Piya Kokhojan Main Chali #3

Kailash Goswami! What I am saying and what I am doing—wherever it is done, in whatever country or community—the response would be the same. India has no special distinction in this. If the response had been different, that would have been distinctive.

Socrates was not born in India; he was born far away in Greece, and not today but twenty-five centuries ago—yet what happened? The same neglect. The same opposition. Al-Hallaj Mansur wasn’t born in India. Jesus Christ wasn’t born in India.

The question is not of countries; it is of the human mind. And that mind is the same everywhere. Whatever differences there are are only on the surface. The human mind is traditionalist, past-oriented. The very meaning of “mind” is the storehouse of what is gone. The mind lives on the dead, on corpses.

Naturally, the more ancient a country, the more dead its mind; the longer its tradition, the deeper its ruts, the more entrenched its prejudices. And whenever truth is spoken, it is inevitably opposed to tradition—because truth has no tradition. Truth cannot have a tradition. Truth is always personal, because it is an experience. So whenever truth is proclaimed, tradition rises in opposition.

And tradition is naturally powerful. Most people live bound by it. In it there is convenience, respectability, safety. In truth there is neither convenience nor respect nor safety. In truth there is danger and only danger.

What was Socrates’ crime? Only this—that he spoke things different from tradition. What was Buddha’s crime? Only that he tried to step off the beaten track, to declare his own individuality apart from the crowd. That is exactly what offends the crowd.

The crowd cannot tolerate someone daring to treat all of us as sheep! We who are so many, so ancient, with scriptures of centuries in our hands, with such a heritage—someone sees us as nothing? Such a person cannot be tolerated. He will be ignored, prevented from imprinting himself on the public mind by every possible means. He will be cut off from the masses by all possible devices. Lies and slanders will be spread about him—for truth is on his side; only untruth remains in the hands of the crowd. And untruth can raise enough dust and throw enough of it into people’s eyes. And when people have heard an untruth for centuries, they start believing it is truth.

Adolf Hitler wrote in Mein Kampf: I recognize only this difference between truth and untruth—that when untruth is freshly told, it looks like untruth; and when it grows old and is widely propagated, it becomes truth. There is no other truth in this world.

There is something to what he says. If a lie is propagated for centuries and minds are conditioned to it, it begins to appear true.

Look into your own mind. How many things you have accepted as true! Things which, if you thought even once, would astonish you. And not just you; those you call great thinkers… You would call Aristotle a great thinker, wouldn’t you? In the West he is called the father of logic. But in Greece for thousands of years there was the notion that women have fewer teeth than men. They must have fewer. Everything of women must be less than men’s: their intelligence, their strength, their talent. A man’s ego reduces woman as much as possible and inflates itself as much as it can.

Aristotle never even tried—such a small matter, no great science was needed. He had not one but two wives. He could seat both ladies and count their teeth. It was a five-minute job. But he never did it. In his books he wrote again and again that women have fewer teeth than men. He accepted the prevailing notion.

Up to Galileo the whole world believed the sun revolves around the earth. All languages still announce it—sunrise, sunset. The truth is otherwise. The sun neither rises nor sets. When Galileo first said this, he was brought into the Pope’s court. A seventy-year-old man was made to kneel and told, “Ask forgiveness! Because the Bible says the sun circles the earth; the earth does not circle the sun. And your book says the earth circles the sun. So are you wiser than the Bible? The Bible, which is a divine book! Which descended from above!”

Galileo was remarkable. He smiled and said, “If you wish, I will ask forgiveness. I have no difficulty asking pardon. If you wish I will correct my book. I can even write that the sun circles the earth, not the other way. But let me say one thing—the fact will remain that the earth circles the sun. My apology won’t worry the sun, nor the earth. Only my book will become wrong. But if you insist, I’ll do it.”

No one was willing to listen. When Copernicus first discovered some new stars—discovered meaning they were always there, but not visible to the naked eye—he invented the first telescope to see them. He invited the learned of his time, “Come and look through my telescope. If you cannot see them, tell me they are not there.” But they said, “Why should we look through your telescope? Why bother to look for things that aren’t? And if your telescope shows them, that only proves your telescope is playing tricks. They aren’t there; it merely makes them appear, deceives our eyes. You are practicing some sort of sorcery, some kind of magic.”

No one agreed to look through his telescope—professors, scientists, mathematicians, astrologers all refused. Copernicus was abused as much as possible. Efforts were made to prove he was in league with spirits. With their help he was contriving his tricks and showing people things that do not exist. If those stars existed, they should be in the Bible. It records everything God created in six days. There is no mention of these stars. If God didn’t make them, how can they exist?

We are blind followers of the past. So, Kailash Goswami, it makes no difference where I might be; the same would happen. A small difference perhaps: elsewhere it would be done more efficiently. Like the man who threw the knife—it would not have missed if it were Germany. In India it missed. That is one benefit of being in India. The knife too was from Adam’s time; even if it had struck, dying would not have been easy—unless one had decided to. From the photo in the papers, it didn’t look like the sort of knife that could kill anyone. You wouldn’t even use it in your kitchen to cut vegetables. It looked rust-eaten. In Germany this wouldn’t happen.

A friend told me a German joke. He lives there. Someone told him, “Be prepared, because when you die they will ask at the gate of hell. Once before an Indian who lived in Germany was asked there. At hell’s gate they asked him: ‘Since you were born Indian but lived your life in Germany, which section of hell do you want—the German section or the Indian section?’”

He was startled. “Are there separate hells by country?”

The gatekeeper said yes.

“What’s the difference? If I knew, I could choose.”

“Not much,” said the gatekeeper. “The same torments in both—same cauldrons, same oil, same furnaces, same whips, same beatings—everything the same.”

