Piya Kokhojan Main Chali #6

Swami Gyan Nirmal, also known as Fali Bhai—about the fruit I am speaking of, not speaking is precisely right. Kabir has said: “Heera paayo, ganth gathiyaayo—why keep opening the bundle again and again?” When you have found the diamond, tie it into your knot; there is no need to keep opening it—neither to keep looking at it nor to show it off; there is no point in its display either.

It is right to fall silent. It is right to smile in bliss. Don’t say anything—because even if words want to tell that rasa, they cannot. Even if language wants to express it, it never has and never will. It is a secret that remains a secret. Its resonance is in the heart; every fiber begins to hum; its sound vibrates through body, mind, and life-breath. Grace will be felt; the sense of benediction will arise; there will be joy; tears may flow, a dance may happen—but there is nothing to be said.

That is the nectar-fruit. That is the fruit that ripens on the tree of meditation. I was only joking that Fali Bhai fell silent—sitting quietly and smiling. Sita Ma was the one who spoke. And what can Sita Ma really say by speaking? That too is only the feeling of grace. Words stagger. Sita is elderly. She would never have written poems in her life; never even imagined it. Now, when nothing else comes, she brings poems. Alongside she writes that she knows nothing of poetry; she is not educated; but what to do—something inside arises with such force that it wants to burst forth and finds no way.

Speak or stay silent—both are the same. The feeling of grace is the essential thing. And about such fruits, it is better not to talk, because it arouses greed in many. Even Sant Maharaj felt greed! He’s young—and not an ordinary young man either, a Punjabi young man—and it’s not as if there’s some beat-up Ambassador in his garage; it’s a 1980 Mercedes model. Still, greed arose.

Chandulal’s son, Jhummanlal, went to Germany. There he learned that scientists had discovered a pill which, when swallowed, makes one young. He thought, “Father Chandulal has grown old, Mother too; I’ll buy two pills for them.” The pills were very expensive—and Jhummanlal is, after all, Chandulal the Marwari’s son—so he bought only two, sent them at once, and wrote, “Father, you take one, give one to Mother—both of you will become young.”

A month later, when Jhummanlal returned and got off the plane, he was shocked to see that his mother looked just as old as before—perhaps older—completely worn out; and, to his greater surprise, she was rocking a tiny crying baby, soothing and consoling it. He asked, “Hey, where did this little child come from? Whose baby is this?”

Chandulal’s wife, Jhummanlal’s mother, said, “You fool, this is no baby—this is your revered father, Seth Chandulal Marwari!”

He asked, “How did this happen?”

She said, “Greed! He ate both pills—never gave me mine. If he had taken one, he would have become young; he swallowed both, and this is the result. For a month he has been crying and wailing, and at this old age I’m the one caring for this infant—my misery has only increased. What kind of pills did you send! Touch his feet, son—this is no baby, this is your own doing.”

Just such greed arose in Sant Maharaj. Sant Maharaj, even if you come to know of that fruit, do not eat it—otherwise this is what will happen. And you know I don’t allow little children into the ashram. Your watchman’s post will be gone, and you’ll be sent to school again to learn your ABCs. Shout as much as you like, “I am a saint!”—no one will listen.

I was only joking, Fali Bhai. But truly, falling silent is the right thing.

One of the West’s great philosophers, Wittgenstein, wrote in his astonishing book—this century’s most astonishing—Tractatus: “Whereof one cannot speak, thereof one must be silent.” About that which cannot be said, don’t, by mistake, say anything either. Because whatever you say will be wrong; whatever you say will spread misunderstandings; whatever you say will cause harm. Say only what can be said; remain silent about what cannot. Those who can understand will understand your silence; those who cannot will be driven into deeper confusions by your words.

Therefore the real thing is never said. I, too, am not saying it. What I am saying to you is only to take you to that place where you can understand my silence. I am busy preparing for silence. If you are ready, I will become silent. It’s only a matter of your readiness. If you all become like Fali Bhai, I will fall silent.

Speaking is painful for me—you have no idea. You cannot imagine it. After remaining in utter silence for twenty-four hours, to return every morning from that depth back into words—there is nothing more difficult. To fly in the sky and then to have to crawl on the ground—how hard it must be for a bird to be dragged along the earth! Throw a fish, who swims in the ocean, onto the sand—how distressed it becomes; so is my distress.

I am finished with words; but I speak for your sake. And the whole purpose of my speaking is only this—not that I think you will know truth through it—but simply that perhaps you will agree to silence, agree to meditation. It is only a device to coax you toward meditation.

So whatever you ask—whether of the north or the south, this ailment or that—I try to bring you, as quickly as possible, to meditation. I have no curiosity about ailments.

There is only one remedy in life: to be free of the chitta, the mind-stuff. The chitta is filled with words; therefore, by words you cannot be freed from it. To be free of chitta, you must be free of words. That is why I say again and again: be free of scriptures. However lovely the words in the scriptures, they are only words—and you have to go into the wordless, into the Great Void.

All scriptures are obstacles. My words are obstacles too. If you cling to them, they will become a hindrance. They are not for clinging; they are pointers saying, “Further on, further on.” They are like milestones on the road with an arrow upon them. The arrow says, “Move on; don’t stop here; the destination is ahead.” If you clutch the stone, press it to your chest and sit down thinking, “The destination has arrived!”—that is the plight of those who cling to scriptures.

And remember, when I speak of scriptures, I include my words; I do not exclude them. I am not saying: drop all other scriptures and hold on to mine. Drop words as such—whose are they, mine or yours!

But you will not be able to drop them all at once—that is why I am speaking, and keep speaking. I will go on speaking as long as it is possible. But make haste. I desire such people—and they are coming; their numbers are growing; not much time remains. That is why I am delighted, joyful, that soon I will have around me those who can sit in silence; who can join me in my silence; who can partake in silent communion. That will be satsang. Right now only the preface is going on, just the preparation. The temple is being built; the walls are being raised; the doors are being fixed. The day you agree to be with me in silence, that day the deity will be installed in the temple. And that very day you will understand what truth is.

I agree with Wittgenstein: what cannot be said should not even be attempted. I have never attempted it. Those who tried have only confused and misled people.

