Preetam Chhabi Nainan Basee #14

Anand Maitreya,
Religion is acceptance—of your nature; and it is rebellion—against everything that has been forcibly imposed upon that nature.
Religion is suchness—of your own innermostness; and it is rebellion—against all that others have foisted upon you.
Religion is suchness—with regard to consciousness; and it is rebellion—against society, against tradition, convention, conditioning.

The moment a child is born, society starts moulding him into its own pattern. No one cares about his nature; no one bothers whether he is to become a jasmine, a rose, a champa, a lotus. No one cares whether he will come to the divine through prayer or through meditation; whether Krishna will call to him or Buddha; whether the Sufi path will delight his heart or Zen; whether yoga suits him or not. No one is concerned with his innate being. The concern is simply this: whatever I believe—though it may have done nothing for me—I must impose the same on this tender new arrival. So if he is born in a Hindu home he must be a Hindu; if born in a Jain home he must be a Jain. This is the greatest tyranny going on in the world.

Religion is not obtained by birth. Each individual has to inquire, to search for religion. The world has lost religion because we never allow anyone to search; we hand over counterfeit religion in advance. And I call counterfeit that which is handed to you by others, which you have not desired, which your heart has not danced to, whose fragrance has not made you ecstatic. For someone else it may have been true; for you it is hollow, false.

I know people for whom devotion would be the right flavor—but by accident they were born in homes where devotion has no place, where it has no meaning: a Jain home, where the way is purely of knowledge. And I know people whom only the path of knowledge can bring home—but they were born in devotional sects like Vallabha’s or Ramanuja’s. All their life they will go on with worship and ritual, but it won’t fit; their life-breath will remain far away, untouched. The worship will go on, yet worship will never truly happen—because worship cannot be a performance; it must arise from your inner being.

As in old times—and even now in this country—we arranged child marriages: parents decided which boy would marry which girl. Neither the girl was asked nor the boy. Those who have to live together were left out; everyone else was asked—the priest, the pundit, the astrologer. Everything was considered: whether the girl’s family is respectable, has prestige, has money. Everything was checked except one thing: are these two actually made for each other? Who can decide that? How? That is why marriages were done at childhood—because if they grew up they would rebel. They would say, “This girl doesn’t suit me; this boy doesn’t. Then trouble would arise.” So marry them off as children.

Exactly the same has been done to you concerning religion: a child-marriage.

In my view, until you are adult... Even to vote in politics you need to be twenty-one. If even in the foolish world of politics a twenty-one-year-old is required, then in the realm of religion at least forty-two! Let there be freedom to search. By forty-two, as I see it, a person becomes capable of deciding. Bitter-sweet experiences of life, mistakes and wanderings, experiments—many experiments—slowly distill into a sense of the essential: Where am I to go now? Which temple is my temple? Which shrine will become my tavern of nectar? Where will fragrance arise in my life?

Until a person searches for himself, whatever we impose upon him—even with good intentions—will be a burden. I am not saying parents have bad intentions. But the road to hell is paved with good intentions. What use are good intentions if there is no vision? You are blind—what can good intentions do? Your parents imposed on you because their parents imposed on them. You will impose on your children, they will on theirs. No one stops to ask whether your parents had any music of religion in their lives, any festival of the spirit. If not, they imposed on you; they carried a load all their lives—now you carry it. And when you are tired, climb upon the chest of your children and make them carry it—because the parents carried it.

Religion is not by birth; therefore rebellion is needed. You will have to rebel against convention, against tradition—only then will you find religion. Imagine if Buddha had remained a Hindu—he was born in a Hindu family—the world would have been deprived of a great treasure. Imagine if Jesus had remained a Jew—his parents were Jews—what poverty would have befallen the world! Muhammad was born among idol-worshipers; but Islam’s outstretched hands toward the formless would never have arisen if Muhammad had remained content with his parents.

Whoever has been truly great in this world has been born through rebellion. Rebellion against what? Against all that has been imposed on you. However beautiful it looks, however colorful, whatever is imposed is false. You must search for your own nature. You have to descend within yourself, dig within yourself. You have to discover your own springs of water.

This is a difficult task. So very few set out on this journey. Who wants the hassle! It is easier to believe what others say. But in mere believing there is no religion; it is a way to avoid religion. Are as many people truly religious as the numbers who go to temples, mosques, churches, gurudwaras? If so, would the earth be in this condition? With so much religiosity, would the earth still be such a hell? So many temples, mosques, churches, gurudwaras; so many lamps, offerings, rituals; so many pundits and priests—what is the result? Something fundamental is wrong, somewhere at the very roots a revolution is needed.

As I see it, the most basic mistake is: we are imposing religion. And all the religious leaders are eager to impose it on children as soon as possible—make them Jews, Christians, Hindus. Lest the child begin to understand! Before he starts to think, fill his head. Don’t give him a chance to think or inquire, because who knows where he might go! Then it will be difficult. So quickly put chains on his feet, handcuffs on his hands. Yes, and call the handcuffs ornaments. Call the chains beautiful. Engrave Vedic hymns on the chains, carve Qur’anic verses into them, plate them with gold, stud them with jewels. Make the chains so precious that, even if he wants to drop them, he cannot: “How can one abandon such valuable things!” And then there is tradition: “Our forefathers have believed for centuries; surely it must be true. So many people for so long—can they all be wrong?”

I am not saying it is false; for someone it may have been true. Remember this essential truth: what is true for one is not necessarily true for you. My truth is not necessarily your truth. What is nectar for me may be poison for you; what is nectar for you may be poison for me. The medicine that helps one patient will not help all. Everyone’s illness is different, so everyone needs a different remedy. But we believe in panaceas—one cure for all.

