Piya Kokhojan Main Chali #4

Chandrakant Bharati! Those who want to kill me are unknowingly arranging exactly that. It is the easiest way to live for thousands of years. Had Jesus not been crucified, you would not remember him. Had Socrates not been made to drink poison, he would have long been forgotten.

As Socrates was dying, his disciple Crito asked, Master, before you go, tell us by which rites you would like your last obsequies—by the Eastern way? Socrates was certainly interested in Eastern mysticism. Would you prefer the fire-rites, that your body be dissolved in flames? Or would you prefer the Western way—that your body be buried in the earth?

Socrates had already drunk the poison; its effect had begun. Yet he opened his eyes and, with a faltering tongue, replied, Crito, you too are mad. Those who are giving me poison think they are killing me. They think they are my enemies. You think you are my friend. The enemies are thinking how to kill me; the friends are thinking how to bury me! Neither will they be able to kill me, nor will you be able to bury me. When people have forgotten them and have forgotten you, even then I will be alive. And if their names or your name are remembered at all, it will be because of me.

This is indeed true. Today, who remembers the name of Crito? Twenty-five centuries later, this very morning, there was no reason at all to remember Crito’s name. There was nothing else in his life.

Pontius Pilate—who ordered Jesus to be crucified—who remembers that minor governor? How many governors have there been in the world! He was the Roman governor in Jerusalem. Many came before him and many after. No one remembers any other name. Only Pontius Pilate is remembered—even little children know it. Why? Because of the cross on which Jesus was nailed.

In a school, in an art class, the teacher said, Children, I’ve told you the story of Jesus; and anyway, on Sundays you hear it from the preacher often. Try to draw a picture of Jesus.

One child made a very unusual picture. He drew an airplane with four windows, and in each window a face was peering out. The teacher asked, What is this? I don’t understand. I said to draw something related to Jesus.

The child said, It is related to Jesus. You yourself told us that God has three forms. God the Father—this old man peeking from the first window is God. And the second, you said, is the Holy Ghost—this man peeking from the second window is the Holy Ghost. And you also said Jesus is God’s only son. The one peeking from the third window is that only son—Jesus.

The teacher said, That I can understand—but who is the fourth man?

The child said, You can figure that out too. That is Pontius the Pilot.

A small child—he thought, who else would Pontius Pilate be? A pilot is one who flies an airplane—so this is the pilot, Pontius Pilate! Even little children remember. The reason? The crucifixion of Jesus.

Whether those who are arranging to kill me succeed or fail, one result is certain: the inevitable outcome of all their efforts will be that they make me alive for thousands of years. Do not worry in the least about those organizing to kill me; because of them, those who love me will come even closer to me. Those who have loved me will be able to love with an even fuller heart. Whatever small distance might have remained between them and me will also disappear. They will not be able to kill me; they will kill the distance between me and my loved ones.

The arithmetic of life is very strange. Chandrakant, never forget this arithmetic. On the surface one thing appears; within, the results are something else. Now this knife that was thrown at me has filled millions around the world with a unique love for me. So many telegrams have come, so many letters—it’s hard even to answer them—so many phone calls; so many have written, We are ready to die in your place! They could never have imagined such a thing. But that knife did its work. It has brought down the walls between me and many.

There is a wondrous truth about truth: you cannot harm it. Even if you try to harm it, you only benefit it. Falsehood cannot be benefited; even if you try to benefit it, you only harm it. There has never been, is not, and never will be any way to obliterate truth. There has never been, is not, and never will be any way to hide or save untruth. In one way or another, untruth will reveal itself as untruth. And truth—even if you press it down a thousand times—will still rise; it will arise in a thousand forms; push it down here, it will spring up there; suppress it in one place, it will blossom in a thousand.

Therefore, what appears on the surface is not all there is. Do not worry on that account. Love never dies. So many have loved me—how can love die? Everything else dies; love does not.

You say: You are the lord of my nuptial nights. Never give me the sorrow of widowhood.

Even if I wished to, I could not. It is impossible. This bond is eternal. What is happening between you and me is beyond time. What is happening between you and me is not between our bodies, but between our souls. This is a love-betrothal. This is no ordinary nuptial night. Your wish is being fulfilled. Your wish will be fulfilled.

Kailash! It is your good fortune that you let the priest die; it is very difficult, very hard. And an Arya Samaji priest is more wooden-headed than all priests, more fundamentalist, more blind.

In other religions there may have been, at least in the beginning, some flame of light; the Arya Samaj is not a religion at all—there has never been any light in it. Dayananda never had the realization of truth. Dayananda was a great scholar, no doubt about it. This country has produced very few such pundits. He should be counted among the greatest scholars: skillful, brilliant, gifted—but only a scholar, not a man of wisdom, not an enlightened one.

In Buddhism, however much may have died and however many Himalayan heaps of ash may have gathered, still somewhere far away there is the living spark of Buddha. The Parsis may have gone far and wandered through many jungles, yet in their wandering there are still tones of Zarathustra—some buried voice that can be aroused. The ash on the Buddhist can be brushed off and the Buddha within can be awakened. The Parsi can be awakened from his wandering; he may have lost himself in dreams, but within him Zarathustra’s laughter can resound again.

This story about Zarathustra I feel like telling again and again. Zarathustra is the only man on earth, a unique event—no other like him has happened, and perhaps never will. Perhaps it never happened at all—maybe it is only a symbol—but it is very suggestive in relation to Zarathustra. And I love it, because it accords with my vision of life. When Zarathustra was born, he was born laughing. Children are born crying. The first thing Zarathustra did was to let out a peal of laughter. It seems almost impossible. But Zarathustra’s whole life is a fountain of laughter, a celebration, a night full of stars, a garden full of flowers.

Therefore, however far a Parsi may have gone from Zarathustra—and they have gone very far, thousands of years have passed—still he can be drawn back. If Zareen has become curious about me, she has become so by hearing Zarathustra’s voice in my voice. If she has seen Zarathustra within me, that is why she has grown curious.