But none—neither Buddha nor Mahavira nor Lao Tzu—ever tried to say that one thing. They have said other things—thousands of things—but left out that one. The essential was left unsaid. The thousand things are only to bring you to the place where you can understand the essential by yourself. It will arise within you. The tree of meditation grows within. The fruits of samadhi ripen within. The thousand-petaled lotus blooms within. Whatever you grasp from outside becomes an obstruction.

Fali Bhai, you are doing the right thing. Keep smiling just so. These are the sannyasins I long for—who sit silently, smile; if the mood arises, dance; take up the ektara in hand or beat the khanjari; sing a song if a song wants to be sung. But all that is celebration; nothing is being said in it. And when a hush falls over everything—when all becomes silent, all becomes still—then the bud of truth blossoms within, and flowers.

Shrichand! If you have come here to get something, you have come to the wrong place. Here it is only losing, losing. Here you lose so much that nothing is left to lose. Then what remains—what you could not lose even if you tried—that is truth, that is your nature, your innermost, the God seated within you.

The talk of getting is the talk of the ego. The talk of getting is the talk of greed. And it happens often. In the world we are busy getting—let me get wealth, let me get position. Then we tire of wealth, we tire of position. In the end you must tire, because no matter how much you get, when you grasp it, it is only ashes. And no matter how many positions you achieve, your hands remain empty; life begins to look wasted, meaninglessness deepens. Only then it dawns that the whole race was futile—we ran needlessly, we rushed in vain. We misused this precious time; it could have been rightly used, and we squandered diamonds for pennies. They were diamonds, and we threw them away. In our unconsciousness we lost everything.

There is a Sufi story: A fisherman reached the river very early, before sunrise. He would cast his net once the sun was up, because the fish were not even awake yet. In the dark, where he sat, he found a pouch. He opened it and felt inside—stones. An idle man will do anything… we have such restlessness within that we start doing anything at all. He began taking the stones out, one by one, and throwing them into the lake—splash! He would listen to the sound, then take out another and throw it.

By sunrise only one stone remained in the pouch. As the sun rose, he pulled out the last stone; in the sunlight he saw it—it wasn’t a stone, it was a diamond! He beat his chest—he had been throwing diamonds into the lake for an hour. But now it was too late. There was no way to retrieve them. The lake was deep. In what abyss had they fallen, where had they gone! He had thrown them in every direction—thrown by his own hands! Because it was dark, because he was unconscious!

Sufis say: so is our life. We throw it away just like that. If by the time awareness dawns even a single diamond is left, it is much. Often even that does not remain. The storyteller was kind—he left at least one diamond. Often even that one is gone.

You are fortunate, Shrichand, that seeing everything else in life as futile you have come here. The race for wealth and position may have dropped, but the racing has not dropped. The objects of desire have changed, but the desires have not. The same craving that was for wealth will now become for meditation. Then no revolution has happened. Because the issue is not what you want to get; the issue is that you want to get. As long as the run to obtain continues, you will remain deluded, unconscious.

There is nothing to get. What is, is already gotten; it is already yours; you have not lost it for even a single moment. As long as the chase to get something continues, you will not be able to see what is already present within you, present right now. Your mind is entangled in getting—who will see? who will awaken? You are dreaming of getting. First you dreamed of getting wealth; now you dream of getting meditation. First you thought you would get position; now you think you will get God. First you thought you would get respect; now you think you will get samadhi. But the desire is hooked somewhere far away on getting something. The mind is entangled there—how will it come here? You wander far and wide.

And remember, meditation is an even more distant goal than money. Money is not that far—you can steal it, you can break into the neighbor’s house, you can pick pockets, you can beg, you can win a lottery, you might find a dropped wallet on the road, by chance it can come—money is not that far. But meditation can neither be stolen, nor found lying on the road, nor picked from someone’s pocket, nor bought, nor begged—it is very far; so you will get even more entangled. It is a more distant goal than money. Now run for lifetimes, and even then the journey will not complete. And in this entanglement your back will be turned to That which is present within you, and present right now.

My entire teaching is simply this: you have nothing to get, nothing to seek, nowhere to go—who you are, as you are, where you are, there God is present within you. He is the very beat of your heartbeat. He breathes in your breath. He is your consciousness. He sits within you as the witness. I call the proclamation of this fact meditation. This recognition is samadhi—this very recognition.

But even here our old habits mount our necks again. Escaping this way, we get trapped that way. The same greed, the same stinginess. Many sannyasins ask me—someone’s father is sick, old, on his deathbed—and the sannyasin asks me, I need to go for three weeks—should I go or not? If I go I’m afraid I might lose something. If I don’t go, guilt arises that at least at the time of death I should be by my father’s side.

Every day I am shouting here that even if you want to, you cannot lose it. Go anywhere—even to hell—you cannot lose it. What can be lost is not your nature, and what is your nature is God. Yet they are afraid that in three weeks they might lose something. The same language—the same miserliness, the same penny-pinching!

A Marwari seth, Dhannalal, once went to Shimla on business. It was a mountain road. On a dangerous descent the taxi’s brakes suddenly failed and the car began hurtling downhill. Dhannalal shouted, Hey, stop, stop! What are you doing, will you take my life?

The driver replied, terrified, Sethji, what can I do! The brakes have failed. Now it’s not possible to stop the car. Pray to God—if He wishes He’ll stop it, perform a miracle. I can’t stop it.

Seth Dhannalal said, You fool, who’s asking you to stop the taxi—at least turn off the meter, good man! The fare is pointlessly increasing.

The driver fumed, What are you talking about, sir! The taxi is about to fall into a ravine and you’re worried about the meter and the fare!

Sethji said, Is the taxi my father’s? Let it fall wherever it wants—what is it to me!

The driver said in astonishment, But my good man, along with the taxi your life will also come to an end.

Sethji answered calmly, Don’t worry about me—my life is insured. Do what I say—first turn off the meter!

The same miserliness, the same stinginess, the same greed, the same craving will catch you in the realm of religion. The same fear, the same anxiety, the same anguish; only the names will change. The same ego, the same quarrels of mine-and-yours—this is my religion, that is your religion. Hindu, Muslim, Christian, Jain, Buddhist—the same old quarrels. The same marketplace, the same shops; only now the signboards are pious. This is my scripture, that is your scripture. My scripture is right, yours is wrong! The disease is the same. Nothing changes—until you understand that the root of the disease is not in what you want; the root is that you want. The root is in wanting. Let wanting fall away.

