were put on our hands forever, those shackles that were put on our feet forever—thirty years, forty years, fifty years—we cannot sleep without them. Their weight has become part of our sleep. Forgive us; let us go back to our dark cells. The light outside does not please us.”

You ask: “Which country is the best and which is the worst?”
Countries do not really exist. Countries are fictions. Nations are human inventions. The reality is the individual. This land has given Gautam Buddha, the seers of the Upanishads, Mahavira, Adinatha—it has touched height upon height of the sky. That too is an India. That should be the whole of India.

And there is another India as well: of politicians, thieves, black-marketeers. There is an India within India.

So the question is not which country is superior and which is inferior. The question is: in which country do the maximum number of superior people reside, and in which country the maximum number of the inferior. In India, both are present.

So with one hand I want to raise India’s flag high, and with the other I want to pull it down. I do not consider India a single unit. Therefore, for me the question is meaningless. It depends on you.

I have gone around the whole world. Everywhere there are good people, and everywhere there are bad people. But the bad are in power everywhere, and the good are powerless everywhere. Goodness has a compulsion: it is not aggressive, it is not violent. Evil is aggressive; it is violent. Naturally, evil climbs onto your chest, and goodness gets no chance.

Another trait: goodness has no desire to be accepted. Goodness is such a blissful experience in itself that nothing more is needed, nothing can be added. Evil is ambitious. So if you want to see bad people, look into politics; and if you want to see good people, look to the quiet, the silent, those immersed in meditation. The world is divided into two halves, not into two countries. The bad are riding on the chest, and the good are so good they don’t even say, “Now get down.” Even their riding on the chest makes no difference, because the shower of joy, of love, of nectar is raining within them.

Your question is wrong. And a wrong question cannot have a right answer.

Which fool told you that I went out in search of goodness—or is that your own invention?

First, answer my question... This is not some routine political press conference. You’ll get a proper drubbing here. Who told you I went abroad searching for goodness?
I went abroad to spread the message of goodness. And I found good people. And I found bad people too. And I concluded that it doesn’t matter where you live; what matters is who you are. Good and bad don’t come from the land; they come from the conscience.

Much has changed. Because I am not a stagnant, rotting pond; I am a flowing Ganga. Every moment I am moving forward. The famous Greek thinker Heraclitus has said: you cannot step into the same river twice. Sooner or later, somewhere under some constellation in eternity, I am bound to meet Heraclitus. Then I would like to tell him: you cannot step into the same river even once. For the river is flowing. When you touch the river’s upper layer, the lower layer is already moving; and by the time you reach the lower, the upper has gone.

The seed is the same—but it has become a tree, laden with leaves, with flowers in bloom. In my life I have never evolved in opposition to anything. What I have said, I have only refined. Therefore, certainly, I will not say now what I said thirty years ago. Thirty years ago I was speaking of seeds; now I am showering flowers.

Human liberation is like a person’s health. Illnesses can be of many kinds: someone suffers from tuberculosis, someone from a cold, someone from fever, someone from cancer. There can be a thousand diseases, but health is one. There are not many kinds of health. Human liberation is the ultimate health of a human being—his final flowering, the fragrance rising from his life.

Through thousands of years of continuous search, man has discovered the science for this as well. I call that science meditation. Apart from meditation, no human being ever experiences liberation. Nor can prayer lead you toward liberation, because in prayer you have accepted a lie from the very beginning—you have believed, “God is.” You do not know, you have not recognized, and even if he were to be found, you would not be able to recognize him. And prayer is outward-going; therefore it is worldly.

There is another journey—the inward journey of meditation—in which you set out in search of yourself. You make self-recognition your quest, and the day a person recognizes himself, that very day a shower of benediction descends in his life. And that rain is the same for all. It does not look to see whether the roof is of a Muslim, a Hindu, or a Jaina. What has a raincloud to do with it? What is needed is your readiness.

And the sutra of meditation is very small. All sutras are small. The short sutra of meditation is: within yourself, such peace that not even a ripple of thought arises. A stillness with no wave; such emptiness where only you are and nothing else—where even the feeling “I am” is not. In that very instant the whole universe pours over you as God.

God does not have to be sought. Those who set out to search for God are in delusion. How will you search for God—no identification, no name, no form, no color? It is God who seeks you. There is an old Egyptian saying: whenever the disciple is ready, the master appears. Let me alter it a little: whenever you are quiet, empty, and silent, your inner being fills with God’s joy and beauty. You become amrita—immortal. Apart from this there has never been, nor will there ever be, any other way.

