Preetam Chhabi Nainan Basee #10

Chitranjan,
If it is prayer, it will not go unheard—only let it truly be prayer. People say they pray, yet it rarely happens; it remains only in words. That is why it misses. When prayer arises from the heart, the very moment it appears—indeed, even before it appears—it is fulfilled. In prayer itself its fulfillment is hidden. Apart from prayer, there is no other fulfillment of prayer.

Understand this word “prayer” a little. It is one of those few words whose value cannot be measured. Above prayer there is only the Divine—nothing else. Prayer is like the key to His door. If prayer is in your hand, then God is in your hand. Whoever has found prayer has never missed God. Those who have missed God have missed because they missed prayer.

Prayer does not mean asking. The moment you ask, prayer becomes false.
Yet we have made asking its meaning; the one who begs we call a “prayerful” person, and prayer’s whole purpose becomes petition. People pray only when they want something. Hence their prayer has neither sense nor substance; it is hollow. Repeating such prayers again and again and seeing them go to waste, doubts naturally arise. If prayer is not fulfilled, how can one find evidence of God? Its proof lies only in the fulfillment of prayer. No logic can prove Him. Apart from the experience that blossoms in prayer, there is no way to prove Him. Thus, little by little, prayer breaks, is fragmented, goes unheard; and faith in God withers.

This century has lost faith in God for just this reason: people have forgotten the art of prayer. The first principle of that art is: do not ask—give. What is there to ask from God? He has given so much! He has given life—what more do you need? He has given consciousness—what more do you need? He has given love, and the capacity to love—what more do you need? He has given such beauty, such a beautiful world!

If prayer turns into asking, its meaning becomes complaint: what is given is not enough; I want more. Prayer should be gratitude—that what has been given exceeds my worthiness. There was no merit in me that I should receive life. There was no merit that so many flowers should shower into my life, that so many songs should arise in me. It was not my earning that the sky full of moon and stars should be available to me; that this heart be steeped in love; that this music of life be heard; that in meditation the unstruck sound resound; that these lotuses of consciousness bloom within. Who knows from what unknown hands this grace has come! To bow down in gratefulness is called prayer. To bend in thanksgiving is prayer.

And, Chitranjan, such prayer is welling up within you. The first, tender sprouts have appeared—like fresh green blades of grass peeping from the earth after the first monsoon showers. Soon the earth will be lush. Just such new, tender grass of prayer has begun to grow within you. It will surely come to fruition. You will turn green with life. A new current has begun in you; now no power can stop it.

Prayer is such an energy-charged event that once it has begun, once a spark has fallen, the whole forest catches fire. The spark has fallen. A feeling of gratitude is arising in you. You are not asking; you want to surrender.

You say: “O Infinite! Take me into Yourself!”
Yes—prayer can only be this: as the river loses herself in the ocean. From how far she travels! She descends from the heights of the mountains. Who knows how many rocks she cuts through, how many obstacles she clears, seeking the ocean—dancing, singing, anklets on her feet, like a bride going to meet an unknown beloved. Somewhere deep down the image of the Beloved dwells in her eyes. It may not even be clear where she is going or why; there is simply an unknown allure—the ocean’s invitation is heard. She runs on. And she does not stop until she meets the ocean.

The religious person’s life is the life of a river, not a lake. A lake stagnates, closed within itself, bound within the limits of its own ego. The lake is miserly; it gives nothing. But it dries up. Whoever does not give will dry up, evaporate in the sun; only mud will remain, and from the mud a stench will rise—nothing else will be left. The lake lives fearful, dammed, confined.

The lake is the householder’s style of living; the river is the sannyasin’s style. The difference is inner. In the sannyasin there is flow, movement. He longs to merge into the Infinite, to return to the source from which he arose—this wave to sink back into the ocean from which it rose. This alone is prayer.

It will be fulfilled—surely fulfilled. Without exception, prayer is fulfilled—only let it be.

Second point to remember: people often repeat memorized formulas in prayer. One recites the Gayatri mantra, someone the Namokar mantra, someone the Japji—this and that. Prayer must be heartfelt, not borrowed, not stale. There is no need to repeat someone else’s words. Is love so impotent that it cannot find its own words? And if words do not come, at least your own silence is there! But it must be yours. However beautiful others’ words may be, if they are not yours, they are hollow. And wordless silence is deeply meaningful—if it is yours. Meaning is born from your ownness, from your intimacy with yourself.

So never repeat fixed prayers. That is what people are doing—in temples, mosques, churches, gurdwaras. At least do not accept a second-hand prayer. You wouldn’t agree to wear someone else’s shoes. You wouldn’t agree to wear someone else’s clothes. Yet you agree to drape yourself in someone else’s prayer! No shame, no modesty! Even on your body, wearing another’s clothes feels insulting; wearing someone’s shoes would pain you. Have you lost so much self-respect that you will dress your soul in others’ garments, however fine they may be?

I have heard: a friend told Mulla Nasruddin, “Why are you defaming your father? Your father had such a taste for clothes—he wore the finest, the most expensive. You have more money than he ever had, more convenience—yet look at the rags you wear! Aren’t you ashamed?”
Nasruddin said, “What are you saying! This is the very coat my father used to wear. You call it rags—aren’t you ashamed?”
His father had been dead thirty years, and he was still wearing the same coat.

When you repeat the Gayatri, do you know how many thousands of years have passed since it first arose in someone’s heart? Then it was spontaneous; it had the freshness of the morning dew, the fragrance of a newly opened flower. When it awakened in a rishi’s heart, it was a revelation. And now? Now it is mere parrot-talk.

Let your own Gayatri awaken. God is as ready to sing within you as He has sung within anyone else. Give birth to your Gayatri.

Therefore, whenever you bow in prayer, even if the words are very simple, let them be yours. And do not repeat even your own words day after day—they too become stale. Yesterday’s words are gone; yesterday is over. When you see the sun this morning, do not bring yesterday’s words in between. Are you dead? Can yesterday’s answer be alive today? You are alive now—let a new song arise today; let prayer awaken anew today. When you bow, allow that moment’s feeling to express itself. Then your prayer will have flow; it will change every day.