“Then why ask me to choose if it’s all the same?”

The gatekeeper laughed. “There’s a little difference. In the Indian section everything runs in the Indian way: sometimes the stove lights, sometimes it doesn’t; sometimes the wood is wet, sometimes there’s no oil; even if there’s oil and the wood is dry, the man who lights the fire doesn’t come—he’s on leave. Six months leave because there are so many holy festivals—Ganesh Chaturthi, Muharram, Paryushan—only holidays. And Indians have started using modern equipment too, but often the power goes off. Sometimes it doesn’t come for days. In summer there are power cuts. In short, everything runs the Indian way. In the German section it runs the German way: the power never fails; no one is absent from duty; work starts on time and is done with German efficiency. All modern equipment. No old stoves—electric furnaces now. And since Adolf Hitler, they’ve incorporated the latest knowledge of such furnaces. No mistakes. No holidays.”

The Indian said, “Send me to the Indian hell, then.” Then he asked, “Bribes also work there, right?”

“Of course they do,” said the gatekeeper. “They can’t work in the German hell.”

So, Kailash Goswami, such differences would be there. In Germany, before attacking, someone would practice at the target. Here the fellow throws a knife at me—fifteen hundred people are present—and even a blind man throwing a knife should hit someone. This man had practiced amazingly: among fifteen hundred people it hit no one. Not me, not anyone. Not even a scratch. The knife was amazingly Indian too: in a crowd it flew over people’s heads and fell between two persons on the cement. Nonviolent. Gandhian.

There are advantages to being here. Don’t overlook them.

You ask, “Why are intellectuals and ordinary people full of indifference?”

This is perfectly natural. There’s nothing unnatural about it. And what are “intellectuals” here? Mere stick-to-the-line scholars. In India, what is an intellectual’s job? To be an expert on the Gita, a Veda-chanter.

A gentleman named Trivedi, a PhD and a university lecturer, used to write to me. By mistake I addressed a reply to him as Dwivedi. Not much of a mistake, but he was shocked. To call a Trivedi a Dwivedi! Trivedi means knower of three Vedas, Dwivedi of two—heavy loss! Though he knew neither two nor three; perhaps some ancestor knew once. But what difference does that make! It’s a matter of family glory. He immediately wrote angrily, “If nothing else, at least write my address and name carefully. You wrote my name wrong. I am not Dwivedi, I am Trivedi.” So I replied addressing him as Chaturvedi. An even angrier letter came: “What sort of man are you? Have you sworn never to write Trivedi? First Dwivedi, now Chaturvedi!” I wrote back, “I’m only balancing the account. Once I erred, writing Dwivedi for Trivedi. Making it Chaturvedi evens it out—added one Veda. From now on I’ll write Trivedi; but the old account should be balanced too.”

What is the value of such intellectuals? Their job is to feed tradition. Feed tradition and people call you pundit, give you respect, regard you as learned. In truth, intelligence begins with rebellion. How many rebels are there here? And their annoyance with me is even greater, because they thought I was one of them—an intellectual—since I was a university professor. They expected me to walk their line—become dean, pro-vice-chancellor, vice-chancellor if I kept politicians happy. I rebelled against it all. I burned, so to speak, the certificates they gave me. I refused—your certificates are worthless, not worth two pennies. I have no interest in such pedantry. So they have cause to be displeased. How can they speak in my favor? I’m already grateful that at least they didn’t praise the man who tried to kill me. I take that as their compassion, their kindness.

See it this way, Kailash Goswami. Why look from the angle of despair? Look from the angle of hope. Why count two nights with one small day between? Count two days with one small night between! Why count thorns and say there is a flower or two among them? Count the flowers first and then say: so many flowers, and if a few thorns are there, what harm! Then the thorns appear as the flowers’ guards.

You must have heard of Diogenes—a great Greek rebel, a revolutionary thinker. And to be a thinker without being rebellious is impossible. These two come together. If someone is truly an intellectual, he will be a rebel; that is the very hallmark of intelligence. It is the signature of genius.

Diogenes was a rebel. He lived naked. Now in India, being naked is not such a rebellion; for centuries many have been naked here. Even otherwise people are half-naked. Jains have a tradition of naked monks; Hindu tradition too has long lines of naked ascetics. But in Greece there was no such tradition—not even a tradition of monks. When Alexander came to India, his teacher Aristotle had said, “Bring back a sannyasin when you return, for I have never seen one. What is this sannyas?”

So imagine Diogenes in Greece going naked! And when people asked, “What are you doing?” he said, “When God made me naked, why should I cover myself? He made me uncovered; I will stay uncovered.” He must have been a courageous man. Naked he was, but he carried a lit lantern day and night—even at noon. Whoever he met, he would hold the lantern up to the person’s face. People asked, “What are you doing? A lantern at noon? Are your eyes weak?” He said, “My eyes aren’t weak. I want to light up and see if there is a human being anywhere on earth. There are plenty of people, but no human beings.”

I’ve heard that when Diogenes was dying, someone asked, “Tell us now—did you find a human being, the one you searched for all your life with that lantern among millions?” Diogenes opened his eyes and said, “Thanks to God! I didn’t find a human being, but isn’t it enough that no one stole my lantern?”

That is what I call optimism. “Isn’t it enough that no one stole my lantern?” Otherwise, I sleep at night; I can’t hold the lantern all night. Someone would have run off with it. Yes, one difference—had it been India, he wouldn’t have had the chance to say that. Someone would have taken the lantern. Maybe no human being; but the lantern would be missing.

You say, “Why are they filled with indifference?”