The same is true of the Jains. However much noise they may have made—and they have made a lot. In twenty-five hundred years, no one has run as many shops as the Jains. Shops, markets, noise—everything completely opposite to Mahavira. Where Mahavira says non-possession of wealth, and yet no one is as possessive of wealth as a Jain. In this country you cannot find a Jain beggar. Is it not a miracle! The Jains are among the most affluent communities in this land, and among the most educated. They are very few, but because they have wealth they are very visible. They are not many—three to three and a half million. In a country of seven hundred million, is three or three and a half million any number? Even in a pot of dal the salt is more than that. And yet the Jains are visible.

If you have money, there is no difficulty in being seen. A thousand poor may pass by—no one notices; who even wants to look! One rich man passes, he is seen, he is counted. Mahavira lived naked, and here is the miracle: most Jains run cloth shops—the cloth market is theirs.

One dear friend of mine has a shop named “Digambar Cloth Shop.” I asked him, Brother, do you know the meaning of Digambar? Digambar means “sky-clad,” naked—whose only garment is the sky. So naked that the sky alone is his clothing. He does not even take a roof between himself and the sky—open heavens! The earth his sheet and the sky his cover—nothing else between the two. Have some shame, I told him: Digambar Cloth Shop! What does “Digambar Cloth Shop” mean? A shop selling clothes for the naked! What will the naked do with clothes? And if the naked buy clothes, how will they remain naked? You should be snatching clothes here; if you see anyone wearing clothes, seize them at once.

He said, What are you talking about?

So I told him, remove something from the sign—either remove Digambar, or remove Cloth Shop and sell something else… sell buckets, because even the naked have to draw water from the well. Sell ropes. Sell something that matches Digambar.

He removed neither Digambar nor Cloth Shop; he did only one thing—he stopped inviting me to his shop. Even if I pass by, he stopped saying Jai Ramji; he turns his face away. Still I stand there. Until he greets me, I do not move. I say, No problem, I will wait here until you say Jai Ramji.

And yet, even though they have gone so far, turned completely opposite… where is Mahavira’s joy, and where are the faces of the Jain monks! Where is Mahavira’s celebrative presence, those eyes full of rasa, and where is the Jain monk’s dry-as-a-stick life in which no sap flows—like a dead stump! If on this soil you want to find stumps, you will not find anyone more stump-like than the Jain monks. Even dry leaves do not grow on them, let alone green ones; leaves do not grow at all. Even their roots seem to have vanished; no current of sap flows in them. Still, even in this noise, if someone tries to listen quietly, Mahavira’s music can be caught. And the same is true of Hindus, Muslims, Christians, Jews.

The Arya Samaj is a unique phenomenon: it is not a religion. It is a social movement. There is nothing of truth in Dayananda. Yes, he was a debater. So if you read Dayananda’s best book, Satyarth Prakash, you will be astonished: I have never seen a book so stinking. Only abuses everywhere. Abuses for everyone. Abuses for all religions. Only the Vedic religion is right, the Vedas are right, and everything else is wrong—the Bible wrong, the Quran wrong, the Talmud wrong, the Jina-sutras wrong, the Dhammapada wrong—everything wrong. No other tirthankara, no other prophet is right—only the Vedas!

And what distortions! Because ninety-nine percent of the Vedas is rubbish. It has to be, because the Vedas are not just religious scripture; they are a compilation of the totality of that time. The Vedas are like the Encyclopaedia Britannica—everything is in them. A collection of that age. Hence Veda-samhita. Whatever knowledge was available then—right or wrong—was gathered there. But the attempt is to prove all of it right. Tricks are devised to extract something or other from everything. Even where nothing can be extracted, “great secrets” are pulled out—by force!

Dayananda gave birth to the greatest pseudo-religion in the world. If you brush aside the ash, you find only ash. I have brushed aside all the ash and looked; that is why I say it, not casually. Because if, on searching, I could find in the Quran words of Muhammad resonant with the voices of Mahavira, Krishna, and Buddha; if I could find anywhere in the Quran a chime of truth, why would I object to the Arya Samaj? If I could find religion in the Guru Granth Sahib, what difficulty would I have with the Arya Samaj? Ramakrishna Paramhansa was Dayananda’s contemporary; if in him I see religion embodied, what quarrel would I have with Dayananda? But what can I do? Even after much searching I could not find a single live ember there. It is all a web of words, a net of logic.

Kailash, it is good that the Arya Samaj priest inside you has died. It was a great disease. You are free of cancer—take it as a cancer of the soul. You are liberated. Whatever price has to be paid is a cheap bargain. If they push you out, then go out singing with joy. Take it as their grace that they pushed you; those shoves will be your certificates. With every shove let gratitude arise within you—this is my hope. They will shove, and shove badly. They will treat you as badly as they can. For when there was no civility in Dayananda, what will there be in his followers!

You say: “I was a priest in the Arya Samaj for nine years.”
Nine years is a long time. And to be a priest means there was nowhere lower left to fall. You were at the bottom of the pit. But you have come out. Miracles do happen! Your coming out is a miracle. Give thanks to the Divine.

You say the priest has died.
Celebrate. Hold gatherings. Give feasts.

You say: “I am taking sannyas on June 5. I had come on twenty-five days’ leave on the pretext of traveling. Now I will go back with the mala on June 10. When they see the mala they will become my enemies.”
Why worry about them? Neither will their friendship give you anything, nor will their enmity take anything away. From whose friendship you got nothing—you lived with them nine years—what can their enmity take? Yes, they will give you a few shoves, they will hurl abuses, refute, slander—in which they are adept. Bear it. Leave quickly. And remember: if one who went astray in the morning returns home by evening, he is not called lost.

