Preetam Chhabi Nainan Basee #13

Anand Veetrag,
Body and soul are not as different as we have assumed. The gulf we have posited between them is largely imagined. The body influences the soul; the soul influences the body. Understand it this way: the soul is the inner aspect of the body; the body is the outer aspect of the soul—inside and outside of one existence. They are joined, interconnected. Change one, and the other is transformed.

What does yoga do? After all, all the processes of yoga are processes of the body, yet the results begin to happen to the soul. If the body is absolutely still, in siddhasana, the mind becomes still. And if the mind is still, the body too becomes still.

Drink alcohol: the alcohol does not enter the soul; it goes into the body, mixes with the blood; yet you become unconscious. And unconsciousness is an inner phenomenon. What of the body—will the body become unconscious? The body is just earth. When you fall ill, you see that in a diseased condition your mind too becomes ailing, depressed, low, inferior. And when you are healthy, suffused with energy, there is zest, enthusiasm—there is a dance within you.

The duality of body and soul is also a delusion. Therefore I would say to you: let science do what science can do. What a Buddha, a Mahavira, a Krishna can do—let them do that. Let science complete the work of science. When Buddha fell ill, it was a physician who treated him. A physician, Jivaka—the most renowned physician of that time—was Buddha’s personal doctor. For years he continually traveled with Buddha to tend his body.

How did Buddha die? From poisoned food. How did Mahavira die? From dysentery. Even a mighty soul like Mahavira could not conquer dysentery! A man like Mahavira—whom we have named “the Great Hero,” who conquered anger, lust, ego—was defeated by dysentery! For six months Mahavira suffered from it. Buddha used to take medicine; in this respect, his stance toward life is more scientific. Mahavira would not take medicine. He could not, given his vows. So for six months his body weakened, wasted away, and then he died.

Do you know how Krishna died? From an arrow striking his foot. The arrow did not strike the soul. There is no way to strike the soul with an arrow. He was resting under a tree; a hunter, by mistake, shot an arrow into his foot—and he died.

Let science take care of the body. Put the body in the hands of religion and you will get into trouble—and that is exactly the trouble this country is suffering. You have put even the care of the body into the hands of religion. If the rains fail, you have foolish priests perform fire rituals. If there is famine, perform havans! You are mad. If the rains do not come, science can induce rain. If crops do not yield well, science can increase the yield. But you have handed everything to the pundits and priests.

India’s “mother cows,” whom you call mother and worship—and about whom your saints and mahatmas never tire of singing praises—how much milk do they give? India’s cows should give more milk than any cows in the world—where else would they receive such honor, such reverence, such worship! From Shankaracharya to Vinoba Bhave, they are all busy with one campaign: Save Mother Cow! Save the breed! And how much milk does Mother Cow give? Some a quarter liter, some half, some one liter, some two. In Sweden, Belgium, or Switzerland, a single cow gives sixty kilos of milk. This is a matter for science, not for pundits and priests. It is not a matter of calling her “mother,” but of scientific insight and scientific methods.

Small things make a difference—very small things.

Now, in India women bind their saris tightly. Ask a scientist: if a pregnant woman binds her sari so tight, what impact will it have on the baby’s brain?
The child will be a blockhead from birth—out of sorts right from the start! A pregnant woman should wear loose clothing. If you bind clothes so tight, the baby’s brain fibers—still very delicate—will be stretched, pulled, compressed, damaged. A dull-witted child will be born.

Do not ask pundits and priests what the mother should eat; ask scientists. When the child is in the mother’s womb, the mother needs a special diet—what the child needs should reach the mother. The child floats in water in the mother’s womb, and that water should have the very same chemical constituents as the water of the sea. If there is even a slight deficiency, there will be a deficiency in the child’s personality. The saline content should be the same as the ocean’s. That is why pregnant women begin to prefer salty things. Anything salty becomes appealing; the attraction to salt increases suddenly. The reason is not in the mother; it is the child’s need, the child’s demand.

The child has many other needs that we fail to meet. Even after birth, there are many needs we do not fulfill. That is why genius does not blossom. Millions are born in our country, but how many are gifted? How many people in India receive the Nobel Prize? How many reach the peak of life, attain true intelligence? Here, there ought to be intelligence everywhere, because here people are so religious! One is reciting the Hanuman Chalisa, another is chanting Lord Rama’s name, another is turning the rosary. People are entrenched in temples, mosques, gurdwaras. But what is the result? The result is—wretchedness, poverty, starvation. And people think as if the responsibility lies with someone else.

A gentleman wrote me a letter today: “You ride in a Rolls. If you sell it and distribute the money to the needy, wouldn’t that be wonderful!”
How many needy would get how much? There are seven hundred million needy in India. Suppose you come at least—take your share; you won’t even get a single paisa. The rest who come, we’ll keep giving to them. But the irony is this: when I was not riding in a Rolls, the needy were just as many; now too they are just as many. When I walked on foot, they were just as many. But the whole mind is stuck on foolish, petty things.
And to the gentleman who has asked, I ask in return: what have you done for the needy? Did you sell your bicycle? Did you sell your house? Did you sell your shop? What have you done for the needy? And why should anyone else do it! After all, what are the needy themselves doing? Their one occupation seems to be to go on creating needs—to line up children in a queue; that is their work. As if they were doing some great favor!
The question has been asked as though he has come to give me grand advice: You came here needlessly; so much money wasted—give it to someone in need. How did you get here—without a ticket? Do you wear clothes or not? Then give them away! Become a Digambar monk! Because where will this logic stop?
I used to travel in the cheapest car, a Standard Herald. Even then people would ask me, “You don’t care about the needy—sell this and give to them.” So I sold it and bought a Fiat—let’s settle the hassle. People began to say, “Ah, you go around in a Fiat! The needy...” I sold that and bought an Impala. Again people said, “The needy...” I sold the Impala and bought a Benz. People said, “What are you doing?” I said, “Alright, bring a Rolls! And now don’t ask me this question again, because now I have no solution—what else should I buy!”

I have my own way of thinking. If there are needy, then you are responsible, not I. I haven’t produced a single child—and I assure you I won’t in the future either. What more do you want? I don’t ask a penny from anyone; I depend on no one. So why are you bothered?

But in this country there is this notion, as if those who are needy are doing a great favor to others—by remaining needy! They are giving people the opportunity to serve. That is the great thing: to give the opportunity of service. Because the one who serves will get the sweet reward. And what will those who get served receive? I have heard that the one who serves will get the fruit—not here, in the next life, after death. And what guarantee is there for such fruits? And the one who has others serving him—what about him? Will he rot in hell? He ought to rot in hell.

I don’t want anyone to rot in hell. That’s why I neither serve anyone nor tell anyone to serve. Because you will loot the “dessert,” and that poor fellow—don’t ruin him. Give him the chance to stand on his own feet.

This huge division set up between body and soul is wrong. Body and soul are united, just as the world and the divine are united. The divine is the soul of this world; this world is his body. You are a small cosmos. Within you both aspects of the divine are manifest—body and soul. They are two wings; cut even one and you’ll be in trouble. Both must be healthy.