Shrichand, now that you have come here, do not ask: “I don’t know what I have come here to get, but there is a desire to get something.”

If there is desire, you will miss; you will be deprived of the very attainment. The moment you want to get, you will be deprived of getting. Those alone have attained who dropped the desire to attain. It may seem paradoxical, but it is inevitable—such is the law of life—eso dhammo sanantano—this is the eternal law; there is no other way. He who saves will lose; he who agrees to lose will attain.

You ask: “But there is a desire to get something. What will I get? Please tell me.”

Here, nothing can be given. Because I see that whatever you need for your life, you have already been given—with birth, with your very nature; it is within you. However much you try to lose it, you cannot.

People ask me, How to search for God? I ask them, When did you lose Him? How did you lose Him? Tell me when you lost Him—what date, what place, which latitude, which longitude, which country—at Kaaba or at Kashi—where lost, when lost, how lost? If you can tell me that, then I can tell you where He will be found.

If you lost Him in Kashi, searching in Kaaba is pointless. If you lost Him in Kaaba, searching in Kashi is pointless. Because you should search where you lost. And when you lost must also be certain. Then it must also be certain that God is some stone-like thing lying where you dropped it. If you lost Him two or four thousand years ago, who knows how far He has moved on by now—where He has reached.

An opium addict bought sweets from a sweet shop. He was high, swaying. He gave a rupee; he had bought eight annas worth. The shopkeeper said, I don’t have change for eight annas—collect it tomorrow morning.

The opium eater thought, Tomorrow morning he might change—who knows? Let me make something certain that cannot be changed. He carefully looked all around—what shop, where, what. Then he thought, Just seeing the shop is not enough! If the man is truly dishonest, he’ll change the board, he’ll take the sign down in the morning. We’ll go around looking for this board! He saw a buffalo sitting right in front of the shop. He thought, He might change the board, but will he remember there was a buffalo sitting outside and drive it away? Will he go to that extent? Satisfied, the opium eater went home.

Next morning he arrived. He entered the shop and immediately grabbed the shopkeeper by the neck: This is the limit! For the sake of eight annas not only have you changed your business, you’ve changed your shop! Not just the shop, not just the trade—you’ve even changed your caste! Last night you were a sweet-maker, today you’re a barber! Aren’t you ashamed? If you wanted to keep the eight annas, you could have just asked—I would have given them!

The barber was alarmed. He said, What are you talking about? What sweet shop? I’ve been a barber all my life. This is the only trade I’ve ever done.

The man said, You can’t fool me. Look at that buffalo! It’s sitting exactly where I left it. You changed everything—the board, even your face. And this is the limit—you worked a miracle overnight; you’re sitting here as a barber!

Where did you lose Him? And is God some stone lying there? And when did you lose—I ask—how did you lose? Until you have clear answers to these, your whole search will go to waste.

One morning Buddha came to give a talk, holding a handkerchief. People were surprised; he never brought a handkerchief. Before speaking, he held it up in his hand. People were intrigued—What is happening today? Perhaps there is a secret in the kerchief. Suddenly there was deep silence. Even those who had been dozing woke up.

People doze in religious assemblies. Those who can’t sleep all night fall asleep in a religious congregation. There is a great secret there. No physician has yet discovered a better sleeping pill.

Everyone straightened up. All raised their kundalini! All watched closely—what is this? Will he show some magic? Buddha tied a knot in the kerchief, then a second, a third, a fourth, five knots in all. Then he asked the monks, Monks, you saw me tie these knots. Now tell me: is this handkerchief the same as it was before the knots were tied? Is it still the same, or has it changed?

One monk said, You are asking a tricky question. If we say it is the same, you will ask, Where were the knots before? Although the kerchief is the same. If we say it has changed, you will say, What on earth has changed? Do knots change the kerchief? It remains the same. You are asking a riddle—if we answer this way, we’re trapped; if that way, we’re trapped.

Buddha said, Don’t worry. Answer according to your experience.

He said, In one sense the kerchief is the same, because in its nature it has not changed—it is as it was. And in another sense it has changed, because earlier there were no knots; now there are knots.

Buddha said, Good. I accept your answer. Now I want to open these knots. See whether what I am doing is right for opening them. And Buddha took both ends of the kerchief and pulled hard. The knots shrank and tightened.

The monk cried out, What are you doing! The knots are getting tighter!

Buddha said, Then what should I do?

The monk replied, First we must know how the knots were tied. Until we know how they were tied, it is impossible to know how to open them. But I can see this much—the knots are becoming smaller. While they were bigger it was easier to open them; now it is harder—they’ve become subtle.

Shrichand, that is what I am telling you. The knot of wealth is a gross knot, coarse. The desire for wealth is gross. Everyone has it—nothing special. The desire for meditation—the knot becomes subtler. Now it may not even be visible. Because the race is no longer outward; it has gone inward, purely mental, purely imaginary. And the more you pull at this knot, the subtler it becomes. So subtle that even you will not see it. But the knot isn’t opening; it is tightening. You are getting caught in more and more entanglements.

Mahavira called those who have awakened, who are enlightened, nigrantha—without knots. Nigrantha means one whose knots have all opened, all the knots are gone. A very lovely word—nigrantha: in whom no knots remain.

In your nature you are as you always were, but you have tied some knots. Some people carry gross knots, some have tied very subtle ones. The knot of knowledge is very subtle; it breeds great rigidity, great conceit. The knot of nation is very subtle. The knot of religion is very subtle; it breeds great rigidity.

It is written by Brahmachari Deepak Vedalankar.
Just look at the words! Even if he hadn’t given his name, I would still know he is a disciple of Dayanand, an Arya Samaji, a “Veda-ornament,” a knower of the Vedas. But look at the words: “Bharat-jyoti,” the Light of India! This swagger about being Indian, someone else being Chinese, or Japanese—these are subtle knots, very subtle knots. They are spread all over the world. They haven’t just caught hold of you; all of humanity is afflicted by them. Even the tiniest country thinks the world of itself!

