Prabhu Mandir Ke Dwar Par #1

Before saying anything on the theme 'At the Lord's temple door,' it is necessary to understand that the Lord's temple door is a very wondrous door. It is no ordinary door. Nor is it the door of those buildings we call temples. None of the temples made in the name of God are God's. They belong to Hindus, to Muslims, to Christians, to Jains. Wherever there is an adjective, there is no relationship with God. There is a temple of God, yes, but because of temples made by men that temple is no longer visible. Because of the religious, religion itself has become hard to understand. And so long as there are Hindus, Muslims, Christians on the earth, the birth of a truly religious human being cannot happen.

The so‑called religious people have turned the earth into a madhouse. And it is precisely because of these religious people that the irreligious man has arisen. The irreligious man is a reaction, a recoil against the religious man. The day these so‑called religious ones bid farewell, that very day the irreligious will also die. In opposition to these false religious, out of protest, out of resentment, an irreligious wind has arisen. There would not be a single atheist in the world if the so‑called theists departed. Atheism is the shadow of theists. And the day there are neither theists nor atheists, on that day the possibility of religion may dawn. I say, the so‑called religious, the so‑called temples of God, the mosques, the gurudwaras, the churches, have made the earth a madhouse.

A small story comes to mind.

India and Pakistan are being partitioned. Partition is itself a symptom of madness. The day man's intelligence is sane and poised, the world will be one, not split. The mind is divided, fragmented, therefore the earth is also split. The earth is whole. Man's consciousness is fragmented, so he fragments the earth. The partition of India and Pakistan is happening. In a mental asylum... the inmates are neither Hindus nor Muslims, for the mad say, 'We are simply human; we do not even know whether we are Hindu or Muslim.' The officials are troubled, they explain, 'You will continue to live right here, but tell us, do you wish to go to Hindustan or to Pakistan?' The mad reply, 'You speak strange things. We thought we were the ones who spoke strangely. You are stranger: you say we will stay here, and then you ask us to say where we will go, Hindustan or Pakistan!

'If we are to stay here, what question is there of going? And if there is no going anywhere, if we remain here, what do we have to do with Hindustan or Pakistan? Wherever we are, we are fine.'

They were explained to at length, but their mad understanding did not accept it. Then they were asked, 'At least tell us whether you are Hindu or Muslim. Let the Hindu madmen go to Hindustan, the Muslim madmen to Pakistan. Are you Hindu or Muslim?'

They said, 'We do not know that. At the most we know we are human. And if we strain very hard, we can say this much: we are mad. But Hindu or Muslim, we have no idea.'

There was no other way, so the officials drew a line through the asylum; half the rooms went to Pakistan, half to Hindustan. The mad were split half‑and‑half. A wall was raised in the middle. Even now the mad climb the wall and ask each other, 'How strange! We are exactly where we were; no one has gone anywhere. Yet you have gone to Pakistan, we to Hindustan. What has happened?' Sometimes they fight across the wall; and those among them who are very wise try to explain, 'What have we to do with Hindu or Muslim? What have we to do with Hindustan or Pakistan? We are only mad.' If someone listens to those madmen, the thought will arise: perhaps they are wiser than we are. We are madder than they.

Even in the name of Paramatma man has invented madness. What has happened in the name of God in five thousand years, if tallied, would make us doubt whether the prayers were at God's door or at the devil's. At whose door were they?

I have heard: a fakir saw the devil in a dream at night, lazing, asleep. The fakir asked, 'Devil! You, so lazy? We have heard that the devil is at devilry twenty‑four hours a day. You are sitting so peacefully; what has happened to you? Do you not have to do your work, to lead people astray? The longer you sit silent, the more people will walk on the right path. Go, get to your work.' The devil said, 'Now I have no need to work. My work has been taken over by the so‑called devotees of God — the purohits, the pundits, the priests; they are doing my job. I rest now. There is no need for me. Those whom you call God's temples are all mine now, for my agents, the priests and pundits and purohits, sit there.'

To understand the Lord's temple door, first understand this: what we call God's temples are not God's temples. No temple made by man can be God's temple. Man himself is a temple made by God. No temple made by man can be God's temple. Man himself is the temple made by God. And that which surrounds us, naturally born, the expanse of creation, that which is life, that which is existence — that very existence is God's temple. But man builds temples upon that temple. He gives such importance to these structures that within their walls the real temple gets hidden. Everything is hidden; nothing appears. And each person has become blind — in the name of religion. Religion should open the eyes, but religion has made us blind; hence there is much talk of God, yet we do not come into any living relationship with God.