And remember, the body’s needs come first, then the soul’s. On an empty stomach, O Gopala, no devotional singing happens! Therefore science is the first necessity; religion is number two. Religion is the higher need—hence it is the second need. You may find this hard to understand, because you think the highest thing should be number one. Not so. If you are to build a temple, the spire will rise to the top, the golden pinnacle will glisten in the sun; but the foundation stones have to be laid first. No one even sees them, yet the temple stands upon them. Without the foundation stones, no golden finial can be mounted.

Religion is like the golden finial. There are no foundation stones, and you are parading around with the golden finial in your hands.

The misfortune of this country is that it has no foundation stones. Only science can lay those. We have grand plans for golden finials, but without foundations all those plans are trash; they have no value. The West has amassed the foundation stones, but it lacks plans for the golden finial. If I had to choose between the two, I would choose the West, because at least the foundation is ready. When the foundation is ready, if not today then tomorrow the plan for the golden finial will also arise. But if the foundation itself is not ready, and you go on planning finials, you are mad, deranged—your plans are worthless.

The West has met the basic needs; therefore the subtler needs can now be fulfilled. It is like trying to teach music to a hungry man—his hands will tremble. Will you teach him to play the sitar? You hand him a flute and he will weep; tears will fall from his eyes. Tell him to dance—how will he dance? He is becoming a skeleton.

Therefore I do not reject science. In my view, science has great value, great worth. And without science, humanity will never become healthy. This country of yours is sick, diseased, and these queues of the needy—they will remain, they will only grow. You have become a blot on the earth. You ought to have been the earth’s good fortune, because you are the oldest race, you have been in existence the longest on this planet. And you were given ample opportunities of good fortune. But a mistake kept happening: without science, even the loftiest talk of religion got lost in thin air. It could not find a base on the ground. We kept talking of flowers, but we could not sow the seeds. We wanted to touch the sky, but we could not grow wings.

In my vision, science and religion are not separate. I consider science the first step of religion. If science can give people healthy bodies, healthy souls will enter of their own accord.

Anand Veetrag, you ask: What will be achieved by getting superior bodies?
A superior body is an opportunity. Suppose a gardener says, “Even if we sow the finest seeds and the loveliest plants sprout—lush, healthy, fresh, dripping with sap, heavy with greenness—what will come of it?”
What will come of it! On these very plants beautiful flowers will bloom. You have created the opportunity; now the flowers will blossom of themselves. Beautiful fruits will grow on them, and within them even more beautiful seeds, from which still lovelier flowers will keep coming. Life is an evolution.

Science can give man a beautiful, healthy body. If the body is healthy and beautiful, superior souls will enter of their own accord; there is no need to usher them in. How did you enter this body, Anand Veetrag—can you say? How did you come in? It happened by itself, naturally. As water flows toward hollows, so do souls flow toward wombs. If wombs are sound and healthy, then souls too will have the facility, the opportunity, to be beautiful and healthy within them. And opportunity is a great thing. When there is opportunity, evolution becomes easy.

Right now the situation is very strange. Yet even now, if you look closely, you will find that all twenty-four Jain tirthankaras were princes. Why? Why were the twenty-four tirthankaras of the Jains born in royal houses? Because there were the conditions for a tirthankara to develop. All the Hindu avatars are princes, and the Buddha was a prince, too. Three great religions were born in India; the incarnate founders of all three were princes. Why? Why were they not born in the homes of beggars? Why did they not choose the needy? Why did they not come into the womb of some starving woman? At least they should have had compassion. Someone as nonviolent as Mahavira should at least have thought, before taking birth, that he is choosing a queen; he could have chosen a sweeper woman! If he was such a great friend of the lowly, he should have chosen a sweeper woman. But he chose a queen. Only in a queen’s womb was the possibility. If the body is obtained healthy and beautiful, then the means for inner beauty can arise as well.

Will you say that the beauty of a vina and the soundness of its strings have nothing to do with music? No, you will not say that. For if the vina is beautiful and sound, with the strings tuned properly, sweet and resonant, then the possibility of music is much greater. Put into someone’s hands a broken vina—even if he is a great master—what will happen? He will sit there going tun-tun, tun-tun; he will not be able to produce music.

Thus in my view there is no division between the two. I want to see a harmony established between them. Therefore I am in favor of giving science full opportunity—right from the very start, from the moment of conception. The real question is there; the real question is at the time of sowing the seed. If science is given a chance from the moment of conception, we can fill this earth with very beautiful and healthy people.

You will be amazed to know that after the Second World War the average height of the Japanese increased by two inches. How did that happen? For centuries it had not increased; how did it grow by two inches after the war? It was the result of American food. With the American soldiers came American food; it was healthier. Otherwise the poor Japanese were eating rice and fish. Rice and fish—that produces only a “Bengali babu,” all feeble and wispy! You see, only Bengalis are called “babu”; call a Punjabi a “babu” and it doesn’t fit. “Punjabi babu” doesn’t even form a phrase. “Bengali babu” fits perfectly—their loose dhoti, the loin tucked in ready to come undone, somehow managing themselves along. That wispiness is found only in the Bengali.

And the Japanese were even more wispy. But the Second World War brought a revolution. With America’s entry, the food changed, the medicines changed.

I have heard: two Israelis were sitting in a bar drinking and gossiping. One said, “I tell you, Israel’s problems won’t be solved until we attack America.”
The other said, “Are you in your senses? No matter how much I’ve drunk, hearing you has sobered me up! Israel attack America? Can we win? Defeat is certain.”
The first replied, “That is exactly what I’m saying—defeat is certain. And whoever loses to America ends up benefiting, because first the Americans defeat you, then they build you up and give you a system.”

Today Germany is more beautiful, pleasant, healthy, prosperous than it was before the Second World War—leave aside the Russian sector. But the part that fell into America’s hands began to shine, gained a luster.

Look at Japan. Twenty, twenty-five, thirty years ago—before the war—to call anything “Japanese” was to insult it. If we wanted to call someone phony, we said: he’s “Japanese.” Japanese meant flimsy, nothing inside—good show on the surface, nothing within. A Japanese watch meant if it ran two or four days, that was a lot. And now? Japan is outdoing America. In some things Japan has surpassed America, Germany, England—electronics, radios, televisions, tape recorders... and now they’re after watches too! They’ve flooded the world’s markets with watches. A watch that costs three thousand in Switzerland—Japan is ready to give an equally sturdy, equally well-made watch for three hundred rupees. Today Japanese goods have prestige. What happened?

Japan became somewhat healthier. The elements necessary for the human brain were missing in the Japanese diet; those elements were needed.

In India’s diet many elements are missing; that is why genius does not arise in India. Until we change this diet, talent will not be born. For the brain certain elements are absolutely necessary, certain vitamins that our food lacks.