I have lied three times in my life. Who told you that I have never lied?

It must be a mistake by Dharamyug. I have lied three times.

The second time I lied was in an American jail, after being harassed in every possible way for twelve days. The American government told my lawyers there were only two options. One option was to let the case drag on for years. “We know we will lose the case, because I have committed no crime. But the case can run ten years, fifteen years, twenty years. In the meantime we will destroy the commune. Without me, the commune will lose its life. And the movement of meditation of the sannyasins all over the world will be destroyed.” If I would accept two—and they had prepared a list of one hundred and thirty-six charges against me, all false—if I would admit to two charges, the movement could be saved, the commune could be saved, the sannyasins spread across the world could be saved.
This was blackmail. My attorneys had tears in their eyes. They said that they knew it was all false. But by accepting two small offenses, the whole uproar could be silenced. So I accepted two offenses... only two words I spoke in the American court, both lies. And, telling the judge I was speaking under oath, I said that I had presented false documents to gain entry into America, and that, so my sannyasins could stay in America, I had arranged their sham marriages.
I neither married anyone nor presented any false documents.
Except for these three occasions, I have not told any lie. And for these three lies I am not ashamed; I am proud. Because these lies were told for a great ideal, and they were not for any self-interest of mine. But apart from these three lies, my life has been nothing but truth—however costly it has been, even if I have put my life in danger—I have been ready.
There have been many attacks on my life—in India, in America. And now America wants—ready to give half a crore rupees to anyone if he kills me. I have sent a message to Ronald Reagan: Why involve some poor fellow? Because if he kills me, he will get entangled in court. Give the half crore rupees to my work, to meditation; I am ready to die. It is a straight deal.
In my vision, the decisive point between falsehood and truth is not falsehood and truth; the decisive point is the reason. All three times I lied for others, not for myself. For myself, I am ready even to die; there is no question of telling a lie.

I do not manufacture people, because manufactured people are of no use. The tutored person cannot gain entry into the temple of life. There are many friends who are ripening, but I am not making them; I am only creating the climate. A gardener does not make roses. He only prepares the soil, sows the seeds, gives manure—the flowers come of their own accord. I have no urge to impose myself upon anyone; I call that spiritual slavery. What I can do is the work of preparing the ground—that I am doing. In that soil, whoever has even a little soul within, his flowers will bloom—in this life, in the next, in some other life.

But if, in order to prepare this ground, I had to speak a lie three times, I am not ashamed. It is the American government that should feel ashamed. This is not justice. I was ready to fight the case in court. It was the first time that a single man was standing against the greatest power in the world. They named the case—not I—“United States of America versus Bhagwan Shree Rajneesh.” In that very naming I had already won! And yet they had to lie, and to present the lie in such a way that my attorneys had to say—touching my feet, with tears streaming—that in their whole lives they had never seen anything like this. The two options they were offering were both loaded with mischief. The case could be dragged on, your work could be stopped.

Even if by speaking a lie I end up in hell, I have no objection. But I want the ground I am preparing to be ready—let a few flowers blossom, a few springs awaken, a few stars arise.

It was the first time that the American government invited my attorneys for negotiations. Otherwise, it is the lawyers who petition the government to make a settlement. The American government was willing to settle—and why it was willing to settle, I told you yesterday.

Two days ago the truth slipped out of the mouth of the U.S. Attorney General. In a press conference he was asked why Bhagwan was not given a sentence. He gave three reasons. First, that “we want to destroy Bhagwan’s movement. We want to destroy his commune. That is our primary objective.” Second, “we have no evidence whatsoever against Bhagwan that he has committed any crime.”

This is a very amusing world. I committed no crime, yet a fine of six million rupees was imposed on me—just to show the whole world that surely some crime must have been committed; otherwise why impose a fine of six million? And the third point is even more significant. The U.S. Attorney General—the head of their highest governmental legal apparatus—said, “We did not want to make Bhagwan into a messiah, a martyr.” Because that mistake has been made before.