Sicily is a small island. Its ambassador was going to Africa. The king of Sicily told him, “You are going to Africa. The people there are under the delusion that their land is a continent. They even think it is bigger than Sicily.” Now, what is Sicily compared to Africa! Put Sicily into Africa and thousands of Sicilies would fit inside Africa. But the king said, “When people say such things, a politician should be so skillful that you keep quiet. In your heart you know Sicily is great, but keep quiet—because a diplomat should not hurt the feelings of the people he is visiting.”

And what standing does Sicily have? Even Lanka is far bigger; you could carve out twenty-five Sicilies from Lanka. Africa is a continent, of course. Yet the king of Sicily has the same delusion—and he’s nourishing that delusion, saying, “Don’t get caught in their illusion that their country is bigger than Sicily.”

When the English first reached China, they wrote that, on seeing the Chinese, they were now certain Darwin was right. For so long people had been searching for the “missing link” between monkeys and humans—on seeing the Chinese, they felt confirmed. And what did the Chinese write? They too wrote, “Now we understand why Darwin says man evolved from primates. Until we saw the Europeans, we could not quite believe it.” Each side took one look at the other and felt confirmed in Darwin’s theory.

Both came to believe in Darwin’s theory by seeing each other. Every country lives under this same delusion; every community lives under this same delusion—that there is no one greater than us!