How will this happen? Not by chanting “Ram Ram” or turning rosary beads. Science must be given a chance. And don’t say that giving science this opportunity will take away individual freedom. The truth is: what freedom does the individual have right now? You think the child you produced was born out of your freedom? What freedom! You wanted a boy and a girl was born—is this what you call freedom? You wanted the most beautiful person in the world, and you got an Ashtavakra—crooked in eight places—so much so that even a camel would be embarrassed to see him. What freedom do you have! You want the child to be like this or that—what parents don’t? But what happens? Is this freedom?

Science will give you freedom, because then you will be able to see. Today it is possible—whether you know it or not, today it is possible. Just as you see flower catalogues, where along with the seeds there are pictures showing what kind of flowers will grow if you buy these seeds—exactly such catalogues can be available regarding human beings: if this germ, this cell, is placed in the mother’s womb, such and such a child will be born—this tall, this complexion, will live so many days, will be this healthy, will have this much brain, this much intelligence. All this can be arranged. You could literally look at pictures and sit choosing from a catalogue what kind of child you want.

I would call that freedom, because then you are giving birth to your child by your own decision. Granted, there will be this one hitch: you won’t be able to say exactly that he was produced from your own molecules. But why this insistence that the molecules be yours? All these molecules belong to that same God. Choose the best among them. What is this insistence? These petty insistences are full of ego; they have nothing to do with freedom.

And souls are eager; infinite souls are always wandering, ready to enter wombs. And you will be surprised to know: ordinary souls enter immediately, because ordinary wombs are always available—thousands of fools are engaged in intercourse, twenty-four hours somewhere or other... somewhere it is night. And now the modern man doesn’t even count day and night; he is at sex day or night—who cares! Everywhere there are wombs available for ordinary people to be born. But extraordinary beings have to wait for many years to take birth, because such an extraordinary womb is not available.

If we can provide extraordinary wombs, we can fill the earth with Buddhas, with Mahaviras. And certainly, if people are healthy, prosperous, intelligent, then what you say, Anand Veetrag—that this work will have to be done by a pure, enlightened soul like you—my work will become simple. The work of awakening the soul will become very simple; the work of making the soul meditative will become very simple; leading the soul toward samadhi will become very simple.

Right now people have no courage at all. Not an ounce of daring to set out on the journey into the unknown. Utterly timid, frightened, cowardly people. They fear the smallest things. They even get anxious about putting on ochre robes—“What will people say!” Will such feeble people know the soul? “People will laugh, people will think we are crazy”—can such weak, timid people know God? Is God for cowards?

God belongs to those who have indomitable courage. This is a great, challenging voyage on the ocean, a journey into the infinite. You need strength. It is no accident that sannyasins are coming to me from all over the world, while Indians sit and keep thinking—“to take or not to take! Is it right, is it not right! What will be the result!”

You have lost the courage to leap. The urge to make any new experiment has died in you. You go on beating the old track, circling round and round. Whatever your parents taught—whether meaningful or not—you go on repeating.

A Marwari youth got engaged to a young woman. Before the wedding, he went once to visit his fiancée in her city. His father—naturally an even bigger Marwari—called him and said, “Son, strike a good bargain. It’s not a marriage; it’s a deal. At the time of marriage you should get a good sum from the girl’s father. If he is decent, agree to take one thousand rupees. If he has gone bankrupt, don’t take less than two thousand.
Among Marwaris the calculation is that the more bankruptcies one has pulled off, the more wealth he has. In fact, the prestige among Marwaris belongs to the bankrupt. When someone praises a Marwari, he says, ‘This one went bankrupt three times; that one seven times.’ The more times, the more he has digested. So the father said, ‘Mind you, if he has gone bankrupt, don’t take less than two thousand. And if he has even been in jail for some crime, don’t take less than five thousand—because a Marwari won’t land in jail until he has swallowed lakhs.’”
The next day, upon arriving, the young man wired his father: “Father-in-law was hanged six years ago—at what price should I close the deal?”

Well, a trained son… how far he can go! What journeys he can make! He has no intelligence of his own.

Mulla Nasruddin and a Marwari friend were sitting in a restaurant. They ordered rasgullas. As soon as the waiter brought the plate, the Marwari quickly grabbed the bigger rasgulla and stuffed it into his mouth. Mulla, irritated, said, “In our country we talk so much about etiquette, but few know it. You Marwari brat, truly, if I were in your place I would have taken the smaller rasgulla myself.”
The Marwari lovingly replied, “Brother Nasruddin, you did get the smaller rasgulla, didn’t you? Why cry now? If you had been in my place, you would have ended up with the same one anyway. Son, now enjoy!”

Courage has been lost. In place of courage there is cowardice, dishonesty, trickery. We have begun to mistake trickery for cleverness, cunning for talent. All this must be erased.

Therefore, Anand Veetrag, I am in favor of giving science full opportunity to do whatever can be done in man on the level of body and mind. Then, on the level of the soul, what can be done will certainly be done by those who have known and realized the soul. But they will get the groundwork; they will get the right soil, the right environment, the right people. Then lamps can be lit from lamps. Then Diwali can happen.

Right now the condition is of bankruptcy. Look at this country—there is bankruptcy written all over the faces! And no one thinks, “Let me do something.” Someone else should do it! We think we have already done a great favor by simply existing and standing ready: “Do service!” Legs stretched out: “Massage my feet!” Bowl spread: “Fill my bowl!” And if you don’t fill it—“You are dishonest, a thief, an exploiter.”

What kind of ways are these? What sort of method have we learned? And the responsibility for all this lies with our so-called mahatmas. They have taught us one stupidity after another. They told us the body is illusion, the soul is truth; the world is false, God is true.

I tell you: if the world is false, then God too is false. If music is false, the musician is false. If creation is false, the creator is false. If the vina is false, how can the notes rising from it be true?

I tell you: if the body is untrue, then your soul and all that is nonsense. In my reckoning, the body is as true as the soul. They are two aspects of the same truth, like the two sides of a coin. I do not want to make even the slightest division between them.

I want to give birth to a religion whose foundation is science and whose summit is spirituality. Where science and religion meet, only there will we be able to turn this earth into a paradise; otherwise we have already succeeded in making it a hell.

Umashankar Bharati,
It only proves this much: even in Meera’s time, things didn’t come pure. The poison was adulterated—hence “Pivat Meera hansi re!” And in Greece, where Socrates was given poison, it was poison indeed. Socrates did not laugh. That wasn’t India. Here, everything is adulterated.

Mulla Nasruddin wanted to die. He bought poison, drank it, and lay down to sleep. He kept thinking, “Now I’m dead, now I’m dead…” He opened his eyes again and again—same room, and his wife snoring beside him. What’s the matter? Eleven struck, twelve, one, two. He pinched himself to see whether he was alive or dead. The pinch hurt—clearly alive. He grew very puzzled. Then he felt like urinating. He said, “This is the limit—dead already, and I still need to pee! I thought once I died I’d be rid of all these hassles.”

He held it for a while, but couldn’t. He went to the bathroom, looked in the mirror—same face, same everything. Morning broke; the children were leaving for school. His wife said, “Get up! How long will you lie there? Aren’t you going to the office?” This was too much—even after dying, everything was exactly the same! No difference at all! “If I still have to go to the office, what did I die for?” He went straight to the poison shop, grabbed the shopkeeper by the neck: “You cheat!”