Socrates could not be killed by giving him poison. Two and a half thousand years have passed—Socrates is more alive; there is not even a trace of those who killed him, not even their names. Jesus was crucified; until then he had only ten or twelve disciples. After the crucifixion the numbers went on increasing. Al-Hillaj Mansoor was cut into pieces, but souls cannot be cut by that. There have been other Sufis of the same stature, but Al-Hillaj Mansoor shines like the pole star.

“We did not want to make Bhagwan into a martyr, a pole star. And our work is accomplished.” But even so, they made one last attempt. Because as soon as I came out of jail, the court released me—there was no law against me and no crime upon me—but I had to go to the jail to collect my things, my clothes. I was amazed to see a strange silence there. In the main office area there was no one. I even asked, “I have come and gone here many times; there was always a bustle, many officers, the jailer—what has happened today? Are holidays being celebrated in my honor?” The man who was taking me into the air-conditioned jail had sweat running down his forehead. I said to him, “Wipe your sweat, because sweat, too, says a lot.” He took me to the office where my belongings were to be returned. There, too, there was only one man; before, there had never been fewer than twelve. And that man said he would have to get his superior’s signature, so he would just step out, “Please sit comfortably.”

Five minutes, ten minutes, fifteen minutes passed—no sign of the man; and he had locked the door from the outside! I was alone in the cell. After I came out of jail, I came to know that under the chair on which I had been seated there was a time bomb. But they had not been able to set the time properly, because who could know how long the court would take? And in front of the judge it was clear there was nothing in the case, so it finished in five minutes. They must have thought I would arrive at five o’clock; I reached very early. In that inner room of the jail, except the government, no one could place a time bomb; no one else could have access.

What was the panic? What was the urgency to kill me?

And this is exactly what my attorneys were saying: that if I did not accept those two small charges, they did not expect I would be able to come back from the jail. The case would be prolonged. Pretexts would be found in the jail. And pretexts were indeed found.

In one jail I was kept with a man who was dying and who had such a contagious disease that there was no cure for it. And for six months no one had been kept in his cell. That man wrote me a note saying, “Before you touch anything, call the doctor and the jailer and ask why I have been placed here with you. I am dying, and this is an indirect trick to kill you—do not become a martyr, do not become a messiah; die of disease!” Just think: if Jesus had died on a cot, as ninety-nine men choose to die, there would have been no Christianity in the world.

It took me an hour of pounding on the door before the doctor came, and I asked him: “When no one has been kept in this cell for six months and you have been opposing it, today you were present—before your eyes I was put in this jail, in this cell—and you did not protest? Are you a doctor or a murderer?”

In another jail I was told not to write my own name—when filling the admission form I should write, in place of my name, “David Washington.” I said, “David Washington is not my name. I can sit here in this office all night, but David Washington is not my name, and I will not write it—and you will have to sit here with me.” At twelve o’clock at night, a U.S. marshal himself came—on his coat was written: Department of Justice. I said, “At least take off that coat. And you can fill in the form; I will sign.” He thought, “All right, this compromise will do.” He filled in the form in his own handwriting, and I signed in Hindi. He turned the paper around and around and said, “What is this?” I said, “David Copperfield, David Washington—whatever you want to make of it, you can. These are my signatures. And you are in charge of the Department of Justice. Can you not even understand that I have enough intelligence to realize that you do not want my name on the form because if you kill me in the jail, no one will be able to find out where I disappeared? That is why the handwriting is yours and the signature is mine. You have arranged your own hanging.” Exactly at five o’clock in the morning they transferred me to another jail, because that form had to be destroyed.

I have no concern about this, because whatever could be had from life, I have received. There is no question of getting anything more from life. But there are millions of people in the world who are preparing. I want to live for their preparation. I spoke a lie in the service of truth.

I am no politician, but I do know who is a cobbler and who can make good shoes. Rajiv is a good pilot. But being a good pilot is no certificate for being a prime minister. And the coming election will decide that.

Truly, Rajiv has completely exploited the assassination of Indira Gandhi. Rajiv Gandhi is the prime minister of India on his mother’s blood. We want people here who can give their blood, not those who can even sell their mother’s blood. Rajiv has his own abilities, his own talents—let him use those.

While Indira Gandhi was alive, I sent a message to Rajiv: if you ever want to enter politics, start learning now at your mother’s feet. The reply I received was that he alone was the breadwinner in the house. Sanjay had died, and if Indira were to lose power, there would be no one except him to feed the family. Besides, he had no interest in politics. Have you ever heard that while Indira Gandhi was alive Rajiv showed any interest in politics? That he learned even the ABC of politics? A gang of boys has mounted the chest of the nation. By the time the next election comes, they will be in tatters. And deception and lies require long practice.