A clever lawyer, every night before sleep, looked up at the sky and said to God, “Read it!” He had the prayer of his faith printed and hung behind his bed. Why say it daily? “You can read it Yourself.”
But I have heard of an even cleverer lawyer. He didn’t go to the expense of printing a prayer at all. Each night before slipping under the blanket he would say, “Ditto!” and be gone. Why repeat the same thing?
But that is exactly what you are doing. Even if you don’t say “ditto,” if you recite the same Gayatri you read yesterday and the day before, which your father read and his father read, and has been read for five thousand years—you are saying “ditto.” The lawyer was not mistaken; he was clever. You are the foolish one, repeating the whole thing.

Let prayer be yours, rising from your ownness. Let it carry the color of your intimacy. Let it be unique. God has made each person unique. He does not repeat. He never makes two alike. He makes one only once. There has never been anyone like you, there is none today, and there will never be. The Original Creator does not like repetition; He is profoundly original. To relate with such an Original One, you must learn a little originality. Fixed formulas do not make prayer. They make stagnant puddles. They make Hindus, Muslims, Christians, Jains, Buddhists—stagnant pools. They do not give birth to a religious person.

And what need is there to go to temples, to mosques? If this whole existence is not His temple, can the temples built by men be His? What Kaaba, what Kashi, what Girnar! Wherever you bow, wherever a feeling wells up from the heart, wherever your song hums, wherever you dance in ecstasy, Chitranjan—there is Kashi; there is Kaaba. Where the devotee is, there is God. God is in devotion. Where there is prayer, there is the Divine. Prayer itself is the announcement of the Divine’s coming—the sound of His footsteps.

Third point: it is not necessary that you say something to God. What is more necessary is that you listen. Keep this in mind—this is the life of prayer. People think that speaking makes prayer. I say to you: listening makes prayer. Be silent, listen. God is speaking. He is speaking within you. From some unfathomable depth of your heart His voice is arising. But you are so lost in your thoughts, you have created such a clamor, that how can you hear! It is like a flute in a brass band—who can hear it? You are playing so many drums and trumpets! God is calling you. It is not only you who are seeking Him; He too is seeking you. But you are not at home. You are never to be found at your own house; you are always somewhere else. You are not where you are; you can be anywhere else.

Be silent. What prayer is greater than silence? In this third principle, meditation and prayer become one. Meditation means becoming silent. And in its supreme significance, prayer too becomes silence. Prayer begins by speaking to God and ends thus: God speaks, and I listen. Prayer entreats only this much: “You speak,” and then it listens in silence.

Chitranjan, you say—
“O Infinite! Take me into Yourself!
Unknown, I shall merge in You.
Uniting with You I will fulfill
the longing of my heart!”
Without meeting Him the heart’s longing is never fulfilled. In meeting Him there is both dissolving and gaining. Meeting Him is a death and a new life. As you are, you will pass away—your limits will vanish, your form, color, contours, your definitions will drop. You will become as indefinable as He is, as ineffable as He is, as unfathomable, as inaccessible. The drop must disappear—only then can it become the ocean. And once it becomes the ocean, where is the drop?

Prepare to disappear. God is always ready to descend. Vacate the throne. We ourselves are seated upon it. We are so full of ourselves within that even if God wishes to come now, there is no room. Who knows what rubbish we have piled up! Empty yourself of it.

Whoever agrees to become nothing becomes worthy of the Whole. This is prayer, this is worship, this is adoration, this is meditation, this is samadhi—only the names differ.

Ramnath,
Freedom from death is not possible. But who told you that you will die? You have never died before, nor can you die now. The one who dies is not you; it is someone else. The body dies—that is merely a sheath. The mind dies—that is a subtler sheath. Within these two peripheries sits the master, the indweller, who is neither born nor dies.

This life has happened many times. You are not new. You have come many times and gone many times. But the one seated within is eternal. Neither birth touches it, nor death touches it. Until you know and recognize that inner witness, this fear will go on tormenting you.

When a person is young, naturally the worry about death does not take hold. Why should it? Human vision is not far-seeing. Our sight is shallow, small. We see just a few steps ahead. We have a little lamp in our hand, and it shows only a few steps. Death seems so far away that it doesn’t feel real. And the mind is very cunning. The mind says others die; you will not die. The mind says: Look, one man died the day before yesterday, one died yesterday, one died today—did you die? People die every day; you don’t die! You have taken so many to the cremation ground and always come back home. Live! Live care-free, the mind says—don’t get into these useless anxieties.

Then there is the intoxication of youth, the swoon of youth. There is a race—to get wealth, position, prestige. Where is the leisure? Where is the time to sit and reflect? The one who reflects in youth—know that he is supremely intelligent, a great genius. Because generally the swoon of youth is so dense, the passions so strong, that a person looks awake but is not awake—he is drowned in dreams. Ambitions are only dreams. You go on weaving dreams upon dreams within. Who thinks of death! And anyway, when it comes we’ll see—what’s the hurry! If, in a stray moment of leisure, the thought of death does come, you quickly shake yourself free of it, get busy with something else, entangle yourself somewhere: What kind of despair is this arising in my mind? I am still young!

We cover and hide death in every possible way. That is why we build the cremation ground outside the village. It should be built right in the middle of the village, so that if you pass by it twenty-five times a day, twenty-five times the cremation ground reminds you: This is to be your final residence. Let it startle you, wake you, make you remember.

Whenever Buddha initiated someone into sannyas, he would send him to the cremation ground: Stay there for three months; watch the burning pyres, watch bodies turning to ash. Do just one meditation: This is the culmination of life. This is the outcome of all the hurry and hustle. Everything is left behind, and in a moment a person becomes ash. Sit for three months at the cremation ground, morning till evening, day and night, watching the dead burn—how will you escape? The remembrance will come: if not today, then tomorrow, this will be my state too.