There is no medicine on earth that cures every disease, and there is no formula of life that suits everyone. People are of many kinds. There is great variety in the world—and because of that variety the world is so beautiful, so full of flavor. So many flowers bloom in the garden! Imagine if there were only roses—what would you do? You would be grazing buffaloes! What value would a rose have then? It is because there are so many different flowers that the world is rainbow-hued.

So too with human beings—each is different. Have you ever met two people exactly alike? Even identical twins are not entirely identical. Strangers may not notice, but a mother knows; the family knows who is who. They may be a million times alike, still not exactly the same. There is always a gap, small or great. No two persons are the same. There will be differences of intelligence, of talent. When two persons are not the same, how can one and the same life-arrangement be given to both?

What then should be done? If we truly want to organize society rightly, we should not give a system—we should give awareness, the capacity to think and inquire. We should not give belief—we should give discernment. So far we have given belief. We tell children: believe, trust; believe because we say so; I am your father, therefore believe.

Being a father gives you no right to impose your notions on your child. Otherwise tomorrow a communist father will say, “You are a communist, because I am your father”; a congressman father will say, “You are a congressman, because I am your father.” There will be great confusion, great trouble. You will be thrusting your notions upon your children.

No—if you truly love your children, make them capable; give them the capacity to think and reason; give them discrimination, awareness, consciousness, so that in their own lives they can find their path. Let them discover from which ghata—on which shore—they must descend into the river; which boat they must travel in. Make them so strong that if they feel, “No boat—I must swim,” they can swim across.

But we hand out belief. Belief is junk. Belief means the murder of discrimination, the destruction of awareness. We do not allow awareness even to sprout. And the little child is helpless, dependent on you. Whatever you make him believe, he will believe; whatever you make him do, he will do. He knows he cannot live without you. You are exploiting this opportunity—you are committing a violence on the child, exploiting his helpless state. Hence rebellion.

Anand Maitreya, you ask: you say religion is acceptance, suchness, and also that religion is rebellion.

Yes, it is both. Suchness—toward your own nature; and rebellion—toward all that is not your nature but has been imposed by others. Whoever they may be—mother, father, relatives, teachers, priests, pundits, religious leaders—whatever they have piled upon you, that rubbish has to be thrown off. Only if you can throw it off will your vision be clear; only then will the capacity to see arise in you. Then you can think freely, search freely.

God has to be discovered, not believed in. Believers never find him. Whoever has believed has lost. If you want to find, don’t believe. Belief is a sign of impotence. To believe means: who wants the hassle—let me just accept.

You don’t do this with other things. If you are a beggar and I say, “You are no beggar—you are an emperor. Just believe it,” you won’t believe. You will say, “How can I simply believe? I am sitting on the road with a cracked begging bowl, asking for alms. You don’t give me food; instead you say, ‘You are an emperor—believe it!’ If I believe, what will change? I still have to buy my meal; the shopkeeper won’t accept my belief—he will ask for money.”

But those who have no clue about God—you have made such beggars believe, “God exists—just believe.” Those who know nothing of the soul—you have made them drink down the scriptures with their mother’s milk: “Believe—there is a soul.”

And in atheistic countries the same is being done. There is no difference. In Russia, in China, they are now teaching: there is no God, no soul. Whatever you pour into the children, they will drink. Children are in trouble: they will drink whatever you give them. To trick the child, mothers buy rubber substitutes from the market—a pacifier. The poor child knows nothing; he cries in the cradle with hunger; they pop the pacifier in his mouth. He keeps sucking the rubber.

Your beliefs are pacifiers; nothing will ever come out of them. However much you suck, you will only get tired; nothing will happen. Yet you cannot even drop them, because it feels disrespectful to what was given to you. And because those who gave them to you loved you so much—how could they give you something wrong! Thankfully, children outgrow pacifiers; otherwise they would say, “Our fathers and grandfathers gave them—how can we drop them?” Then you would see people everywhere with pacifiers in their mouths! But the habit remains; it does not leave so easily. So one chews betel, another tobacco, another smokes. These are all adult pacifiers.

Ask the psychologists. They say as long as we keep giving pacifiers to infants, tobacco, betel, cigarettes cannot be wiped from the world. The child needs something in the mouth. He cannot put a pacifier in now—what will people say! So we created other kinds of pacifiers for adults—far more harmful. The pacifier is innocent; you get nothing from it, true, but at least it doesn’t poison the body. But chewing tobacco! Is tobacco something to chew? Still, whatever habit you cultivate... People are smoking smoke—as if they were exhausted from breathing pure air! What a method of pranayama you have invented! All this is pacifier-business.

If someone comes to me and asks, “How can I give up cigarettes?” I tell him there is only one way. And I have helped many drop smoking. I have no particular ambition to make people quit, because I don’t believe a smoker will go to hell. Smoking is not a sin to me. It is stupidity—yes—but not a sin. These fools are already suffering hell enough here; why send them to another hell? They are already in trouble—why trouble them more? Why kill the dead?

So my view is: all fools will go to heaven—because they are already taking enough suffering on themselves here. No need to arrange for devils for them. They are burning themselves, turning their lungs into ash; why light another furnace in hell and put a cauldron on it? Oil is scarce as it is—why fry them like fritters? They are cooking themselves; why cause them pain? They are doing the devil’s work themselves; they are their own enemies.