Where is the indifference? They did not praise the attacker—this is no small thing! In their hearts they must have rejoiced: “Good! This is how it should be. It should have happened earlier; why so late?” Inside they must have fretted, “Why did he fail? If only he’d succeeded! What did God do! He should have made the man succeed.” Outwardly they didn’t show indifference; inwardly they were pleased.

And you say no high-ranking person made any statement.

How can politicians make statements about me? Few have criticized politicians as I have. And you, even after listening to me, still call them “high-ranking”? That’s the limit! A politician and a person of high stature! Are people of stature interested in politics? Then where will the low-grade go? Interest in politics is typical of low-grade minds. What is politics? The race of people filled with inferiority complexes. Those who feel inferior inside.

The great Western psychologist Adler based his entire psychology on the inferiority complex. He said that people who feel a lack of something interior strive to prove the opposite. There is great truth in this. Those who feel inwardly poor chase wealth. They spend their lives accumulating. They will die hoarding. They cannot enjoy—enjoying spends it.

Andrew Carnegie, the American multi-multi-millionaire—billionaire—died leaving a billion dollars, yet lived worse than a poor clerk. His clerks lived better.

Carnegie’s son came to London in great style, which enraged Carnegie. The son lived lavishly—wasting money. He’d say, “I gathered it with such difficulty, and he squanders it!” Squandering meant wearing good clothes, buying good shoes, flying first class—this was squandering! A billionaire called this squandering!

When Carnegie came to London he got off the plane from the third-class cabin carrying his own luggage, not even calling a porter—porters are expensive in the West. Only the wealthy hire them.

He hauled his own bags. The clerk at the counter examined his luggage and looked closely at him, recognizing him—he was world-famous, photos everywhere.

“If I’m not mistaken,” the clerk said, “you are Andrew Carnegie. But you’re wearing a torn coat!”

“What difference does a torn coat make?” Carnegie replied. “Whether I wear a torn coat or a jewel-studded one—Andrew Carnegie is Andrew Carnegie.”

“But your son comes dressed splendidly,” the clerk said.

“My son is bent on ruining me!” said Carnegie.

When he was dying, his biographer asked, “Are you dying happy, leaving a billion dollars?”

“Not happy,” he said, “unhappy—because I intended to collect ten billion. I am a defeated man.”

What kind of man was this! A supreme miser. Beggars wouldn’t even beg at his door. If any beggar did, the neighborhood knew he was new in town. The old beggars, familiar with the town, avoided his house. He would give nothing, but deliver a half-hour sermon: “You’re healthy—why not work? Why beg? I had nothing either. Earn!” He wasted half an hour, during which they could have begged at ten more houses.

It’s said only one beggar ever managed to get anything from him. He knocked at four in the morning. Carnegie opened the door: “What do you want?”

“I’m a beggar, I’ve come to beg.”

“Is this a time?”

“At any other time you don’t give. If you don’t give now, I’ll come every day at four. If that fails, I’ll try three, then two—I’ll keep you awake all night. I can’t sleep at night. I sleep in the day; nights I suffer insomnia.”

Carnegie said, “Take this—and don’t tell anyone. You seem an accomplished fellow. You’re the only beggar I’ll remember who got money out of me.”

Adler built his psychology on this: those who feel inward poverty become crazy for wealth. This helps us understand why Buddha and Mahavira left palaces. They experienced inner richness—so much that outer wealth became meaningless. Within, an overflowing abundance, a shower of nectar, streams of rasa, songs and music arose—an unstruck sound. Compared to that, the outer became pointless; they left the palaces.

Buddha said the same. When he left the palace, his charioteer asked, “Are you mad—to abandon a palace of gold?”

Buddha said, “I see no palace there. Where I see a palace, I am going. Where you point, I see only flames. Death will devour it all. What will I do with what death will swallow? I go in search of the immortal. That, once found, is never lost. Only that is worth finding.”

So who runs toward politics? Politics means the race for position, to be on top, to be chief, first. The one who feels inferiority within; who is afflicted with an inferiority complex; who wants to prove, by sitting on a big throne, “I am something.”

You’ll be surprised to know Napoleon was not very tall. It pained him all his life. Five feet five inches. In India that is average. In the West he looked short among six- and seven-footers. He burned within: “I am short—so I must be high.” “I’ll show the world that even if my body isn’t tall, my position is.” If anyone reminded him, he was enraged.

One day the clock on the wall stopped. He tried to fix it but couldn’t reach. His bodyguard—a seven-foot man, as a bodyguard to Napoleon should be—said, “Wait, I’m taller than you; I’ll fix it.” Napoleon said, “You’ll have your tongue cut—take that back. You’re not higher than I am; you’re taller. Say ‘I am taller,’ not ‘higher.’”

Now do you see the difference between taller and higher? It touched his wound. The guard had no idea; he apologized: “You’re right. You’re higher; I’m taller.” Napoleon said, “Then fix the clock—or I’ll cut your tongue.”

Lenin’s legs were short relative to his body. The upper body was big, the legs short—his lifelong pain. He had large chairs made, but his feet didn’t reach the floor. He had tables made to hide his legs. Otherwise it looked odd, like a child sitting with his legs dangling. He hid his feet. He wrote to friends that he would prove that however small his feet, he could reach the highest position.

Adler’s point carries truth. How can politicians speak on my behalf? What I say about them cuts them to the quick. They must have felt grateful in their hearts to the attacker: “He tried what we wanted.” So don’t worry that no “high-ranking person” spoke. Their silence shows there is no high rank there at all. It’s all a race for “high,” but position never makes one high. Only a self-realized person is high. Meditation is the only wealth. Realizing the divine is the only true position—that is why devotees call it the supreme state. All other positions are hollow, childish.

Haven’t you seen children? They climb a chair and tell their father, “Daddy, I’m higher than you. See, I’m higher!”