God's temple is that which is all around. There is no need to build any other God‑temple. And can man build God's temple? Man is even trying to manufacture God — molding idols of God, shaping images, painting and decorating them. Then man stands before the very images he has made, hands folded, kneeling. If someone on some distant planet were watching, he would laugh heartily. People themselves make idols and then stand with folded hands before them, kneel before them. And whose idols do they make? They make their own likenesses. If horses were to make a god's idol, they would make it horse‑like. If donkeys were to make one, it would be donkey‑like. Man makes it man‑like. In Africa the idol has a flat nose, in India a long nose. In the West the image will be fair‑skinned, in the East dark. We fashion in our own image. In the name of God, man worships himself — and by himself. And then he asks, 'Where is God?' Not finding God in these idols, he shouts, 'There is no God!'

Understand these two things. First, he himself fashions God — this is madness. Then, not finding God in his own manufactured god, he says, 'There is no God.' He never seeks God, never relates with God. He either worships his own images or breaks his own images. The worshipper and the iconoclast are the same, for both are devoted to the idol. The Hindu worships the idol, the Muslim breaks it. Yet both are idol‑obsessed. As if the idol contained something. It is not worthy of worship, nor of breaking. There is nothing in it. And where the divine is, our eyes do not turn.

So, this morning first let us see where God's temple is not, so perhaps we can sense where it may be. If we come to know where His door is not, perhaps we can search for where it is. So many fake doors have been built that to find His door has become difficult. Whenever someone sets out to seek, some counterfeit door quickly appears, the shopkeepers of false doors appear, and they usher the person inside. Then he wanders there, and never finds any clue to the real door.

First, the fake doors... The foundation of all fake doors is belief. They all stand upon belief. Whoever knocks at the door of belief will descend into darkness, into ignorance; he cannot reach Paramatma. And all the so‑called religions have taught only this: believe.

I have heard of a wondrous man, Mulla Nasruddin. One afternoon he was up a tree, cutting some leaves and branches. But he was sawing the very branch on which he sat. A man passing below shouted, 'Mulla, what are you doing? Have you gone mad? You are cutting the branch you sit on — you will fall, you will die!' Mulla said, 'Go your way. I never believe anyone. I trust my own intelligence.' And Mulla kept sawing. The branch broke and Mulla fell. He was hurt, and thought, 'I made a mistake. I should have believed that man. He was wise, a knower of the future — he told me in advance that if I kept cutting I would fall. He must be an astrologer.'

Mulla ran after him, caught up, fell at his feet and said, 'I am most unfortunate. What a great astrologer was passing by; he said such a fine thing, revealed the future, and I did not heed it. Now I have come to ask something more. Whatever you say, I will believe.'

The man said, 'I do not know anything. I am no astrologer. It has nothing to do with the future; it was simple reasoning: if you cut the branch on which you sit...'

Mulla said, 'Do not talk of reasoning. I tried reasoning and suffered for it. I fell to the ground and broke my leg. Now I will believe. Tell me also: when will my death come?'

The man said, 'Are you mad? I know nothing; I am no astrologer.' The more he tried to avoid it, the more Mulla thought he was hiding something. Mulla was foolish enough — had he not been, he would not have cut the branch he sat on. He grabbed the man harder and said, 'I will not let you go until you tell me when I will die.'

At last the man grew angry and said, 'Die right now! Die right now! Leave me alone.' Mulla heard, 'Die right now!' Mulla said, 'If the astrologer says I will die now, then it is necessary to die now.' He dropped to the ground instantly and died. Four men, including that man, had to carry his bier; and that man was amazed: 'How strange!' The four carried the bier and reached a crossroad. One path led to the cremation ground from the left, one from the right. They wondered which was shorter. Mulla lifted his head and said, 'I could have told you, but since I am dead I cannot speak anything. When I was alive, I used to go by the left; it is the nearer way.' They threw the bier down: 'Mulla, are you mad?' Mulla said, 'Once I was deceived by reasoning. Now I have believed that I am dead.'

