Piya Kokhojan Main Chali #2

Vinod Bharati! In the thicket of life where rose blossoms appear, thorns appear too. But when the flowers bloom, even the thorns are endearing, even the pain is sweet. Thorns become painful only when the flowers do not bloom—when nothing remains but thorns. The sorrow is not in the thorns; it is in the absence of flowers. When flowers bloom—and bloom to the brim—the thorns enhance their beauty, they give the flowers a background.

A rosebush would be incomplete without thorns. Day would be incomplete without night. But if it were night and only night, it would turn into hell. This is what has happened in most people’s lives: only night remains. Pebbles and stones, nothing but pebbles and stones. Crushed under a load of the futile—no dignity of meaning.

This is a unique discovery: when the flowers of bliss open, for the first time one sees that bliss gives new meaning even to its opposite; it gives a new flavor even to what is contrary. When bliss descends, not only do diamonds and pearls rain down—suddenly pebbles and stones themselves turn to diamonds and pearls. This is the magic of bliss. This is its divinity. This is its godliness.

Rinzai has said: Since the day of knowing, nothing ordinary has remained in life. When I did not know, there was nothing extraordinary in life. Life is exactly the same—nothing has changed anywhere: the same trees, the same people, the same roads, the same work—everything as it was. But when I did not know, all seemed ordinary; and since I have known, since I have awakened, I can find nothing ordinary. Everything has become haloed with the extraordinary.

But generally, those who think and analyze—who lack experience—assume: If there is bliss, how can there be pain? That is the talk of thinkers. Those who know say something else: Where there is bliss, there is pain too—but the pain is sweet, mellow, flavorful. The opposite does not vanish; it appears in a new mood, a new gesture. The night does not disappear, it becomes beautiful. Darkness is not destroyed; it becomes velvety—and the capacity to embrace it is born.

Life’s duality appears dual only so long as we live in self-ignorance. The moment the rays of self-knowing begin to descend, all that is dual, all that seems opposite, ceases to feel opposite—becomes complementary. Then one realizes that without the opposite, nothing here can be. Matter does not disappear; it becomes suffused with the divine. Illusion does not end; it becomes imbued with Brahman. The world does not vanish; for the knower the world remains—but not as world. The entire meaningfulness changes, because the knower’s way of seeing changes; the eye changes. Change the vision, the creation changes. Change the gaze, everything changes. It is all the play of the eye. The same work you will still do.

People come here and ask the sannyasins: You have come from far-off lands, you have left everything—but you worked there and you work here too; so where is the difference?

And even if a sannyasin were to answer—what could he say! There are things that can be answered only to those who already know; but then, no question remains to be asked. And to those who do not know, the answers cannot be given; one smiles and falls silent.

The work will be the same. Anywhere, the work will be the same.

A friend has come from England. There he had a large garden—worth lakhs of rupees. Here too he is working in a garden. Naturally a journalist from England asked him: What happened to you? You had a big garden, servants, all the comforts—you left all that, and here you are working in a garden again!

The sannyasin said: There is no difference—and there is a difference. There, work was a burden; here, work is a joy. There I had to work; here I work. There it was compulsion; here it is spontaneous, from within. There it was for money; here it is for one’s own delight. Nothing is to be gained from it—no money, no position. For one’s own joy. The doing has itself become the goal.

Vinod Bharati, at first one is startled when it feels like this: such joy, such pain—together! They arise together; they can only arise together—in equal proportion. But the glory of bliss, its magic wand, is that it fills even pain with a new sweetness. Pain is no longer pain.

A sannyasin, Bhavani Dayal—well known—returned to India after years of traveling in the West. In his autobiography he writes: I went on a pilgrimage to the Himalayas. A steep ascent, blazing noon, the sun like fire, the slope sheer—a struggle to take each step—drenched in sweat. Just ahead of me a mountain girl, no more than eleven or twelve, was climbing with her younger brother on her shoulder. The boy, though small—three or four at most—was pretty heavy, a sturdy hill child. The girl was dripping with sweat. I went up to her and said, Daughter, it must feel like a heavy load.

The girl looked at the sannyasin intently, startled, with eyes that seemed not to believe him, and said, Swamiji, you are carrying a load. Though the sannyasin had hardly any load—just a small bundle: a begging bowl, a cloth or two, a little food. The girl said, You are carrying a load. This is my little brother—not a load.

And Bhavani Dayal writes: I had to lower my eyes in shame. She was right. I was carrying a load. It was a load to me. I was hauling it. Many times on the way I had thought: I shouldn’t have brought these clothes. A loincloth would do here. In this heat, what need of garments! There is no one on the path; I could climb naked and it would be fine. I didn’t need this begging bowl; I could take food in my hands. Karpatri used to do that after all. I could drink water in my cupped palms. Why did I bring this burden! I couldn’t even throw it away; I was attached to it.

Even to very small, trivial things, one can be deeply attached. To have attachment, one doesn’t need a great empire; a single begging bowl is enough. Where there is attachment, it becomes a burden; where there is love, everything becomes weightless.

The girl was right: This is my little brother.

Put him on a scale and the younger brother will register weight too. What does a scale care—whether it is a little brother, a mattress, or a stone! It will weigh weight. But on the scale of the heart, everything changes. The heart’s balance does not obey arithmetic. It belongs to another realm with other measures, other touchstones.

Vinod Bharati, bliss will be there—will grow—and alongside, pain will deepen. The day will be bright, and the night deep. They will walk together—two legs of life, two wings. But one difference will appear—and it is not small, it is great, incomparable: now even pain will not be like pain.