The shopkeeper said, “What cheating of mine? What is sold pure these days? If you can’t get pure milk, you expect pure poison? Everything is adulterated—what can I do? I sell what’s available. If you didn’t die, how is that my fault?”

That’s why Meera must have laughed.

Don’t get yourself into trouble by asking me such questions. Meera must have laughed outright: “They’ve brought Indian poison—come on then! Now I’ll show you a miracle!” “Pivat Meera hansi re!” But poor Socrates drank quietly; it was Greek poison—no tampering there, death was certain. He drank and lay down immediately. His disciples gathered and asked, “What’s happening? How do you feel?” He said, “My feet have grown cold. Now above the knees it’s all cold. Now my hands are going cold. My heartbeat sounds very far away. My breath is becoming faint.”

That was real poison. But you think a miracle happened. There are no miracles. The world runs by law. The laws are not broken for anyone—not for Meera, not for Mahavira. It’s straightforward. There’s no mystery in it.

You ask: Why?

You probably imagine Meera outdid Socrates—that Socrates was a man of knowledge, but the devotee surpassed the knower; that Meera was love-intoxicated, so behold devotion’s triumph over knowledge.

No, brother. This has nothing to do with devotee and knower. It’s simply the difference between Indian and Greek poison.

Radharamana,
In one sense, everyone seems to be “yours”: someone is a father, a mother, a brother, a sister, a wife, a husband. In that sense, all are “your own.” But they are only your own in a drama; when the moment comes, they won’t be of any use. If you die, no one goes with you. At most they will carry you to the cremation ground. The moment you die, the very people who a moment ago were massaging your feet and praising you will start hurriedly preparing the bier: “It’s over—come on, finish it quickly; the quicker the better!” In that sense, no one is truly your own.

But your so-called mahatmas have misused even this insight. They taught you that since no one is yours, you should drop everything and run away.

What does it mean to drop and run? If no one is yours, whom are you dropping as you run? That’s why I say: don’t drop, don’t run. No one is yours—so who is there to leave? You could only leave someone you had first claimed as your own.

Have you ever seen in a Ramleela that Lord Ram suddenly takes sannyas halfway through? “Who belongs to whom here anyway? Good that Ravan abducted Sita—let me become a renunciate!” The manager would push him out: “What are you doing? It can’t be like this—finish the play! If you’ve taken the full fee, you must complete the performance.”

Vinod is sitting here. Ask him. If you’ve taken a fee from a director and then, midway, you say, “Now I’ve become a sannyasin,” he will say, “Your sannyas is your business—but you must complete the role.”

Now Vinod wants to escape, but he’ll have to remain stuck for two years—until the films are completed. You can’t take sannyas from films! How will you renounce films?

This whole world is a great acting, a great stage. Where will you run from this stage? Whom will you leave? To speak of leaving already means you have taken someone as your own—that is where the mistake begins. One mistake is to assume someone is yours; another is to conclude, “No one is mine, therefore I’m leaving!” Where are you going? Wherever you go, no one will be yours there either. Earlier you thought: husband is mine, wife is mine, son is mine. Then you went to the forest and began to think: disciple is mine; a crowd of followers gathers—“these are mine.” They are not yours either. When you are gone, they will do exactly what your sons would have done. Just as your sons are waiting, thinking, “Father, now shift over; we’re very tired—give us a little chance too! Will you sit on the seat forever? Let us sit for a while!” so too your disciples will be waiting for their chance: “Now get up, Gurudev!”

I was once invited to a religious conference. A Shankaracharya had convened it. I don’t know by what mistake he invited me. Since he made a mistake, I said, “If you’re going to err, why should I miss?” and I went. He introduced all his disciples to me. His throne was set above, and beneath it a smaller platform. On that platform a gentleman sat—a sannyasin, clean-shaven head and all. He introduced him first: “He was the Chief Justice of the Allahabad High Court. Very humble! However much I ask him to come sit on my seat, he never sits. Look, he sits on the lower platform!”

I said, “That tale is appealing; it’s plain to see. But others are sitting on the ground; he doesn’t sit on the ground. In fact, wherever he sits he should dig a pit and sit in it, so no one ends up beneath him. If he is truly humble, he should carry a pickaxe with him—wherever he sits, he quickly digs a hole and sits down, so that no one is lower than him. Now look: many are seated on the ground, he sits in the middle; you sit above.”

“And you say he was a judge—before that, a lawyer?”

He said, “Yes, first a lawyer.”

“So he’s calculating. You move an inch, and he is right at your elbow; in a flash he’ll climb up and sit above—just watch.”

He protested, “What things you say!”

I said, “I am saying true things. With sannyasins one should speak purely, not worldly niceties. This man is a trickster.”

That man had been sitting with eyes closed; he suddenly opened them. I said, “He looks quite the master. Till now his eyes were closed; suddenly he opened them. He is made-up and posing. He is just waiting for his chance. Inside he must be saying, ‘Get up—move aside, Gurudev! You’ve sat long enough; now let me be the Shankaracharya!’ He is waiting for your death. Otherwise, why sit on the middle platform? Either sit with everyone on the ground—he cannot, because he has been a judge. Or sit with you above—he cannot, because he must create an impression of humility before you, since humility is what you will honor. And you have not yet forgotten—and he hasn’t either—that he was Chief Justice of the High Court. Whatever happened, happened—why keep repeating it? Why keep touching a person’s wound? Why keep retelling his ‘sinful’ past: earlier he was this, earlier he was that? But this is not the tale of his sin; you are, in fact, gratifying your own ego through him: ‘My disciples are no ordinary folk. Look—he was the Chief Justice of the High Court! He is my disciple! And how humble—see, poor fellow, he doesn’t sit with me; he sits a little below!’ You are praising him; you are feeding his ego. And through him you are feeding your own ego too: ‘I am no ordinary Shankaracharya—great people are my disciples!’”

Leave home and hearth, abandon wife and children—and you’ll get entangled in some other mischief. The awareness that no one is yours is enough. Then what is there to leave? What is there to grasp?

A magician came to our city.
No sooner had he arrived than he had the drum beaten:
“I will make the pupil of the eye meet the teeth—
what cannot be done, I will do and show you.”
A drunk fellow said, “He’s making fools of people—
‘He’ll make the pupil meet the teeth’!
I’ll bet five hundred rupees.”
The magician shook the man to his roots:
he took out the artificial pupil from his left eye
and touched it to his teeth.
The man said, “Join the other pupil too.”
The magician said, “Put up another five hundred.”
This time he did a marvel:
he took out a false tooth
and touched it to the pupil.
Some began to dance, some began to sing,
the rest clapped.
The magician said, “Silence.
This is nothing.
The day after tomorrow evening in Company Bagh
I will show a wonder:
all those who died in this city within the last week—
I will bring them back to life before your eyes.
I have done this experiment in many towns before;
I have already revived three corpses in Jhumri Telaiya.”
That very night a young man came to the magician and said,
“Guru, what are you up to—
bringing the dead back to life?
My father died leaving me two million.
If you bring him back,
will you have me killed?”
After him a lady came
and told her tale:
“My husband died four days ago.
I have married my former lover.
If you bring him back to life,
will you make me the wife of two men?”
In the end
the municipal chairman came
and poured out his grievance:
“The previous chairman died only the day before yesterday.
With great difficulty I have got the charge.
Guru, take these ten thousand,
and show this living–dead show somewhere else.”
The magician thought,
“In such a big city not one person came to say,
‘Bring my mother or my sister back to life,’
or ‘Unite me with my lost brother.’
Alas, this selfish world—
no one is anyone’s own; it’s all a show.
While alive these people
dance like wind-up toys,
huge in position and prestige,
but dwarfs in feeling.
While alive they
display false love like characters in a play,
and once someone dies, everyone forgets everyone.”