And the one to whom the remembrance of death comes is fortunate, because with the remembrance of death, a revolution happens in life. When it is remembered that this body will go, only then does our identification with the body break, only then do we drop our infatuation with the body. What is the point of attachment to what must perish? What is the point of clutching what is bound to be lost—indeed already slipping away, if not now then soon! Why hold on? Why not search for that which never slips away? Why not seek the eternal? Fixing one’s gaze on the eternal is what sannyas is. Lifting one’s eyes beyond time—that is sannyas.

In youth it is very difficult for awareness to dawn. But this world is strange—people even grow old and still awareness doesn’t come!

Ramnath, you are fortunate: at least in old age awareness has begun. Many people don’t wake up even with their dying breath.

I have heard: a Marwari was dying. Remember, even a Marwari has to die! Death spares no one—not even a Marwari! All the sons and relatives were anxious. His voice had stopped. They all stood around him. With great difficulty he kept muttering: “b-b… jh-jh…” One son said, It seems he wants to say, “I’ve hidden the box under a tree.” Do something—make him utter the whole sentence; which tree is it? There were many trees around the house. The doctor said there is a very precious injection—if we give it, he will be able to speak a sentence or two. Even though his death was certain, everyone agreed to the injection. The doctor administered it, and everyone bent close to the dying Marwari to hear. And what did the old man say? He said, Why are you all staring at me? That calf is chewing up the broom!

Ramnath, good that in old age at least the remembrance of death has begun! Don’t deny this remembrance. Don’t try to forget it. It is useful. Use it. The wise is one who can make use of everything. Make this too a ladder.

Death is a precious thing. If there were no death in the world, there would be no sannyas. If there were no death, there would be no religion. If there were no death, there would be no remembrance of the Divine, no prayer, no worship, no adoration; there would be no Buddha, no Mahavira, no Krishna, no Christ, no Mohammed. This earth would not be able to give birth to divine beings—or even to true human beings. It would be filled with animals. Death is what has shaken us. Death’s grace is immense—its benediction great. Death shook us and reminded us. It was upon seeing death that Buddha remembered. He saw a dead body and asked his charioteer, What has happened to this man? The charioteer said, He has died. Buddha asked, Will I also have to die? The charioteer hesitated—how could he say it? Buddha said, Don’t hesitate. Tell the truth; don’t lie. Will I also have to die? Forced, the charioteer said, How can I hide this from you? Your father’s command is that you not be told of death, because astrologers had said in your childhood that the day he remembers death, that very day he will renounce. But how can I lie? Death comes to all. It will come to you too, master. No one has ever escaped death. Death is inevitable.

That very night Buddha left home; a revolution happened. If death is bound to come, then it has already come; so in the days that remain in our hands, let us seek that which is deathless.

Ramnath, if fear of death is arising, it is not inauspicious; it is auspicious.

You ask: “What should I do?”
If fear of death arises, there is nothing to do except meditation. Now dive into meditation. Now dye yourself in sannyas. Now transform life into samadhi, so that you may be related to the eternal; so that within you, you can see that which never dies. Only on seeing that will fear disappear. Only on recognizing that will fear disappear.

Good that you have grown old.
“Not yet will my end be.
Youth lives by such words:
Not yet will my end be.
Just now, just now
tender spring has entered my grove—
Not yet will my end be.
These tender leaves,
boughs, buds, soft-bodied!
With my own dream-soft hand
I will stroke the sleeping buds
and awaken a lovely dawn.
From flower to flower I will draw the drowsy, languid longing,
and gladly anoint them with the nectar of my new life;
I will show them the doorway
to where, in me, they are without end—
Not yet will my end be.
This is the very first step of my life—
where in it is death?
It is life and only life.
Ahead lies my whole youth,
golden ripples of rays carrying along my child-heart.
From my as-yet-unripe song
the horizon, friend, will ripen and bloom.
Not yet will my end be.”

Youth is very skillful at telling such lies. Old age cannot hide. How can it? The feet begin to falter, the body becomes a skeleton, the breath starts to wobble. The first footfalls of death begin to be heard.

“The stream of affection has run dry;
the body remains like sand.
This dried mango branch you see
is saying—‘Now here neither the cuckoo nor the peacock
ever come; I am that line
for which there is no meaning—’
Life has been scorched.
I have given the world flowers and fruit,
I have astonished it with my radiance and motion;
but all those blossomed moments were impermanent—
the true grandeur of life is that
which has collapsed.
No beloved comes now to the riverbank,
no incomparable one to sit on the dark grass.
Only darkness remains upon the heart;
I am unseen; this is what
the poet has said.
The stream of affection has run dry;
the body remains like sand.
Life has been scorched.
The true grandeur of life is that
which has collapsed.
I am unseen; this is what
the poet has said.”

Those who have known have always tried to wake you: Wake up! Death stands at the door! It knocks! Run as you will, try as you will, you will not escape. But the one who goes within goes beyond.

You ask, Ramnath: “Is it possible to be free of death?”
Freedom from death is not possible, but transcendence of death is possible. Death will happen—Buddha had to die, Mahavira had to die, Rama and Krishna too. Freedom from death is not possible. But there is an art of dying, just as there is an art of living. The art of dying is: to die in silence, in stillness, in meditation. And the art of living is the same: live with awareness. For the days that remain, live in meditation—silent, still, awake—so that silent, still, awake you can also die. The one who can die in silence and stillness dies knowing, “I am not dying.” He dies awake, seeing: the body has fallen away, the mind has fallen away; but I am exactly the same as I was. Consciousness remains untouched. One who has seen this eternity of consciousness—showers of joy fall upon his life, flowers of nectar drift down. Such flowers can drift down into your life as well.

Use this fear of death. Do not treat it as an enemy; it is a friend. Death too is a friend—if there is understanding; and if there is unawareness then even life becomes an enemy.

Mahavira has said: A person is his own friend and his own enemy.
If we learn, awake, to use all the possibilities of life—including the possibility of death—then we are our own friend; otherwise we are our own enemy. Many, indeed most, leave this world having lost. Ramnath, there is no need for you to leave having lost. You can return having earned. Wake up! Wake up while there is still time!