The phone rang in an insurance company’s office. A lady said, “I want to get insurance.” The manager said, “We’ll come over right away.” The lady said, “No, do it over the phone.” The manager said, “I can’t do that.” The lady said, “Then let it be—now the house is already on fire.”

You are being saved before your house burns. Thank the Divine. You were not completely dead; something in you was alive—therefore you could hear my call, therefore you could look into my eyes, therefore your heart could vibrate with me, therefore you gave me the chance to play the veena of your heart. You were not completely dead—therefore the priest could die. Had you been totally dead, it would have been difficult to kill the priest. Then this life would have slipped from your hands. You are saved—offer a hundred thousand thanks to the Divine.

You say: “I have already made preparations to leave.”
Whether you do or not, they will throw you out. If you have prepared, good—it will be convenient.

Now you ask: “In such a state, what should I do?”
First, leave. Then allow whatever spontaneous inspiration arises to happen.

The life of my sannyasin is not a programmed life. There is no point in planning in advance. Because here a man does something, decides something, constructs something… but how much is a man’s reach? This vast universe does not run according to us; we have to move according to it. And that is theism: that we move in tune with it. Atheism means: we will make it run according to us. Whoever tries to make it run according to himself will suffer; and whoever moves in harmony with it, his life will be showered with bliss.

First leave. Then whatever is evoked by sannyas, by meditation, by love, by prayer—that will happen. Leave it to the Divine. Whatever He makes you do, let it be done. If you go with some expectation, and if it is not fulfilled, there will be sorrow. Do not keep any expectation. I teach only one thing: a life free of expectation. And then much happens—abundantly. The one who expects, his life is nothing but sorrow and melancholy. Freedom from expectation is sannyas. The sannyasin lives in the moment, lives now, lives here. Who knows about tomorrow! When tomorrow comes, we will see.

First go, first receive the shoves, and relish them. They will call you mad—listen to it all. Those who once touched your feet will be the ones to push you—watch this too. Enjoy this too, this spectacle: those who took you to be wise will say you have gone mad, have become ignorant. As if the wise could become ignorant! As if the wise could become mad! Listen to their bitter words; then you will see their real faces. What you have seen till now is hollow and superficial—plastered and painted. See their real faces. The misconduct they will mete out to you will reveal their true faces. Then whatever happens, let it happen.

A sannyasin should live like a dry leaf flying in the wind.

Bharat Rajguru! Meeting me is a simple, straightforward matter. Remember one small word: sannyas! Sannyas is the bridge. And now, apart from it, there is no other way to meet me. Gradually I will live only for the sannyasins. Now all my time, all my energy, and all my joy will be for those who have the courage to be moths. The flame burns for the moths. I too will burn only for them.

When the judge asked the religious teacher Matkanath, “If you lie, where will you go?” he replied, “Child, straight to hell.” The judge was very impressed. He asked a second question, “And if you tell the truth, where will you go?” The brahmachari, in a disappointed tone, answered with a single word: “Jail.”

I too answer you with a single word—sannyas. Gather that much courage. Without courage nothing is possible.

People want cheap, bargain‑basement change; they want revolution! That nothing should be required, nothing to do, and yet revolution should happen, nectar should shower. People think it’s enough just to pray—and what prayers? Two‑penny prayers—at bedtime, half asleep and half aware, they parrot memorized words and doze off. In the morning they repeat the same words like parrots again. There is no meaning left in them; repeated so often they have become mechanical. And they expect revolutions to happen, life to change, liberation to be attained, nirvana to descend!

You are lost in fantasies. Wake up from the futile web of imagination.

Sannyas is courage—the courage to wake from sleep, to break your dreams. And truth descends only when all your dreams are shattered.

Yog Sushila! The moment a man becomes a husband he is no longer simply a man; the moment a woman becomes a wife she is no longer simply a woman. Both lose something. Both lose their freedom. And that is the very life-breath of life, the very soul. Naturally, the woman’s freedom is lost even more. This society has been created by men; its conduct, its way of life, its moral codes have been laid down by men. So men have used two measures—one for themselves and another for women. Naturally, the owner, the one who holds the power—the one with the stick owns the buffalo, as we say—in other words, might makes right. So he has arranged conveniences for himself, all kinds of conveniences. He has kept some doors of freedom open for himself and shut all the doors for women.

The result is that a woman’s soul gets so trampled that she becomes furious, resentful—of course she will—so humiliated that she begins to burn with the fire of revenge. From that humiliation she keeps taking revenge upon the husband twenty-four hours a day. The moment she becomes a wife, she starts taking revenge.

Naturally, her ways of taking revenge are feminine, so they do not show clearly. Her ways of revenge are Gandhian. Women have always been Gandhian. Whatever philosophy of life Gandhi gave is nothing but the distilled essence of centuries of women’s experience.

Gandhi himself was a very weak man, extremely weak, timid. When he was going to England for the first time to study, he made friends with two men on the ship. When the ship stopped at Cairo, those two friends said, “Come on, what will you do sitting here? The ship will be here two or three days. We’ll take you to a prostitute. Ever tasted a woman?”

Gandhi said, “No.”

And before he left home, his mother had made him swear to keep his loincloth tied tight—to practice strict brahmacharya, celibacy—and not to eat meat. Just two vows: celibacy and vegetarianism.

But he was such a weak man that he could not even say, “I won’t go.” It did not require any great courage. If you don’t want to go to a prostitute, just say you don’t want to go. But he thought, “What will they think—what kind of eunuch is this?” Everyone was going to the prostitutes, the whole ship was emptying out. When ships halt for long, brothels spring up there; where soldiers camp for long, brothels spring up there. “If I alone don’t go, people will laugh, they’ll make fun, they’ll mock me.” He didn’t want to go—his mother had forbidden it—but how to refuse! He didn’t even have the courage to refuse. So he went along.

They went into a brothel and even chose a woman for him. Seeing that he was an odd sort, they shoved him into her room and latched the door from outside.