The leader of the opposition asked in Parliament: Bhagwan had to leave India; when I returned, were these conditions imposed on me—that I could not go out of India, that sannyasins from outside India could not come to meet me, and above all, that foreign journalists and the news media would not be allowed to reach me? I said, then what is the difference between an American jail and an Indian jail?

At least in the first American jail, the jailer read me, listened to me, and was so interested that he set aside all rules and called a world press conference inside the jail. In America, inside the jail, I could speak to the press against the American government! And in India, even while free, if I cannot meet journalists, and those who love me cannot come to me, then there is no point in my being here or not.

After I was released, the leader of the opposition in India asked whether conditions had been imposed that my disciples could not come to meet me. Rajiv Gandhi’s government replied that this was untrue, that my disciples could come. So I sent many sannyasins from different countries to different embassies to apply for visas. Everywhere they were refused. Astonishing! Here the government can say they may come, and secretly inform the embassies that none of my people should be allowed into India. Such lies and deceit cannot lift this country higher.

And the people in power today are so spineless that they cannot even tell the nation what would truly help it: reduce your numbers; practice birth control. They are pushing the country toward death. You will be surprised to know that there is hunger in India, yet India’s wheat is being sold abroad—because with that money they can buy nuclear energy and its paraphernalia. No one cares about your stomach.

I had thought that because Rajiv is not a politician—an accidental non-political man who found himself in politics—perhaps we could pin some hope on him. But now there is no need to pin any hope at all.

This country will die of poverty, and Rajiv Gandhi will be responsible. Today you may kill people in Punjab—but where all will you kill people?

Rajiv has no personality, no message, no charisma to hold this whole country together. Assam wants to separate. Tomorrow Tamil Nadu will want to separate. There are thirty languages in this land; they want to split into thirty countries.

Let me remind you: for thousands of years India has not been a nation. In Buddha’s time, two and a half thousand years ago, there were five thousand states here. It was only by the force of Muslims, Mughals, Turks, Huns, and the British that you were bound together. But now you cannot be bound by force. Now only love can keep you one. Only one bond can keep this country a nation—and that is the bond of love; not language, not religion, not province—only love.

What message of love does Rajiv have? What message of meditation?

India’s Parliament is retarded. Test any of their brains; it would be hard to find a mental age beyond fourteen. This whole situation must change.

There are thoughtful people in this country, intelligent people, people without political ambition who nevertheless have compassion in their hearts for the nation. But there is a difficulty: the ambitious are invariably afflicted with inferiority complexes. To cover their inferiority, they strive to reach high positions. And those who are not afflicted—who are content, rejoicing in themselves—do not go begging for votes. Give up hoping that beggars will lift this country. We will have to change course. We will have to go and request those people who can actually hold this country together. They will not come to you asking for votes. And there is no shortage of them.

Therefore I have completely changed my view. I was in American jails for twelve days. Rajiv did nothing through the Indian ambassador—not even so much as to ask what my crime was; why I was arrested without a warrant; and why, without being taken to court, I was being dragged forcibly from one jail to another.

No—no one wants to anger America. They are all beggars. They want from America the means to produce neutron bombs, to produce death rays. They have no taste for life.

It was Rajiv Gandhi’s duty that if an Indian is being subjected to force and torture without any crime, without any reason, he should raise his voice. Voices were raised from other countries in the world; only India remained silent. And the day I was released from jail, a man from the Indian embassy came to ask, “What service can we render you?” I said, “Where were you for twelve days? Do you take opium? Do you smoke hashish? Where were you for twelve days? Where was your government? Where was your ambassador?” The answer he gave was, “We were observing what was happening.” I said, “You would have kept observing until I died. You would have come to ask my corpse what service you could render. Go and tell your ambassador, and tell your prime minister, that I have no need of your service. Yes, if ever you need my service, I am always ready.”

I am compelled to call this government childish, unripe, immature. To leave so great a nation, with a population of nine hundred million, in the hands of children is not without danger. These are not Diwali firecrackers. This is the question of the life and death of the whole country. I want the country to go into the hands of intelligent people. I want there to be no political parties in this country; there is no need for them. What is needed is wise people whom we elect and who can collectively decide this country’s future.