I have heard that when people die and, if they reach hell, the first question asked is: “Where are you coming from?” If they say, “From earth,” they are told, “Go to heaven. You have already suffered hell—what will you do here? You’ve seen hell—what is left to see?”

Stupidity it is, not sin. So only if someone asks me do I advise; otherwise I don’t say, “Quit smoking.” In your life there are bigger things that you are holding—those need to be dropped. What difference will it make to drop cigarettes? You will catch hold of something else. Because if the root is elsewhere, the disease will simply change its face.

Women—at least in India—do not smoke; it is considered unseemly, against a woman’s modesty. Men kept preaching to them while enjoying every indulgence themselves: “You are Sati, Sita, Savitri!” Now, would Mother Sita look right with a cigarette? Men kept instructing, and women kept accepting. They were not allowed to read, write, think, understand—so they believed what they were told. But they also take revenge. They nag the men: “Quit smoking! What is this constant puffing? Your breath stinks.” They will pester you—of course they will. You robbed them of freedom; in indirect ways they will take revenge; they will harass you.

Women don’t smoke—so they chatter. The mouth must be kept busy!

I have heard: A bus stopped in front of a bar—a long bus. The driver got down and told the owner, “You may be a bit troubled. There are sixty people on this bus; they are all deaf and mute—from an ashram for the deaf-mute. We brought them to see the city. They all want to taste a little alcohol—poor things, they never get the chance. Give each a little. But they can neither speak nor hear; you’ll have to understand their gestures. If someone raises his left hand, that means whisky; if he raises the right, that means beer.” He explained all the signs. Sixty customers—too big a loss to refuse—and he felt some pity too. “Bring them in,” he said.

Everything went fine. He understood their signs and served them as best as he could. Then five or seven of them came and stood at the counter, mouths opening and closing. He got a little nervous: “What are they saying? The driver didn’t tell me this—opening and closing the mouth!” It made him uneasy—what could they be asking? He tried to ignore it, thinking, “Should I go ask the driver again?” But soon he saw five or seven more had come, and then all sixty surrounded the counter, opening and closing their mouths. He ran to the driver: “You didn’t tell me—when they open and close their mouths, what does it mean?”

The driver slapped his forehead: “Now we are in real trouble. They are singing! And now taking them home will be very difficult. You gave them too much, you fool! Did you have to pour that much? Now it’s going to be hard to get them into the bus. They will finish their songs—who knows how long that will take? They are in full swing now. The religious ones are singing hymns; the non-religious are singing film songs—opening and closing their mouths!”

Women cannot smoke—so what to do? They open and close their mouths. They stay constantly engaged in gossip. Their talk has no end; they draw one thing out of another, and something out of nothing.

All these are pacifiers you were given in childhood. You dropped the physical pacifier, but the habit remained—deeply ingrained.

Your beliefs are also pacifiers. They have been thrust upon you. Hollow. You pass a Hanuman temple and immediately bow down. Have you ever thought? This stone which some people have smeared and set up—how is this Hanuman? What are you doing? To whom are you bowing? Why are you bowing? But the head bends at once. Since childhood it has been bending. Parents forced it down again and again; they planted fear: if you don’t bow there will be trouble.

A Gandhian gentleman wrote and phoned me: “Tell Indira that in this sacred land such things should not happen. I hear monkeys are again being sent to America. Monkeys are symbols of Bajrangbali, of Hanuman. Selling monkeys to America is irreligious.”

I sent him a message: “Would you like to go as well? It would be a great favor! And take the rest of the Gandhians with you, and all the devotees of Hanuman. Free us from this! Take the Bajrangbalis too—there are plenty everywhere. Take them all—free us, spare us.”

Now at least let the monkeys go!

In Lucknow, a monkey went mad the other day. The police could not catch him—Hindus objected. Catching him would mean catching Hanuman! The monkey was a proper thug—especially against rickshaw pullers. Who knows why—perhaps rickshaw-wallas won’t give monkeys a ride! Who would? And from whom would you take the fare? So he used to attack them. The matter even reached the Uttar Pradesh Legislative Assembly: what is to be done?

Such foolishness can happen only in this “sacred land,” that assemblies debate what to do. A dog you can shoot; the municipal people catch and kill dogs. It is good that dogs have no religious tradition—otherwise great trouble would arise.

And why are people still allowed to kill rats? That too is surprising—rats are the vehicle of Ganeshji. That is why Ganesh is displeased with you. You may write “Shri Ganeshaya Namah” a hundred thousand times, he remains upset—because his mice are being killed. If you snatched someone’s vehicle, would he not be angry? I wonder why this hasn’t occurred to the holy men yet—the Shankaracharyas, Vinoba Bhave, and the like. Cows and monkeys are protected—why not rats?

Whatever foolishness is thrust upon us, we go on carrying it our whole lives. Therefore, rebellion against all that is imposed upon us; and acceptance of all that is born within our awareness.

So there is no contradiction in my statement. Acceptance—of oneself. And rebellion—against whatever goes against the sovereignty of that self. Whatever the price, pay it; it is worth paying. Only such a person’s soul is born. It is in such challenges that the soul is born.

Cowards have no soul; only those have a soul who accept the challenge, who accept the struggle, who are ready to pass through fire—only their gold becomes purified and turns to pure kundan.

Prafulla Bharti,
Surely Meera must have said: “Mharo desh Marwar!” Seeing the state of Marwar, seeing the condition of the Marwaris—“Blessed be the land of Marwar!” Meera must have been astonished, startled: “In such a land, and I was born here!” That itself is a miracle. Take it as God’s grace that in Marwar Meera should be born! In Marwar, quite a different kind of people are usually born. What has Marwar to do with Meera? Elsewhere it would have fit; but she was born in Marwar! Startled, she must have exclaimed: “Mharo desh Marwar!”
Prafulla Bharti, are you a Marwari, that this delights your heart so much?