Radharamana, in this sense no one is your own, because death severs all bonds. Knowing this truth, live life as a play. Do not take it seriously. Be a character in the drama. This is what I call sannyas—not to run away, but to wake up!

Sita Maiya,
At this age, why create such a commotion! It will be fine without learning English. There will be no obstacle. There are so many foreigners here, and many of them don’t know English either. Some understand only Japanese, some only Spanish, some only Italian, some only German, some only French, some only Dutch. Now, which and how many languages will you learn? Understanding Hindi will do perfectly well; there is absolutely no difficulty.

This is a world-family. There is nothing to be alarmed about. And if you sit down to learn English in old age, who knows what might get twisted—one thing turning into another!

Just yesterday Chandulal was telling me—

One day, out of the blue,
my wife got a fancy
to learn English.
She called me—
"Get me a lady tutor too,
teach me to git-pit in English."
After a few days
a beautiful Miss
started teaching her—
she pleased me more than she pleased her!
On the very first day of English,
she said to me—
"Listen,
Sharma-ji’s transformer has happened,
go give him a send-off."
I said—
"Don’t eat my brains
speaking wrong English."
The next day she said—
"Did you hear the cricket dokoomentry?
These India-walas
will lose by one evening."
On the third day her Miss asked—
"Have you written the English sentences?"
Wife said—"I wrote them in the morning;
now please do the corruption."
On the fourth day
a friend’s phone came;
my wife picked it up.
The friend asked—
"I heard in your neighborhood
Gupta-ji passed away?"
Wife said—
"Oh, it’s suspense now!
Till morning he was in sense,
by evening he became nonsense."

Sita Maiya, why get into such tangles! Remember the old Sita Maiya. She stayed in Lanka without learning English. Was anyone speaking Hindi there in Lanka? Do you think anyone in Ashok-Vatika spoke Hindi? Do you think Ravana was a Hindi-speaker? Where in Lanka were Hindi-speakers! If you stretch it a lot, perhaps Tamil—if you stretch it.

No need to get into any hassle. If you feel like coming here, like living here—that’s enough. Everyone manages. In a world-family, it should be like this. Even gestures are enough. For what is essential, a way always appears. So don’t fear and don’t be troubled.

And those people you see from different countries—don’t think of them as foreigners. Who is native, who is foreign! All are born of the same Divine. All are flowers blossoming on the same earth. Drop these notions. Drop the native–foreign divide. Just blend in here. You will never face a hitch, not at all.

It is not language that unites—feeling unites. Language may even break things, cause quarrels and arguments. Feeling—no argument, no quarrel, no disturbance.

I have a German sannyasin—Haridas. He doesn’t understand Japanese. And he fell in love with a Japanese girl who doesn’t understand German. The two of them did wonderfully! And how smoothly it went! No question of fights or friction. His beloved, Gita—if she gets angry, she gets angry in Japanese; let her! Haridas thinks, who knows whether she’s singing a song or chanting a hymn or what! If Haridas gets heated, he does it in German. Then Gita just laughs; how would she know what he is blabbering! I felt this was excellent. If things went like this, many husband–wife quarrels would disappear.

They say the most fortunate couple is the one in which the wife is blind and the husband is deaf. Because no matter how much the wife scolds, the husband doesn’t hear a thing. And no matter what the husband is up to—chasing around the neighborhood—the wife doesn’t see it. This is what they call a match made by Ram—Ram-milai jodi!

Shailendra,
It is true that we have not been able to make right use of the geniuses that have appeared in the human race so far; we have mostly misused them. But what is the reason?

The reason is that geniuses have been few, and the crowd of the non-genius is immense. Einstein uncovers the secrets of physics, discovers the key to the atom bomb, even brings the bomb into being. But who will use the bomb? Those who have no genius in them. It is not Einstein’s fault that he discovered the atom bomb. The fault lies in the fact that the bomb will land in the hands of people with no genius. And what are they to do!

If you put a sword in a monkey’s hand, what will the monkey do? Some mischief is bound to happen. Either he will injure someone or slash himself. It is hard to hope the monkey will use the sword rightly. Impossible! That is not within a monkey’s capacity.

Therefore I say: we need more geniuses, so that the smaller geniuses who have appeared so far—and what they have given us—can be put to right use, to wholesome use. If only we had geniuses of Einstein’s stature in every field, then the discovery of atomic energy was so great that misery and poverty could have been wiped from the earth! A flood of genius could have come such that no sorrow, no disease would have survived; all the rubbish would have been washed away in that flood. But because there is a scarcity of genius, harm has resulted.

What Buddha and Mahavira said, what Jesus and Mohammed said, fell into the hands of pundits and priests, because there were no other people of genius to take it into their hands. That is why I say: we need more geniuses. There should be so many geniuses on earth that the trade of priests and politicians simply ceases. Who would go to them? Who would bow to them? People more wretched than they. They themselves are wretched, and the even more wretched bow down to them.

What is the caliber of your priest who performs your rituals? How much understanding does he have? How much awareness? That fool has set himself up as your master. He is guiding you, and his own life is nothing but darkness.

Once the atom bomb landed in the hands of politicians, danger was inevitable. The surprise is not that danger happened, but that it did not happen on a far greater scale—only two cities were erased. The whole earth could be wiped out.

But look at the other side too. About Albert Einstein, Rutherford, and all those whose effort gave birth to the atom bomb, only one side has been seen—that Hiroshima and Nagasaki, cities of two hundred thousand people, were destroyed. The other, far more important side has not been seen. That side is: because of the atom bomb and the hydrogen bomb, a third world war has not happened. Now even the most foolish politician understands that if a third world war happens, nobody will win—everyone will die. And the taste of victory is only when you survive. If Russia is wiped out and America too is wiped out, what is the point of war? What would war mean then? At most there will be a difference of ten minutes: one will die ten minutes earlier, the other ten minutes later. That is the only difference that would remain; there won’t be any more than that. It will take, at most, ten minutes to destroy the whole earth. But what is the gain in that? Who died ten minutes sooner and who ten minutes later—does that make any great difference? And who will be left to keep accounts of who died ten minutes earlier and who ten minutes later? No one will remain.