Those racing after positions are such children—grown in body, but psychologically not beyond childhood.

You’ll be amazed to know the average psychological age of human beings is twelve. Even at eighty the average mental age is scarcely more than twelve. The mind gets stuck around twelve-thirteen. Only the toys change and grow bigger. Girls play with dolls and marry them off; later they will marry off their children—same game. Ramleela will be enacted, Rama and Sita’s wedding arranged—same play, only names and forms change.

Once I went to Raipur for the first time. No one knew me, nor I them. By coincidence Baba Raghavdas was to travel in the same air-conditioned coach that day. On the way to the bathroom I saw his name on a plaque. He was a Sarvodaya sannyasin, a devotee of Gandhi and Vinoba. I asked if he was in the coach. They said no. I forgot about it.

At Raipur station the people who were to receive me didn’t show up. But those to receive Baba Raghavdas stood by the carriage with garlands. Seeing me, they shouted, “Victory to Baba Raghavdas!”

I thought, what’s the harm; name and form are but differences—let’s be Baba Raghavdas! I said nothing. They garlanded me, I accepted. They picked up my luggage. I said, “Pick it up.” No one else had come for me anyway; I had to go somewhere. Since Baba hadn’t come, their work would be done and my hassle saved. Where would I go otherwise?

Their car got delayed a few minutes in traffic. As we were exiting, my own reception party arrived with garlands. One of them had seen my photo. He was shocked: “Who is taking him?” He came and asked me, “Who are you?”

“Don’t ask,” I said. “For now I’m Baba Raghavdas.”

Those taking me said, “What do you mean ‘for now’?”

“All differences are only of name and form,” I said. “In different births one is many things. There are 8.4 million species—what is one not in them? That’s why I said ‘for now.’”

They said, “All right.”

But my people objected: “We won’t let you go like this. What is this? We know Baba Raghavdas.” One of them knew him: “You are not Baba Raghavdas.”

“Then decide among yourselves who I am,” I said. “What difference does it make? If both of you have difficulty, I’ll settle theirs today and yours tomorrow. Today let me be Raghavdas; tomorrow I’ll be whatever you want.”

The Raghavdas party got worried too: “How to take him? He doesn’t seem reliable.” And perhaps the real Baba was in another coach. They grew anxious that he might be elsewhere while they were taking this unreliable fellow. Meanwhile my friends quickly took my luggage from them: “You come; here is the car.”

The Raghavdas group trailed behind. I said, “What do you want now? They’ve come; I’m going. Go look for Baba. Take your garlands, or how will you go searching? You don’t know him; he doesn’t know you. By the way, he hasn’t come; he was to be in my coach. His nameplate was there, but he didn’t come. If you agree, I’ll settle both your affairs—today yours, tomorrow theirs. But they insist, and you don’t seem bold enough. After all, doesn’t even Baba Raghavdas accept that all differences are of name and form?”

They said, “He does—every knower of Brahman does.”

“Then what’s the difference? Name and form—inside the same God sits.”

“You are right,” they said. “But let us first check the coach for Baba. If he isn’t there, we’ll think again.”

As you wish.

Where are the real differences between people? Outer differences are nothing. Big post, small post, no post; wealth or no wealth; palace or hut—these are not real differences. They are differences of name and form. I don’t even want to erase them; they are lovely, give variety to the world—champak, jasmine, rose, lotus—many flowers and colors—beautiful. But the real thing is inner. And the politician has no relation with the inner; his race is outward. Religion relates to the inner. The politician lives in name and form; religion lives in that which is beyond name and form, beyond shape, the formless.

People ask, “Politicians go to other holy men; why not to you?”

Going to holy men is useful in politics. Even those politicians who read my books, who are interested in my ideas, who secretly send me messages—do not dare to come openly. Meeting me can be politically dangerous, costly. Politics cares only that the crowd be with you. The crowd is not with me. With me are a few chosen rebels. No politics can run on such rebels.

I have never voted in my life—for anyone. Which thief should I vote for—this one or that? They are thieves, cousins—who to vote for? I never got into that mess. No politician has ever come to ask for my vote. They go to everyone—because if they came to me, I would set them right so that they’d forget their steps. And here in the ashram none of my people are interested in politics or votes. A politician coming to me can get nothing—not a single vote. He goes to any petty pundit, priest, holy man who has no value—but he’ll go. To Hindu, Jain, Muslim—he’ll beg everywhere—because behind them are chunks of the crowd. They have votes.

Those with me are citizens of the world. They have little to do with the politics of one country or its borders. In truth, they have little to do with politics at all. Even during the big recent elections, this is perhaps the one place in the country where there was no discussion, no talk, no interest.

They cannot come to me, and they cannot speak in my favor. If they praised the attacker, they might get more votes; if they spoke for me, they might lose what they have. Politics has no concern with anything else—only how many votes. Counting of votes. I have no votes. I have only work for the courageous.

And the newspapers—you ask why they said nothing.

I am not much on the side of newspapers either. The newspaper has become the medium of propagating the false, the unseemly, the obscene. It does not live on truth; it lives on sensationalism. If my sannyasins had beaten that knife-thrower, there would have been news. But no one hit him. He was lifted tenderly and handed to the police. Not even a scratch allowed on him. He was fully protected. Otherwise, the crowd might have gone mad.

But this crowd is different. It is not a crowd that goes mad. Not a person stirred. People didn’t even turn to look. I was delighted. Only four or six guards rose—whose job it was—and quietly took him away. As if nothing special had happened. No sensation. I continued speaking as I was; people continued listening as they were. People didn’t even stand up or rush, “A knife has been thrown, who knows, now a gun may fire! Perhaps he has companions with swords!” He did have a sword concealed in his belt; he could have drawn it and cut a few necks.