Dayaram,
Truly, one feels pity for you—one could almost weep. You are indeed worthy of compassion. But did these seven unruly children drop down from the rafters? They are your own gracious production. I haven’t seen your children, but surely they take after their father.

People go on tangling up life with their own hands—and then they cry. Like a spider, you spin the web yourself and then get trapped in it. Who told you to do it? It’s written on every wall, on every sign: “Two or three—enough.” Do you read at all? Study the writing on the walls a little.

The priest had me recite the mantras— and we began to climb the Qutub Minar of marriage. Anxiety attacks started coming daily; the income stayed the same, but the children kept increasing. What can we do? The water has risen over our heads— there are seven little tagalongs at home; the eighth is on the way. In the house there’s always shrieking and shouting; today Pappu has dysentery, yesterday Bunty had a fever. We kept stumbling despite knowing better— and the moment we married, Saturn mounted us. Now Rahu’s period is about to ride us too— there are seven little tagalongs at home; the eighth is on the way. In the house there’s nothing but empty tins, and everywhere patches of crumbling plaster. Windows? Doors? None—only fear all around. In our house, friends, there’s nothing but the house. One last match to light your cigarette— there are seven little tagalongs at home; the eighth is on the way. Behold fate’s wheel, behold nature’s blow— autumn dwells in the heart, while at home it’s children’s spring. Why not bury our face in a pillow and sob and sob? Queues for bread, and even queues for tea— our number is about to be pushed further back. There are seven little tagalongs at home; the eighth is on the way. No vacancy—the house is packed with kids; my own head has spun, the wife’s brains have cracked. Let’s dig trenches, hide somewhere, and save our backs— the eighth air-attack is about to begin. Once again the danger-horn at home is ready to sing Bhairavi— there are seven little tagalongs at home; the eighth is on the way.

Dayaram, how did these seven tail-enders arrive? Perhaps you think, “What to do—it's God’s grace! Destiny wrote it this way!” We keep deceiving ourselves with such foolish talk. Then of course entanglement arises. But we live so unconsciously that we do things without a thought—and naturally problems arise.

You say, “If I want to be peaceful at home, how can I? Where is peace at home! And you say only by living at home can true peace be attained.”

Certainly I say it: only while living at home can true peace be attained. Because if you go elsewhere you will create some other mischief. After all, you will still be you! Here at least you’ve already caused so much disturbance that you’ll have to keep a little alertness so it doesn’t go further. If you run off alone to some solitary place, you’ll create a different kind of nuisance. And by now you’re probably habituated to disturbance—without noise you may not even be able to relax. We develop habits to anything.

A friend of mine worked for the railways. For years he’d say, “I’m retiring—six months to go, four months, two months.” He was delighted: “At last I’m leaving this job—what a mistake, I wasted my life! Day and night noise, noise—life spent on the platform.” But when he retired he came to me and said, “Now I have a big problem—I can’t sleep at home. I got used to sleeping at the station. So I’ve retired, but to sleep I go to the station, because at home I can’t sleep. Until there’s the clatter and rattle, trains running, shunting going on, freight wagons moving here and there—I can’t fall asleep. I need that music! At home it’s absolute silence.”

I’ve heard this too: Near Philadelphia a train used to pass at three in the morning. Never any complaints, though it ran right through the neighborhood making a racket. Then the authorities thought, “It’s not right to disturb people’s sleep at 3 a.m.” and moved it to 7 a.m. Complaints poured in: “What happened to the 3 a.m. train? Every day our sleep breaks at three.” The officials were puzzled: “Why does your sleep break when the train now runs at seven?” They said, “That’s exactly why it breaks! We’d gotten used to it—3 a.m. was part of our inner arrangement. Now when it doesn’t pass, at exactly three there’s a jolt—what happened? Something’s wrong! A strange emptiness appears there.”

The human mind adapts.

You certainly say there’s great unrest at home—but you must also be wanting this unrest. Otherwise why create it? And take care about the eighth—if you didn’t stop at seven it’ll be hard to stop further. Some lives have no brakes. If you didn’t apply the brake by seven, when will you? The mischief will only keep increasing.

Mulla Nasruddin’s wife used to dress their three sons in identical clothes. Then three slowly became thirteen, yet she still dressed them all alike. A neighbor asked, “I don’t understand. When you had three, you said you dress them alike so none gets lost. But now there are thirteen—why still the same outfit?” Nasruddin’s wife said, “Now I do it so that nobody else gets mixed in with them! How many faces can I remember?”

But I tell you: going elsewhere won’t change a thing—you will still be you. You’ll start some new disturbance. If not this kind, then some other—because you won’t be able to live without stirring things up. Since the disturbance has already happened here, why start a new one?

I’ve heard: An accountant kept stealing from his boss—kept at it and kept at it. He built a mansion, planted big gardens, put up a house on a hill and another by the sea—pretty much acquired everything he wanted. Then he was finally caught. The boss said, “This won’t do. You’ll have to leave right now. You’ve served me long, so I won’t punish you further, but I can’t keep you on.”

The accountant said, “Listen, you’ve always listened to me—grant me one more request. If you hire a new man, he’ll have to start from A-B-C—he’ll again build a house, then one on the hill, then by the sea. I’ve already done all that—what more hassle is there now?”

The boss found the logic appealing and didn’t dismiss him: “You’re right. What’s done is done.”

That’s what I’m saying to you, Dayaram. If you run away, you’ll have to start from A-B-C all over again. Here the nuisance is so much that perhaps it will now restrain you—“Enough, enough—no more!”

Then yes, on a mountain a certain peace is found—but it is the mountain’s peace, not yours. Many get deceived in the caves of solitude. Yogis often imagine they have become peaceful and silent and everything is fine. Bring them back to the marketplace and you’ll find all their silence and peace got left behind on the mountain. In the bazaar, disturbances start at once. If no one abuses you, anger doesn’t arise—fine. But that doesn’t mean anger is gone; it only means no one is there to provoke it. Sit in a cave: no one abuses you—what will you do with anger? On whom will you pour it? But return to the world and you’ll find plenty of people ready, their choicest insults sharpened. Someone will be found—and in a single moment your peace, your silence, your austerity will scatter.