So the discovery of the atom bomb has done one important thing: a third world war cannot happen now. Wars in the past could happen because someone would win and someone would lose. Now war has reached its ultimate. This war is total; no one will win, no one will lose—everyone will die. No one wants to die. Yes, if there were the thrill of killing someone else, a man may even be ready to die. But here there is not even the thrill of killing. This is sheer suicide. Hiroshima and Nagasaki gave a jolt. Even fools became a little intelligent. That is the other side.

As I see it, a third world war cannot happen. If by mistake it happens, that is another matter. A mistake of the sort that a computer makes an error—because now the keys are in the hands of computers. A computer may give a false alarm. What trust can you place in machines! You cannot fully trust human beings; what to say of machines! They may get over-excited, go into a frenzy. Maybe they overdid their push-ups and squats. Maybe they had a little bhang—who knows! And computers are very delicate machines; a tiny electrical glitch and it sends out a signal: war is imminent, America should prepare to attack.

Just a month ago an American computer did make such a mistake. If two more minutes had passed before the error was caught, war would have broken out. A computer reported that Russia was attacking. What trust can you place in a computer! After all, a computer is a computer! There’s a saying: human beings make mistakes, but if you want real, big mistakes done, you need a computer. Human beings make small mistakes; for big ones, you need a computer. It turned out the computer had given a false report. The error was caught before the news reached the American President; otherwise it was just about to reach him. And once it had reached the President, he would have released the weapons for defense. There would have been no other option.

Yes, if such a slip happens and war breaks out, that is another matter. Otherwise, now even the most foolish politician understands that war has lost all meaning; war has become futile. War is a thing of the past. In the future, no big war is possible. Small skirmishes may go on, but big wars have no meaning now. That is the benefit.

You say millions of people’s blood has been spilled on this earth; if Buddha, Mahavira, Krishna, Christ, Mohammed, Moses had not been, that blood would have been saved.

It would not have been saved. Billions would have been spilled. This truth has not yet been seen.

Even with Mahavira and Buddha present, blood was spilled; do you think that without them less would have been spilled? It would have been many times more. If it spilled despite them, what to say of what would have happened without them! Without them, you would still be hanging like langurs from trees; you would not even be human. Because of them you are human. And because of them the feeling of compassion arises in you—the very feeling that says: millions have been killed. Because of them! Otherwise, because of whom? And people die anyway—one way or another. No one is saved from death; they die sooner or later.

And keep in mind: if people want to fight, they will fight over any pretext. There’s a football match, and a riot breaks out. There, there is no question of religion—no Jesus and Mohammed—with one party for Jesus and one for Mohammed. It’s just one neighborhood against another, and there is rioting and brawling, blood is drawn, bullets fly, sticks are wielded. People want to fight.

Look at what happens in football. Who but fools would play these games! I never joined any game, because from childhood I could see the foolishness of it—throw the ball here and there, and back again! If you are so keen, you keep one ball, and I’ll keep one; end of hassle. What sense is there in throwing it around and getting exhausted? Keep your own ball and go home. But people are at it with all their life—football, volleyball, cricket—and what frenzy! Cricket isn’t a religion, but for some it absolutely is. If their team loses, look at their state.

I have a friend, mad about cricket! His side lost; he was listening to the commentary on the radio. He picked up the radio and smashed it. He got so angry he broke it. Then later he regretted it—“That was my loss!” But what use is regret afterwards? What’s the use of repenting after the birds have eaten the crop! I told him: have a little sense. It shows your intelligence.

But people are like this. There’s a red-shirt party and a green-shirt party. The green-shirts must win! We will defeat the red-shirts! Parties form. Two wrestlers fight and there are parties—who wins, who loses? Hundreds of thousands gather to watch. Do you think these lunatics need Mohammed and Mahavira to make them fight? Anyone will do. They are ready-made for a fight. They can’t live without it. They look at a bull and say, “Come on, bull—gore me!” They go looking for trouble from morning. They do push-ups and squats, recite the Hanuman Chalisa. They tie on their loincloths and wander about: “Any brave man—come on!” They won’t rest till they are on someone’s chest. They invent new tricks. They will find some excuse to fight. You cannot save them from fighting. They pit roosters against each other! What fault is it of the roosters? People gather by the thousands to watch cocks fight. They set partridges to fight. See the human intelligence! And you hope that if Buddha and Mohammed had not been, these people would have lived without fighting! They make bulls fight. They make bulls fight men.

And this has been going on for centuries.
In Greece, the first stadiums were built precisely so that hundreds of thousands could sit and watch. What happened there? People were thrown in with wild beasts—lions, leopards—especially Christians. Jesus had not long been gone. There were his new sannyasins—like my sannyasins.

It’s a good age now: no one sets a lion on you. At most someone sets a dog on you—“Sic ’em!” And there is no need to set them; dogs are peculiar creatures, born enemies of uniforms. They go after policemen—because of the uniform. After soldiers. After sannyasins—because of the robes. Show them anyone in one-color clothing and they get angry.

But in Greece and Rome they built huge stadiums. A Christian fakir would be caught. A hundred thousand people would gather to watch. The fakir would stand there, and a lion would be released on him. Something would happen—like with Meera. Who knows whether the lion was real or not; sometimes there are fake lions too. When there are fake men, why not fake lions! The lion came and stood still; he didn’t attack. There was an uproar: “Beat this fakir—he’s doing some magic!”

So first they thrashed the fakir: “Stop your magic. Fight fairly! We are making you fight a lion—fight fairly! The lion doesn’t know any magic; are you reciting spells?”

They brought a second lion: “This first lion looks suspicious.” The second lion leapt. But whoever you are—even if you’re a fakir—when a lion leaps, you dodge a little to one side. The lion sped past. The crowd shouted, “He’s dishonest! Bury him in the ground.” They buried him in the ground, leaving only his head above; hands and feet all buried, only the head out. Then they released the lion again. The lion came rushing; the fakir again moved his head a little and the lion sped past. The crowd—hundreds of thousands—began to shout: “This man is dishonest! He doesn’t know how to fight, has no sense of decorum!”

Look! They’ve buried him and expect decorum from him. Only his head is above ground! “Cut off his head.”

They cut off his head. Hundreds of thousands would gather to watch heads being cut off, lions tearing people to pieces, eating them raw. And people would clap!

Even today, in Spain, they make men fight bulls, and thousands upon thousands gather; people come from distant lands to watch. Spain is famous for it.

Do you think that without Mohammed and Jesus people wouldn’t have fought?
Yes, they would not have fought in the name of religion; they would have fought under some other name. Recently in our own country we have seen it, so we have experience. Before ’47, before independence, Hindus and Muslims fought—on religious grounds. People thought religion was the cause of conflict. I do not believe religion was the cause. People want to fight—religion is merely a peg. You want to hang your coat: if there is a peg, you’ll hang it on the peg; if not, a nail will do; if there is no nail, you’ll hang it on the window. You’ll hang it somewhere! The issue is to hang the coat, not the pegs. Hindu-Muslim was just a peg.