Right now, what you ordinarily call happiness is not even happiness; sorrow overshadows it. What you call wisdom is not wisdom; it proves to be foolishness. Even your knowledge is only a structure, a device for keeping ignorance out of sight. Then the whole thing turns upside down. All knowledge drops away. The mind becomes as unblemished, as innocent, as weightless as a small child’s. It cannot be called knowledge; it can be called freedom from knowledge. Yet in that state of not-knowing, the event of knowing happens. Such is the wondrous, astonishing, mysterious expanse of life. Those who keep floating on the surface of the ocean, among the waves, never discover these pearls; for these, one must dive.

For now, our happiness is little more than the ability to forget sorrow. What do we call happiness? Simply some way of keeping sorrow out of sight. And then sorrow too ceases to be sorrow and arrives as happiness.

This is auspicious. If someone says, It is only bliss, only bliss—no pain anywhere, then understand that bliss is imaginary. Psychologically, that person is merely hypnotizing himself. That dream of bliss will break; it will not last. He is seeing what is not there. And don’t think only you fall into such delusions—your so-called psychologists, who claim to understand the science of mind, also fall into similar delusions.

A man went to a psychologist. His trouble was that he saw everything double. It became a nuisance. One day it became too much, because when he finally told his wife—he had tried to hide it, but for how long!—she had already begun to ask: What’s the matter? Your walking, your sitting, everything has become awkward! Now, a man who sees two chairs must first feel around to see which one is real. Slowly he began to see even his hands double; even when he felt with his hands, he felt two. Things kept getting worse. Even to embrace his wife he would first feel around to find the real one.

At last he told his wife: You insist on knowing—so let me tell you. I have begun to see two of you. She said, Then good: you keep one, and I’m going off with your friend! If there are two of me, you manage one—your problem—because I’ve had enough. He said, Wait! This is getting out of hand. I’m going to a doctor.

He went to a psychologist. The psychologist looked him over—really scanned the whole room—and then asked, Do all four of you see double? The man smacked his forehead: This psychologist sees four!

You are ill, and the one you go to may be even more ill. Your “great” saints, sadhus, monks—neither have they known bliss, nor have you. You live in sorrow; to forget it, you have put up screens of happiness, draped yourselves in veils.

A veil has this charm: beneath it, even the most plain-looking woman appears beautiful. If someone in a veil passes by—never mind a woman—even if a man were to pass under a veil, people would stop work and peek: Who might be hiding beneath? Noor Jahan, or Mumtaz Mahal—who knows! A veil creates illusion.

Our so-called happiness is such a veil. Others may be deceived—but how will you deceive yourself? You will go on knowing how things really are. Your smile may fool others—but how will it fool you? The rouge on your face may deceive others—but how will it deceive you?

A man fell in love with a woman—perhaps on Chowpatty. Anyone who doesn’t get “chowpat” there, it’s a wonder! Who named that place Chowpatty? It makes you chowpat—checkmated in all four directions. He married her. They reached Mahabaleshwar for the wedding night. But there was something he had to tell his wife. He said: There’s no point in hiding; from a woman nothing can be hidden for long. Better to say it before you discover it yourself. My teeth are false. You often said, “Blessed be your pearl-like teeth”—so let me tell you plainly: these teeth are false. They look like pearls for that reason. Real teeth are not exactly pearl-like—some a little crooked, some larger or smaller. But false teeth—why would they be crooked or mismatched! Being false, they line up in perfect rows, all the same, shining. If they are false, why would there be any lack of luster! That is what I needed to tell you.

She said: Good that you told me; there are a few things I too have been hiding. Now I will tell you, because your truth has given me the courage to tell mine. Let everything be clear, because it will come out anyway.

The man felt a little nervous. He asked: What is it?

She said: You can see—look. She took off her hair and put it aside. A rare woman—bald. To find a bald woman is difficult. Among millions, one perhaps. I know lakhs of women; only one in my acquaintance is bald. You may forget all, but not her. How could you forget a bald woman?

The man felt snakes slither across his chest. He asked, Anything else?

She removed a leg and put it down; it was a prosthetic. Then she removed her breasts and set them aside. He asked: Tell me, are you a lady or a gentleman? Let the truth be the truth.

You can deceive others—but for how long? And even others, only at a distance. As soon as one comes close, illusions fall. Hence the quarrel between husband and wife. The veils are lifted, the pegs come loose, everything appears false. Distance lends enchantment. Distance creates beauty.

So what is our happiness? Merely a device to conceal sorrow. And the poor human being—what else can he do! Your mahatmas talk only about bliss. Even their talk is a veil—a new sort of veil: a veil of words. Upanishads, Vedas, Bible, Koran. They talk so loudly, raise such a smoke and dust with words, that in that dust not only do they deceive your eyes, they deceive themselves. They fall into a greater illusion than you.

I know many of your celebrated mahatmas—almost all of them. Whenever I have met them closely, I was astonished. At first I would be amazed; then slowly I stopped being amazed—because I found that this was almost everyone’s state.

A Jain monk was giving a discourse—famous, a naked Digambar monk: Deshbhushanji Maharaj. He was talking of bliss, of supreme bliss. Neither on his face was there any bliss, nor in his life did the flute of bliss play anywhere—nothing at all. All hollow. When he met me in private, he asked: How can bliss be attained? I said: But you were just now talking so much about bliss, giving such quotations—from Umasvati and Kundakunda—so lovely! He said: Away with the quotations. I’m asking you: How should I meditate? How can I attain bliss? Those are talks about bliss. I speak because people come to listen. They want to understand; I guide them.