Mulla had not reasoned the first time either; he was blind then too. Had he reasoned he would not have cut the branch he sat on. The first time there was unreason; from that unreason he suffered. Out of fear, he adopted another unreason — belief — and now, believing, he tries to die while alive. Man has suffered from unreason — true. Whoever lives unthinkingly moves into danger. Because of unreason some exploiters tell you, 'Believe!' Unreason is dangerous; the one who does not think goes astray. And the one who accepts another's thinking also goes astray. One's own thinking is needed, one's own inquiry. Other than by the path of your own understanding, no one ever reaches the door of Paramatma. But we do two things: either we will not think at all and live blindly; or we will believe — and live blindly. We never open our eyes.

The world has lived in unreason, and to this unreasoning world one can say, 'You suffer because you do not think. Come, we will give you belief.' Belief means: a thought handed down by another. That which is given for another, given by another, never awakens a person's own soul; it lulls it to sleep. We awaken only through what we ourselves ponder. We arise only through the churnings that happen within us. But belief has closed the possibility of inner churning. We are taught: have shraddha, believe; do not think; accept what the other says. If a Tirthankar says it, accept it; if a prophet says it, accept it; if a mahatma says it, accept it; if someone says he is the son of God, accept it — but you do not think. You are not a Tirthankar, you are not God, you are not the son of God. And a few have taken a contract for being Tirthankars, sons of God, prophets, avatars! And who are these people? If even one man has been a Tirthankar in the world, then all men are Tirthankars — whether asleep or awake, that difference may be. If even one has been an avatar of God, then all are avatars of God — whether awakened or asleep. If even one is a son of God, then all are the sons of God. But what is taught is that someone is God, someone is God's son, someone is an avatar, someone a Tirthankar — and our work is to accept, eyes closed.

If Paramatma is not in everyone, then everyone must close his eyes. If Paramatma is in everyone, then everyone's eyes should be open. If Paramatma is in everyone, then within all is a place of worship; then the worship of any particular person is inappropriate. The insistence to worship any person is exploitation. To set up any shrine of worship is to mislead and confuse man. Humanity is worthy of reverence, life is worthy of reverence — this can be understood. But to declare one form of life worthy of worship and make all other forms unworthy, telling them their work is only to believe, to accept blindly — this is extremely dangerous. The greatest obstacle to the evolution of human consciousness can be such belief. And up to now all religions have tried not to awaken thought in man but to awaken belief. Why? Because whoever wants leadership — whether religious or political — cannot lead without first creating blindness in others.

The leader lives off others' blindness. He feeds on others' blindness. The more blind the people, the greater a leader one can be. The more blind the people, the more leaders will proliferate. Where there are people with open eyes, the leader departs, the religious guru departs, the royal guru departs, political leaders depart, social leaders depart.

We need a world where man is capable of leading himself — and no one is his leader. But leaders feel great pain at this notion. Therefore leaders keep propagating the blindness of man. They try to ensure that no one thinks. 'There is no need to think. Do not think. Thinking is dangerous; in thinking there is fear, risk.' This a father teaches his child. Why? Because even if the father cannot lead anyone else, he at least leads his son. He owns his son. He says to his son, 'I am experienced, I am wise, I am your father; what I say is right.' In this world, nothing becomes right because someone says it; it becomes right only when it resonates within my discrimination and understanding. The whole world may say something, but if it does not reflect awakened in my own intelligence, it is not right. Yet the father says, 'What I say is right.' The mother says, 'What I say is right.' The schoolteacher says, 'What I say is right.' The shopkeeper says, 'What I say is right.' The advertiser says, 'The toothpaste we sell is the right one; the soap we sell is the right one.' The cinema man says the same, the politician says, 'Only my brand of politics is right; my scripture is right.' Everywhere are people saying, 'We are right.' And you — your work is only this: you are a good person if you accept what we say; you are bad if you deviate. If you rebel, if you think, you are not a decent person. This effort from all sides has imprisoned each individual's soul, leaving no means of freedom. And those who keep us imprisoned we consider our guides, those who teach us yet never allow us to become learners — we take them to be our seers.