Then India and Pakistan were divided; it was thought, “Now the trouble is over, there will be no more conflict.” I never believed that. Now the fights would come under new names.
You saw it: Pakistan itself split into two. On both sides were Muslims, but Bengali Muslims and Punjabi Muslims. No question of religion. A new quarrel: Bengali versus Punjabi. Hundreds of Bengalis were slaughtered; hundreds of Punjabis were slaughtered. Muslims cut down and killed Muslims. Even now another split is possible in Pakistan, because there is friction between Sindhi Muslims and Punjabi Muslims. There is danger of conflict there; Pakistan could break into two more pieces any day.

And what of India! Here the Hindu-Muslim conflict has thinned—though not ended, because not all Muslims went to Pakistan; a large number remained. But new conflicts have begun. Hindus are burning Hindus. The so-called upper castes are burning the untouchables. Both have the same religion; they are not Hindu and Muslim—they are both Hindus. Riots happen every day. Gujaratis and Marathis stab each other over whether Bombay should be in Gujarat or Maharashtra. What does it even mean? Wherever Bombay is, there it will remain. Will Bombay walk over to Maharashtra or go to Gujarat? And yet stabbings happen. One entire district hangs in the balance—should it go to Karnataka or stay in Maharashtra? Many stabbings, many riots have already happened over that.

People want to fight; look at the excuses they find! Now it is Hindi versus non-Hindi. North versus South. India could split any time into North and South. As Pakistan split, so could India meet the same fate. If you want to fight, you will keep finding new roads to fight on.

Therefore I do not accept that fights happened because of Jesus and Krishna. Yes, I do accept this much: they at least gave fights a little etiquette, a little civility, a few principles. At least they gave the fights a little beauty. Fights did happen, but they lent them a touch of beauty. They gave even fights a little grandeur. At least they gave fights higher values. They took them off the low pegs and made higher pegs.

But the results that came were not because of Jesus and Mohammed. The cause is the lack of genius in human beings. The treasures these geniuses gave us, there were not enough geniuses to receive and hold them. What we need is an abundance of geniuses, so that when one genius gives, innumerable other geniuses can take it up and multiply it infinitely, and that wealth can spread. Then conflicts can disappear from this earth—religious and political. All these petty little quarrels are useless.

The last question:

Rakesh,
At a certain age such crazes take hold. Just as at a certain age pimples break out, at a certain age revolutions are born. And some people get pimples into old age; likewise some remain revolutionaries into old age—like Jayaprakash Narayan and the like. They stay revolutionary right into old age. In youth it feels, “Ah, we’ll change it, we’ll change the whole world!” As children play with toys, so youth plays with revolutions.

You’ve just graduated; wait a little—don’t be in such a hurry to change the world. First get your feet wet in the world. Get married. Let a few children arrive. Then you’ll beat your head: “It is the world that has changed me—and I had set out to change the world!”

In truth, the desire to change the world is also a journey of the ego. Why? If the world is not to be changed, why will you change it? If the world needs changing, it will change. Is it waiting for you—do you think so? Were there no young men before you? Many have gone mad before you. For centuries people have been going mad. Why are you after the world? If the world is not to be changed, is there some compulsion—that “change it we must,” whether you agree or not!

Yes, there are such people. When I used to travel, I would get into great difficulties. In the middle of the night people would board the train. I would tell them, “Brother, I need to sleep.” They would say, “You sleep, but we must serve you.” They would press my legs. I would say, “If you press my legs, how will I sleep?” They would say, “That is your concern, but we will serve!”

And not uneducated people, not ignorant folk, not rural villagers...

In Udaipur I was sleeping one afternoon in a circuit house. Tired from the day, having traveled all night, I lay down. It felt as if someone was climbing onto the tiles above. For a while I tried to ignore it so my sleep wouldn’t break. But then it seemed light was also beginning to stream in from above. I opened my eyes and saw: lifting a roof tile, a gentleman was peering in—someone I knew well. A lawyer. An educated man. A High Court lawyer.

I asked, “Sir, what are you doing up there?”

He said, “I’m taking your darshan. The organizers don’t let people meet you. But I must meet you. So I’ll at least have darshan. Now who can stop me!”

I said, “That much is certainly true. The organizers have no idea someone is up on the roof tiles. But let me sleep.”

He said, “You sleep, but I will have darshan.”

Now if someone is sitting on your chest, if he slips and loses his grip on the tile and I am lying right below him—and he says, “You sleep, we are having darshan!”

The world is full of such people.

Why are you worrying about the world? First change yourself! If you change yourself, that is much. And that is the only way to change the world: change yourself. Begin the change with yourself. In changing the other you cannot succeed, because why would the other agree to be changed by you? No one agrees. Because it is insulting that you change someone else! Who are you? Some great mahatma! A saintly person! You have come to change! Whoever you set out to change will stand with a stick: “You will change me? I’ll change you! Let’s see who changes whom! First let’s have a scuffle. Whoever loses will be changed; whoever wins will do the changing.”

What is the relish in changing others?

The relish is in putting the other down. It is a trick to make the other lowly, inferior: “We will change you. You are immoral; we will make you moral. You are characterless; we will make you virtuous.” That is what your so-called mahatmas are doing. That is the fun they are having—changing the world, giving it religion! As if someone had taken a contract on someone else.

You change yourself, Rakesh. If you can do only that, it is a lot. And if you do change yourself, perhaps some people will begin to ask you how you changed yourself. If your lamp is lit, perhaps some extinguished lamps will come to you to light theirs. Then it is another matter. If someone asks you for advice, give it.

But what advice can you give now? You have not even learned the art of changing yourself—what will you explain to others? What will you tell? How will you change them? Your own lamp is out—will you light someone else’s?

You are a decent man’s son; don’t walk around smirking,
Your legs are like canes; plant them and walk steady.
In the jostling crowds of the streets, guard your elbows,
Campus cartoon, keep your eyes lowered as you walk.
If you meet a girl on the way, don’t tease her,
What have you to do with others? Set your own affairs straight.

The rich merchant loves his lofty mansion,
The gardener loves his frisky jasmine.
Why fume that the guru loves his disciple?
You too are fond of your sister’s friend.
Chase away the thief in your own mind,
What have you to do with others? Set your own affairs straight.

Sudama wore a shawl on his body—torn,
Kallu’s uncle wears a coat—torn.
Don’t laugh at anyone seeing his clothes—torn.
Look—your pajama too is torn.
Don’t rip open the seams of others’ suits,
What have you to do with others? Set your own affairs straight.

He who lurks every moment, ogling beauties,
Who sighs and hankers after them,
Who calls girls “Laila” in jest,
Because of whom the neighborhood’s honor is pinched—
Flay the hide of that worthy son of yours,
What have you to do with others? Set your own affairs straight.

Don’t be so proud of your rhymes, my friend,
Gather the musical instruments at home today,
Have no special regard for the foolish neighbors,
Dig in on the rooftop and practice all night.
If the wife plays the tabla, then you stroke the sarangi,
What have you to do with others? Set your own affairs straight.