How will you guide? Your own eyes are not open. Whom are you guiding? And whatever guidance you give will be misdirection, a labyrinth—entangling people further. They are already entangled in worldly hassles; your web of words will catch them next. If someday they escape the snares of the world, they will fall into the snares of your words. The tangles will continue.

Here, Vinod Bharati, I am creating a pilgrimage where ananda is not a word but an experience; where the conditions for bliss are being created, the climate for bliss is being created, the soil for bliss is being prepared. Therefore I want to tell you: what you are feeling is perfectly right. If it is only “bliss, bliss,” understand that the Upanishads have been memorized. But when pain arrives with bliss, and as bliss grows pain also grows, know that you are going beyond words into experience. The temple door has opened; you have begun to dive.

Yes, the pain will be different—utterly different—because its taste will be different. It will not be bitter or acrid; it will be sweet, very sweet. This pain too will be a form of bliss. In this pain you will feel bliss itself dancing. This pain will be a companion to bliss. It will not destroy or demolish bliss; it will support it, strengthen it, give it firmness.

And then you will not even wish to be free of this pain. This is the pain of love. This is the pain of childbirth. This pain is granted only to a few blessed ones.

Sagar! The mahatmas too, poor fellows, are very unhappy people. One doesn’t become blissful just by talking about bliss. Don’t get lost in the rhetoric of bliss.

The truth is, the fatter, clumsier, and more uncouth your mahatmas become, the less even worldly they appear. And the reason is clear. A worldly man has many things to do; the mahatma has hardly any work left. He’s left with just two: guide people and eat. He becomes a glutton. And there is a total emptiness in his life. He has left his wife—one space has gone empty.

Just reflect a little: if your wife dies, the pain you feel isn’t exactly because the wife died. You may even feel a slight relief—“Good, the hassle is over.” And yet there will be a pain, a sorrow. That sorrow is because your wife had created a place in your life, filled a space within you; that space is now empty. You will feel a void inside. If the husband dies, the void is felt even more, because we have made women utterly handicapped—so dependent on the husband that if he dies, the wife is willing to die too. That’s why satis happened. “Satas” did not. Men didn’t die with their wives. Why should they? For a man, only a tiny space becomes empty—ninety-nine percent remains filled. That one percent he will seat some other woman in; no great difficulty arises.

The wife hasn’t even finished dying, people haven’t even returned from the cremation ground, and talk of remarriage begins. It starts right there at the cremation ground. I have heard such talk there. The wife is still burning, and people are thinking, “Where shall we get this poor fellow married now? He’s still young. His age isn’t much. A good girl can still be found.” While the wife is still burning, the talk of a new marriage begins!

In a man’s life the wife occupies only a small place; he has a thousand other things. He has to contest elections, earn money, gain position, reputation, fame—his world is full of a thousand pursuits, and through them he feels filled. The wife is just one among those thousand. But for a woman, the man fills the entire space—almost becomes her whole soul.

This is not good, because the result is that if the man dies, the woman finds herself in such emptiness that she prefers death over living. Life seems worse than death. And the space that has become empty—we don’t let her fill it either. The man can remarry; but we say about the woman, “She is a widow now—she cannot marry.” Who will marry a widow? People say, “She ‘ate’ one man; who will marry her? She’ll ‘eat’ another.” No one thinks this way about a man.

Mulla Nasruddin married a fourth time. I asked him, “How is it that your wives die so quickly?” He said, “What to do—there’s a poisonous weed that grows in my garden; whoever eats it dies.” I asked, “Did the first die from that?” He said, “The first did, the second did, and the third too.” I asked, “And the fourth?” He said, “The fourth wasn’t willing to eat the weed—so I opened her skull. That’s how she died.” Now he’s looking for the fifth.

No one says that if a man’s wives have died, there’s some stain on his fate, he’s accursed. No. But if a woman’s husband dies, they say she ‘ate’ him. We have treated women so inhumanly that the day the account is taken, the day man is made to stand in the dock, no punishment will be enough. His crimes are grave indeed. He has made woman so meek and miserable—won’t let her earn her own money, won’t let her do any other work, won’t let her go to the marketplace—so naturally everything shrinks and fixes onto the husband alone.

Now here is a contradiction. The very man who cripples the woman so she must depend on him—when she does depend, he torments her. She will torment him too, because nothing else remains; whatever there is, is him. So she sits waiting, watching the door: “You are an hour late—why?” Where were you? You have no idea what that hour is. For you it’s just an hour—perhaps not even that. You were chatting with friends, playing cards. But for your wife, there is nothing else in life. You alone are her filling. If you aren’t there, she is empty. For her, an hour passes as if years have gone by. You can’t imagine her pain. So you say, “What got spoiled in an hour?”

For you it’s an hour, but you don’t understand relativity. For her, it isn’t an hour. Your situations are entirely different.

So then she will harass you. You have crippled her from all sides, walled her in on every side, left only one door—and that door is you. So she clings to that door, lest someone steal it away, carry it off, lest another seize it. She keeps watch. When you come home, she inspects all your clothes to see if there is any long hair on them.

Chandulal’s wife does this first thing every day—inspects his clothes. And the quarrel begins, because hairs are always found. Chandulal is bald, so he can’t even say, “They’re my hairs.” “Where did these long hairs come from then?” If you embrace women, a hair or two will be left—there’s bound to be some jostling, hairs come off.