A certain poet arrived at the house of Seth Dhaniramji, a literature-loving Marwari merchant. He sent in his collection of poems and waited for the outcome. Dhaniramji read a few pages and ordered his servant, “Tell the accountant to give the poet fifty rupees at once.” The servant had taken only a few steps when Dhaniramji called out again, “Wait—make it a hundred.” After reading a few more pages he shouted, “Make it a full one hundred and fifty.” But on reading further pages he lost his patience. He ordered another servant, “Throw this poet out with kicks. If I keep reading his poetry I’ll be ruined.”

A Marwari’s way of thinking is of its own kind. His grip is of his own kind. A Marwari’s grip is on money. And Meera’s grip is on love. And money and love are enemies. Therefore she must have said: “Mharo desh Marwar!”—Bravo, O God, what a miracle you have done—“Mharo desh Marwar!”

Love and money are opposites. Why? Because if someone is a lover, hoarding money becomes very difficult. Love shares. Love knows how to give. The very meaning of love is to give. Whom you love, you will want to give everything to—hold nothing back, have no hesitation in giving. Love is not stingy, not miserly. Where there is miserliness, can there be love?

And whoever clutches money—one thing is certain—he has to kill his love. Love must be removed from within. If even a little love remains, hoarding money becomes difficult. Therefore in a miser you will find a lack of love; love cannot be there. To run these two together is very difficult—impossible.

In fact, those who do not grow in the life of love are precisely the ones who become miserly. Those who did not find the bliss of love think: what did not come through love perhaps will be had through wealth. Those who have known love have attained the nectar. Now they have no worry. If there is money, fine; if there is none, fine. Those who have known love have gone beyond death.

Why does a person clutch at money? Why so tightly? Why gather so feverishly? Out of fear that tomorrow old age will come, the day after death will arrive—who knows when the need may arise! And who is a companion in this world? Except for money, no companion seems to be there. Money will stand by you; it is locked in your safe. There is no one else of your own. Whom to trust? He who cannot trust anyone trusts money. He who can trust someone does not worry about money. He says, “I have given so much love—someone or other will take care.” And the one who has given love knows that love returns—returns multiplied, returns infinitely.

Meera is mad with love, so she must have said, “Mharo desh Marwar!” The questioning thought must have arisen: how did this event happen? But God is omnipotent; he can do anything. He can even have Meera born in Marwar! What obstacle for the omnipotent? He can make the lame climb mountains, give sight to the blind. He made Jesus walk on water! For Moses he made a path through the sea; the sea stood parted! But these miracles are nothing; a greater miracle is that he had Meera born in Marwar.

Chandulal caught a Marwari seth by the hand on the road and said, “Listen, sir, I want to say something to you.”
“What?”
“May I ask you for something?”
Sethji said, “Don’t be nervous, young man. I know what you will ask. Ask with great joy. You want me to marry my beautiful daughter to you, isn’t that so?”
Chandulal, trembling, said, “No, no, sir. I only want a loan of five rupees.”
“What did you say? You want a loan of five rupees!” exclaimed the Marwari, steadying his turban in astonishment. “How can I give you that? Why, I don’t even know you.”

He was ready to give the girl, but not ready to lend five rupees. He was happily ready to give the girl—“Good, the hassle will be over; he has come on his own. Didn’t even have to search. Seems God has sent him.” His heart must have blossomed at once. But when five rupees were asked for, he straightened his turban—“This fellow is talking nonsense! I’ve never even seen him before, no acquaintance, don’t know his caste and lineage, no account of his home and place—and straightaway he comes asking for five rupees! A full five rupees!”

On the conference dais Kaka caused a fray;
Metaphor, simile, pun began to wrestle away.
With metaphor, simile, pun, he shoved the rhymes,
Dropped the meter, hit sixers of six-line lines.
Alliteration, fancy, poesy—what a display!
“This is just my trot; behold my gallop,” he’d say.
Seth Hulasiram went giddy over us:
“Very beautiful is your poem, Kaka-sahib!”
“Kaka-sahib, your comic flavor pleased me,
But the meaning of the poem I could not see.”
The sethani said, “Ask him the price of the feeling.
For a six-line poem, give him six annas.”

A Marwari’s world is money. The bhav—the value—of everything is money. Everything is weighed in price. There is nothing greater than wealth.

Therefore, Prafulla, Meera is quite right to say: “Mharo desh Marwar!”

And what did Marwar do to Meera? What noble treatment did it give? Every kind of ill-treatment. Every kind of insult. Every kind of defamation. She was forced to leave Marwar. It did not treat Meera nobly.

We used to think: well, Mansoor, Jesus, Socrates were men; if people behaved badly with them, so be it. But Meera was a woman—yet they could not even show gentlemanliness to a woman; with her too they showed as much wickedness as they could.

But Meera belongs to another realm—the realm of love. In her heart only the flowers of love bloom, only the lamps of love are lit. So she kicked away wealth and property, kicked away kingdom and rule, kicked away palaces. She began to wander from village to village. She became a beggar. She dropped all concern for public opinion.

Love does not bother about any public decorum. Love is fearless. And love finds itself so close to God, so much in God’s hands, that there is no worry, no anxiety.