What Gandhi went through inside, he has written in his autobiography: “I couldn’t figure out what to do now! I remembered my mother and the vow she made me take. And even aside from the vow, I had no acquaintance with women—what to do, where to even begin a conversation.” So he sat with eyes downcast on the edge of the prostitute’s bed.

The prostitute got nervous—she had seen many men—“What has happened to this poor fellow?” She nudged him to see if he was alive. She asked him to please say something. But he wouldn’t speak. A staunch Gujarati brother—he would not speak. He would not even raise his eyes. To look at another man’s woman is sin! He could have plainly said, “Sister, I didn’t want to come; they forced me.” That’s all he needed to say. But even for that he couldn’t open his mouth; his throat went dry, no voice came, he was tongue-tied. The woman herself began to weep. “Now what should I do?” She felt so sorry for him: “How can I serve you? How can I please you?” And he was sweating profusely. She wiped his sweat with a towel.

An hour later, when he came out and walked back toward the ship with his friends, the friends began telling him what all they had done. They asked Gandhi what had happened. Poor fellow—what could he say! He kept it hidden. Later, years later, he wrote in his autobiography that nothing happened—nothing could have happened; he just sat there with eyes lowered.

The woman took so much pity on him that she even returned his money. “Brother, take your money back. If the loss of the money grieves you, then at least take it back. And if you need anything, say so.” She felt such compassion: “What kind of man is this!”

The ways women have always used in their behavior, rebellion, revenge—those are precisely what Gandhi used. He gave them sweet names—ahimsa, nonviolence; satyagraha, the force of truth. If a man gets angry, he will beat the woman; if a woman gets angry, she beats herself. That is satyagraha—beating oneself. If a man is enraged, he splits a woman’s head; if a woman is enraged, she pulls her own hair, bangs her own head against the wall. The expressions differ, but the thing is the same: both are angry. If a man is angry, he hurls abuses; if a woman is angry, she weeps. But in her weeping are abuses. That is her way of abusing.

I have great respect for women. I have great respect for men too. But I have no respect for husbands, and no respect for wives. I want a world where there are men and women, lovers and beloveds. Those whose harmony fits for a whole lifetime may live together a whole lifetime; those whose harmony fits for many lives may live together for many lives—I have no objection to that. But let them live together only for love, not because of any law, not because of compulsion, not because of any social bondage, not because of any imposition. Because where there is imposition, where there is bondage, love starts dying; in the place of love, anger enters.

So Sushila, you have felt rightly that whenever I speak of women, it is with respect and appreciation. In my heart, I have even more respect for women than for men, because they have been so insulted; that insult needs to be remedied. And men have done the insulting—centuries of it—from Manu till today, only insult upon insult, poison upon poison has been poured down a woman’s throat.

And it has been done in such a way that the insulting notions men taught women are repeated by the women themselves! They have forgotten that these things are insulting, that they should not repeat them. These scriptures are insulting. And they go to listen to the very “mahatmas” who preach them! In fact, the crowds around the mahatmas are made up of women. Men have no real interest in mahatmas. Men have a thousand other interests. If they have to go to a mahatma, it is only because of a woman. Either they go because of their own wife—she will create even more trouble if they don’t go. In this one matter she can put the man down: she is more religious than you, you are less religious. She goes to the temple more, reads scripture more, attends more satsang—you don’t. You have no time away from your cards, chessboard, club. You are wasting your life. This is one opportunity where the woman can pin the man down.

So either he goes to hear the mahatma out of fear of his wife. He doesn’t fancy any of it, nothing goes in, but he sits there out of fear. Or he reaches there for the other women—he’ll elbow somebody in the crowd, tug at someone’s pallav, pinch someone—something or other he’ll do, whatever opportunity arises. And where will he get a better opportunity than in a religious assembly! But men have nothing to do with mahatmas.

And what do these mahatmas do but abuse women? They call them the gates of hell. And the women nod their heads! “Absolutely right, Swamiji.” When a boy is born, drums are beaten; when a girl is born, gloom descends. What madness! And if men beat drums at the birth of a boy, fine—but women too rejoice when a boy is born, they sing songs; and if a girl is born, it is the women who go into mourning!

Women don’t even notice this; they have forgotten—centuries of conditioning have spoiled their very samskaras—so they are themselves against women, enemies of women. With boys they behave one way, with girls another—women themselves! At least they should treat the girl kindly. If a boy misbehaves, they say, “Boys will be boys.” The girl cannot be forgiven. Mothers come down on daughters with everything they have. Boys get every freedom.

To compensate for the injustice of centuries, I honor women more than men. They have now become entitled to honor. They have endured so much insult; they should be given that much extra honor so that, today or tomorrow, a kind of equality can arise. Ultimately, both are equal.

But the very idea of being a wife is wrong. To be a wife means you have accepted slavery. To be a husband is wrong.

When I had just come out of the university, naturally many fathers were keen to have their daughters married to me. They hoped that since I had come first in the university my future would be bright. They didn’t know my future was utterly dark. A doctor brought his daughter to me. He said, “At least look at my girl, talk to her.” The girl was beautiful. I said, “She is beautiful. If she wants to live with me, I have no objection.” He said, “What do you mean?” I said, “I mean that if anyone wants to live with me, I have no objection. I will render whatever service I can, and she will render what she can.” He said, “What about marriage?” I said, “Marriage is not possible. What is the need of marriage? As long as it works, it works; when it doesn’t, then Jai Jairaamji—goodbye.” He said, “What kind of talk is this? Come to your senses. Are you joking?”

I said, “I am not joking. I cannot insult any woman so much as to make her a wife. And I cannot insult myself so much as to become a husband. ‘Husband’ means ‘master.’”