India, China, Pakistan and Iran are political partitions! The earth is indivisible. But Dayanand himself was under that delusion; if his disciples repeat the same delusion, it is no surprise.
It is said, “An Aryaputra like Dayanand Saraswati...”
Aryaputra means: noble. The word arya means: superior. Who is free of the delusion of being superior?
Adolf Hitler called himself an Aryan. And he believed that only a certain German stock—the Nordics—were the real Aryans; no one else. They alone were the superior people. And they alone had the right to rule the whole world.
Naturally, the superior should have the right to rule over the inferior. In this very delusion the Second World War was fought. As a result of this delusion, millions were slaughtered. Hitler butchered hundreds of thousands of Jews. And how did he get Germans to do it? Simply by propagating: You are superior, and if we are to make the world superior, we must rid it of the inferior. The Jews are the vilest; we are the noblest! The wicked must be wiped out.
Wherever the delusion arises that “we are superior,” there, naturally, the “other” becomes inferior. And once the other is inferior and we are superior, then of course we become Brahmins and the other Shudras!
People in India have the habit of saying—of Muslims: mleccha; of the English: mleccha. But this is not merely an Indian matter; the same madness prevails everywhere. I was born in a Jain home. If you ask the Jains, they even regard Hindus as mleccha.
When I was a child, a Jain muni had come to our village. I asked him, “What is your opinion of Ramakrishna Paramhansa?” He said, “Why do you bring up that mleccha!” I said, “Mleccha?” “Yes,” he said, “if a man eats fish, what else will you call him?”
Now, it is true that Ramakrishna ate fish. For a Bengali not to eat fish is rather difficult. And what could trouble a Jain monk more than someone eating fish!
Among those whom you call Brahmins in India, many are non-vegetarian. Kashmiri Brahmins are non-vegetarian. The Brahmins of the South are non-vegetarian. Pandit Jawaharlal Nehru was a non-vegetarian precisely because he was a Kashmiri Brahmin. Now it is quite amusing that a person like Mahatma Gandhi, regarded as the greatest proponent of nonviolence in this world, left his political will to Jawaharlal Nehru, who was a non-vegetarian! For whom a day could hardly pass without meat!
But Hindus are not much offended by this. Jains are. To Jains it appears mleccha. After all, it was precisely for this reason that Jains and Buddhists opposed the Vedas—because in the Vedas one finds support for meat-eating. There is even support for cow slaughter! Not only the ashvamedha sacrifice, there were also naramedha sacrifices in which human beings were offered! That is why, even now, sometimes the incident occurs—you will see it in the newspapers—that in such-and-such village people have offered a human sacrifice. These poor fellows are not doing anything new; they are merely Aryaputras! They are practicing pure Vedic religion!
Brahmachari Deepak Vedalankar says: “Across the world, the flag of Aryavarta’s glory was unfurled.”
Such talk is irreligious in itself—flag-waving! Perhaps it is acceptable in politics, because in politics every sort of stupidity can pass; but what has this to do with religion? Flag-waving—and of “glory”! Then what do you call ego?
“Lechers like the Maharaja of Jodhpur...”
Look at this language: this is the language of the Arya Samaj. This is Dayanand’s testament. He used to speak exactly like this. And that is why I can never accept that this man attained any self-realization or God-realization. Because if a person has realized the Self, will he say “lecher”? And listen further!
“Lechers like the Maharaja of Jodhpur were warned to stay away from bitch-like prostitutes.”
And the irony is, who produced these prostitutes? It is thanks to your so-called sadhus and mahatmas. The prostitute is the outcome of marriage. As long as marriage is imposed by force and by law, the prostitute will continue. Until marriage disappears, prostitution cannot disappear.
And this is an ancient Aryan tradition; it is nothing new. Earlier the prostitute was called the “bride of the city”—nagarvadhu. In Buddha’s time the famous nagarvadhu was Amrapali. Her name is known. The most beautiful girl in the city would be proclaimed the bride of the entire city, so that there would be no conflict or quarrel over who should marry her. She became everyone’s bride—the city’s bride. And she was honored. There was no insult in it. It was a matter of prestige to be chosen as the nagarvadhu.
To use a term like “bitch” for prostitutes, and for a person like Vedalankar—one versed in the Vedas... Even had he not written his name I would have known he is a pure Arya Samaji. This is the language of the Arya Samaj. This language is irreligious. What connection can such language have with religion? An awakened one does not speak like this.
And he says that we would count Dayanand among people like Jesus and Socrates.
But Jesus did not call a prostitute a bitch. Jesus accepted the famous prostitute Magdalene as his disciple. There is an incident in Jesus’ life: the people of a village dragged a prostitute before him. Jesus was sitting on the riverbank, on the sand. The villagers surrounded him and placed the prostitute before him. They said, “We have caught this woman. She is an adulteress.” ...They must have said exactly what Vedalankar is saying... “She is a bitch. And our ancient scripture says such women should be stoned to death.”
Now this is the great irony: if this prostitute is living in the village, by whose support is she living? After all, men must be going to her. Who goes to this prostitute? But those men are not sinners! It is the prostitute who deserves to be stoned to death.
“What do you say?” they asked Jesus.
Jesus said, “I understand you well. I fully grasp that you think either Jesus will say ‘forgive her,’ because my teaching is to forgive all; then you will say this goes against our ancient principle. Or if I say ‘stone her to death,’ then you will ask what became of my principle of forgiveness! But I shall say neither. I say this: let those cast the first stone who have never gone to a prostitute, nor even conceived the thought of going to one. Pick up stones! Those who have never looked at other women with lustful eyes, let them pick up stones! Let them come forward!”
And all those brave men who were ready to kill that poor woman began to slip away silently. Who would step forward? For most of them were frequenters of prostitutes. And those who were not at least harbored the desire. And how will you find men who have never looked at other women with longing! Very difficult. Slowly the crowd dispersed; people fled. Only Jesus remained, and the prostitute. She fell at his feet and said, “Forgive me. You are the first person who has not used abusive words for me. Therefore I admit I am a sinner.”
Jesus said, “There is no need to confess before me. This is a matter between you and your God. Who am I to judge! Who am I to call you a sinner! If you see that this is wrong, then change. If you see it is right, continue. The decision is to be between you and your God. Who am I!”
But this Brahmachari Deepak Vedalankar is using the term “bitch-like prostitutes”! He is a brahmachari, after all. Prostitutes must attract him. There is an inner mathematical connection between brahmacharis and prostitutes. There is a coupling between the two. But this is the language of the Arya Samaj. That is why I do not regard the Arya Samaj as a religious movement at all.
And it is true that Dayanand forgave the cook who poisoned him. Just as in even the best person’s life a bad incident or two may occur, so in the worst person’s life a good incident or two can occur. But judgments are not made on the basis of one or two incidents. Judgments are made on the whole of a life. A verdict is the distillation of an entire life. You cannot hang a verdict on a single incident.
Then it is also possible—indeed very likely... For a man whose life is full of abuse and invective—if he forgives his killer, it does not seem logical, it does not seem reasonable; it does not fit anywhere in his life. Then only one possibility remains: for centuries there has been a notion that a mahatma should forgive the one who kills him. And now, since you are dying anyway, why miss the last chance to certify yourself as a mahatma! Forgive him—since you are dying anyway. Such shrewdness!
The man was shrewd. I have never said he was not shrewd. And he was a great pandit. I have never doubted his erudition. Perhaps in this century there has been no greater scholar than he. In his last moments he may well have forgiven for this very reason: “I am dying; why let go the chance of being Jesus or Socrates!”
But his entire life says something else. In the whole of his life this incident has no resonance. In Jesus’ life his final forgiveness has resonance. In Socrates’ life it has resonance. But in Dayanand’s life there is no resonance. Dayanand’s life is filled with anger—hostility, argumentation. Not even reason, mostly quibbling, disputation—and in that these so-called Vedalankars and Siddhantalankars, etc., have become adept. And those who come out of Gurukul Kangri are drilled in this very language.
They are troubled that I say he lacked gracious conduct. I repeat: he lacked gracious conduct. And this incident—one incident indeed... I do not deny it. I never deny what is. But in his life it has no resonance, no harmony. In that life it appears pasted on from above. As if a man cried his whole life and laughed at the moment of death—then that laughter appears utterly stuck on.
A Christian fakir was once slapped on one cheek by a man, so he offered the other cheek. For he often said in his discourses that Jesus has said: if one strikes you on one cheek, offer the other.
But the other man must have been an accomplished adept as well. He landed an even harder slap on the second cheek.
Then the Christian fakir pounced upon him.
The slapper had not expected this at all. When he struck the first time, he was a little afraid—who knows whether this man will follow his principle or not! But when the fakir offered the other cheek, he was completely at ease; he hit with all his might. Such fun may never come again; such an opportunity may never return. How often do you find a man who offers the second cheek! He gave a fine, solid blow. A lifetime of pent-up impulses must have burst forth. The fakir had not imagined it, so he was unprepared.
And the Christian fakir leapt onto his chest and thrashed him soundly. He too had a lifetime of repression—perhaps even more—for he believed in the principle of offering the other cheek.
As he was being beaten and the fakir pummeled him harder, the man said, “Listen! What about your principle?”
The fakir said, “To hell with the principle. Jesus said only up to the point I followed: if one strikes you on one cheek, offer the other. There is no third cheek. Now I am free. Now I will teach you a lesson, son. If you had struck only once and walked away, no one would ever know how this story ends.”
A man asked Buddha, “You say forgive. I ask, how many times?”
The manner of his asking—“how many times?”—betrayed him. One who asks “how many times” means that once the count is up, he will then settle the score. Buddha said, “Seven times.”
The man said, “Very good. Fine. Seven it is.”
Buddha said, “Wait! The way you are saying ‘good, fine, seven then,’ it seems that on the eighth time you will deliver such a blow—like a hundred by the goldsmith and one by the blacksmith—that in one stroke you will settle all seven accounts. You wait! In forgiveness there is no counting, no arithmetic. Forgiveness means—forgiveness.”
But in Dayanand’s life there was the arrogance of India, the arrogance of the superiority of the Arya dharma, the arrogance of the Vedas. And everyone else is wrong—Mahavira is wrong, Buddha is wrong. And the way he condemned Mahavira and Buddha, the words he used, the petty arguments, the childish arguments—these all show: can such a man forgive! And even if he did, then surely only for one reason: “I am dying now; why leave off the final seal of being a mahatma! Let me stamp this on my life as well.”
I cannot give this incident much value. I do not value isolated events. I value the chain of events. And chains stretch across an entire life. One or two blossoms do not make a spring. When spring comes, there are blossoms everywhere—so many that leaves cannot find space. Now and then one flower blooms out of season; even without spring it may bloom. One or two flowers do not change anything.
Vedalankar has said, “I think you simply have not seen the radiance of a blazing sun like Dayanand.”
If there is radiance, one must see; it will be seen. There is no sun-like radiance. There is undoubtedly an astonishing display of scholarship. There is a marvel of language and grammar. The skill with which Dayanand twisted and contorted words—perhaps no one else ever had it. The way he extracted meanings that could not possibly be in those words—no one else had such a talent.
What is there, I can see.
And if I can see the radiance of Buddha, of Mahavira, of Krishna, of Nagarjuna, of Vasubandhu, of Shankara, of Ramanuja, of Nimbarka, of Vallabha, of Ramakrishna, of Ramana, of Krishnamurti—then what enmity would I have with Dayanand? I can see the radiance even of those far away—of Zarathustra, of Lao Tzu, of Zhuangzi, of Lieh Tzu, of Jesus and of Mohammed—so what obstacle would there be with Dayanand? To add Dayanand’s name among so many would cost me no stinginess. The name itself is not bad; it is a lovely name—Dayanand. Its meaning too is good.
But what am I to do—if there is light, it will be seen! If there is light, it will be visible. Even if the sun is surrounded by clouds, it is seen. Mohammed’s sun is covered by many clouds—yet I can see it. Moses’ sun too is covered by many clouds—still I can see it. But Dayanand can see neither Moses’ sun, nor Jesus’, nor Mahavira’s, nor Buddha’s! Dayanand’s entire horizon is confined within the Vedas. Beyond the Vedas he sees nothing. And ninety-nine percent of the Vedas is garbage.
What am I to do! I will say it as it is!