Sit alone and see no woman for long and you may start to think you’ve attained celibacy. Come back to the world and one beautiful woman crossing the road is enough. And remember: to someone coming down from the hills after a long time, every woman looks beautiful—the homeliest too. Then you’re in trouble.

As far as I can tell, Urvashi and Menaka are not as beautiful as the scriptures claim. It’s the sages’ illusion. They sat too long on the mountain—no one came, no one went. Many must have been peeking now and then: “Has Menaka still not arrived? O Lord Indra, send her now! How long will you keep me sitting like this?” If any woman shows up, she appears as Menaka.

You know this: to a starving man, dry bread tastes delicious. That’s how a man in the jungle becomes—deprived of all kinds of comforts. Inside he keeps chafing, and on the surface keeps chanting “Ram-Ram” to drown himself out—making sacred noise so he doesn’t hear what’s really going on within. And you call this peace? It vanishes in a flash—worth nothing.

If you are peaceful amidst the density of the marketplace, no one can take your peace away. Even if Indra sends Menaka, you’ll say, “Madam, move along—the lady at home is more than enough. Please go look for a sage!” That’s why Menaka and Urvashi never visit householders—what would they do there? They go to the sages.

And you say, Dayaram, “I don’t understand—seven children, each more of a handful; a shrill wife.”

It isn’t necessary that a wife be shrill. Yet every husband finds his wife shrill, and every wife finds her husband wicked and a misfortune. These are the deep secrets of the marital bond. The very woman who seemed a nightingale before marriage suddenly becomes harsh-voiced. The same woman! At her voice your chest trembles—“Another trouble is starting!” A man returns home fearful. Outside he roars like a lion; at home he sneaks in like a dog with his tail tucked—afraid. He quickly picks up the newspaper and hides behind it on the chair—“Who knows what trouble may erupt!”

It’s not that the wife is inherently harsh. But these ties of attachment and infatuation are fleeting. The sweetness is on the surface; inside it turns bitter. No one’s specific wife or husband is at fault—these relationships themselves go sour. Think of an allopathic pill—sugar-coated. Swallow it quickly; don’t sit there sucking it, or the sugar layer will melt and what’s left is poison. Husbands and wives keep sucking each other—soon the sugary layer peels off and the inner poison starts to show.

When you meet a woman on Juhu beach, she’s all decked up, perfumed and powdered; you too are dressed up, scented, with cotton stuffed in your coat here and there so your chest looks like Dara Singh’s. How long can cotton deceive? At home you’ll remove the coat—and the real chest will be seen. The wife is doing the same—tying and binding the body in various ways. What circus women endure, it’s hard to say! They cinch the waist to look slender, because these wretched poets have declared that a beautiful woman has no waist at all! So beautiful women are busy erasing their waists.

One day Mulla Nasruddin came home carrying a bicycle handle he’d found on the road. His wife said, “Throw it out! When there’s no bicycle at home, what will you do with a handle?”

Mulla said, “And you keep buying blouses of all kinds—I never say a word. There’s nothing inside them. I bring one bicycle handle without a bicycle—what’s the harm? What’s your problem? Today I found a handle; tomorrow I’ll find a bicycle too. With a little searching, what can’t a man get? People have reached the moon!”

Out there, men and women meet all polished. No smell of sweat, no body odor, the true colors don’t show. They speak sweetly, recite poems, hum filmi songs. He says, “You’re a piece of the moon!” She says, “There’s never been a beauty like you—an avatar of Krishna himself!”

But it can’t last long. Before marriage such talk is fine; after marriage the truth must emerge. Then the wife seems shrill—the same nightingale from before.

Often the poets who write the loveliest songs about women are bachelors. Only the unmarried can write such things. Ask a married man—he’ll bang his head.

Chandulal wanted to marry and showed his palm to an astrologer. The astrologer said, “You must marry. You’ll get a beautiful wife, fine sons. A full house. Peace and joy.” Then nothing of the sort happened—everything the opposite. One day Chandulal grabbed the astrologer by the neck: “You brat of an astrologer, whatever you predicted turned upside down!”

The astrologer said, “Wait! What’s gone wrong?”

Chandulal said, “There is no peace at home at all.”

He said, “Wrong! Look at my house—I solved it. I named my wife Shanti (Peace). Now there is Shanti at home. What else does ‘peace at home’ mean? Look at my situation—my elder son’s name is Sanjay, the younger is Kanti—and still there is Shanti at home! And you complain? It’s a matter of changing names!”

Dayaram, and you say your mother-in-law is often on your head.

Good signs! This is exactly how renunciation is born, how dispassion arises—“There is nothing here of substance!” Without mothers-in-law, how would one realize the world is hollow?

One day Mulla Nasruddin went to the vet and said, “Cut off my dog’s tail.”

The vet said, “What are you saying! Such a lovely dog—you’ll spoil him by cutting his tail!”

Nasruddin said, “Don’t argue—cut it. Quickly!”

The vet asked, “But why? What’s wrong with the tail?”

Nasruddin said, “Do I have to explain everything? My mother-in-law is coming. I don’t want to leave any sign of welcome in the house. And this dog is a fool—I’ve been explaining for seven days: Son, when mother-in-law comes, don’t wag your tail. I say don’t wag—and he wags. He won’t listen. And that’s enough for her—if the dog wags his tail, she’s not leaving!”

I understand your predicament, Dayaram. Your parents picked your name well! But now what’s done is done. Where you are, as you are—don’t run. Accept the situation there itself. Perhaps even in this curse a blessing is hidden. If you can see God even in your mother-in-law—though that is very hard! Those who say “see God in everyone” don’t specifically say “see God in your mother-in-law.” No scripture writes that; they skip the mother-in-law entirely. But I say to you—since I have the habit of saying the opposite of the scriptures—see God even in your mother-in-law. See God in your wife. See God in these seven tagalongs. And in whatever conveniences or inconveniences God has arranged around you—wake up within this very weave.