Even so, newspapers have nothing to do with the auspicious. Give someone a flower, catch someone who is falling—no meaning for them. But push someone who is walking, snatch a flower from someone’s hand—then they’re interested. They live on sensation. So they took what was sensational: a knife was thrown; there was an attempt on my life. But that you showed no ill-will towards him—there is no sensation in that. Newspapers have nothing to do with good conduct.

The greatest mischief in the world that has magnified evil is the press. Evil has always existed, but never has it been so publicized. Today the first thing a man does in the morning is read the paper. And it gives relief: someone murdered, someone stole, someone took a bribe, someone was caught, someone hanged, someone shot, some state overthrown—man feels, “Ah! There are people worse than me. I’m better than these. Granted I give or take a little bribe, but only a little. Mine is nothing before so much sin. On Judgment Day when sinners line up, my number won’t even come.”

Mulla Nasruddin asked his mulla, “Do you say that on the Day of Judgment all cases will be decided in one day?”

“Yes,” said the mulla, “in one day.”

Mulla grew concerned. “In one day? All who have ever lived and who will live?”

“Yes,” the mulla said.

“Will there be women too, or only men?”

“What kind of question is that—of course women will be there.”

“Then my number will hardly come,” said Mulla. “There will be such noise and commotion—women looking at each other’s saris and jewelry—such hubbub! Where great sinners gather—Genghis Khan, Tamerlane, Hitler, Mussolini, Stalin, Mao—who will ask for poor me! My sins are small—smoke a bidi, sometimes gamble at Diwali and Holi. I’ve neither killed nor robbed. We poor ones won’t be called even there!”

He sighed, “It’s sad—we’ll stand at the back there too, like in the ration line here. At least here our turn comes in four-six hours; there it won’t. In one day—our number will never come. We haven’t committed any big sins!”

Reading the paper in the morning gives this relief; remorse melts; guilt drops off. With so much sin around, you appear virtuous.

That’s why slander tastes so sweet. Newspapers have made a science of it—a full technology. When people meet, what do they talk about? Slander—of this one, that one. The pleasure of slander is this: when you put someone down, you appear better in comparison.

You’ve read Akbar’s story: he drew a line with chalk in court and said, “Make it shorter without touching it.” No one could, but Birbal did—by drawing a longer line below it. Immediately the first looked shorter—untouched.

When you slander, you are drawing a longer line for yourself. So if you say, “So-and-so plays the flute beautifully,” at once someone will say, “What flute! He’s a cheat, a crook, a black-marketeer—what flute! He smuggles; he’ll play the flute?” “Krishna played the flute; he will play the flute? For flute-playing, purity is needed.”

But if you say, “So-and-so is a thief, dishonest,” no one objects. No one says, “How can he be a thief? He plays the flute so sweetly! And even if he steals, it must be like Krishna, the butter thief—hardly a theft!” No one says this.

Understand the human mind! People want others’ faults inflated, the bigger the better. Then their own appear smaller—nothing. When mountains of others’ faults stand around, yours is not even a mound; a ditch becomes a valley; you look like a saint in comparison. But speak of someone’s saintliness and immediately objections arise. People scrutinize saints intently, waiting for the smallest slip to snatch away their sainthood—sitting ready for it.

The press has polished this trade. So if something good happens, it won’t be reported. Reporters come here. Someone meditating holds no interest; but if they see a man and woman holding hands—the camera clicks. What to do with someone meditating; fake! Eyes closed, legs crossed—playing at vipassana. In this Kali Yuga who meditates! So it can’t be true; why photograph it? Maybe they sat seeing the photographer coming.

No one thinks someone might have taken a woman’s hand seeing the photographer. No—that cannot be! But a man holding a woman’s hand—in a sex-repressed society—that is sensational. That should be photographed, discussed. And if such events are not found, invent them. Newspapers invent so much it’s a miracle.

I saw a Bengali paper. Doesn’t seem the writer ever came here, because what he wrote is pure fiction. He wrote he met Ma Vinodini of the ashram. There is no Ma Vinodini here; I’ve never given that name to any woman—not in this ashram, not anywhere. He must have thought since I give Swami Vinod to many, I must have given Vinodini too. I keep my own accounting; that name I must have saved for some journalist. He fell into the trap—no such sannyasin exists.

And there are limits to lying. He wrote that at the gate he met Ma Yoga Laxmi wearing white clothes.

Laxmi and white clothes—this is like me in saffron. And at the gate! In six years I have gone to that gate only three times—only because I had to leave through it. I have never really looked at it. People praise its beauty; I say, “I’ll see it when I leave Poona. Why walk that far just to look?” Though it’s only about two hundred steps from my room; but two steps away from oneself feels far to me.

Laxmi at the gate in white clothes! And met and chatted there!

This man knows nothing. He never came. He wrote that when I give sannyas there is Sufi dancing during the initiation.

He picked up words from somewhere. He knows nothing of sannyas here or Sufi dance. He also wrote garlands are sold in the ashram—fifteen, twenty, twenty-five, fifty rupees—according to one’s capacity.

This is false. Garlands are given only to sannyasins as a token of my love; they’re not for sale. Not for fifteen rupees or fifteen thousand; not for fifteen lakhs.

But he wrote that garlands hang in the shop with price tags—fifteen, twenty, twenty-five.

There’s no need to come here—he invents in Calcutta. When he was sent a rebuttal, he replied to the reply: “What I wrote is true; nothing is false. I saw with my own eyes. My eyes cannot be deceived.”

And this is not the biggest falsehood. A German paper wrote the ashram is spread over fifteen square miles.

The idea pleased me. It should be; it will be. But not yet.

He wrote that all discourses take place “beneath my land.”