A friend gave me a book in which he had written a story I found very endearing. You must have heard the story too, but only half; he completed it. You have heard of the cap‑seller who sold caps. He went to a distant village market; on the way he rested under a tree. His caps were in a basket; he fell asleep, tired. Monkeys came down, put on the caps and climbed the tree. Wearing the caps, the monkeys strutted and preened. Monkeys are monkeys. And if a monkey puts on a cap, he struts even more. They were white khadi caps; the monkeys became very puffed up. The cap‑seller awoke, looked up; all caps were gone. But he said, 'Do not worry, monkeys. Taking the caps back from you is easy.' He took off his own cap and threw it on the road. All the monkeys took off theirs and threw them too. Monkeys are imitators. They had worn the caps because the seller wore one; they threw them because he threw his. He gathered the caps and went home.

We have all heard that much. The friend completed it. The cap‑seller grew old; his son became a young man and began selling caps. Unintelligent sons always do what their fathers did. Intelligent sons go beyond their fathers; and wise fathers always try that their sons surpass them. The foolish father says, 'Stop where I stopped. A Lakshman‑rekha is drawn. Do not cross where I did not go — you are not more intelligent than I.' The father's ego is hurt if the son goes ahead. All fathers say, 'We want our sons to progress,' but no father wants his son to progress beyond himself. Beyond that, the ego is hurt. 'Progress as much as I have progressed — that is fine. Go where I say.' The moment the son goes further, the father begins to suffer. Thus fatherhood becomes the chain of sons. The guru becomes the chain of the disciple.

That father too said, 'Son, sell caps.' The son began selling caps. He must have been a dullard; otherwise he might have done something else — there is much to do in life. He went to sell caps and stopped under the very tree his father had once rested under, for one should halt where the father halted. He placed his basket where the father had placed his, and slept. He was an obedient son; and so long as obedient sons are born, the world cannot be good. Obedient sons are very dangerous. Understanding must arise from within; obedience comes from outside. The world needs intelligent sons. An intelligent son will say to his Muslim father, 'You were a Muslim, fine; I am not a Muslim, I am a human.'

The obedient son will say, 'You killed two Hindus; we will kill four. We are obedient.' The obedient sons will say, 'We will keep wielding swords between Hindustan and Pakistan.' Intelligent sons will say, 'Our fathers were mad who fought and were cut down; we will come together.'

The son was obedient. He set down his basket and slept. The monkeys above were not the same; their sons were there. Monkeys too leave sons behind. The British left this country and left their sons behind — their faces resemble ours, but they are the Britishers' sons. And they will prove more dangerous than the British. The boy had hardly slept when the monkeys came down and took the caps up the tree. But he thought, 'Do not worry. Father told the story; there is no need to fear monkeys. If they take the caps, just throw yours.' He had a ready‑made solution. He threw his own cap. But the unexpected happened. One monkey had no cap; he climbed down and took his.

By now the monkeys had become intelligent, but the human was still foolish. The old solution did not work on the new problem. This is what happens with learned, second‑hand solutions. Do not learn solutions from others. Rather, develop such intelligence that your own solution arises. The world does not become religious because answers are taught — parroted. As long as answers are taught, the world cannot be religious. Religion is a revolution. The beginning of that revolution is that the lamp of prajna, of one's own wisdom, be lit in each person. Each individual begins to see, to understand, to think in the light of his own intelligence.

But what we call religion so far does not allow the lamp of wisdom to be lit; it says, keep your lamp extinguished so that the guru's lamp may appear bright. All remain unlit so the guru's lamp is seen. The guru does not allow another's lamp to be lit, and only so long as he does not allow it will anyone remain his disciple. The crowd of disciples is a crowd of unlit lamps. And until each man's lamp is lit, even if ten or fifty people in the world become religious — one Buddha, one Mahavira, one Krishna, one Christ — nothing fundamental will change. In fact these few make us more restless. If even they were not, we would forget that becoming religious is possible. We would be content in our irreligion, content in our worldliness; our anxieties would subside. But when now and then a man is born, he makes the whole world uneasy. We become restless: what happened within him can also happen within us. And then a new anxiety begins. The total result of this anxiety is only that some exploiter exploits us — some sect, some guru, some monastery, some temple, some book exploits us — and we become bound by that exploitation.