One day she began beating her chest and weeping loudly. Chandulal asked, “What happened today?” That day, before going home, he had gone to the laundry and told the man, “Bring out the brush—clean every garment thoroughly.” “Let me reach home once with everything free of hairs so there’s no fight over hairs.” That day, every single hair had been removed—no oversight left. Then why the chest-beating? “This is too much! Now what is it?” She said, “You’ve gone beyond limits! So now you’ve started going even to bald women! Obviously! There is a limit. You used to go with haired women—that was still okay. Means I’m worse even than bald women! You can’t sit with me for a moment, and out there you’re poking your face who knows where!”

So women become so very investigative—spies the whole time. They keep constant check. Naturally. The fault is the man’s. You have crippled their lives from all sides. Now you are their everything. The gaze cannot be removed from you. If you go, everything goes. If they had something else in life, they wouldn’t watch you so closely. If you came an hour late, who would care? Perhaps when you came home, the wife herself wouldn’t be there. She’d have her clubs, her friends too.

In the West the situation has changed.

A man returned from the battlefield—came home after a year and a half. To his surprise, his wife sat with a two-month-old baby in her lap. He asked, “What is this? I haven’t been home for a year and a half—how did this child get born? This must be Ronald’s child.” The wife said, “No, not Ronald’s.” “Then it must be Johnson’s,” he said. She said, “No, not Johnson’s either.” He said, “Then it has to be Murphy’s!” She said, “Are you in your senses? You’re rattling off only your own friends’ names, as if I have no friends of my own!”

In the West, the situation has changed. Have you taken some exclusive contract? Only your friends—Ronald, Johnson, Murphy? I too have friends!

Now the husband comes late, and the wife comes even later. Often the husband sits waiting. Now he understands why for centuries the wife quarreled—what for. Now when he has to sit at home waiting, growing anxious—“Where could she be, with whom, what might she be doing”—he gets lost in a thousand imaginations—“What if she’s run away? If she’s gone, what will happen to the children!”

For the woman, nothing else remains; only the man is left. And when only the man remains, and there is no other dimension in life… You won’t let her learn music, because you fear she’ll fall in love with the music teacher! And music teachers are hardly ever proper people. If you want to find misfits, look for music masters. Layabouts of every kind—otherwise why would they be music teachers! When they could be nothing else, they became music teachers. Or someone beats on the tabla or the harmonium—who with any sense would do that? There are other useful things to do. What is this “raa-roo, raa-roo!” They themselves are spoiled—and now they’ll spoil the wife. And such fellows can’t be decent—will drink, smoke, show every kind of mischief, and sing film songs. And if you sing film songs, the wife too will get into a mood.

So you won’t let her learn music. You won’t let her paint, because for painting she’ll have to go learn somewhere. And painters are not to be trusted either. First of all, they aren’t married. A married man is trustworthy—his wife guards his character. An unmarried man has no guardian. No home, no fixed place—who knows about him! No anchor anywhere. Wherever the heart moves, he goes—here today, there tomorrow.

You won’t let her learn painting. You won’t let her learn poetry, because poets are the worst. What don’t they do! Smoke hash, eat opium, drink liquor. In fact, until they drink they say the poetry doesn’t rise at all.

So you can’t give your wife any other dimension. You won’t let her take a job either. Because you know from your own experience what you do with the women who work where you are the boss. A typist enters and the whole office is after her. The typist doesn’t even get the chance to type; she gets no opportunity, no time!

So you know it’s not okay if your wife becomes a typist. You won’t let her be a schoolteacher either, because there are male teachers, headmasters, the education board’s directors—one better than the other—men in plenty. From your experience you know that wherever you are, what you do, other men will do the same. So you lock the wife in from all sides, keep her at home. Put a lock and keep the key with you.

Then what is the wife to do? Nothing remains. That’s why it often happens that women start getting fat after marriage, not before. Just observe. Before marriage they were slim, beautiful, well-proportioned; after marriage they start becoming shapeless and awkward. They have no other work left. Then off they go, open the fridge. There’s the kitchen, the fridge—moving only inside the house from here to there, no other occupation. If you open the fridge again and again—well, a human is a human; the human mind is the human mind—and such delicacies lie arranged in there—so all day they eat and drink. And their lives are full of sorrow. When a life is full of sorrow, there is such emptiness inside that one tries to fill it; one keeps filling life with food.

Here is my experience. Here is Deeksha. When she first came, no sannyasin here could match her—she came to me from Italy precisely to get slim. Because a girl that fat finds no lover, makes no friends. The first problem she put before me was: “Whoever I befriend starts considering me his sister. That is the sorrow of my life. Whoever sees me becomes a brother. What am I to do? As long as my body is like this…”

Her body was indeed formidable. But now it has become a quarter of what it was. And nothing had to be done. No exercises had to be made to do—she had done all that in Italy already, as doctors had advised. She had taken medicines, exercised, dieted—no result. Here nothing had to be done. But here she is joyous, overflowing. And because she is overflowing, there is no need left to stuff herself.

People who come here gradually lose their unnecessary weight—on their own.

Sorrow makes people fat. There is a beauty in happiness; there is an ugliness in sorrow. Why does sorrow make a person fat? The psychology must be understood from childhood. The child whose mother is always ready to feed him milk doesn’t drink too much. He simply won’t. There’s no reason. The future is secure. When hunger comes, mother is ready to feed. But where the mother is miserly with milk—resists, says no, avoids, tries to push the child away—then whenever the child gets the breast, he won’t let go. He will drink as much as he can, because the future is insecure.