Remember—you are sitting beneath the ground! And more astonishing things—believe it or not—but one must believe when reputed papers write them: that all who come to hear me must first remove their clothes and sit naked.

You are all sitting naked. That too I liked. The heat is so much. And anyway everyone is naked under clothes—this is true. Clothes are on the surface; inside, one is naked. Whether under clothes or tents or roofs—we sit naked.

He wrote he came at five in the morning, knocked at the ashram gate, and a naked woman opened it—such a beauty as he had never seen!

His descriptions were charming; they pleased the mind. I too want my sannyasins to be so beautiful that nowhere in the world such people gather. It is happening, will happen. Where else will you find so many beautiful, joyous people together?

But even lies have limits. He wrote that the naked woman invited him in, plucked a fruit from a tree—looked like an apple—and gave it to him, saying, “Eat it; it prolongs life and increases sexual energy.”

I asked Laxmi, “Where is this fruit? Our own sannyasins are growing old, and any Tom, Dick and Harry is eating it! Poor Phali Bhai is getting old; Sita Ma is getting old; Ramji is getting old. Where is the tree?” Since then I’ve been searching—the tree isn’t found yet.

People trust printed letters more than their own eyes. If something is printed, it must be true.

Those newspapers that publish such lies about me—who have taken a contract to do so, who twist my words and work—Kailash Goswami, from them you expect condemnation of the attack? You expect wrongly. Wrong expectations bring disappointment.

In the end let me repeat: what is happening here would happen anywhere. So don’t be angry at India. It would happen everywhere; not only here.

You’ll be amazed: the very day a knife was thrown at me here—the same date, by coincidence, don’t look for mystery—there was a knife attack in Perth, Australia, on Swami Indivar who runs my ashram there. So now what will you say? That an attack on me is understandable—I am the root of mischief. But Indivar? A simple, straightforward man—yet he too was attacked with a knife.

It will happen in many places. And here, at least they cannot separate me from this country; but elsewhere, I can’t be allowed to settle. Gurdjieff suffered this all his life. Born in Russia, after the revolution he had to flee or rot in Siberia. If a Buddha is born in Russia today, he will rot in prison. And things have changed: they don’t hang you anymore—which at least ends the matter.

I’ve heard the Christian Trinity—God the Father, Jesus Christ, and the Holy Ghost—were chatting. Up in salvation, what else to do! The Holy Ghost said, “It’s been long. I’d like to go somewhere on vacation. Don’t you two want a trip?”

God said, “I’m too old. Where to go? I’m fine here. But Jesus, if you wish, take a spin on earth.”

Jesus said, “I won’t go again. I went once and was crucified. Never again.”

Holy Ghost said, “What’s the big deal? At most they’ll crucify you—moment’s trouble, then home. Think of it as a return ticket.”

Jesus said, “You don’t know. You don’t read the papers. Nowadays they don’t crucify you: they keep you in jail to rot, or send you to Siberia to dig ditches lifelong. If you act up, they put you in a madhouse and give you electric shocks. The old folks were kind—they crucified you; matter finished in hours. Now it’s lifelong trouble. I don’t want that. No vacations on earth—I’ll read the newspapers from here.”

This happened to Gurdjieff. He had to leave Russia. Gurdjieff is among the very few in this century who attained full Buddhahood—very few indeed: Gurdjieff, Ramana, Krishnamurti. Three you could count as Buddhas. He had to flee. Three times attempts were made on his life; three times bullets hit him—but he survived. Once in his leg—nonfatal places. But his body was damaged for life, weakened. He hid in Turkey. He might have died hidden there, but some Westerners—especially Ouspensky, who was searching for a Master—found him. Even Ouspensky, a world-famous mathematician, couldn’t find him a home. He tried to settle Gurdjieff in England; the government refused him entry. No country would take him. France agreed with the condition he build an ashram in the forest far from Paris and keep away from French life, politics, society. If he made any trouble, he would be expelled at once.

What do you think—would it be easy for me to go and settle elsewhere? Letters, telegrams, phone calls have come from all over—“Come to our country.”

I understand the invitations of those who love me. But they don’t know whether their politics could tolerate me. Which country would agree to take this fire? None.

This is the fate of people like me: wherever we are, we are on the cross. If one has to be on the cross, India is best. Everything here is so slow, so lax, that there are even ways to slip off the cross. People escape from jails.

I know a man who cost India crores of rupees. He was jailed, then released on bail. For a year he was strictly forbidden to leave India. Not only did he leave—no one knew. He returned, did his work, left again. Only on his second return did people realize. How did he get out? How did he get a ticket, a passport? Everything is possible here. Nowhere else are there such “facilities.”

When Morarji Desai was in power, doing all he could to create difficulties for me—whatever he could, he did—I asked some friends abroad to inquire with their governments.

Germany responded clearly that they would not take me—the Protestant Church would create a storm. Books have been published against me. Notices sent to every church not to quote me on Jesus, not to mention my name. So Germany said they cannot.

Friends in Nepal tried, but the news came that Nepal could not anger India, and could not give me shelter against India’s wishes.

How would China take me! My books cannot enter. How would Russia! My books have been translated but cannot be printed.

Even where my books are translated and printed, those governments have no courage to take me in. No Muslim country can take me—for if Hindus become so illiberal as to throw knives, what to say of Muslims, the last word in illiberality! They won’t take time.

Do you think I could live a day in Iran? Would Ayatollah Khomeini let me live even a day? Impossible.

No Muslim country can take me. No Christian country can. Christianity is restless, most restless, because among those I have initiated into sannyas, most are Christians. So Christians are angriest with me. In truth, Hindus shouldn’t be too angry; I have “spoiled” very few Hindus. I have “spoiled” many Christians—and will, because Christians are better educated, more intelligent, with more talent than others. My words fit their hearts more readily.