A few have been — and because of a few it seems all can be. But they cannot be, so long as the prison of belief sits upon them. We are all imprisoned in our beliefs. The prison of brick shows; the prison of belief does not. You sit here and beside you another sits. You know you are a Hindu and he is a Muslim. Do you see a wall between you? There is no brick wall there; stretch your hand and you will touch no wall. Yet there is a wall — greater than any wall — invisible. Two sit side by side, yet how distant they are! Our beliefs are our prisons. We are all confined within our beliefs. Beliefs are borrowed. This borrowed mind will never take you to the door of God. What is needed is one's own mind — independent, free, capable of thinking, inquiring, courageous, exploratory. What is the fear? The believer fears: 'Suppose I go to seek myself and do not find?' I tell you, even if you go to seek yourself and do not find, you will still find much. But the one who did not go to seek and imagines he has found — he has found nothing. The question is not of finding; the question is of passing through the search. Passing through the search is to find. The truth is not stored somewhere that you will go, pick it up, lock it in a safe. As you pass through the intense process of inquiry, in that very passing the truth is realized. In that very process. In that very process, like gold passing through fire. It is not that gold passes through fire and then elsewhere becomes purified. Purity is not kept somewhere for the gold to arrive at and become pure. The passing of gold through fire is its purification, because in that passing the dross is burned away. The fire of inquiry — and there is no fire greater on this earth. Unfortunate are those who have not passed through the fire of thought. Passing through it, all that is dark in man is burned away and what is luminous remains. Passing through the fire of thought, all the wrong structures of life break. All the walls that bind fall. The sky that frees, that spreads the wings, that gives a chance to fly — is found. But we are not being allowed to pass through inquiry. The chance to think is not being given.

I was staying in a house. Early morning I was walking in the garden. The old father of the house was instructing his son. He was saying, 'God made you so that you may serve others. God made everyone for this — to serve others. You too have been made by God to serve all.' The son said, 'May I ask a question?' The moment a son says, 'May I ask a question?' the old, decrepit soul is startled. The father sat up with a start: 'What do you want to ask?' His tone implied that asking is wrong, the very courage to ask is wrong; his face said, 'Do not ask.' But he could not say it. The son said, 'If you permit, I will ask.' 'Ask. What?' The son said, 'I want to know this: I have been made by God to serve others — then for what were the others made?' The father said, 'Do not bring such nonsense to me. Do not get into useless thinking. Our scripture says God made man to serve others. Serve!'

The son was asking rightly. At least one should have the right to ask that much. But there is fear of questions, because there are no answers. Wherever there are no answers, there is fear of questions. Where answers are lacking, there is fear of inquiry. Where answers are lacking, belief is imposed, shraddha is taught. And if there are no answers, then let it be known there are no answers. Even that gives strength. But to cling to false answers is sheer impotence. If the truth is that we have no answers for life, then courageous people will say, 'So be it. There are no answers. We will live without answers, but we will not clutch false ones.' Because false answers cannot lead to the true ones even if they exist. This courage — to live without answers, to live in the question, in the problem, without seizing a false solution — this courage may lead to the door where solutions are available, where there are answers.

Paramatma is, but He is found only by those who accept the risk of seeking Him. The irony is that God has become the least risky thing. No one needs to risk anything — it is enough just to believe. Believe that God is. Perform worship, it is enough. Apply sandal paste and tilak, it is enough. Wear the sacred thread, ring a bell in some temple, and it is enough. As if one could reach God's door so cheaply. If God were so cheap, courageous people would certainly refuse such a God. What will you do with a God who is obtained by ringing a temple bell? What will you do with a God who is obtained by giving a beggar two coins? What will you do with a God who is obtained by smearing a little tilak? What value is there in a God who is obtained by reading the Gita in the morning and the Ramayana thereafter? Such a God can be of no significance.

The attainment of God is arduous; it is tapascharya. Tapascharya does not mean standing in the sun. Nor does it mean lying on thorns. Nor does it mean starving. These are circus tricks that any foolish person can do. There is only one tapascharya before man: to pass through the process of inquiry. I tell you, there is no austerity greater than thought, because thought pierces all your vital parts, uproots all your foundations, demolishes all your bases, dissolves all your securities. All solutions are lost, all answers erased — and a man stands in a profound doubt, on an unknown road, on an unfamiliar path, in darkness. Without that much courage one cannot reach the Lord's door.

We weaklings stand at the Lord's door as if He should be free of cost. With free devices we wish to get Him. We have invented such tricks that we need do nothing and He will be ours. If it were to happen that way, the whole human race would have attained long ago. It will not happen so. We expect to get Him cheaply; that is why when someone offers an easy formula — 'Chant Ram Ram and you will get God' — it appeals to us. Someone says, 'Turn the rosary and you will get God.' But ask sometime: what relationship can there be between turning a rosary and meeting God? You bring a four‑paisa rosary and run your beads — what great favor upon God you are doing!