Meera is a unique woman. Very few women have appeared on earth who belong to this category. Among the Sufis there was one woman—Rabia. And in Kashmir there was one woman—Lalla. And Meera. These are the three names. These three names among women are like Buddha, Krishna, Christ among men—of the same order! Of the same glory!

Kailash Goswami,
Man has a singular quality: if he falls, he can fall below the animals; if he rises, he can rise above the gods. That is uniquely human—that is his dignity. It is in your hands. Man is a ladder—one end descends below the animals, the other goes beyond the clouds. On this very ladder you can climb up, and on this very ladder you can climb down. The ladder is one.

No animal can fall below its own kind. If man decides to fall, he will outdo all animals. Who among animals could rival Genghis Khan, Tamerlane, Nadir Shah? They slaughtered millions. And that’s history; just recently Adolf Hitler and Joseph Stalin butchered millions. Which animal has ever killed so many?

And there is an amusing fact: no animal kills its own species. No lion kills another lion. No dog kills another dog. Only man kills men. And he kills without cause too—as if a mania to kill has seized him! Even when animals do kill… first, they never kill their own; they show at least that much decency. They have that much recognition: a lion does not attack another lion, however hungry he may be. And they kill other species only when hungry.

I have heard: a lion and a rabbit entered a hotel. Both sat down. The manager began to tremble. The waiters lost their nerve; their legs shook and they collapsed where they stood. Finally the manager gathered courage. Customers had come, after all. He went over and said, “How may I serve you?” The rabbit placed an order: “Bring eggs, bring coffee—this, that.” The manager asked, “And for your friend?” The rabbit said, “If my friend were hungry, do you think I’d be sitting here? I’d either be inside my friend, or not here at all. He isn’t hungry—that’s why we’re together.”

Until hunger arises, no animal attacks another animal. Animals don’t attack for sport. Hunting—what a strange thing! Killing for play! And what a fine arrangement: when you kill it’s “sport,” and if the lion kills you, it’s an “accident.” And you hunt from a scaffold with a gun. The lion has neither scaffold nor gun. And when you hunt, a hundred and fifty men with torches drive the lion toward you. And when you hunt, a calf is tied below as bait; the lion begins to eat it and then you fire. And even then, it’s not certain your bullet will hit.

Mulla Nasruddin was always boasting in the coffeehouse, “I hunted this; I hunted that!” At last one man couldn’t bear it. He said, “Come on then—let’s go! Show me. I’m a hunter too. From your talk I don’t believe you ever hunted anything.” Mulla said, “What are you saying! We’ll go tomorrow.” Their wives tagged along too, saying, “We’ll sit up on the scaffold and watch you hunt.” The two wives sat on one platform, the men on another. When the lion came, Nasruddin’s hands began to shake. The gun went off—he couldn’t stop it—but it hit his friend’s wife. She crashed down. The friend said, “What are you doing? Is this hunting? No shame, attacking a woman?” “Arrey!” said Mulla. “Why are you so upset? Kill my wife too—then both our hassles are over; we’ll go home. The mistake happened; now, in exchange, you kill mine. And she can’t do anything—she’s still on the platform. If she climbs down, she’ll make trouble. Settle it quickly.”

When man kills, it’s sport, a game; if a lion kills, it’s not sport. When man falls, he falls below the animals. The stories you mention are evidence of precisely this. I don’t hold that they actually took place. I don’t believe that lions came and sat by the Buddha. If they sat like they sat with the rabbit—when not hungry—then that’s different. Their bellies full, they might have thought, “Come, let’s have some satsang. Buddha is sitting under the tree—let’s sit a while.” When your stomach is full, you think of satsang; “Let’s sit with King Buddha a bit.” Nothing else to do, some leisure time to spare. A lion eats once in twenty-four hours. Once he has eaten, for twenty-four hours he is no cause for fear. I don’t believe any miracle was involved. Or perhaps they were fake lions—circus lions.

I just heard that when the Janata Party lost and its leaders became jobless—posts gone, bungalows gone, cars gone, opportunities for loot gone—they began looking for work here and there. But who will hire a politician? People give their votes—“Here, take the vote, loot public property”—but who will keep a politician employed in their home? Who knows what he might do! No one was ready to give them work. So one politician went to a circus. He said to the manager, “I’m in a bad way—down to my last. I need some job.” The manager said, “We have no other job. Our lion died, and we’ve kept his skin. Get inside it. We’ll give you a tape recorder; from inside, time to time the tape—automatic—will roar. It has a lion’s roar recorded. When it roars, just open your mouth. It will seem you roared. The hearts of the audience will quake. Other than that, you have no work. Just pace around the cage.” He said, “That’s good too. Leisurely work. Nothing special—rest all day. Only in the evening, when the people come to the circus, take a walk and, when the roar comes, remember to open your mouth. That’s all your work.” The leader agreed. He took the tape recorder, got into the lion’s skin, went inside, and roared. A commotion broke out. Children began to cry; women began to faint. What real lion could roar like that! Because it was a recorded roar, greatly amplified. He was pleased—this job is good, fun too. He saw several khadi-clad types trembling. Several Janata Party men were scared as well. “This is going well,” he thought. Just then he saw the cage door open and another lion entered, roaring. He forgot himself. He shouted, “Save me! Save me! I’m done for!” The audience was astonished: “What’s this the lion is saying! We’ve seen many circuses, but a lion speaking clear Hindi—‘Save me! Save me! I’m done for!’” He’d forgotten himself. This was a mess; the manager had never told him another lion would enter. He had thought he would stroll alone. The other lion said, “Shut up, you idiot! You think you’re the only one who lost an election?” Then the secret came out—the other one too was a leader. But by then the first lion’s life-water had already begun to flow. That second lion said, “At least contain this! If our leader Morarji Desai finds out, he’ll be very upset, because this is a precious substance. You don’t waste such a valuable thing everywhere!”