But our habits are spoiled. We even call the head of state the Rashtra-pati—the “husband of the nation.” Our habits are such that we don’t even feel ashamed saying Rashtra-pati. Just imagine a woman becoming the head of state—would you call her Rashtra-patni, the “wife of the nation”? Instantly it would grate. That woman would not agree either. She would say, “What does that even mean—wife of the nation? That would be worse than a prostitute. Even a prostitute is only the ‘bride of the town’—nagar-vadhū—just of a single town. The wife of the entire nation, of seven hundred million people? Never.” But these blockheads who sit as Rashtra-pati never say, “We won’t be called Rashtra-pati; the word is indecorous.” Out of seven hundred million, three hundred fifty million are women. The husband of three hundred fifty million women and the husband of three hundred fifty million men—that’s the limit!

But we never even think about the word pati; we accept it. We have even forgotten its meaning—that it means “lord, master.” Don’t you call a landlord bhūmipati? Don’t you call a king bhūpati? Pati means lord, owner. And the woman is property; patnī means property! We have terms like strī-sampatti—female property. When a father marries off his daughter, he performs kanyādān—he “gives the maiden away.” She’s not a person but a thing to be donated. No one performs putra-dān—“donation of a son”—only kanyādān! These vulgar words!

So I told him I had no objection. If she wished to live with me, the place where I was staying had plenty of room—she could live there. If you wish to live there, you can live there too. He said, “What mad, rambling talk is this!”

“I am not rambling,” I said, “but I cannot insult anyone. Think it over—both of you. If you decide after thinking, come back; otherwise I have no insistence.”

Countless people said such things to me; I said the same “rambling” things to all of them. They never returned. Gradually, they dropped all hope that this man is worth hoping about.

I cannot honor any woman in the role of a wife, nor any man as a husband. So Sushila, it must seem to you—what is this, that I honor women and make as much fun of wives as I can? But there is a reason.

I once asked Mulla Nasruddin, “Why do you take only married men in your office?” Mulla said, “Because no matter how much you scold the married ones, they tolerate it; they are used to being scolded. Bachelors are inexperienced.”

One day Chandulal’s wife said to him, “How can you say that the number thirteen is unlucky for you?”

Chandulal said, “Now don’t start a quarrel, please. Don’t begin a fight first thing in the morning. If you start raising a ruckus in the morning, the whole day will be ruined.”

The wife said, “What ruckus? I am asking you a simple question: why do you consider thirteen unlucky for you?”

Chandulal said, “If you must know, then listen—because exactly thirteen years ago, on the thirteenth, I married you.”

There is no event more inauspicious than marriage. That is why all the relatives, friends, acquaintances come to extend “auspicious wishes”: “Brother, you are going—may God protect you!” If you won’t heed, then as you wish. They say, don’t they: a friend is one who stands by you in sorrow and in joy—especially in sorrow. That’s why friends come at the time of marriage.

Mulla Nasruddin was getting married. The day before, Chandulal met him on the road, hugged him tight, kissed him, and said, “Nasruddin, today is a most fortunate day in your life.”

Nasruddin said, “But I’m not getting married today—tomorrow.”

Chandulal said, “That’s exactly why I’m saying it—consider today your last free day. From tomorrow it’s nothing but trouble upon trouble. So I thank you today: it’s your last day—celebrate! Come, I’ll give you breakfast, buy you a drink, take you to the cinema. Whatever you say, I’m ready today. After tomorrow, you won’t even be your own master—what you eat, what you drink, where you get up, where you sit—your wife will arrange all of it. That’s why I say today is the most fortunate day of your life.”

One day Mulla Nasruddin said to his wife, Guljaan, “At the wedding you promised to honor me, love me, and serve me. What has happened to you now that you always behave like a witch?”

Guljaan said, “You fool, do you have no sense at all? Was I to argue with you in front of all those people? That wretched mulla was saying, ‘She will love, she will serve, she will always honor her husband’—was I to refuse right there? Create a scene before so many people? In private the truth will show itself. In that crowd I said yes to everything.”

A skinny fellow was marrying a fat woman. When the priest asked, “Do you, before God, take this woman?” he said, “I’m not taking anything—I’m being taken. Just understand I can’t run away, that’s all.”

A father asked a young man, “Will you marry my daughter?”

The young man said, “Do I still have a choice? Do I have an option? Am I free to decide whether I will or not?”

The loss of freedom begins much earlier. The nooses start going around each other’s necks. Do you know what the word pashu (beast) comes from? From pasha—noose. Pashu means one who is bound, caught in a noose. A wild animal should not be called pashu. Call it an animal, that’s right—pashu is not right linguistically, because it is not bound. The buffalo tied in your yard is a pashu. But the wild buffalo is not a pashu. But what will you call husband and wife? Pashu! You cannot even call them jaanvar—creatures with life—because the life has long since gone out. What “creature with life” will you call them now! Only pashu remain—nooses around each other’s necks, tightening one another, yoked to one another.

That is why I make fun of them.

Seeing Chandulal dejected one day, Nasruddin asked, “What’s the matter, brother, why the long face?”

Chandulal, on the verge of tears, said, “What shall I tell you, friend—my wife took everything from me and divorced me.”

Nasruddin said, “You lucky fellow, Chandulal! My wife took everything from me and didn’t even divorce me.”

Nasruddin’s seventh wife, Guljaan, also died suddenly of heart failure one night. Gulabo said to Chandulal, “Go on then—aren’t you going to the funeral of your friend’s wife?”

Chandulal, flaring up, said loudly, “This is the limit of friendship! I went to his place six times, that rascal never came even once to mine. Why should I go? I’m not going now either.”

And as an example, look at this very question, Sushila—

Now this wife will go home and set him right! This Shanta-behn can become “Ashanta”-behn (un-peaceful sister) any moment. She will say, “Weren’t you ashamed to say, ‘You are the master of my nuptial nights’—then who am I?”

Did you see Shantaben’s question? Every single word is worth thinking about. She says, “My husband is your sannyasin; I have no objection.” There is an objection—otherwise there would have been no need to write it. Often what we say is the very opposite of what is actually the case.