If you have noticed, poor children’s bellies protrude! The whole body gets thin, the belly swells. You’ve seen pictures in newspapers—where famine hits, look at the photos—bodies become skeletal and bellies bulge. It’s strange: bellies should be thin, because there is famine. But the belly has grown big—because whatever is found is stuffed in; who knows about tomorrow!

When tomorrow is insecure, a person wants to store food in the body. The body has a mechanism to store food—that’s what makes one fat. Every human body has the physical provision to store food for three months. That’s why any truly healthy person can fast for three months. He won’t die—he’ll grow thin, skin and bones—but won’t die. For ninety days no death will happen. A normally healthy person can live comfortably for three months without eating, because he has gathered fat sufficient for three months.

Women gather even more fat. Because they have to conceive. And when the child is in the womb, they won’t be able to eat much—the child takes space, eating is difficult. Pregnant women feel nausea, eating becomes hard, the appetite dies; even if they want to eat, they can’t. So to prepare for that, their body makes a separate arrangement. That’s why women don’t have much muscle; they have fat. That’s why the female body has a roundness that the male body doesn’t. Fat gives roundness.

That’s why you see a curious thing: even in winter, women can walk about comfortably in sleeveless blouses—no problem. Try making a man wear a sleeveless shirt in winter—his teeth will chatter. What’s the matter? The man is supposed to be strong. His teeth shouldn’t chatter—have some shame! A man, a “macho” man, and his teeth are chattering! And women go along happily.

Women’s clothing keeps getting less. As civilization develops in a country, clothes become fewer. When clothes are fewer, understand that civilization is developing. Women can live comfortably without clothes—no problem felt. The basic reason is that a layer of fat accumulates under the skin. That layer functions like thick woolen garments. Cold cannot penetrate through that layer.

So even in cold countries—leave aside hot ones… and women in hot countries haven’t yet got this much sense. In hot countries women still wear clothes—blouses, jumpers—tight, with sleeves! In cold countries, where snow falls, their arms are bare. And in hotels, the serving hostesses are topless—no upper garment at all. In cold countries where snow falls, the upper garment is missing! And the lower garment isn’t much either—something like the ascetics—loincloth and the like.

The reason is the accumulation of fat in sufficient measure. That’s why women can get fatter than men. They have the facility. For nine months for the baby’s sake, they’ll have to remain almost deprived of food, or eat very little; so they store fat for nine months.

Therefore women can fast easily. Families where fasting is customary know this well. The man’s life goes out of him; women do it cheerfully.

When I first stayed at Sohan’s house, she would do ten-day fasts. During Paryushan, ten days of fasting. Let someone make Manik Babu do a ten-day fast—his senses will leave him. In ten days the soul will be ready to meet the Supreme! But Sohan would fast ten days with ease—no problem.

Jain women, in the way they fast, outdo the men. They prove to the men—“What kind of religious are you?” Jain nuns are masters of fasting in a way Jain monks are not. They cannot be. The reason is nothing else: women are skilled at gathering fat; men cannot gather as much. That isn’t their bodily capacity.

But if women are unhappy, then they will become very fat. Men, even in sorrow, don’t become that fat. Still, unhappy people eat more—that is certain. Happy people eat less. In my view, Mahavira did not fast the way Jain monks do. He was so absorbed in bliss that he simply didn’t eat. The idea of food didn’t arise, the question didn’t come—he forgot. He was in such ecstasy, such divine intoxication! That was not a hunger-strike (anshan); it was upavas. Upavas means: to be near oneself. He was so close to his own soul, such a stream of joy was flowing there, such nectar was showering—who would bother! Who would go begging? Who cares! Who knows when the day began, when it ended!

Here so many sannyasins come and tell me, “It’s astonishing—since we came here, we don’t know where the time goes. Days pass, months pass, a year passes—just like we came now and now we’re gone.”

When you are in ecstasy, time flies; when you are in sorrow, time halts and stutters—hardly moves. As if the clock has rusted, the hands don’t budge. And when you are in joy, the hands race.

What is the sorrowful person to do? He feels a void inside, a hollow. Therefore, Sagar, I say overeating is a symptom of an unhappy person.

I am not telling you to fast. Understand me rightly. My take runs opposite to old so-called traditions everywhere. I understand the joy of fasting, but I do not tell you to fast. I say, become blissful; then if fasting drops, that’s another matter. Then fasting has a different flavor. But don’t fast in order to get bliss. Bliss will not arise out of fasting.

You have been told for centuries: if you fast, you will attain self-bliss. That is false. The reverse is true—if self-bliss happens, fasting may drop. But it isn’t inevitable that it must drop. It is not compulsory. It will depend on each person’s individual bodily needs. And each person’s bodily needs are entirely different, absolutely distinct.

For the same reason. They too are unhappy people—more unhappy than you. You at least have a little hope that if you remain in the world, today or tomorrow you will get something, someday happiness will come; you are running, fighting, struggling. The mahatmas have renounced the world; now they have a double anxiety: who knows whether they did the right thing or not.

I can’t tell you how many mahatmas have confessed to me that again and again a doubt arises in the mind, a suspicion grips them: “Did we do the right thing? If we are right, then these hundreds of millions in the world must be wrong. Can so many people be wrong? And even after giving up everything, we haven’t found any joy. Perhaps we have been deluded—we have deceived ourselves.”

So what are the mahatmas to do? No job, no business; they can’t play cards, can’t go to clubs, can’t see movies. No other option remains—only one pleasure is left to them: the pleasure of taste. So you can see your Akhandanands, Pakhandanands, and who knows how many more—their names all sound like “anand,” bliss—Akhandanand! But if you watch their ways it is obvious: the person is miserable, distressed; their only relish is in eating and drinking.