What I call meditation can be practiced anywhere. Your notion of meditation is probably concentration—and that’s where you’re stuck. Concentration will be difficult, because it means fixing attention on one thing. You sit to concentrate on Hanuman—and your seven Hanumans will turn up in between. Someone will pull your leg, someone your hand: “Daddy, what are you doing? Open your eyes!”

People tell me, “When I close my eyes, my son pries them open—‘Daddy, are you alive or not? You’re sitting with your eyes closed!’”

If you try concentration, you’ll be in trouble. But I don’t call concentration meditation. Meditation is awakening—awareness. It’s a bigger thing. The children make noise—you remain awake and listen, as a witness. Someone pries open your eye—you witness: “Fine, the eye is being opened.” The mother-in-law passes by—“Fine.” Just witnessing. No judgments of good or bad, no weighing: who’s right, who’s wrong. The wife is shouting—no need to label it “shrill,” because then judgment has already entered. It’s just sound. With impartiality, slowly, gently, hold to witnessing.

And I tell you, it will settle right there in that house. And if it settles in that house, no one in the world can unseat you. Even if someone sends you to hell, not a hair on your head can be harmed. Your training will be such that the officials of hell will say, “Brother, please go to heaven. Dayaram, you’ve seen enough of hell—go to heaven! What are you doing here now? We’ve got nothing new to show you.”

Bhagwandas Bharti,
it was a live coal. Such questions should not be asked of sadhus, sadhvis, monks, mahatmas. You shouldn’t put such obstacles in their way. Poor fellows—neither their understanding nor their capacity is such that they can resolve your questions. They themselves don’t have answers. They can only repeat prefabricated lines. They are parrots. If you ask them something written in the scriptures—“How many elements is the human body made of?”—they’ll tell you, five elements, and be delighted that you asked such a proper question! If you asked, “What is ahimsa? What is aparigraha? Why is eating at night a sin?” they would answer all that. They are gramophone records—His Master’s Voice! You know that gentleman sitting before the horn? That’s what these people are. They merely echo the scriptures.

But the questions you asked put them in a bind. And these people know neither meditation nor samadhi. Having found no resolution within themselves, how will they give you one? Their entire personality is pretence, a mask. You touched the sore. You tried to slip the mask off. You asked them as you ask me. Don’t ask this sort of question anywhere else. With me you can ask whatever you wish, but not elsewhere. They are not prepared for such questions. In any way, if you try to shift their mask, you’ll land in trouble. They are all playing political games.

They say, “Hail the world-religion!” But if you probe, “What do you mean by world-religion?” inside it’s hidden: Digambara Jainism! Not even all of Jainism—specifically Digambara Jainism. Even Shvetambara Jainism doesn’t make it into that “world-religion.” “World-religion” is only for show. It’s political maneuvering. Under the cover of “world-religion,” they appear broad-minded: ah, such generosity—hailing the world-religion!

If they truly hail the world-religion, they should answer all these questions—and more. Jesus ate meat and drank wine. Did Jesus realize God or not? Ask them. Jesus ate at night—happily. In truth, he ate at night. Muhammad fasted by day and ate at night. Even today in Ramadan Muslims do the same. Ask: what about Muhammad? Muhammad had nine wives. Can a man with nine wives attain liberation or not? Ask about Ramakrishna—he ate fish; then how was he a Paramahansa?

If you start questioning them about the world-religion, they’ll be in a fix. If you ask nothing, “world-religion” is a nice, sweet word. But deep down, by “world-religion” they mean Digambara Jainism. When you ask for a definition, the only definition that emerges is that of Digambara Jainism. The phrase “world-religion” has become legal tender now—useful in politics. They need Hindus, Muslims, Christians too; they want people of other religions to listen, to be impressed, to get interested—so talking of the world-religion is a clever move. These people are politicians as well.

A few experts in plastic surgery
had gathered
and were running their mouths.
The first said,
“I fitted a leg
to a lame woman;
this year
in the Olympic race
she came first.”
The second said,
“Only day before yesterday
I fixed a new arm
on a one-armed man,
and just yesterday
in boxing
he gave Dara Singh
a sound beating.”
The third said,
“From that day I’ve been troubled
since I pasted a human smile
on a wolf’s lips:
he’s going door to door
with folded hands,
canvassing for votes
for the next election!”

There are all kinds of elections, all kinds of votes. Crowds must be gathered. Now Jains are not a big crowd. And Digambara Jains are even fewer. Who would come to hear Monk Vidyanand? They need Hindus, Muslims, Christians—so shout, “Hail the world-religion!” By shouting it, all those people are deceived into feeling perhaps he’s hailing their religions too.

But ask them to define religion. Their definition will be such that only Digambara Jainism fits. That’s how definitions work. Jesus, Muhammad, Krishna, Ram—none will fit. Krishna least of all. Sixteen thousand wives! Even sin should have some limit! And then the same man orchestrated a war. Arjuna wanted to be a Jain monk—he would have become an Acharya Vidyanand! But Krishna kept coaxing and coercing… Arjuna tried every way to avoid it, laid down his Gandiva, argued in every possible manner. But Krishna was stubborn; he kept pouring the doctrine down his throat. I don’t believe Arjuna ever truly agreed with Krishna. He just saw this man wouldn’t let go, and said, “My lord, now forgive me. My doubts are gone.” Better to fight than to keep grappling with you. The poor fellow fought.

Those Jains were more honest—far more honest than Monk Vidyanand—when they said, “We consign Krishna to the seventh hell.” More honest. Monk Vidyanand is being dishonest. You touched the raw nerve.

You asked: yesterday you called Krishna “Narayan,” but by Jain scriptures he is in the seventh hell.
You put him in a tight spot. If he says Krishna is in the seventh hell, he loses the Hindus. And this is a Hindu country. Today Jains don’t have the courage or the guts to assert boldly what their doctrine claims. And if he says, “No, Krishna is Narayan; the Jain scriptures are wrong,” he loses the Jains. You created a crisis for him. Hence you say, “I only handed over a small slip of paper.” It was a live coal! You landed Vidyanand in trouble—well, a well on one side, a ditch on the other. He saw the slip and thought, “A dangerous man has arrived.”