I just heard that a meeting of the Janata Party’s working committee was held in Delhi—six hours long. All the leaders went to the bathroom, one twice, one three times—six hours is a long stretch—but only Morarji did not go. The journalists outside, waiting in hope that some leader would whisper something and they’d get a story—they grew concerned. “Everyone went, but Morarji didn’t.” They asked someone. He said, “Just don’t print my name. Such a precious thing—he keeps it safely! He doesn’t go wasting it everywhere.”

So either the lions you’re talking about—“cobras or tigers or lions came and sat near enlightened ones”—were fake lions, or else they had eaten and drunk their fill. As for cobras, in ninety-seven percent of them there is no venom at all—only three percent are venomous, and they are hard to come by. People die because a snake bit them; few die of venom. That’s why snake-charmers succeed. In ninety-seven percent of cases, the snake-charmer succeeds because in ninety-seven percent of cases the snake is not venomous. But the panic—“A snake bit me; I’m finished!”—is enough to kill you.

Do not take these stories to mean that such snakes and scorpions and lions recognized the enlightened and sat near them for satsang. Don’t fall into that delusion. When even man does not recognize, what will these poor animals recognize! Yet the stories are saying: even these poor animals would recognize first, and man would not. The stories are saying: shame on you, man! The animals might recognize, but you do not. The stories are simply signalling your stupor. They are symbolic tales. Don’t understand them as miracles. The commentaries we make—our pundits and priests—are about miracles; and once we make them into miracles, we destroy the entire meaning of the stories.

A snake bit Mahavira, and milk came out—so Jain pundits and priests have been busy for centuries explaining that Mahavira was such a wondrous person that his body contained no blood, only milk, milk everywhere. I asked a Jain monk, “Think a little—if there was milk everywhere, it would have curdled by now! And such curd coming from Mahavira—its smell alone would keep snakes away; let alone biting, they wouldn’t come near.”

Once a Jain monk, Chitrabhanu, and I spoke at the same meeting. He spoke before me. He said this could be scientifically proven—that milk came from the foot. “After all, milk comes from women’s breasts, does it not? That too is the body. Similarly it came from the foot.” I spoke after him. The public clapped. It was a Jain crowd. “What a scientific explanation!” they said. I spoke after him. I said, “I too enjoyed it. Which means that Mahavira’s body had breasts here and there? Because milk doesn’t come from any organ except the breast. So either there was a breast on the foot—which would be an even greater miracle: that a breast had been installed in advance so that, when the snake arrived, it bit exactly the right place! And that snake was amazing too, to bite the precise spot! Or else the whole body was covered with breasts. That would be a great nuisance. And to roam about naked with breasts everywhere! The public would have drunk him dry long ago! Wherever he went, people would crowd around to drink: ‘How can we leave Lord Mahavira! Such prasad—milk!’ The poor man would have perished by now. He might have escaped snakes, but how from men? And even if people didn’t drink, at least there would be shoving and jostling. Some gentleman would quickly throw a blanket over him: ‘Breasts everywhere! Don’t let anyone see!’ People wouldn’t have let him remain naked at all. ‘Brother, you must wear clothes!’”

What foolish things people go on saying! And how blind devotees, blind believers, keep clapping at such foolishness!

These symbolic tales exist in all religions. Their meaning is only this: that the way man has behaved toward his enlightened ones so far is so degraded that we would not expect it even from animals. That is all—no more. Even animals wouldn’t do such a thing. Even they would feel compassion once. Even they would come to their senses once. A snake would stop, mid-bite; a lion would pause, mid-attack; even a mad elephant would bow. But man is madder than mad elephants, more ferocious than lions, more poisonous than snakes. These stories exist to convey this news. Take them as symbols. Do not treat them as historical facts. But they are interpreted as though they were historical facts. In trying to make them historical facts, we only make our great ones into laughingstocks.

Therefore, Kailash Goswami, there is no “secret” at all; it is simply a way of saying certain things in a simple manner. It is a way of telling by way of story, so that even the least understanding person can understand. Great truths have been hidden in stories. Aesop’s fables are all animal stories. That does not mean animals speak. In Aesop’s fables they speak.

A small lamb was drinking water at a little spring. A lion was drinking at the same spring, higher up. The lion’s mouth began to water. He saw a beautiful lamb—fresh, tender! Early morning—a fine breakfast! But he needed a pretext; you can’t pounce at once. Even animals first look for a pretext, then attack. He said, “Hey, you lamb, yesterday you were abusing me!” The lamb said, “Yesterday I wasn’t even here, sir. I arrived today from another forest.” The lion grew angrier. He said, “If not you, then your mother! But your face looks familiar. Or your father! But the abuse was hurled by your father or your mother.” The lamb said, “Sir, my parents died long ago. Thanks to the grace of lions like you, they have long since been finished. How will they abuse you? They are late—they have departed.” The lion saw things were going awry. He said, “And you little bastard—while I drink, you are muddying the water!” The lamb said, “Sir, you are upstream; the stream flows from your side toward mine. You are muddying it, not I. How could I muddy the water? The stream is not flowing from me to you. I’m standing below; you are standing above. And would I ever commit such a crime as to stand above you? While you are present? Never, never!” The lion saw the breakfast slipping out of his hands. He pounced and said, “Being small, don’t you feel ashamed to argue with your elders?” Now what answer can you give! He gobbled him down—declaring, “Being small, you argue with elders; don’t you feel ashamed?”