When I was in matriculation, a new teacher arrived—Mr. Nigam, to teach science. He looked timid, utterly meek, but from the very first day he tried to throw his weight around. He’d been warned my class was full of rascals. He must have been advised, “Establish your authority on the first day; if you fail then, you’ll never manage.” So he came in making a big racket, shouting at the top of his voice: “I’m not afraid of anyone! I’m not afraid of any of you. Why would I be afraid of you? I’m not even afraid of ghosts!”

I asked him, “We’re not talking about ghosts. Are you here to teach chemistry or demonology? And who told you we want you to be afraid of us? Why are you going on about not being afraid? You must be afraid.”

He said, “I am not afraid.” I said, “You are afraid.” He began trembling, insisting, “I’m not!” When my classmates saw him start to shake, they all joined me, shouting, “You are afraid!” He got so flustered he fainted. That was the end of his first day. We had to fan him, sprinkle water on him. When he came to, we told him, “Now don’t talk like that again.”

He said, “What kind of students are these? What kind of class is this? All of them just stood up and yelled that I’m afraid—you’ve taken the roof off the school!”

The whole school heard. Teachers came running, peons came running, the headmaster came running. “What happened?” they asked. I said, “Nothing. He started it. We weren’t saying anything; we were quietly sitting, trying to see what kind of man he is and how to relate to him.”

But as soon as he saw the headmaster and teachers, he puffed himself up again: “I’m telling you, I am not afraid. I have epilepsy. It’s an old illness.”

I said, “This isn’t epilepsy. In epilepsy there’s foam at the mouth; there was no foam at yours. Next time you faint, bring along some foam!”

But he wouldn’t agree. So I said, “Fine.” The watchman at the Muslim graveyard was my friend, a loincloth buddy—we exercised in the same akhara. I asked him, “Brother, give me a skull.” He said, “What will you do with a skull?” I said, “A teacher has arrived who says he isn’t afraid of ghosts. I want to show him some ghosts.” He said, “I’ll give you one.” We dug up a grave and brought back a skull.

We cleaned it up. The house he had rented was big—small town, five rupees a month gets you a palace. I climbed onto the roof, slid a tile aside, bored a hole in the skull, tied a rope, and hung it down. Four or six boys hid nearby. They made a high-pitched hee-hee hee-hee sound—the way ghosts laugh.

He was lying on his bed. His eyes opened. He saw the skull descending and heard the hee-hee, and his voice choked. He began a guttural “Hoo-hoo, hoo-hoo...”

Since then I understood the “hoo-hoo” meditation. I learned it from that very Mr. Nigam! He left the school, but he gifted me that meditation. Once he got stuck in hoo-hoo, we pulled the skull back up, rattled his own skull a bit, and ran. The neighbors opened the door; we slipped back in too. We tried to explain, shook him, but his hoo-hoo wouldn’t stop. When he saw us he asked, “What happened?” and then said, “It’s nothing. This happens to me sometimes—I must have had a nightmare.”

But the story spread through the town. Next day when he reached school there was a skull on his desk, and on its forehead was written: HOO-HOO. He resigned on the spot and left. I never heard of him again. I kept searching. I roamed the whole country. Wherever I went I asked, “Is there a Mr. Nigam teaching chemistry here? I must meet him once and thank him—for what a tremendous hoo-hoo it was! It impressed me so deeply that now I have thousands of people doing hoo-hoo. Hoo-hoo drives ghosts away!”

You say, Shantaben: “I have no objection.” You do, sister—strong objection. But I know your husband; even if you object, he won’t budge. He too is a siddha-purush. And there’s no point in objecting; it will only create a mess. So you are not objecting—but the objection is there. And besides, how to say such things in front of so many people? Objections are private matters, to be discussed in private.

You say: “He even takes me along to your talks, kirtans, meditations, camps, and to Poona.” He must have to take you. Many wives say, “Take me along—there are so many women there, who knows! And there is such freedom—no restrictions. Who knows whose neck you might throw your arm around, whose hand you might hold! I’ll keep an eye on you!” You say, “He brings me,” but the truth is—he has to bring you.

And you say: “I haven’t taken your sannyas yet.” If you had really been coming here and truly listening, participating in the meditation camps, how could you have avoided sannyas? To come here and leave without getting soaked? No—here you must be keeping an eye on Chandrakant: “What is he doing? Where is he looking? Is he bumping into someone? Is he making friends? Is there some conversation with the eyes going on?” You are occupied with other business here.

You say, “But my only complaint is...” As if it were small! This is not small—it is the biggest complaint.

“That he doesn’t go to the movies.” A person who meditates—why would he go to the movies? For what? People go to the movies who are unhappy, empty. Their lives have nothing in them. They waste two hours to forget themselves. It’s a play of light and shadow on a screen. And it ruins the eyes.

I haven’t gone in thirty years, so I don’t know the current state. Thirty years ago some friends said, “Come along, just once,” so I went. They watched the film; I slept. When we came out they asked, “What do you think?” I said, “Very refreshing film.” “Meaning?” “I had a deep sleep and feel completely fresh. And I won’t come again, because I can sleep at home. Why sleep here where you don’t know who has sat on these seats—some TB patient, some cancer patient, someone coughing, hacking, spitting, someone smoking bidis—every kind of riffraff gathered, the air fouled with smoke, betel-juice stains on the walls. Never again. I’ve seen this hell once—enough.”

“Hell? What are you saying! People pay to go there.” That’s the amazement—there’s no limit to human stupidity. People pay money to do such foolish things that if they even thought once... The same time in fresh air... Your husband Chandrakant has more sense. The joy of looking at the open sky, the delight of watching a star-studded night; clouds sailing across the sky—meditate on those floating clouds; sunrise or sunset—such magic! To leave all that and sit in a filthy box... First stand in line, get jostled about, be abused, somehow get a ticket, go inside where even breathing is difficult, breathe in filth, and then ruin your eyes. What is the essence? And what is there in the story? Whatever life has already shown you, what new film will show you? The same stories are playing all around you anyway. Those very stories are repeated on the screen. The same triangle—two women and a man, or two men and a woman. How much is there to it? And then the game is over. The whole story is that much: the same old Ramleela—Rama, Ravana, and Mother Sita. The same old love triangle—dress it up however you like.