And why do you go to ask such people anything! Just look at their faces—glum and buzzing with flies. Why did you go there? Why trouble them? Let the poor fellows live; let them shout, “Hail the world-religion!” What of yours is gained or lost? Do they ever go to a mosque? Do they ever bow in a Hindu temple?

As for going into a Hindu temple—Jain scriptures say that if even a mad elephant is charging and you’re about to be trampled underfoot, then be crushed, die; but if there’s a Hindu temple nearby, don’t take refuge in it. Let alone bowing there. Ask them why they shout “Hail the world-religion!”

But their inner arithmetic is different. Their inner meaning is: other religions aren’t religions at all; the real religion is one—Digambara Jainism; that alone is the world-religion. So there’s no contradiction for them; it’s just their internal bookkeeping. When they say, “Hail the world-religion!” inside they are saying, “Hail the Jain religion!”—and mind you, even within that, Digambara.

I once went to a village where Shvetambaras and Digambaras had come to blows. There was only one temple in the village; small village, one temple. They had split it half-and-half—by time. Until noon the Shvetambaras worshiped, and after noon the Digambaras worshiped. But that arrangement was troublesome. There are troublemakers everywhere. Noon would strike, and some Shvetambara would pretend, “Our worship isn’t over yet; we’re in ecstasy,” and stretch it to twelve-thirty. Outside the Digambaras were waiting: “Out! Move! Your time is over.” And the other fellow kept on worshiping. So there was a riot.

I asked them: it’s the same image of Mahavir. If the Shvetambaras are worshiping, let them; you start your worship too.
They said, “How can we start?”
I asked, “What’s the difference?”
There’s a small difference. The Shvetambaras worship Mahavir with his eyes open—so they put eyes on the image. Artificial eyes. Be grateful they don’t also put spectacles on him! Otherwise, in old age they would have given Mahavir glasses too. Fake eyes, and then fake spectacles on top! Blind themselves, they make him blind too! And the Digambaras worship with the eyes closed, because in Mahavir’s meditative posture the eyes should be closed. The original image had closed eyes. So the Shvetambaras stick on their eyes, do their worship, then remove them. After that the Digambaras worship.

So both can’t worship at the same time. They can’t do it together. Sticks flew. The nonviolent—sticks flew! In Mahavir’s name!

I told them a story. A guru had two disciples. It was noon in the heat of summer. The guru was resting, both disciples were massaging his legs. So there’d be no quarrel, they divided the legs—one got the left, one the right. The guru turned over in his sleep, and his right leg fell over his left. The disciple of the left leg shouted, “Move your right leg! Hey, move it! Your leg is on my leg—this is intolerable!” The right-leg disciple said, “Who dares move my leg? I challenge you—move it!” The left-leg disciple lifted the right leg and flung it aside. The right-leg disciple picked up a stick and started thrashing the left leg. The guru screamed and woke up. He saw what had happened and said, “Listen—the legs are mine!”

Ask poor Mahavir what his intention is—should eyes be fixed on him or not! No one is asking him. A lawsuit is going on. The police have kept the temple under lock and key for years because the court can’t decide to whom the temple should be given.

These people will hail the world-religion! They are the mischief-makers—the root of all hassles and quarrels. And you go to question them!

Mulla Nasruddin went to a doctor and said, “I’ve been ill for ten years. No one has been able to treat me. All the doctors are exhausted; I am exhausted by doctors. You’re new in this town; I’ve heard great praise. Can you cure me?”
The doctor said, “I alone can cure you. I’ve been ill for thirty years—I’m an experienced doctor! What will they do for you? They have no experience of illness. You’ve come to the right man.”
Still afraid, Mulla said, “I’ve heard some doctors give medicine for cataract and the patient dies of pneumonia.”
The doctor said, “Don’t worry. Whenever I give medicine for pneumonia, the patient always dies of pneumonia!”
Mulla got more nervous. But the doctor said, “Don’t worry. You don’t have cataract or pneumonia. You’ll need an operation—I must remove your appendix.”
Mulla’s soul shook. “What are you saying, doctor! Please be careful when you operate; I’m very frightened. This is the first operation of my life.”
The doctor said, “Don’t be scared. Do you think this is my second? I’m also doing an operation for the first time!”

And you go to take counsel from such people! Don’t torment them. Don’t trouble them. Let them shout “Hail the world-religion.” Let them do what they want. There’s no need to wade into that trash heap.

And you mentioned my name before him—you stabbed him in the chest! Don’t ever mention my name in front of any “mahatma.” Otherwise, the moment they hear my name, they run in such a way they won’t even look back at you. You mentioned Krishna—dangerous enough. And then you added my name! You sprinkled salt on a burn. Don’t do that, brother.

Veena,
I laugh in solitude. Here, when I look at you, I feel like crying. The human condition is so wretched, so full of inner pain. It’s a wonder one is alive at all.
So I can make you laugh, but I myself cannot. In solitude I do. When you are not there, when the very memory of you fades, when your faces are no longer before me, when your pain and your sorrow are forgotten—then I laugh. But before you, laughing is impossible.

Those in whose breath no fragrance of flowers ever dwelt,
who at playful buds have only ever cracked crude jests;
in whose eyelid-gardens no butterfly was ever caught,
on whose lips a smile never came, not even by mistake—
if I could make such ill-starred ones laugh their fill, then I would laugh;
I do laugh—let me get into the mood and I will laugh.

Those who in ecstasy never sprouted wings to fly,
and in sobriety never tangled with fragrant tresses;
who, on seeing dark monsoon clouds, only ever fretted,
whose steps never once turned toward the tavern—
if I could make those sinners drink two gulps, then I would laugh;
I do laugh—let me get into the mood and I will laugh.

Those who, from birth, were ground in the mill of want,
who never knew what people here call childhood;
whose hands, even in youth, only wore away on stone,
and in old age oozed like festering sores—
if I could press those orphans to my heart, then I would laugh;
I do laugh—let me get into the mood and I will laugh.