I am an anarchist.

Political parties only exploit. One party exploits for five years; by then people forget about the other party. The other party comes to power and exploits for five years; by then people forget about the first party. It is a very amusing game. The boys are playing kabaddi—and there isn’t even a referee.

AIDS is a religious disease. It was born in ashrams, in monasteries, and in those places where religious leaders were preaching celibacy. Celibacy is utterly unnatural. There is only one way to be a celibate, and that is plastic surgery. Only a eunuch can be celibate—no one else. And still the preaching of celibacy goes on. People like Mahatma Gandhi write, “Celibacy is life.” And at the end of life, at the age of seventy, it dawns that no, celibacy is not life—and they start sleeping with a naked woman.

Physical relations are natural; if they are kept natural, there is no danger of AIDS. In the wild, no animal has been found with AIDS. But in zoos, even animals develop AIDS—because if there are only males and no females, then monkeys have at least as much sense as your monks and sannyasins. They will find a way. You will eat food… and if someone tells you that urinating is forbidden, you will be in trouble. You drink water—then what about urine? You will secretly find some way, deceiving yourself and deceiving society.

If AIDS spreads in India, it will be through your religious leaders. In the West, too, it is spreading through them—spreading fast.

Separate women and men, but what will you do about the seminal energy that arises within you? Your reservoir of semen has a limit; beyond that… beyond that, some unnatural, some perverted form will appear—or you will have nocturnal emissions.

Mahatma Gandhi had nocturnal emissions even at the age of seventy. But we are so blind we cannot even think. Mahatma Gandhi was an honest man—I have no doubt about his honesty. But if you have nocturnal emissions even at seventy, it means the matter is not in your hands. Hunger arises—it is not in your hands. Whatever nature has made essential, it has not left in your hands. Otherwise, you would have been finished long ago. You breathe—it is not in your hands. Otherwise, at night you would forget whether to breathe or not. In the traffic and crowds of the street you would forget whether to breathe or not.

The seminal energy that arises within men or within women is produced from your blood. If you want it not to be produced, then blood must not be produced. You will have to go to the roots. And if you don’t want blood to be produced, then you must stop eating. So if you really want to be a celibate, go and hang yourself from a tree with a rope around your neck, and hang a placard: “I am a celibate.”

There is only one way to stop AIDS: We must remove the hostility, the enmity we have cultivated for thousands of years between women and men. If we can remove that, there is no question of AIDS. AIDS does not arise from intercourse between a man and a woman; it arises from intercourse between a man and a man. And if such a man has intercourse with a woman, he transmits the disease to her as well.

And AIDS is the ultimate disease. No such disease has been known till now, because there is no cure for it. Scientists say that for ten years we cannot even think of finding a cure. And it is spreading so fast that you cannot tell anyone you have AIDS; you cannot go to a doctor; the doctor does not want you to come to him. “Please take the fee and go home.” No hospital is willing to admit you, because AIDS is not transmitted only by sexual contact; it spreads through sweat; it spreads through saliva; it spreads through tears.

There is just one people on earth—the Eskimos—who, from the very beginning, never practiced kissing. And when Christian missionaries first went to convert the Eskimos, they could not contain their laughter; they could not imagine what a filthy act this is! It is a filthy act—putting your tongue in another’s mouth, mixing your saliva with another’s saliva—just think! And you do it with such relish… But saliva carries the AIDS virus. Whatever leaves the body carries the AIDS virus.

There is only one remedy—declare celibacy illegal, and round up every monk and get him married—“Come on!” Otherwise it may happen that AIDS will kill man before a nuclear war does. And even if an AIDS patient is kept completely protected, he cannot live more than two years. That is the longest possible span. And how will you keep him completely protected? In the end he will have to work, meet people.

And the capacity of an AIDS patient to fight any disease becomes zero. If he catches a cold, even the cold will not get cured. If he gets a fever, the fever will not go away. No medicine works on him. Because this is how medicine works: when we give medicine to a man, his body cooperates with the medicine. With the combined strength of both, the disease is driven out. The body of an AIDS patient does not cooperate; it is hollow. You keep pouring in medicine—it is meaningless. You might as well have poured it down a drain; it would have had as much effect as an injection in his body.