Israel cannot tolerate me for a moment, because after Christians, Jews are next. There are many Jews here. You’ll be amazed: nowhere in India will you find so many Jews together as here. This is the only place with hundreds of Jews. So Israel is angry—very angry. Jesus could not “corrupt” the Jews; my “corruption” is worse. I am breaking their stronghold.

Yet there is chemistry between me and Jews, because they have sharp talent. Their religion gave them things no other gave. Many of my ideas resonate with them. First, they are attracted because I say I want a religiosity free of religions. Jews have suffered too much because of Judaism.

I’ve heard: an old Jew prayed daily in the synagogue for thirty years. Finally even God must have tired. One day God said, “What do you want? Speak. Thirty years you’ve persisted.”

“I want to ask,” the old man said, “Are we your chosen people—Jews?”

“Without doubt,” said God.

“Then do us a favor—choose someone else now. Because of your choosing, for two and a half thousand years we have been harassed. Couldn’t you find someone else? Poor us—you chose us!”

Jews believe they are the chosen people. That belief has brought them suffering. Jews cannot become Christians—Jesus opposed their beliefs and Christians persecuted them for two thousand years. Nor can they adopt other religions: Jewish core values are not renunciatory; they affirm life, acceptance, celebration. They find these in my teaching. I too affirm the celebration of life.

I am neither Christian, Hindu, nor Muslim—I don’t believe in religions, I believe in religiosity. So many Jews are drawn to me from around the world.

Israel cannot accept me. Christians cannot. Communists cannot. Wherever I live there will be trouble. I did not decide to live in India by accident; it is the most feasible place.

So don’t worry, Kailash Goswami, “In such a dead country is it right for you to live?”

Where there are corpses, there most is the need for someone to awaken the dead. Where there is illness, there a physician is needed. Where there is disease, there must be treatment.

And yes, this country is dead—long dead. Yet great potential lies hidden here. The country that gave birth to Buddha, Krishna, Mahavira, Kabir, Nanak, Farid—that country has fire hidden under ash. The ash is five thousand years old. If we can remove it, the embers can glow again.

And remember, we haven’t used our genius for five thousand years. That can be a benefit—like land left fallow for years accumulates minerals; when cultivated again after ten or fifteen years, the yield is beyond imagination. India’s genius is like that. Others have used theirs; ours lies unused, covered in ash. Diamonds lie in trash. We must clear the trash, shake off the ash; then such genius can arise here that the whole world will receive light from it.

India’s potential is immense. Its future can be significant. But someone must dare—and be ready to burn his hands. When you brush ash off embers, your hands burn. Here the so-called holy men, burned by hot milk, now blow even on buttermilk. I want a fire to arise among my sannyasins that revives this country’s sleeping, dead genius. Then perhaps we can light the whole earth. Then good fortune can dawn. Then there can be a sunrise.

Pandit Krishnadas Shastri! Brother, don’t be hasty. The trade is indeed deceptive and false—but if you leave it, what will you do then? You have children, a wife, a family. In a way, everything is deception and falsehood. You’ll do something else—and if you’ve practiced falsehood all your life, whatever you do will also carry that falseness. Habits don’t leave quickly.

Besides, astrologers have a very respectable business. Why get into hassles? It’s a play—keep playing it. Just take it as a play. I don’t tell anyone to give anything up. Whatever you are doing, do it as a performance. And right now the astrologer’s trade is flourishing. Go settle in Delhi, brother—why get lost in these scruples!

We’d write year-forecasts and horoscopes for editors,
A column would open in some newspaper under our name.
Sometimes officers, sometimes clerks, sometimes businessmen’s homes—
All heads would be bowed at our lotus feet.
We wouldn’t be hauling life’s burden like donkeys,
If only we were astrologers.

Successful film stars would be with us,
The leaders of our country would be in our hands.
Our wallet too would be stuffed with hundred-rupee notes,
Our beds would be in the best hotels of the metros.
We wouldn’t be sleeping like this on a broken cot with the kids,
If only we were astrologers.

Excerpts of our speeches would be printed in the papers,
All the VIPs would be chanting our name,
Our fame would be talked of across Hindustan,
Sometimes in London, sometimes Paris, sometimes Japan.
We wouldn’t be hiding in some corner, weeping,
If only we were astrologers.

No problems would stand before us,
Maidens would be feeding us and giving us baths,
In the safe would be unlimited gold coins,
In the ashram disciples would chirp like bulbuls,
We too would be diving with them in the swimming pool,
If only we were astrologers.

We would have devotees in every city and village,
Our name would be prominent even in elections,
With us too, friends, thousands of crazies would be,
Wherever we went we’d be surrounded by journalists,
Hundreds of homegrown leaders would wash our feet,
If only we were astrologers.

By spinning wheels of yantras we’d ensnare the Kubers,
Reading out their fate-script we’d turn them into fools.
Into someone’s house of Venus we’d shove Saturn,
On someone’s moon we’d seat Rahu or Ketu,
If only we were astrologers.

Those who aren’t astrologers, poor fellows pray to God, “O Lord, make me an astrologer.” And Pandit Krishnadas Shastri, you already being an astrologer, don’t get carried away by my words. Stand firm. Stay put. Just keep in mind that it’s all a game, all acting. Don’t take it seriously. Taking it seriously creates trouble.

There is nothing wrong with astrology itself; it’s that a thousand kinds of dishonesties are going on. But if you’re doing it knowingly, consciously, then what’s the harm in fleecing those who fleece others! Be compassionate to the poor—don’t read their hands, don’t cast their horoscopes; and if you do, do it free. From the rich, take with an open heart. From politicians, pull as much as you can; squeeze out the juice; don’t let go once someone gets caught in your net—squeeze them dry.