This tale is not a fact, but it is important. This is what is going on in the world—among men, among nations, among castes. Everyone looks for a pretext to swallow the other. The tale is very important. A father says to his son, “Being small, don’t you feel ashamed to argue with your elders? Keep your mouth shut!” What are you saying? You are only saying, “We are stronger than you; we’ll slap you twice. Where is the question of right or wrong!” And it may well be the child is right. Children often speak the truth. Children don’t lie. It takes time to learn lying. Lying comes with long practice. Children speak frankly.

Someone asked Mulla Nasruddin’s son, “Is Nasruddin at home?” He said, “You’ve put me in a bind. He is at home, but he told me that if anyone asks, say he’s not.” He told the truth. And Mulla was listening from inside. He called the boy and slapped him: “I told you to say I’m not at home.” The boy said, “That’s what I said—that you are at home, but you are saying you are not.” Now a son like that is trouble.

One day he sent the boy to the well to fetch water—gave him a pot and a rope. As the boy was leaving, Mulla called him back and gave him two slaps. “Go—bring the water carefully.” A man sitting nearby said, “This is too much! The poor boy hasn’t even gone yet, hasn’t broken any pot, and you’ve already slapped him twice!” Nasruddin said, “What’s the use of slapping afterward? If he comes back after breaking it, what’s the use then! Better to teach him in advance.” With a father like that, the son will learn soon enough.

One day the boy was on a ladder. Nasruddin said, “Jump, son, jump! I’ll catch you. See, my hands are open.” The boy was afraid. “No, Papa, I don’t want to jump.” “What, you’re afraid? You don’t trust your father—your own father? Jump!” The boy jumped—and Mulla stepped aside. He crashed down; his knees were scraped. The boy began to cry. “I was saying from the start I didn’t want to jump.” The father said, “I wanted to teach you a lesson. Son, never trust even your own father. This world is very bad. Now learn this, kid! Now even if I say ‘Jump, jump,’ even if I spread my hands, whatever I do—don’t jump. The world is very bad.” It takes time to learn that the world is very bad. Children tell the truth.

Aesop made the animals speak plain truths. In the end the animals must have gotten annoyed too. I have heard that one day a lion caught Aesop, and before swallowing him said, “All right, kid, now write a story! And write this one too!” And then he gobbled him up. Of course they would—Aesop had written so many stories about animals, mocked them plenty. If the lion got angry, there’s no surprise. But it seems Aesop still managed to have even this written, or got it written by some device. After all, there’s a story that the lion ate Aesop, and as he was eating said, “Now, kid, write a story about this!” At least Aesop managed this much. There must have been a stenographer nearby: “Brother, write at least this last event—this epilogue!”

These stories are lovable, but you spoil them. They contain great beauty, and you destroy it. They are not facts; they are truths—precious truths. Only this much is being said: in the presence of Buddhas and Mahaviras even animals awakened, but men did not. Take heed. Do not commit such a mistake. Remember this, Kailash Goswami.

Yogananda,
there’s no secret at all. When I saw you, you were sitting so stiffly that you looked like a yogi—absolutely struck a pose. And your nose was high with pride. Your manner was as if you were doing some great deed! As if, by taking sannyas, you were doing a mighty favor to the world, redeeming it. So I gave you the name—Yogananda. Had you not asked, I would never have told, because such things are not for telling; I keep them hidden within. Now you’ve created the trouble yourself by asking.

What’s in a name, Yogananda? Some sort of label is needed. But some people keep trying to find a secret in everything—as if they can’t accept anything simply; there has to be a secret! Things just are.

A critic once asked Picasso, “What is the meaning of this painting of yours?”
Picasso said, “Meaning! Look out the window: a rose has blossomed—what is its meaning? And if a rose can bloom in sheer joy without meaning, why should my painting need meaning? Did I sign a contract for meaning? This too is play, that too is play.”
But I don’t think the critic was satisfied. Critics must have meaning. If there’s no meaning, their whole boat starts rocking.

You were born nameless, you will go nameless, you are nameless. But to get by, a name had to be kept. Otherwise there are three thousand sannyasins here—if one had to call you, great difficulty would arise. Either we’d have to describe you in detail: such-and-such nose, such-and-such ears, such-and-such hair—and that would create all kinds of hassles.

It is said that once a man robbed Picasso’s house. The police asked Picasso, “Describe the thief a bit.”
Picasso said, “Describe? I’ll make a sketch.”
He was a painter; he made a portrait. They say the police arrested seven men, a letter box, and a refrigerator! Because from the picture he drew, all kinds of things could be inferred. When they brought this whole lineup to Picasso, he smacked his head and said, “This is the limit! Forgive me—none of them are needed. The thing I thought was stolen isn’t missing at all. The thief did come, but he couldn’t take anything. So drop the worry.”
They said, “How can we drop it now? All seven have confessed!”
Well, the police can get a confession out of anyone. Beat with a stick, and the one who didn’t steal will also say, “Yes, I did.” That has even more substance—“Yes, I did.”

Now, if I had to find Yogananda, trouble would arise. Say, “He’s wearing red clothes.” Someone might bring a letter box. Letter boxes are veteran sannyasins. Someone might uproot a milestone; they too stand fully painted in sannyasin color. What confusions there would be! Who can say? So a name is needed. Otherwise, what’s in names!

Have you ever pondered the difference between name and form?
One gets a certain name, but the looks and the wits are something else.