In Tibet people are even cleverer: they have prayer‑wheels. They have made a wheel like a spinning wheel with 108 spokes. On each spoke a mantra is written. They give the wheel a push; as many revolutions as it makes, so many times 108, that many mantras' benefit becomes the merit of the pusher. The shopkeeper sits in his shop, deals with customers, and pushes the wheel in between — he becomes the recipient of immense virtue. He is greatly mistaken. Now electricity has arrived; insert a plug, attach the wheel, it will spin all day like a fan. They will gain that much merit. What are you doing with your hand by moving beads? You are merely sliding little balls. Make an electric gadget, let it slide the beads; you will gain great benefits. The hand is a device and electricity is a device; whether the beads are slid by hand or electricity, what difference does it make?

Having found such cheap devices, man thinks he will stand at God's door. He does not stand at God's door; he stands at the door of his own making. And if a man persists intensely, he can even have the darshan of his own made god — that God stands playing the flute, that God stands with bow in hand, that God hangs upon the cross. If one imagines, imagines, imagines, imagination can become dream, and it can seem directly experienced that God stands there. But these gods are self‑manufactured gods — whether one makes a stone idol or an image in imagination. The god of one's own making is not God. To attain the One who is, the 'me' has to disappear. To attain these self‑made gods, the 'me' remains to fabricate them. These two are diametrically opposite. To attain what is, I must vanish. To fabricate what is not, I must remain — and add one more god. And the ego has such conceit that...

I have heard: a great mahatma was taken to Krishna's temple. I will not take his name; in this country it is difficult to take names — people have become so weak, so inferior, that even to speak with courage one cannot muster courage when names are involved. But you will understand who he was. He was a devotee of Rama. When taken to a Krishna temple in Vrindavan, he said, 'I will not bow my head before a God with a flute in hand; I can bow my head only before a God with a bow.' Note the fun: even the devotee sets conditions — 'Stand in this pose, take this posture, appear this way, and then I will bow.' A condition even for bowing! Then whose head bows — ours or God's? See the devotee's conceit, his ego: 'You stand like this, then I will bow' — that is, first you bow, then I shall bow. You must bow; only then can I bow. In your imagination you can bend your god as you like; the real God you cannot bend — you will have to bend. Before the real God you will have to yield. The false god you can bend at will: put on a peacock‑feather crown, place a flute in his hand — as you fancy. If someone modern wants to tie a neck‑tie and collar on God, he can; why not? It depends on the man. Do not give a flute, give a cigarette — it is in your hands. What can God do?

The god man manufactures is a game of his imagination, in his fist. Do not mistake this god for God. It is the devotee's own fantasy, his own desire, his projection. As he wants, so he fashions. If some woman carries in her heart an unfulfilled longing for a lover — and on this earth who finds a true lover? Husbands are found; lovers are very rare. And what relation is there between a husband and a lover? Where is a husband, where a lover? The husband is the owner; the lover is entirely other. The lover is not found. When women find only husbands upon husbands, some sensitive woman becomes restless and says, 'No, I do not want a husband; I want a lover.' Then she accepts Krishna as her lover; she decorates him in her eyes, dances, sings, lives in his rasa, rejoices, is delighted. All this happens. But this has nothing to do with God. It is a web of one's own imagination, a net of one's own unfulfilled desire. However we imagine, we satisfy what remained unfulfilled within us.

The mind has this knack: at night you sleep hungry; the mind dreams you are eating. Why? Because the mind says, 'What is not found in reality, take in dream. You did not find food in the day; take it at night.' The woman you desired in the day did not come — she is the neighbor's wife, and the neighbor's wife should be taken as mother or sister; thus all day you considered her as such. Now at night — dream. What remained unfulfilled, the mind creates; at night it is completed.

The devotees are dreaming — there is no God there. And if someone has courage, he can dream even while awake; there are day‑dreams too. There are techniques for seeing such dreams. These techniques of seeing dreams are being taken as sadhana. They are all methods for dreaming. If your belly is full, the mind is strong; if you go hungry ten or fifteen days, the mind becomes weak. If someone wishes to give shape to imagination, fasting is very useful. Fasting has one advantage: imagination becomes intense and the capacity of the mind to reason and think becomes feeble. In fever, if a man misses meals for ten to fifteen days, see what all he sees: the cot flying in the sky, this happening, that happening; he sees all kinds of things. In delirium, what all is seen! Among those whom we call attainments of God, ninety‑nine out of a hundred are in a delirious state. Starve and fast; naturally the mind's capacity to reason declines. Then imagination grows dense. And in imagination anything can be seen.