You have a good craft in your hands. Don’t wander here and there. What’s there in the villages? Settle in Delhi. All the astrologers have settled in Delhi. There’s no politician who doesn’t have an astrologer. And if you’re clever, the game of astrology is such that you can never really lose. It’s a very good trade. The astrologer speaks in such a way that he never gets caught.

If you don’t know the tricks, meet me privately; I’ll teach you a few. Some tricks everyone knows. For instance, look at anyone’s hand and say, “Money comes to you, but it doesn’t stay.” In whose hand does it stay? If money stayed, it wouldn’t be money. It comes and goes—that’s why in English it’s called currency: that which keeps moving. Money is fickle. And tell everyone you meet, “The world has not yet recognized you according to your true worth.” Everyone believes their ability is greater. Who thinks their worth is being fully recognized?

Mulla Nasruddin was showing his hand to an astrologer—a cheap, two-bit astrologer. The astrologer said, “Son, rejoice! You’re going to get a big in-laws’ family—rich in-laws. She’s an only daughter. Along with her, a lot of money will come as dowry.” Nasruddin said, “You’ve done wonders! Here, take another four-anna coin—but tell me one more thing: what will happen to my wife and three children?”

Say such things with a little thought. Always couch them with conditions. Say them in such a way that, if you wish, you can turn them this way or that. Always say it in two ways. The clever astrologer speaks the language of politicians—he speaks so that his words can mean anything, as needed.

An astrologer read a man’s hand—Chandulal’s—and said, “Your marriage is happening.” Chandulal said, “Absolutely right.” The whole village knew; a wedding isn’t something that happens secretly. Bands were playing, invitations had gone out, Chandulal was strutting about all decked up—anyone could have said it. The astrologer added, “Your marriage is happening, and this is the end of your sufferings.”

Five or seven days later, Chandulal grabbed the astrologer in the street, clutching his neck. “I’ll throttle you! Give me my half-rupee back! You said my sufferings would end, and I had never known suffering before this! Since this wife arrived, it’s misery twenty-four hours a day—she’s made a rooster of me, has me chewing gravel.” The astrologer said, “Let go, brother—first understand the point. I did say the end of your suffering had come. But which end—the near end or the far end? I didn’t say. Everything has two ends, doesn’t it? If you’d given me another half-rupee, I’d have told you which end it was.”

The astrologer always speaks double; he speaks diplomatically, cleverly—words that can be taken any way.

Once a prince, wandering, arrived at a small village. Coming toward him was the village astrologer, whose face looked just like the prince’s. Teasing him, the prince asked, “So, did your mother once work in our palace?” The astrologer replied, “No, sir—but my father certainly served many years as the doorkeeper of the royal harem.”

An astrologer knows how to turn the conversation, how to change its direction. And everything in life is interconnected, so when you say one thing, remember it is linked to other things; keep those in mind as you speak.

Successful astrologers are those who keep many threads in mind, who consider life’s interconnections, who don’t state a thing flatly. Words are not atomic, separate like molecules; they come in chains, tied by threads within. For instance, if speaking to a politician they’ll say, “Victory is certain—only one obstacle remains.” That leaves them an out: if victory doesn’t come, they can magnify the obstacle and say, “We told you—there was one obstacle.”

One day Nasruddin, flustered, ran to his private doctor. “Doctor, my young son, who has a contagious disease, kissed my young maid—and he says, ‘But Father, you kiss her often!’” The doctor said, “Why be so upset? He’s young after all. Boys will be boys. And he only kissed the maid—why worry?” Nasruddin said, “But Doctor, try to understand—I too often kiss the maid. Can’t I catch the disease?” The doctor said, “Don’t worry, old fellow—maids are kept to be kissed! And a contagious disease—what’s that! And if you do catch something, there’s treatment. What am I here for?” Nasruddin said, “But that’s not where it ends. After kissing the maid, many times I’ve also kissed my wife.” Now the doctor panicked: “Eh? Then has that filthy disease reached me too!”

Life is highly interconnected. One thing here is linked to another there. The clever astrologer, Pandit Krishnadas, is the one who keeps account of all the links, and speaks in such a way that all the connections are covered—so that if the matter turns this way or that, heads he wins, tails he wins.

I won’t say, “Leave astrology.” And to wobble so quickly doesn’t befit you. Many scholars listen to me; many pundits come here—but they remain absolutely unmoved, like stones; they don’t budge. You seem a very simple man. In fact, not fit to be an astrologer—such simplicity, so easily persuaded; not suitable. For this you need great slyness. You need to be a real con artist. If you don’t have that con in you, then brother, better leave it—otherwise you’ll get knocked about everywhere, say the wrong thing, get into trouble.

And it does seem you’re a simple man. You say: “I am an astrologer, but after hearing your views it seems I should leave this wrong and deceptive profession. I seek your blessing.”
I’ll give you my blessing—blessing costs me nothing. You think it through yourself. If the business isn’t running, that’s another matter—then leave it. It even seems it’s not running. This is the work of very sly people; it’s a wrong trade. It’s not a good trade. Good people can’t do it. Only very crafty, devilish types can. You look straightforward.

If the point has truly settled in you, then my blessing—leave it. But think it over first. Don’t hold me responsible. I don’t take anyone’s blame upon myself. I am not responsible for anyone. Whoever walks with me is responsible for himself. For only when your responsibility is yours are you free. And this is my most important declaration: each person should live in his own individuality, in his freedom. If you yourself see it as useless, drop it. Don’t drop it on the basis of what I say, or tomorrow you’ll blame me. If you yourself have seen it, then fine. My blessing is with you.
That’s all for today.