Here you will not find scholarship. Here you will not find knowledge. Here, you will have to lose—your scriptures will fall away; if you carry the Vedalankar to your name, that too will fall away; if you roam about with the ego of a brahmachari, that will fall away; if there is the conceit of being an Arya, that will fall away; if there is the pride of being a Hindu, a Jain, a Buddhist, that pride will fall away. I will take from you, so that within you only that remains which cannot be taken away. And the day only that remains which cannot be snatched away, on that day you have attained that which is worth attaining. And it is not attained by acquiring, not by running—it is attained by sitting, by stopping, by coming to rest.

Sudhakar! Tireless efforts to meditate? The trouble lies in the very effort. Meditation is not an effort. Effort creates tension. And who will make the effort? The mind. But meditation is the transcendence of the mind. Meditation does not happen through striving; it happens in relaxation.

Patanjali has said it rightly: samadhi and deep sleep share a similarity. Just as deep sleep happens when you relax, so samadhi also happens in relaxation. There is both a similarity and a difference: the similarity is that both happen in rest; the difference is that in deep sleep there is no awareness, and in samadhi there is awareness. But in their groundwork both are the same.

Mulla Nasruddin once said to me, “Bhagwan, I can’t get to sleep.”
I asked, “Why not?”
Mulla said, “I don’t know. Every night I wait for sleep until midnight, I make tireless efforts that it should come, come, come. When it doesn’t come, I get fed up—and then I go to sleep.”

Sudhakar, keep making tireless efforts. When you get fed up, the solution will come.

Buddha made tireless efforts to meditate for six years. Then he got fed up. One day he even dropped meditation. And the day he dropped it, that very day samadhi bore fruit.

This event in Buddha’s life is unparalleled. It did not happen in six years of tireless striving; it happened the day he was utterly exhausted—completely finished—and said, “It is not going to happen. The whole thing is futile. It seems purely imaginary.” That evening he slept the whole night without any effort at all. Otherwise, for six years he had not really slept. Meditation itself was tormenting him—“Life can slip away! Tomorrow may never come!” So he was putting all his time and energy into it, and the more energy he put in, the more difficult it became.

Have you ever noticed a small incident? On the road you meet a man. His face seems familiar. The name too seems right on the tip of your tongue, but it doesn’t come. You even say, “I know who this man is, I know his name—it's right on the tip of my tongue.” If it’s on the tip of your tongue, why don’t you bring it out? And you are not lying either—I know it is right there. But something is stuck, some obstruction. The more you try to bring it, the more difficult it becomes.

Then you get tired. You drop the whole thing and start reading the newspaper—anything at all. And suddenly the name pops up.

Madame Curie worked on a mathematical problem for three years. It wouldn’t yield. And one night exactly what happened to Buddha happened to her. She went to bed exhausted. She said, “Finished. I’m done. From tomorrow this matter is over. There are other questions in life. Three years is enough.” And that very night the solution arrived. The answer surfaced—so unexpectedly that it surprised Madame Curie herself.

She got up in her sleep, went to the table, wrote down the answer, and went back to sleep. In the morning when she woke up she found the answer written on the table. The doors were locked from the inside. No one could have entered. And even if someone had, who would bring the answer that Madame Curie, a Nobel laureate, couldn’t find in three years? There was a household servant, yes—but what could a servant do if Madame Curie couldn’t? And with the doors locked he couldn’t enter anyway.

Looking closely, the handwriting seemed familiar—her own. Then she was even more astonished. Slowly memory returned. She recalled that in a dreamlike state she had woken in the night and written something on the table. Bit by bit she remembered it all. She herself had written the answer—and that very evening she had decided to drop the problem.

In just such an evening Buddha decided—the night of the full moon—“Now I drop this. No more effort. Enough.” And when he told his five disciples, who had followed him like a shadow for six years, “I am tired of this asceticism, these austerities. All this seems to be foolishness. I have done what I was told, but meditation has not happened. So now I drop it,” the five disciples thought that Gautam Siddhartha had fallen. They left him that very evening! They said to him, “Gautam, you have become corrupt! Till now we accepted you as our master because you did what we could not. If we could stand on our heads for an hour, you stood for six. If we ate once a day, you ate once in two days. We were dazzled by you.”

Someone had told Buddha to reduce his food each day until he came down to a single grain of rice. In six months, reducing day by day, he came to one grain of rice a day. He grew so emaciated his bones were visible; his belly clung to his back. But meditation did not happen. Becoming a skeleton has nothing to do with meditation. Even sleep was lost. Forget meditation—sleep was gone; peace was gone.

When he dropped all that, a village maiden—Sujata—who had vowed to offer kheer to the deity of the pipal tree if she conceived, came on the night of the full moon to fulfill her vow. Seeing Buddha sitting there, she thought the deity himself had emerged from the tree to accept her offering. Blessed, she fell at his feet. Any other day Buddha would not have accepted her kheer, certainly not at night. But that day he had dropped all renunciation and austerity—he accepted it.