Only fools gather there. The moment a little awareness dawns, you’ll see there’s immense beauty in this world worth seeing—sit on the seashore, listen to the roar of waves crashing on the sand. If money is overflowing from your pocket and won’t fit, go to the mountains; go into the forests—where God can still be experienced, because man hasn’t destroyed everything yet. In cities it is becoming difficult to find God—cement roads were not made by God, nor the skyscrapers, nor the huge factories. Where there is not a single thing made by God—like Bombay or New York—you may try as hard as you like, no evidence of God is found.

You’ll be surprised to know: a survey in London of small children showed a million children had never seen a cow! Something will be missing in their lives. Seven hundred thousand had never seen fields—green fields stretching to the horizon! Some greenness will be missing from their lives. They sit in front of the television.

In the West they have given television its right name: the idiot box. Sit five or six hours a day before a box and you will become an idiot—what will be left in you? People are glued to chairs as if stuck with paste—can’t get up. And what are they watching? And nothing harms the eyes as much as TV. TV is producing cancer of the eyes. Where TV arrives, the cinema becomes obsolete; then you watch TV—why go so far? Sit at home, sip tea, drag on a cigarette, watch TV—and ruin your eyes, and produce eye cancer.

You ask that your only complaint is that he doesn’t go to the movies. It isn’t a small complaint, Shantaben—it is big! It is saying he has stopped being a fool.

And you say, “He doesn’t go out with me either.” Should he go within himself, or go out with you? And where will you take him? “Let’s go to the market.” People go “out” shopping and call it an outing! You won’t take him to the forest. What’s in the forest? Once upon a time there was celebration in the jungle; now not. Now “mangal” is only the Tuesday bazaar! And poor Chandrakant is scared to go out with you. A meditator cannot make a lot of money. He hasn’t chased wealth madly. I have seen his shop. Customers don’t appear there. When I went, I was there half an hour—no customer came. And if you take a customer like me to a shop, you’ll only incur loss—I had to be given something as a gift!

What does your “outing” mean? “I want to buy this sari.” This sari will have to be bought. Why should a meditator get entangled in the mess of saris? He is waiting for you to drop the sari obsession and wear ochre. The moment you wear ochre, the sari nuisance ends.

Many women can’t take sannyas only because of saris. There is no other obstacle—no karmic hindrance, no fate in the way. Women ask me, “Is sannyas not in my destiny?” I say, “Don’t talk nonsense. You just have too many saris at home—nothing else.” Distribute the saris and tomorrow you’ll take sannyas. Then they say, “That’s true. The real thing is we can’t let go of the saris.”

Even when they take sannyas, they ask me, “If the sari has a border, is that okay? If the border is a different color, is there any harm? If there’s a little vine pattern, will it do?” What tricks they try—little patterns, little borders! Through the back door they’ll bring everything back.

He is afraid to go out with you. And where to go? He has lived with you all his life—now please, you go and give him a little solitude. He must be saying, “Sister, go wherever you wish—leave me alone for a while.” But husbands and wives never leave each other alone. They are afraid. They have to keep an eye on each other. How can they leave each other alone? So, “Come along!”

You say, “He sits quietly at home.” What else should he do—talk to himself? Babble to the walls? And what would be left to say to you? Whatever had to be said, he said before the marriage—otherwise how would the marriage have happened? Once married, the talking stops. Then you talk and he has to listen. So when he gets the chance, he sits quietly. It seems to you he is sitting silently; he is meditating.

One woman said to another, “Whatever else, my husband got into Rajneesh, and one benefit at least—earlier he used to sit silently; now at least he meditates!” It’s the same thing—earlier he sat quietly, now he meditates. Meditation simply means this: sit in silence. Meditation is silence, is stillness.

And you say, “He keeps staring at the open sky. He has no interest in conversation.” What is there in conversation? About what—“The neighbor’s wife ran away with someone; the neighbor’s son got such-and-such marks; the neighbor bought a new car; the neighbor’s wife is having fun with the driver”—what to talk about?

And you have an even greater objection: “What is the point of spending so much time absorbed in your words?” Since you’re asking me openly, I can imagine what you do to him!

“I am his wife too—let him listen to me a little!” He has listened enough, sister. Shantaben, now be peaceful.

Chandulal said to his mother-in-law, “You told me your daughter is strictly vegetarian!” The mother-in-law said, “Absolutely.” Chandulal said, “Then how is it she chews my head for hours—how is she vegetarian?”

Now leave poor Chandrakant Bharati alone. Don’t eat his head. If anything of his brain is left, let it be. Anyway the chance that much is left is small.

Nasruddin had invited Chandulal to dinner. While cooking, the wife was exasperated—there were no groceries in the house, and that scoundrel Nasruddin had invited a friend precisely then. When she saw the sugar tin was empty, she shouted, “Listen, the sugar has finished. Tell me—what shall I put in the kheer now?” Nasruddin, engrossed in his newspaper, flared up: “This is the limit! Let me read in peace for once. Put my brain in the kheer! At least on a holiday let me have some peace.”

The poor wife fell silent. A little later Nasruddin felt like tea. Still sitting in his chair he called, “Listen, make me a cup of tea.” Guljaan said, “I’ve told you a thousand times—the sugar is finished.” Nasruddin boiled over again: “I told you, if there’s no sugar, put my brain in—why are you chewing my head?” Guljaan said, “How can I put your brain in the tea? I already put it in the kheer.”