So, those who want to see gods of their own making should fast and use such devices. If you remain in a crowd, imagination does not grow as dense; alone it becomes denser. That is why alone one feels more fear. In a house with ten people you do not feel afraid. The house is the same; when you are alone, you are not afraid in the day, but at night you are. Alone at night, darkness all around, a little leaf rustles and you feel ghosts, spirits have come, or thieves. In solitude man grows weak, imagination grows dense. Thus whoever wants a vision of God should leave society and go into solitude. There, visions are easier. Here they are more difficult. In the crowd one has a little more courage; alone, courage becomes weak. Fast, live in solitude, and keep one thing on your tongue day and night: the constant chant of 'the God playing the flute' — 'O Lord, when will You give me darshan? O Lord, when will You reveal Yourself?' Close your eyes again and again and see only Him. Open your eyes and place His idol before you. Remain in that obsession twenty‑four hours a day. And if there are five or ten like you, meet them; call it satsang — and keep the same babble alive round the clock. In a few months the mind will break down; visions will start, and it will seem you have attained much. This is not the Lord's door.

No one has ever reached that door through belief, shraddha, or imagination. One reaches there by thought, by intense discrimination, by seeking, by exploration.

Therefore the first thing I want to say this morning: the door of belief is not His door. Where it is written 'belief,' where the lintel says 'shraddha' — fold your hands and turn back. Never mistake that door for God's door. That door has deceived man in religion's name. Behind that door is not Paramatma, there is only the priest. And no greater enemy of God has ever been than the priest — nor can there be. Behind that door stands the priest. Those idols of God — behind them stands the priest, threads in hand; he pulls the strings; the whole net is his. The priest is the greatest enemy of God. He is the greatest obstacle between God and man. For wherever God is not, he declares, 'He is here,' because there lies his trade, his business. The more blind the man, the better for the priest. That is why fewer men are caught in the priest's net; more women are. Because women are more imaginative, more belief‑prone, more devout. In this age, if women were to fold their hands and withdraw from the priests, the net would collapse. But women are busy weaving that net. And where women go, their poor husbands have to follow. The husbands are not going of their own accord; since the wife goes, they go behind. The woman is more prone, more emotional, more devout. And the reason for this devoutness is that for five to seven thousand years she was denied education. Whoever is educated becomes intelligent, becomes thoughtful. Therefore the priest has been the enemy of women's education. Because women are his main support. If women are educated, it will be difficult. Hence he opposes women's education. The day the women of the world are educated, ninety percent of the priest's life‑breath will be gone. He is not in favor of women's education; he is a complete enemy.

I was in Patna recently. A Shankaracharya was with me. We happened to be on the same platform. It was a great trouble. Seeing both of us together, he at once said, 'How can these two be together?' There he was explaining that women need no education. Why? He said a very amusing thing: 'Hindu dharma honors women so much that no woman needs to become a doctor; she only needs to become a doctor's wife and people call her doctress. There is no need of education. Simply by being the doctor's wife she becomes a doctress. Therefore no woman needs to become a doctor. No woman needs to become a pundit either, because she becomes a punditayin by being the pundit's wife.'

These are the people explaining things to the nation. And such dangerous people are taken as gurus. Then the country's misfortune is inevitable. And such people are standing at the doors of the temples we take to be God's.

These same gentlemen, the Shankaracharya of Puri, were staying in Delhi. A very strange event occurred. Let me tell it and complete my talk. A man came and said, 'We have a small circle of Brahma‑jnanis — those interested in Brahman. We discuss Brahman; we are seekers. Please come and explain something to us about Brahman.' The Shankaracharya looked him up and down: he wore trousers, a coat, a tie, a hat. He said, 'Will you attain Brahma‑jnana in these clothes? Have you ever heard of anyone attaining in such clothes? Were the rishis and munis fools? If not, they too would have worn hats and coats and trousers. Our rishis and munis were foolish; only you are wise.'