The five monks saw this and thought, “This is the limit of corruption—eating at night! The man is finished.” They bowed and left, saying, “Brother, we are going.” They had no idea that that very night a revolutionary event was about to happen, that a chain would begin which would kindle light in countless lives through the centuries, that one lamp would be lit from which innumerable lamps would be kindled. They left.

And that very night the event happened to Buddha. He was resting so deeply. At dawn, when his eyes opened, the last star was setting. Watching that last star sink—within, there was only the witness—he simply saw the star set, and awareness of witnessing dawned. No thought. No tension. Even the desire for meditation had vanished.

You say, Sudhakar: “I am making tireless efforts to meditate, but success does not come.”
If you make tireless efforts, success will not come. Meditation is the art of relaxation. Your very effort is creating the whole mess. You are not understanding me. Here I teach relaxation. I do not teach austerity. I teach you how to become loose, quiet, available to rest; how all tensions can leave your life. You are doing the opposite. Do the opposite and you will be defeated—and then don’t blame me for your failure.

Mulla Nasruddin’s wife, Guljaan, once ran to the doctor, panting: “Doctor, quickly do something. My husband, Mulla Nasruddin, went to the toilet in the morning—now it’s evening and he still hasn’t come out!”
The doctor asked, “But what happened? Tell me the whole story.”
Guljaan said, “The thing is, for a month our black buffalo stopped giving dung. She would eat and drink, but wouldn’t relieve herself. This worried Nasruddin a lot. So today he went to the vet and told him about the buffalo’s problem. The vet gave him some pills and said, ‘Give these to the buffalo. Put them in a pipe, keep one end in your mouth and the other in the buffalo’s mouth, blow hard and the pills will go in.’”
The doctor interrupted, “But what has this to do with Nasruddin?”
Guljaan said, “That’s what I’m trying to tell you—before Nasruddin could blow, the buffalo blew first and the pills went into Nasruddin’s stomach. As a result he went into the toilet and won’t come out. Now tell me how to get him out!”

It turned upside down. The buffalo blew first. You can’t trust buffaloes!

You say, “I am engaged in tireless effort.”
That is exactly what I am explaining: don’t make effort. You are not merely making effort—you are making tireless effort.

These deluded notions are centuries old. They sit on our chest. Tap, austerity, striving, labor—we have given them a value beyond measure. The entire Jaina tradition, the entire culture, is called the shramana culture—the culture of those who labor. People engaged in tireless effort!

I am teaching you rest, repose. Here, dance and sing—but in ecstasy, not as an effort—in joy, in celebration! Whatever is happening here is a device to dissolve your tensions. The more tension-free your consciousness becomes, the more readily meditation will blossom.

Dharma Saraswati! When I say the human being of this century is the most mature, it does not mean that everyone living in this century belongs to this century. Very few who live in this century are actually of the twentieth century. Those who are, are mature, and they are understanding me. But they are very few.

Now this Brahmachari Deepak Vedalankar—I cannot consider him of this century. He is not contemporary. Just because so many people are sitting here together, don’t assume they are all together in time. Someone here may be five thousand years old! Skulls belong to different centuries. Some skulls are stuffed with the Vedas. And the ones whose skulls are stuffed with the Vedas are at least five thousand years old.

And the fun is, those whose skulls are stuffed with the Vedas not only try to be five thousand years old—their effort is: five thousand? Who says five thousand? Ninety thousand years old!

Right here in this so-called holy city of Poona, Bal Gangadhar Tilak tried to prove that the Vedas are ninety thousand years old. And the Indian ego rejoiced. That is why Bal Gangadhar Tilak became Lokmanya—accepted by the people. Of course he would: whoever gratifies your ego becomes Lokmanya, becomes a hero of the people, a leader of the people! There is a constant attempt to stretch the age of the Vedas—the older the better, as if the Vedas were not scriptures but some wine: the older it is, the finer it is. In one sense, it is a wine.

I agree with Karl Marx—ninety-nine percent I agree. He has said your so-called religions are an opium for the masses. Ninety-nine percent I agree, because ninety-nine percent of the so-called religious people are using their religions like a drug. Only one percent or so use religion as awakening; the rest use it for sleep, for consolation—not for truth.

So not everyone is of this century. They are living in this century, but they are of all kinds—some three hundred years old, some five hundred, some a thousand, some two thousand, some five thousand, some ten thousand. How can my words make sense to them? What I am saying is of the now—fresh as the morning dew, like a freshly opened flower! Naturally, it will be hard to understand; there will be difficulty, there will be obstacles.

When the train stopped, Chandulal put his hand on Dabboo-ji’s shoulder and asked, Brother, which station is this?
Dabboo-ji shook off his hand and said, Excuse me, this is not a station, this is my shoulder.

Mulla Nasruddin was very fond of fast driving. One evening he and his friend Chandulal went out on their motorcycles. Mulla’s motorcycle was flying like an arrow and Chandulal kept falling behind. Suddenly a truck appeared ahead, its two headlights shining. Seeing it from a distance, Mulla said to Chandulal, Watch now how I slip my motorcycle between these two motorcycles! Chandulal tried to stop him, Let it be—but he would not listen and sped up. And what had to happen happened: a terrible accident. Mulla was admitted to the hospital, fractures all over his body. He regained consciousness after seven days. Chandulal came to see him and said, Look, I told you not to ride like that.
Mulla Nasruddin said, To hell with the motorcycle! First tell me, who was that scoundrel on the motorcycle without a light between those two motorcycles? Who was that bastard whose vehicle had no lights?

When I say the human being of today is mature, it applies only to a few. How can a Hindu be of today’s century? How can a Muslim be of today’s century? How can a Christian be of today’s century? Impossible. And a communist is not of today’s century either—he is still wandering around Marx. Marx’s time has also passed. And one who clings to Freud is not of today’s century either—Freud’s time has also passed. Only a meditator is truly contemporary, because he is new every moment; he does not hoard the past. Only such a few can understand me. The rest are in various kinds of unconsciousness. And they are the majority.