Matkanath Brahmachari, after digesting a meal for fifteen or twenty men, said, “Host, bring water.” Hearing this, the host felt life returning to his body. He handed him a lota of water. Matkanath then said, “Son, it is my ancestral habit that I never drink water until half the meal is over.” You can imagine what the host went through. Anyway, after drinking the water he ate the same amount again. Then, rubbing his belly—like a big earthen pot—he said, “Now this bus is packed to the brim with passengers. I won’t eat anything more.”

Out of courtesy the host said, “No, no, Maharaj”—and by now he was no longer afraid—“at least have one more rasgulla.” He thought, let me show a little generosity. When the mahatma has been so generous, why should I be stingy? He’s already ruined me anyway. He said, “You must take this rasgulla. It’s been made especially for you. No, you must have it.”

The brahmachari at once took it and gulped it down. He said, “Bring more, bring more—right now the conductor’s seat in the bus is still empty. But now there’s absolutely no space left—not even to set a foot.”

After the rasgulla the host offered a big sugar-candy laddu, saying, “Maharaj, please accept this too.” He thought, now it’s impossible; even the conductor’s seat has been filled. “You must do me this kindness,” he said, “otherwise my soul will feel great distress. In our family it is tradition that the guest is finally served a sugar laddu.”

Matkanath’s mouth watered again. He said, “All right, bring it—I’ll take care of that too.” Saying so, he digested that as well.

The host asked, “Maharaj, a doubt has arisen—please resolve it. You said there wasn’t even the tiniest space left in the bus; then where did this laddu fit?”

The brahmachari replied, “Son, if there isn’t room in the bus even for a sesame seed, and the Prime Minister of the country arrives, will space be found for him or not? Just understand: this sugar laddu is the Prime Minister.”

After that, the host didn’t dare maintain any further formalities.

Pay a little attention to your mahatmas. These are the very people who preach to you twenty-four hours a day that the world is maya—illusion; what is there in this body, it is just dust; everything is a dream, dreamlike. And then look at their bodies and their eating—then you’ll understand how much truth and substance there is in their words.

There isn’t much difference between your mahatmas and your women. That’s why they fit together so well. Your mahatmas live by the support of your women. And your women have no other place to go, because everywhere else you are suspicious; only of the mahatmas you are not suspicious. A mahatma is a mahatma, after all. So you let your women go there. You won’t let them go to musicians, to dancers, to poets; you have left only one place—temples, mahatmas. Because you think the mahatma is an accomplished person, calling the world maya. So between your women and your mahatmas there is a rapport, a conspiracy. It is the women who keep your so‑called mahatmas alive and running. And your mahatmas are unhappy and your women are unhappy. And among the unhappy, sympathy is born. The unhappy rest their heads on each other’s shoulders and weep.

Three friends were discussing their fat wives. One said, “My wife is so fat that rickshaw pullers refuse to take her. And tonga drivers say, ‘Sorry, we can’t take her in one trip. If we take two trips, would you mind?’”

The second friend said, “My wife is so fat that last time when we tried to take a taxi from the station to home, the taxi driver got into a quarrel with a truck driver standing nearby. The issue was that the truck driver said, ‘Brother, you’re ruining our business—you’re taking truck passengers in a taxi!’”

The third friend said, “That’s nothing. If you hear stories about my wife, you’ll faint. Just the evening before last, I took her petticoat to the washerman to be laundered. The washerman said, ‘Forgive me, sir, we don’t do tents and canopies here.’”

Both are unhappy. The women attend the mahatmas’ satsangs and, by serving them, offer consolation. And the mahatmas, by telling puranic tales and idle, fabricated stories, offer consolation to the women.

Devraj Mehta! My sannyas is dangerous; fear is natural. I can pour wine too—that is my trade. But if, in the rush of the wine, you take sannyas, it will not be right. You would not have taken it with your own discernment and full awareness—you would have taken it in a stupor.

And when the intoxication wears off, what will you do then? When you go home from here, you will meet the people of the village, see your wife; the children will ask, “Daddy, what has happened to you? You left the house perfectly fine!” Seeing all that, the intoxication will evaporate.

A sannyas taken in intoxication collapses the moment the intoxication fades. It has no value. Take it in full consciousness.

There is another danger too. Courage born of intoxication has no value. In that drunkard’s bravery you might do something for which you later repent—repent very much.

I do serve wine, and such wine that it does not wear off for lifetimes. But I serve it only once you have become a sannyasin—never before. Becoming a sannyasin is the entry pass to my tavern. Before that, listen to me and understand me with full awareness, alert—not half-asleep.

Until you take sannyas, I want your awareness to remain fully intact, so you don’t do something you will have to regret.

There was a cat in a winehouse. One day she chased a mouse. The mouse ran and, while running, fell into a vessel filled with wine. The cat waited a long time, kept searching, but the mouse could not be found. The next day the owner of the winehouse took the mouse out. The mouse roared, “Where is that bitch of a cat? What does she think of herself? Bring her before me—I’ll lay her out flat!”

Don’t go and do some crazy thing in a drunken haze.

And what trust can you place in intoxication? I can pour, but it is not necessary that sannyas will emerge from the drink. If courage arises, who knows what that courage will do! Courage may arise and you may dash off, run away fast. The courage to flee may arise—that too is a danger, a fear. What the bravado of intoxication will make you do cannot be decided in advance.