Those whose every morning burned in smoldering memories,
whose noons went by in sobbing promises,
whose evenings were spent in fresh quarrels and strife,
and whose nights passed only in plans for suicide—
if I could save such wretches from dying, then I would laugh;
I do laugh—let me get into the mood and I will laugh.

Veena, laughing is difficult. Seeing man, if I can hold back my tears, that is much. Just look at the misery of man, at the hell he carries within. And the difficulty is greater because he himself is the maker of that hell.

Mulla Nasruddin, drunk, was walking down the road. His foot slipped; he fell. Several fractures. A man came to lift him and carry him to a nearby house—he too was drunk. Carrying Nasruddin was hard enough; walking was hard for him. He stumbled and fell. Whatever bones of Nasruddin’s had been spared also broke. Then four more tipplers came out of the wine-house. It must have been outside the tavern that it all happened. They said, Not like this, brother, not like this. We need a stretcher. They quickly fetched two poles and tied some cloth to make a stretcher. Midnight—no one else around. They put Mulla on it to take him to the hospital. The cloth tore, he fell out, and whatever had been left intact, broke too.

Next day when his friends came to see him, they were amazed at his condition. The entire body wrapped—bandages everywhere, plaster from head to toe. Only the eyes, nose, and mouth were visible. They asked, It must be very painful!
Nasruddin said, No, not as such; only when I laugh.
They asked, But good man, what are you laughing about? What is there to laugh at?
He said, I’m laughing because I was drunk, so I fell. I was a fool! Then along came another fool, also drunk—no sense at all—and he started to carry me. He fell and broke a few more of my bones. Then four more fools arrived. They outdid everyone: they made a stretcher—how they made it, with a towel or whatever, I don’t know. That towel was bound to tear, and tear it did. I laugh to see that those who have no control over themselves are helping others, serving others. On my own, only a few bones had broken; the rest broke in other people’s service. I am now reaping the fruits of the service they rendered. Sometimes a laugh just comes. When it does, the body moves a little—and that hurts terribly.

Man is unconscious, bandages upon bandages. Everywhere, stupefaction; not a trace of awareness. Darkness, darkness—an amavas night. And, Veena, you ask me why I don’t laugh!

I would like to laugh, to join your laughter; but I cannot. And there is a reason I make you laugh. When I see someone yawning, when I see someone dozing, there is no other way but to say something that will make you laugh. If you laugh, a little sleep breaks; you wake a little, you come a little to your senses. To break your sleep, I make you laugh from time to time—otherwise you would fall fast asleep.

A priest was preaching. One man didn’t just sleep, he began to snore. The priest said, Brother, softly, softly! Don’t wake the others who’ve fallen asleep!

If I didn’t make you laugh, you all would have dozed off long ago. In religious gatherings people mostly sleep. That is why I try to make my gathering as irreligious as I can—otherwise people will sleep. Religion, understand, has become a sleeping draft. Doctors send patients who can’t sleep to religious discourses: if the tranquilizers fail, never mind—go to a religious meeting; you’ll certainly doze off there. The same old tale of Rama! The same Sita Maiyya! The same Ravana! The same Hanumanji! How long can you listen? Centuries have gone by listening. If you don’t sleep, what else will you do? And the talk of religion—hollow, theoretical, scriptural. Who finds juice in it? Life is tasteless as it is, and such talk makes it even more insipid.

I don’t want my assembly to become a religious assembly. This is a tavern, and I want to keep it a tavern. So when you forget and start thinking a religious discourse is on, I have to do something irreligious—to remind you, No, brother, this isn’t a religious meeting. If you came for that, you came here by mistake. This is a mehfil. This is a gathering of the blissfully drunk, a satsang of rinds, a band of tipplers.

So I make you laugh so you don’t fall asleep. But I cannot laugh. I will laugh on the day I see that you are all awake, that there is no longer any need to make you laugh. The day I no longer have to rouse you, that day I will sit here and laugh. Then there will be nothing to say. For now, I must work with you.

And to wake someone—anyone—is a troublesome task. The sleeper tries every way to say, Don’t disturb my sleep! Don’t wake me! I’ve only just fallen asleep; the cool breeze of dawn has only just begun—and you come to wake me!

When I was at the university, I used to get up at three in the morning. So anyone who had to catch a train, a professor, a dean, a vice-chancellor, would say to me, Please wake me at five.
I would wake them at three. They’d look at the clock: Arre, it’s only three! I’d say, Sleep a little more.
At three-thirty I’d wake them again.
Will you let me sleep or not? I have to leave at five.
I’d say, Then I’ll wake you a little later.
At four, I’d wake them again. Hands folded, they’d plead, Now please be kind enough not to wake us at five either. You’ve exhausted us.
The news spread in the university that no one should ever ask me. It got to the point that one gentleman, Dr. Rasal—the head of the Hindi department, a very good man—said to me one day, Brother, tomorrow morning I must catch the five o’clock train. Please be careful not to wake me. If you hear from anywhere that I have to catch a train, I fold my hands before you—don’t wake me. Let the train be missed, let it be missed. But you start waking me from three!

People simply don’t want to wake up—let the train be missed, let life be missed.

But here I sit, bent on waking you. Whoever falls into my hands, I will wake him. I’ll shake, rattle, pull, stretch, make you laugh—whatever I can, I will do. I’ll whack you if I must—whatever I can, I will do.

I don’t really answer your questions; I give you a thrashing. Think what that poor Dayaram must have gone through! Will Dayaram ask another question? Finished! By now he must be saying inwardly, O Lord, all my doubts are resolved! I have nothing more to ask; I’m going home—and there I’ll practice being quiet.

Your questions are only pretexts so I can shake you awake. That’s why I say—ask! It’s not a matter of giving answers; it’s a matter of giving you a good drubbing. Answers won’t wake you. You’ve been guzzling answers for centuries. In drinking down answers you’re so skilled you can swallow the scriptures and not even belch!

That’s all for today.