But the world’s religious people are still preaching that without celibacy you cannot reach Brahman—that celibacy is absolutely essential. These are enemies of the country and enemies of society. They must be stopped, and women and men must be brought closer—so that men do not start having sex with men, so that women do not start having sex with women.

When I was in America, the Texas government passed a law in the legislature declaring homosexual intercourse illegal—and ten years in prison was the minimum sentence. You will not believe it: a procession of a million people protested that this is an attack on our freedom.

Instead of declaring celibacy illegal, they declared homosexuality illegal. The consequences are very dangerous. It means homosexuality will go underground, hidden beneath the surface of the earth, and you will not even know. You won’t even know whether, when a little child was crying and you wiped his tears, you did an act of compassion or of murder—because it may be that your hands and his tears will bring about AIDS.

And the latest reports are that babies are now being born with AIDS. Three babies were AIDS patients at birth. This is the most dreadful disease that man has seen in human history.

My views have become even more mature: man should live a simple, natural life. Otherwise perversion is absolutely natural.

I have heard: a magnificent she-elephant was passing through the forest, and a shaven-headed monk was running after her. The elephant asked, “Hey, shaven-head, why are you chasing me?” The monk said, “Mother—now you are so large I must call you Mother. One single desire remains in life; because of it I wander in the world. If you would kindly help me a little, I could taste bliss in liberation.” The elephant said, “I am absolutely ready—what help do you need?” He said, “I am ashamed to say it. But there is no one here, and no one will know. I don’t know why this thought keeps rising in my mind—what would it be like to make love to a she‑elephant?” The elephant said, “Love? You want to make love to me? All right. Have you brought a ladder and such?” He said, “I have, I brought the municipal ladder; that’s what I’m running with and panting. If you fulfill this small wish of mine, I’ll be freed from the cycle of birth and death. I’ve seen everything, but I haven’t made love to a she‑elephant.”

“And now I understand why ashrams keep elephants and she‑elephants.”

She said, “Hurry up, brother, because I also have a date—my boyfriend must be waiting on the path. Hey, shaven-head, climb your ladder.” The monk got busy making love. Love? Think of it as a kind of calisthenics. He was doing push-ups, sweating profusely. Just then a coconut fell from the tree above and struck the elephant on the head. The elephant cried, “Ah!” The monk said, “Forgive me, beloved—am I hurting you?” The elephant said, “I can’t even tell about you—have you started or not?” The monk said, “I finished long ago. That is my master up there, whose name is Gunda, sitting in the tree. In our sect the disciple is called munda—shaven-head—and the master gunda—ruffian. Although he is completely in favor of celibacy, seeing this incredible scene—which you can’t even see in Hindi films—even he got carried away, forgot all about celibacy, and, with nothing else to do, began shaking the tree with all his might. By his grace the coconut fell on your head.”

This society of gundas and mundas has given you a thousand kinds of diseases—and I want a simple, natural, spontaneous life. The more natural you are, the more peace there will be in your life, the more health; and the greater the possibility for you to attain that nectar which we have been awaiting for centuries, for lifetimes.

So except for me—and I repeat, except for me—neither your Pope, nor Ayatollah Khomeini, nor your Shankaracharyas, nor your Acharya Tulsi—no one can save you from AIDS. There is only one way to save yourself from AIDS: be simple, be straightforward; don’t try needlessly to stand on your head. Nature has given you feet—walk with them.

In India there is still not much talk about AIDS, except in military colleges where boys and girls are forced to live in separate hostels, in ashrams where walls are raised between women and men. It is astonishing that you oppose what nature gives you—then be ready to suffer the consequences. Right now, AIDS is spreading like wildfire in the West. Thousands are dying every day, and hundreds of thousands are getting caught up in AIDS every day. That is Christianity’s gift. India can still be saved. It hasn’t gone too far; you can still pull your foot back.

But this is my difficulty: when I call the truth the truth, I prepare myself with my own hands to be stoned. You do not want to hear the truth. You want me to keep chanting Ram‑Ram, Ram‑Ram, and celibacy will be accomplished. It didn’t work even for Lord Rama—will it work for you? Think a little. Krishna, whom you worship—he kept sixteen thousand women confined in his house. It is misconduct, but at least AIDS did not spread!

You should ask this question to Suraj Prakash, in whose house I am staying. I’m a rather stubborn kind of man. Once I make up my mind, I won’t leave this house at all. Let Suraj Prakash find himself a new house.