Get a respectable man drunk and he starts hurling abuses. No one would have thought that this Gita-reciting fellow would suddenly be swearing. We had imagined that if he got drunk the Gita would ring out—and instead he began cursing mothers and sisters. The curses were packed inside; the Gita was only on the surface. That functions only as long as there is awareness.

While you are conscious, at least the thought of taking sannyas arises; when you are unconscious, who knows what will come up? Who knows what lies within and what does not! Junk of many lifetimes has piled up.

Therefore, until you become a sannyasin you are not a vessel for my wine. Yes, become a sannyasin, and then I am ready to pour—there will be no lack on my side. But until you are a sannyasin, I want to leave you absolutely free.

Listen, understand, reflect, analyze; test it on the touchstone of reason. Don’t hurry—be patient, gentle. For what I am saying is indeed dangerous. It is in opposition to all traditions; it transcends them. Yes, if you decide on your own, with your own intelligence, to surrender—then it is fine. After that you are in my hands. Otherwise there is danger.

Mulla Nasruddin had a severe toothache, but he was very afraid of having the tooth pulled. The dentist tried to assure him in many ways: “Nasruddin, there will be absolutely no pain. It’s only a matter of two minutes.” Still Nasruddin was very nervous. Finally, when he wouldn’t agree, the doctor brought a little whisky and, handing it to Mulla, said, “Here, Nasruddin—perhaps after drinking this you’ll get a bit of courage.” Two or three minutes after drinking the whisky, Nasruddin suddenly stood up and roared, “Now the damned courage has come! Now let anyone try to touch my tooth. I’ll break the hands and legs of whoever so much as touches my tooth!”

Now who knows what kind of courage will arise in you after drinking? You might even start saying to me, “Let me see who gives me sannyas now!” Or in drunkenness you may run away in such a way that you never return. At least now you do come.

Keep coming, keep going, Devraj Mehta. Come and go—sooner or later it is bound to happen. But it should happen only when the time is ripe. It should not be unripe. An unripe thing is not right. If an unripe fruit falls from the tree, it will rot; it will be of no use to anyone. Only when it ripens does it have meaning.

Two drunkards were sitting in a tree. They had drunk heartily; they were swaying, humming songs. One of them toppled down. The thud of his fall brought a little sense to the other, who was still sitting on the tree. He peered down and said, “Brother, I am very pained that you fell from the tree. You didn’t get hurt, did you?” The one below said, “Don’t worry. If you had fallen, then we would have felt sad. Why should you feel sad?” The first asked, “What do you mean?” He replied, “I am ripe; you are unripe. You fool, whoever ripens will fall. For now you are unripe—hang on. Don’t be in a hurry. When you ripen, you will fall too.”

Devraj Mehta, ripen a little. Right now you could be knocked down with a stick; but if the unripe fall, what use are they? They will be of no use. Keep coming, keep going; don’t hurry.

This matter is dangerous as it is. And I will certainly serve the wine. This wine is such that it does not give unconsciousness; it gives awareness. But there is a first condition for this wine—you must fulfill it. That is sannyas. That is discipleship. Until you fulfill that condition, you are not a vessel for me to fill. Until then you are a spectator; until then you are not a limb of this pilgrimage.

But if the feeling is arising, it seems you are slowly ripening. You will fall; the time will come. And what happens in its right time is what is right. Everything has its own time. Haste is never auspicious.

Deepak! I don’t know what you mean by “religious leaders.” If by religious leaders you mean Mahavira, Buddha, Zarathustra, Lao Tzu—then they are Buddhas, not fools. But they are not religious leaders; they are religion itself, the very embodiment of dharma.

The religious leaders are the pandits, priests, mullahs—Ayatollah Khomeini, Pope Paul, the Shankaracharya of Puri—these are religious leaders. And these religious leaders are certainly fools. I have not the slightest hesitation in saying so. I prefer to state the truth utterly naked. If they were not fools, they wouldn’t be religious leaders.

Adi Shankaracharya is dharma; but these are imitators. Are these any Shankaracharyas? They are carbon copies. And there is no greater insult to a human being than to become a carbon copy. Every person is original, and his dignity lies in his originality. In your own dignity lies the dignity of the divine. Whoever remains a carbon copy becomes worth two pennies.

A Jewish mystic, Zusya, lay on his deathbed. He was a rebel—a revolutionary. Among the few people I love, Zusya is one. An elderly Jewish religious leader came and said to him, “Zusya, the last hour has come—now make your peace with God.”

Zusya opened his eyes and said, “I never had a quarrel with him—so what peace is there to make? My quarrel was with you. And my quarrel with you will continue. There can be no peace with falsehood; with truth there is no quarrel.”

The religious leader said, “Look, admit it—you spent your whole life in rebellion. Now bow down. At least remember Moses; only he will be of use now. Even in the last moments, if you grasp Moses’ feet, you’ll be saved—otherwise you’ll drown, you’ll be lost. Take my advice.”

Zusya began to laugh. He said, “Listen, let me tell you again—this is my last breath and my last statement: When I meet God, I know perfectly well he won’t ask me, ‘Why were you not Moses?’ He will ask me, ‘Zusya, why were you not Zusya?’ If he had wanted to make me Moses, he would have made me Moses. He made me Zusya—so I have tried to become Zusya. I am completely certain God is pleased with me. What have I to do with Moses! Moses was a lovely man—fine. But I am not trying to become Moses, nor am I going to clutch anyone’s feet. Before God I will have to present my being Zusya—that what he made me, that I am; I am not an imitation.”

But religious leaders are not the sort to accept defeat so easily. Even then he didn’t have the sense to see that a man speaking with such astounding courage on his deathbed should be left alone. He still said, “At least do this much—pray. Because as far as I recall, you never recited in your life the accepted prayer of the Jewish religion.”