I don’t think much of Chandrakant’s brain is left for you to chew; whatever remains, leave it as an offering for God. You go wherever you wish; watch movies if you like; roam if you like. Don’t put a rope around your husband’s neck and drag him from place to place. If you want to come here, come; if you have a taste for me, come. It doesn’t seem you do—otherwise you wouldn’t say, “What is the point of being absorbed in your words?” Don’t tail him here just to spy.

No wife trusts her husband, and no husband trusts his wife. They keep spying on each other. What kind of love is this? What’s going on in the name of love! Wake up from this deception. Give each other freedom. Love gives freedom. Love gives ultimate freedom.

Sardar Balveer Singh! O Sardarji, it is not possible that you have seen my face somewhere else. That is certainly your Sardari imagination. Because as far as I remember—though my memory is very weak—still, in this matter I am quite sure: for the past forty-nine years my face has been enthroned on my own neck; you could not have seen it anywhere else.

Sardar Balbir Singh! Sat Sri Akal! It comes out at night as well, sir, but because of the darkness it cannot be seen.

Sardar Balveer Singh! No, brother—today is the first time. Hail the Guru’s victory! Hail the Guru’s Khalsa! Now that you’ve arrived, the fun has begun. You went crazy, and I too have gone crazy about you.

Ganeshi Lal! No one is complete in this world—so drop that illusion. And a complete glutton is a very difficult thing, almost impossible.

The Choubeys of Mathura—the temple priests there—are famous for being great gluttons. Once they had a community feast, and a crowd of boys gathered to watch. The feast was held in a walled courtyard. When it ended, one Choubey came out, stroking his protruding belly. The boys clapped and said, “Here comes the eater Choubey!” The Choubey said very softly, “You haven’t seen anything yet—the eater is coming behind.” The boys waited eagerly. Then another Choubey came out, his hands resting on the shoulders of two servants. The boys clapped, “Here comes the eater Choubey!” He said with great disdain, “The eater is coming behind.” The boys were puzzled—who could be an even bigger glutton? Just then a third Choubey appeared, loaded on an ox-cart. “Here is the real glutton!” the boys clapped again. But a voice came from atop the cart, “The real glutton is coming behind.” And then from inside they carried out the bier of a Choubey, chanting, “Rama’s name is truth!”

That is what you call a perfect glutton. If you were that, you wouldn’t have made it this far. You must be a small-time glutton—so what’s the problem! Your name is Ganeshi Lal; at least a little of it is to be expected—Ganesha does have a belly, after all. You don’t have a trunk—isn’t that enough! And look at Ganesha: whenever he sits, he has a sweet in his hand. Some say it’s a motichoor laddu, some say an egg. Who knows what the secret is—but whatever it is, it’s something to eat. He sits holding it in his hand twenty-four hours a day. Why worry!

Remember just one thing, which I say continually: always go to the root of problems. Don’t fuss about the symptoms, the surface signs; don’t brood over them. If you eat a lot, it means inside you are very unhappy. Cut the sorrow, and eating will leave on its own. People try to eat less by force. For eight or ten days, fifteen days, you can force yourself to eat less. Then suddenly you’ll break and take revenge double. Don’t you see? During the Jains’ ten-day Paryushan, they reduce their food a little, and the price of vegetables in the market falls. And after ten days they fall upon food in such a way that whatever little weight they lost in those ten days, they regain double within five to seven days.

This is what keeps happening with people who overeat. Harassed by it—because if you eat too much the body becomes heavy, you have to drag it along. Unnecessary baggage! Like a man forever carrying his bedding on his shoulder for no reason. And if the bedding were outside, you could put it down; but this bedding is inside, you can’t put it down.

A miserable person eats more. My concern is not with your food, but with your sorrow. And there is only one way to cut your sorrow—meditation. In truth there is only one cure for all illnesses—meditation. If meditation happens, all diseases are cut. Meditation is an elixir.

Don’t bring me little ailments. And whatever ailment you bring, it makes no difference; I have a single panacea. I will say—meditate. You say, “I am troubled by greed, by anger, by sex,” I will say—meditate. Whatever your trouble, whether you say it or not, if you are troubled you need meditation. The surface reason—what it is—is secondary. Inside there is one cause: there is no joy within you. Meditation will make the flower of bliss bloom within.

And Ganeshi Lal, when the flower of bliss blooms within—when you are filled with joy, filled to the brim—then on its own your eating will lessen, greed will lessen, anger will lessen, sex will lessen—these things all wither away by themselves. Just as when a lamp is lit in the house, the darkness departs.

Buddha has said: In the house where a lamp is lit, thieves do not enter. In the same way, in the house where the lamp of meditation is lit, no disease can enter. These are all diseases. These are the real diseases. The body’s diseases are not much; the physician treats those. I too am a physician, but I am a physician of the soul’s diseases.

Do not go by the symptoms; always cut at the root. And there is only one axe to cut the root—meditation.

Zen master Rinzai was sitting on the riverbank. A man asked him, “Tell me briefly: what is the essence of your teaching?” He sat silently, saying nothing. The man said, “Did you not hear? Are you deaf? Do you hear only if one shouts?” He shouted this time, “I asked: what is the brief essence of your teachings? Tell me in few words.” Rinzai said, “I told you, but you didn’t understand. I sat silently—that is the essence of my teaching. Sit silently.” The man said, “Don’t make it that brief—explain a little.” So Rinzai wrote in the sand with his finger: “Meditation.” The man said, “Is that any elaboration! It’s the same thing.” Rinzai said, “What can I do? However you taste the ocean, it will taste salty.” The man said, “A little more—clarify it for me, put more light on it.” Then Rinzai wrote in big letters: “MEDITATION.” The man said, “Are you mad? I’m asking you to clarify!” Rinzai stood up and with his foot wrote in the sand in huge letters: “MEDITATION.” And he said, “Beyond this I cannot go.”

Meditation is the master key. If meditation is found, all wealth is found—the kingdom of God is attained. If meditation is not found, then whatever you gain is futile.

That’s all for today.