The man must have been shaken. He thought he was going to a wise man — how could he know he had arrived at a tailor who keeps account of garments? It did not stop there. The Shankaracharya said, 'Remove your hat. Do you have a choti or not?' There was no choti — no intelligent person would keep one. Is any brain deranged? What is the purpose of a choti? There was none. He said, 'See!' Ten or twenty‑five mad people were gathered there; without the mad, gurus would end. They are always gathered. They must have laughed, 'How beautifully the guru has spoken of knowledge! And how the man is being disgraced!' 'No choti?' The man must have trembled. Nor did it stop there. The Shankaracharya said — had the magazine Kalyan not printed it, I would not have believed it happened — 'Do you urinate standing or sitting? Those who urinate standing cannot attain Brahma‑jnana. Note it.' That day I learned that Brahman also pays attention to the style of urination and Brahma‑jnana comes through the method of urination. These are our gurus at the temple doors. And they are not small gurus, they are Jagatgurus. The irony is that no one asks the world when it appointed them Jagatguru. There is no need to ask the world. Someone becomes deluded and shouts, 'I am Jagatguru!'

I once went to a village; there too was a Jagatguru. In our country there are Jagatgurus in village after village. I asked, 'In this village too a Jagatguru? How many disciples?' People said, 'Not many — only one.' 'Then how has a man with one disciple become Jagatguru?' They said, 'Entirely constitutional! Perfectly legal.' I asked, 'Meaning?' They said, 'His one disciple — though salaried, because these days disciples are hard to find; one must pay wages — his one disciple he has named Jagat. He has named the disciple Jagat. Thus he is Jagatguru — the guru of Jagat. He has only one disciple.'

These stand at the doors of temples, mosques, gurudwaras, churches. Their faces differ: one poses as pope, one as Shankaracharya, one as something else — it makes no difference. Faces differ, shops differ; the purpose is one: to divert man from the path of inquiry and set him wandering on the path of belief. So long as man is willing to go by the path of belief, remember, his back is toward God. He will never know God. To know God, untrammeled thought is needed, continuous inquiry is needed. As the believer says, 'You will get it right now, just believe,' I do not say that by thinking you will get it right now. Thinking is a long process, a long struggle. Through a long struggle you will pass, be refined, become fresh, become new — then surely you will find. The truth is, He is already found; we are not refined, hence the difficulty. The truth is, His door is not far; our eyes are shut, hence we do not see the door. The truth is, His door is not even closed — it is open — but our eyes are closed.

There was a fakir who kept saying morning and evening to people, 'Knock and the door shall be opened.' An old woman, Rabiya, used to go to hear him. After listening for thirty years, one day she said, 'Stop this nonsense about knocking and it will open. Have you not yet come to know that His door is already open? Have you not known that the door is open? It has always been open. The door itself is an opening.' God's door is not like human doors with lock and key. Door means openness. It is a portal — there is nothing there. Our eyes are closed; His door is open. And how will eyes open when stones of belief rest upon them? Remove the stones of belief, and the eyes will open.

Upon the stones of belief the priest sits. Those very stones are his throne. Remove the priests, remove the stones, and your eyes will open. The priests sit upon these stones while reading scriptures. The scriptures are their base. They say, 'Truth is in the shastras.' Truth is not in the shastras; from those who had truth, shastras have emerged. Truth is not in the scripture. The day you know truth, that day you will see truth in the shastras. But until you know, all scriptures are untrue for you. You will find nothing except words. Until you know truth, you can find nothing in the scriptures but words. The day you know, that day you will find truth in the scriptures — and you will find truth in that book too which has not a single word. You will find truth where leaves are trembling, where the winds ripple, where birds fly in the sky, where stones lie by the roadside. The day truth is found within, that day it is found everywhere without. Until it is found within, no outer scripture can give truth. Remove the priest, remove his scripture, remove his stones. Open your eyes. But unless belief is removed, none of this can be removed. As long as the stone of belief covers the eyes, we cannot enter the Lord's temple.

So today I say to you, belief is not the door. Tomorrow I will speak to you of what the door is. Whatever questions you have regarding my words, write them and give them. I will answer them in the evening. And it will be good if you write only about what I have said, so that the talk can be complete and exact. Evening will be for your questions; tomorrow morning I will speak again, and each evening I will answer your questions.

You have listened to my words with such love and silence; for that I am very grateful. And in the end I bow to the Paramatma seated in all. Please accept my pranam.