Zusya said, “Why have you brought this useless babble at the last moment? I don’t do set, prefabricated prayers—nor will I. Can prayer ever be a fixed formula? It is spontaneous. As for praying to God—what’s the point now? I’m going; I’ll meet him face to face. I have made my preparations—and in my own way. I’ve chosen some dear jokes to tell God—because the poor fellow must be tired, listening to the drivel of people like you. A few jokes, a few anecdotes—he’ll have a hearty laugh, and that will be prayer enough.”

Religious leaders exploit religion. That is not religion; it is irreligion. And they are certainly fools. If they had any genius, they would be Buddhas, not Buddhists; if they had any genius, they would be Christs, not Christians; if they had any genius, they would be Jinas, not Jains. And this is what I am telling you: become a Jina—that is, one who has conquered oneself. Do not become a Jain. “Jain” means: those who walk behind the ones who have conquered themselves. There is no question of walking behind anyone.

My sannyasin does not walk behind me; he walks with me. Between walking behind and walking with there is the difference of earth and sky. Behind me walks a follower; with me walk friends. This is a brotherhood, a friendship, a maitri. I am not your leader.

A religious leader was sitting in a railway compartment and kept taking out two watches again and again to check the time. A fellow passenger asked, “Sir, why do you carry two watches?” The religious leader said, “One has no hour hand, and the other has no minute hand.” See the genius!

Nasruddin’s bull wandered into the mosque. The imam cursed him up and down—said all kinds of things. “Aren’t you ashamed? You’re a Muslim and your bull enters the mosque!” Nasruddin replied, “Sir, he’s an animal—he strayed in. But have you ever seen me in the mosque?”

One day the city’s religious leader came to Nasruddin’s village on his beautiful horse. He tied the horse outside his friend’s house and went inside.

A little later, Nasruddin passed by. Seeing such a lovely horse, he went up to it, stroked it, patted its back. A passerby saw this and said, “Hey, will you sell the horse?”

Nasruddin said, “Well, what should be done now! It has to be sold—but it’ll be a full five thousand.” He thought the price would scare the man off—and anyway the horse wasn’t his.

But the trader immediately pulled out five thousand rupees and handed them to Nasruddin, and walked off with the horse. Now Nasruddin panicked. Just then the religious leader came out. Seeing him, Nasruddin quickly slipped the horse’s rope around his own neck.

The religious leader, seeing a man in place of his horse, was startled. He said, “What’s this—how are you here instead of the horse?”

Nasruddin said, “The thing is, sir, ten years ago Swami Akhandanand cursed me and said, ‘Go, become a horse!’ Since then I’ve lived the life of a horse. Today was my last day. Today the curse expired—and I became a man again.”

The religious leader said, “All right, go—I release you.”

When the religious leader reached the city, he saw the same horse standing at the trader’s place. He went up to the horse and said, “My friend, back again so soon in the form of a horse? What happened now?”

Those whom you take to be religious leaders—pandits, priests—are only parrots. They quote memorized words; they have nothing of their own. They have neither talent nor intelligence nor any experience of life’s truth. They are businessmen. They are running a trade—and they have chosen a profitable trade, cheap, costing nothing: the trade of the invisible. And the world is full of fools who can be exploited. With so many crazies around, surely someone will exploit them. And whenever anyone tries to wake you from their exploitation, naturally all of them will get angry.

If all your religious leaders are displeased and annoyed with me, it is no surprise. It is absolutely natural. Because I am striking at their very roots, cutting their foundations. If there is even a grain of truth in what I am saying, the future of religious leaders may well be dark.

Just yesterday a booklet arrived from Germany, printed by the Protestant Church, against me. It carries this instruction to all the churches in Germany: Anyone who has become a Rajneeshee is neither a Christian nor a Protestant; do not allow him entry into any church. No Protestant institution should employ him; if he is employed, dismiss him. Protestant schools, Protestant hospitals, Protestant colleges, or any other Protestant organizations should not admit any Rajneeshee sannyasin. And if someone is already there and becomes a sannyasin, remove him immediately, for he is no longer a Christian, no longer a Protestant. No church should baptize his children.

The one who wrote it is a religious leader and a high official of the Protestant Church in Germany. Such incidents are going to happen in almost every country. All the religious leaders will raise all kinds of disturbances against me—this is certain. And the simple reason is that I am not founding any religion, because I am not a religious leader. I want to free you from all religions so that you can become religious. Religions have killed your religiosity. I am in favor of religion without religions. I want to see a world where there are no Christians, no Hindus, no Jains, no Buddhists, no Parsis—where there are simply religious people. People overflowing with love; people whose hearts bloom with flowers of prayer; people from whose lives the fragrance of samadhi arises.

Naturally, there will be opposition to me from all directions.

That is why being my sannyasin is not without danger. To be my sannyasin means you have rebelled against all traditions and all orthodoxies. It is an act of audacity. But it is through precisely such audacity that your soul will be born, your rebirth will happen; a new flame, a new light will be kindled within you. That very light will give your life meaning, dignity, glory, splendor. That light will fill your life with moon and stars. With that light, your life sees sunrise—otherwise, right now it is the night of the new moon.

This night of the new moon has to be broken. And even if many hardships must be endured to break it, they are worth enduring. Why? Because on the path of truth even hardships become delightful, and on the path of untruth even comforts are distasteful. On the path of truth, poison turns into nectar; on the path of untruth, even nectar is poison.

That’s all for today.