If your need can be met by your wife’s looks, so be it,
For you, it is only about the kids’ troupe anyway.
How long will you please them with pumpkin soup?
How will you shield them from the heat of penury?
Don’t forget, you are a shade-less date-palm tree,
What have you to do with others? Set your own affairs straight.

Another divorce from your wife! Don’t commit such a sin,
You’ve taken seven rounds, don’t lay them waste.
Don’t play with Kammo, don’t yearn for Bimmo,
Dhanno is the one for you—make it work with her.
Don’t drive her from home thinking her uneducated,
What have you to do with others? Set your own affairs straight.

You don’t need to worry about strangers just yet. You are fresh from the university. Whoever comes out of university carries grand ambitions. It’s like this: I have heard, a fox rose early one morning and set out. The sun was rising. Because of the rising sun, her shadow stretched very long, far. She thought, “Ah!” Swelled with pride: “I’m no small thing either; I’m so big! If the shadow is so long, how big must the original be! Today I must at least have a camel for breakfast. If not an elephant, a camel will have to do. Otherwise how will I fill my stomach!”

She roamed looking for elephants and camels. It was noon; she found neither camel nor elephant. Hunger grew; not even breakfast had happened; lunch was out of the question. She bent and looked at her shadow again. The sun was overhead; the shadow had shrunk right under her. The fox said, “Ah! Now even an ant will do.”

As a little understanding grows and the sun comes overhead, then you’ll realize: in youth the shadow grows long and big ambitions arise, big ideas—“I’ll do this, I’ll do that!” Now you are saying you have a great desire to change the world.

Don’t get into such tangles.

What have you to do with others? Set your own affairs straight!

Change yourself. Change yourself in time. Now this energy that is building up as an ambition to change the world—turn it back upon yourself.

You say: “For this great work, even if I must be martyred, I am ready, gladly ready. Please guide me.”

Let me tell you plainly, Rakesh, I have no enthusiasm for martyrs and the like. I call the longing to be a martyr a longing for suicide. It is only a prettier way to commit suicide—a bit stylish, a bit clever. But it is a way of killing oneself. Some people just kill themselves outright; some do it with a little technique, taking cover. Those who take cover in killing themselves become martyrs.

But why is the desire to be a martyr arising in your mind? You haven’t even lived yet. You don’t yet know life. You’re not even acquainted with life, and you want to die? Perhaps you’ve heard: “On the pyres of martyrs, a fair will gather every year; this will be the only sign left of those who died!” The ego must be delighted: what fun it will be—thousands will gather in fairs!

They don’t gather anywhere. Don’t fall into that delusion. Who asks after martyrs? How many fairs gather on Bhagat Singh’s pyre? How many on Chandra Shekhar’s? So many have been martyred! If fairs gathered at all martyrs’ pyres, we’d be doing nothing but holding fairs all year; no other work could ever happen.

Fairs gather around leaders, around chairs of power. Fairs gather in Delhi. Why are you getting into the trap of becoming a martyr? Don’t get caught in such talk. This is what leaders keep telling people. Leaders tell people: “Serve! Serve,” meaning serve them! “Become volunteers.” Become volunteers—meaning when the leader gives a speech you spread and pick up the mats. And the leader says: become martyrs, because “on the pyres of martyrs a fair will gather every year!” After you die you won’t be coming back; no fair will gather; what will you do then? You won’t come to file a case. But the ego is nourished inside.

A longing for death is not an auspicious longing, whatever the pretext. Drop these delusions. If you must be a martyr, be it somewhere else. Here I teach living. And the one who knows how to live is the one who knows how to die. The art of living and the art of dying are not different; they are two aspects of the same art.

The goblin on the king’s shoulder
said to Vikramaditya, “O King!
Answer my question,
else your head will be severed from your trunk,
your very existence will be lost forever.
Today I read in the newspaper
about a woman whose husband
lived as a man though he was a god—
for just this crime
no one gave him honor.
A talisman of virtue hung at his neck,
so he kept wandering as a schoolmaster,
every year he chanted Gayatri,
every year he became the father of girls.
This year he touched Bajrang’s feet
and his wife turned into a piece of stone.
What is the reason for this?”

Vikramaditya started,
took a strong drag on his beedi,
and answered thus:
“Listen, Betaal!
As for that woman’s past life—
she was the mother of a martyr.
In her house there was a tradition of patriotism.
All her life she sewed soldiers’ uniforms,
she lived yearning to see her son a martyr,
paid her blood’s debt with sweat,
the disease of patriotism kept increasing.
Meghdoot brought the message of war,
bayonets sang the month of Ashadh,
the son bowed his head on the borders,
and got lost forever in history’s anonymous valleys.
The mother kept smiling at her good fortune,
kept dressing the son’s photo in army attire,
kept reading the newspaper daily,
seeking the news of her son’s martyrdom.
Life-size pictures of leaders kept laughing—
in history the ruler gets a place,
martyrs do not.
Those who stitch the pages of history
do not live in history, but on the tip of a needle.
Those whose blood makes geography red—
their children are not granted
even two yards of land.
How long did martyrdom keep drinking its own blood?
She lived only to give birth to a martyr.
In golden letters were written the names
of those who sold martyrs’ blood
and kept raising prices of things,
bathed in perfumes,
hiding the smell of martyrs’ blood.
The sons of the chair suffered great hardships—
martyrs’ corpses lay bare on the frontiers,
and fairs kept gathering at their bungalows.
Those there kept longing even for a shroud,
on these rained petals of roses.
They stood in silence for a full two minutes,
and asked the PA, ‘After all, who has died?’
The PA said, ‘You are asking me, sir?
It was on this very day your father died.
We are mourning him as well,
and while we’re at it, we’re ticking off the martyrs too.
Please bring out your reserve stock of tears,
announce a martyr’s memorial as well.
Your building lies half-finished,
the public stands ready with donations.
What is your intention?
Even after death, a martyr is worth a hundred and a quarter thousand.
He only appears to sleep in a tomb,
in truth he bears our load for centuries.
Grant permission:
which martyr shall I rouse,
or shall I make a new martyr out of our files,
whose sacrifice will raise funds for us,
and at every election will stand as a statue.’”

“So listen, Betaal,
what happened next:
For the martyr’s memorial, donations were collected,
but these God-sent holy men
took even the bags of donations
and left behind only the empty foundation stone.
The mother, who fell asleep clutching it to her chest,
herself became the martyr’s memorial.
Motherliness has avenged her:
not a martyr to fight on the border,
but a foundation stone to lay—this is what has been given.”

Drop the madness. There is no reason, no need to become a martyr and the like. Live! Learn the art of living! Live to the full! Live God! Live love! Live bliss! Live in such a way that the flame of your living becomes light in the lives of others too.

But the ambition to change the world is not a good ambition. I call it a vicious ambition. It is diabolical. Yes, let the world change by the way you live; let it be carried on the breeze of your being—that is another matter, secondary. Let it happen indirectly, not directly. You need neither to serve anyone, nor to change anyone, nor to impose conduct on anyone. Live yourself! Then if a fragrance rises from that living and people’s nostrils fill with it—good.

That’s all for today.