Just yesterday I received a letter from a woman in Switzerland. Her son was a sannyasin. A month ago he died of cancer. In the letter she expressed great anger. She wrote, My son’s death is your responsibility.
I, too, was a bit startled. Her son got cancer—how could that be my responsibility? But reading further, her meaning became clear.
She wrote, My son kept your photo before his eyes right up to his last breath. If he had remembered Jesus instead of you, why would he have died?
Which would mean that Christians should not die of cancer at all! And of those who die of cancer, no one else in the world dies except Christians. Because cancer is a disease of developed countries. Poor countries cannot afford the luxury of diseases like cancer. Their diseases are poor too. These are aristocratic diseases, royal diseases. That is why in Ayurveda tuberculosis was called a royal disease, because earlier only kings got it. How could a poor man get it? The way a poor man lives—working eight hours a day—where is the leisure for TB? You need time for these things, you need facilities.

For cancer, you need ways to spend money. Cancer doesn’t just happen! Watch television five or six hours; smoke three or four packs a day; do no physical labor; drink alcohol; eat meat; eat all sorts of nonsense that has no nutritional value—keep filling yourself with garbage, sometimes in the name of ice cream, sometimes under some other name; live in cities where the air has become utterly foul—like New York, Los Angeles, San Francisco—where the air is poison. So Christians suffer from cancer more than anyone else.

But that woman wrote that if he had kept Jesus’ picture before him instead of yours, why would he have died? I tried to explain a thousand times—she would not agree. He died with your picture before his eyes. And not only that—while dying he asked that he be buried with his mala. We had no desire at all to bury him with your mala; at least at the time of death a cross should be placed on his chest. But taking into account his last wish, we had to bury him with your mala. It pains us to write this. But the responsibility is yours.
Now would you call this woman twentieth-century? She lives in Switzerland, but she is not of the twentieth century. She lives in some world two thousand years old. She believes that Jesus walked on water, raised the dead, healed blindness by touch. She believes all these stories. Modern children no longer believe such stories. Those who are modern do not believe them. But those who are not modern live inside these very stories. What stories!

When I was a child, a swami was giving a discourse. He said that when Hanuman went to fetch the sanjivani herb, he could not find it, so he lifted the whole mountain and brought it.
I asked him, Was he so stupid that he couldn’t find the herb? You say he was all-powerful. He had Rama’s grace. One upon whom Rama’s grace has fallen, who is mighty enough to lift a mountain—he could not locate the sanjivani?
He immediately got angry, You are an atheist!
I said, Whether I am atheist or theist is your concern? That will decide my heaven or hell. I am only asking: Poor Hanuman couldn’t understand even this much—what the sanjivani herb is? The physician had explained what it looks like. He had given all the symptoms. Yet he could lift the whole mountain and bring it...
And even today people keep believing that he brought the entire mountain. Those who still believe such things have no idea what they are believing! And their belief does not allow them to be contemporary.

Such people cannot understand me. Such people are intoxicated—drugged, unconscious.

Mulla Nasruddin was passing by a tavern when he heard the sounds of a brawl. Just then a man was picked up and thrown out the door. The man fell near Nasruddin. Nasruddin consoled him, Brother, don’t worry. In a tavern, such petty scuffles happen.
The man flared up, To hell with those rascals! You wait right here. I’ll throw them out one by one. I’ll toss them out from inside—just keep count!
Saying this, he went back in. Soon there was a racket again—punches and kicks flying. And with a thud a man was hurled out through the door.
Nasruddin shouted, One!
The man got up and said, Sorry, Nasruddin—still me.

Unconscious people are lost in their various unconsciousnesses. They cannot understand me. Dharma Saraswati, but there is not a whit of exaggeration in what I am saying. This is the first time a century has matured. Only some have matured—but never before were there this many.

Today so many people sit quietly, peacefully, and listen to me. One person stood up—an urge to make a disturbance must have arisen in him. Had I said these things two thousand years ago, perhaps one person would have listened and everyone else would have jumped up. Such is the difference. Now one person gets up and the rest sit quietly, trying to understand. That one person will be some brahmachari, some vedalankar, some siddhantalankar, some graduate of Gurukul Kangri, some Arya Samaji—beyond his tolerance, his blood has begun to boil.

People are sitting with so much repression, so much fuel piled up, that their blood is forever boiling!

Mulla Nasruddin told me, My wife starts boiling from the morning. As the tea water heats up, my wife heats up. Side by side. I sip the tea and listen to her rant. And after tea I flee the house and go as far as I can—that is the secret of my health; that is why I’m healthy.
When Nasruddin turned a hundred, reporters asked him, How did you reach a hundred?
He said, There’s a secret. When I got married, my wife and I agreed: if I got angry, I would go out for a walk; if she got angry, she would go out for a walk. So my life has been spent outside, walking. Fresh air! That’s the reason! I’ve buried seven wives, but with every wife I made the same pact in advance. That way, I stayed safe. Wives came and went—after all, that is the traffic of the world—but I remained safe. Open air, fresh air, walking and walking all day—my shoes wore out, but I didn’t.

Some people are simply waiting to boil. A fire is burning within. They are sitting on repressions—of lust, of anger, of greed—and who knows what else they have pushed down! Give them the slightest opportunity—there is gunpowder within, and all it takes is a spark! And here I am throwing sparks.

So many are sitting here in silence—doesn’t that look to you like a sign of maturity? And the countries where there are more mature people—more people will come to me from there. The countries where there are more reactionaries—fewer will come. The more traditionalist a place, the less my words will be understood. Where there is free consciousness, where the doors of understanding are open—where the shutters of the mind are open to the breeze, to the sun, to the rain, to the fragrance of flowers, to the moon and the stars—there my words can be understood.

This country is traditionalist, old-fashioned. Here I am showered with abuse. In far-off lands, esteemed thinkers, philosophers, writers, poets, painters, musicians are appreciating what I am saying—expressing their respect for it. And here I receive only abuse! That only tells me one thing: this country has still not entered the twentieth century!

In this country, only those will be able to join me who have come into the twentieth century. Only those can connect with me whose intelligence has a certain luster, who have a little genius, and who have the courage to smash all their pigeonholes, to break all their chains, to shatter all their prisons and step out.

I am an invitation to the open sky!
That’s all for today.