The looks and the wits are different—“Nainsukh” (Delight-of-the-eyes) turned out one-eyed;
Babu Sundarlal (Mr. Beautiful) was made with bulging eyes.
Says “Kaka,” the poet: Dayaramji swats mosquitoes,
And Vidhyadhar (Bearer-of-knowledge) finds letters as black as a buffalo—utterly illiterate.
Munshi Chandalal’s complexion is like tar,
While Shyamlal (Darky) is fair as radiant sunshine.
Fair as sunshine, smart in bush-shirt and pants,
Gyanchand (Moon-of-knowledge) failed the tenth grade six times.
Says “Kaka”: Jwalaprasad (Flame-grace) is absolutely cool,
Pandit Shantiswaroop (Embodiment-of-peace) has been seen wielding sticks.
Look—Asharfilal (Mr. Gold-coin) has a broken cot at home,
While Seth Chhadammilal (Mr. Counterfeit) runs eight mills.
Eight mills keep running, yet the accounts of karma don’t erase;
Dhani Ramji (Mr. Wealthy) I’ve often seen destitute.
Says “Kaka”: Dulheram (Bridegroom) died a bachelor,
Poor Pritam Singh (Beloved) pines without a beloved.
Jagpal (Protector-of-the-world) couldn’t fill his own stomach all his life,
And you meet hundreds of Ganeshilals (Mr. Ganesha) without a trunk.
Meet Ganeshilal, fussing with the crease of his pants—
He hands his bag to a porter, and off walks Mr. Girdhari (Lifter-of-the-mountain)!
Says “Kaka,” the poet: he gambles in lakhs,
Named Haveliram (Lord-of-a-mansion), yet he rents an attic.
He runs from battle, yet he’s named Randhir (Brave-in-war),
And Bhagchand’s (Runaway’s) luck still sleeps to this day.
Luck asleep—I’ve seen so many—
Every “Priya Sukhdev” (Dear Bliss-god) turned out a giver of sorrow.
Says “Kaka,” the poet: the figures are perfectly true—
Balakram the celibate has twelve children.
Chatur Sen (Clever) is a fool; Buddhasen (Wise) witless,
Shri Anandilal (Blissful) remains perpetually angry.
Perpetually angry, the Master goes round in circles,
Munshi Tota Ram (Parrot) teaches humans.
Says “Kaka”: Balvir Singh (Very brave) has been looted,
Thana Singh’s (Cloth-bale/Police-station) clothes are all torn.
Sour, salty, scratchy are the words of Mridula (Soft),
And see “Mrignaini” (Doe-eyed)—her eyes like pine nuts.
Eyes like pine nuts; “Shanta” (Peaceful) stirs up riots,
Godavari, Gomati, and Ganga bathe at the tap.
Says “Kaka”: Lajjawati (Modest) is roaring,
Darshan Devi (Vision-goddess) draws a long veil.
How can husband and wife manage in this Kali age?
Chapala Devi (Fickle) got Babu Bholanath (Simpleton).
Babu Bholanath—how far shall we go with the tale?
Pandit Ramchandra’s wife is Radha Rani.
“Kaka”: Lakshminarayan’s wife is Rita,
And Krishnachandra’s wife came as Sita.
Pandit Gyaniram (Knowledgeable) turned out utterly ignorant,
He named Kaushalya’s son “Dasharath.”
Named him Dasharath—what a fine match indeed!
The bride Maya came to the groom Sant Ram.
“Kaka”: some relationships are downright absurd—
Parvati Devi is Shivshankar’s mother.

Yogananda, there’s no secret or anything. What connection have you with yoga? Nor any with bliss. I just stuck a label on. All names are makeshift. But the habit of seeking a secret in everything is a wrong habit. Accept life simply—accept it as it is. Because of seeking a secret in everything, you can’t tell how many fools exploit you: they keep telling you more and more “mysteries.” Off they go to read the lines on your hand! Some idiot will always turn up to fleece you. There must be some secret in the lines of the hand! Why don’t you read the lines of the feet? They too should have some secret. And in which line is which secret? And look at the state of those who read your palm—they sit by the roadside, telling anyone’s fate for a few coins; they have no clue about their own fate.

But inside man there is a kind of derangement—seeking a secret in everything. Because of it, many sorts of mysticisms keep circulating in the world that have no value. If anything has value, it is that life is the supreme mystery, and everything in life is a mystery. But that mystery has no bottom. No one has measured it; no one can. You too are a mystery. But what’s in your name? You are the mystery! The mystery is in your very being!

And it is such a mystery that the deeper you dive, the more you will find—more and more remains. The more you know, the more you will find—more remains yet to be known.

Ramesh Satyarthi,
Follow your own understanding. If you get tangled up by listening to me, you’ll land in trouble—because your mind is yearning to marry, and you’ve heard me and decided you won’t. A conflict will arise within. And the more you try not to marry, the more marriage will attract you.

Marriage has one advantage: the very act of marrying gives birth to dispassion. Until you’ve not married, attachment arises. This is the spiritual value of marriage: the one who marries begins to think, “There’s no substance in the world; all is futile. The sages were right.”

You say I said that a wise man should not marry.
No, I didn’t say that; you misunderstood. A wise man does not marry. But where will you get wisdom from? Only by marrying will you come to wisdom! First marry; from that, understanding will arise. Then, if you can keep that understanding, so much the better—abide in it. Without experience there is no understanding. My understanding cannot become yours; that is exactly what I’m saying. Your father may say it, your grandfather may say it—what will that do? Only your own understanding will serve you.

Marriage is an experience—bitter-sweet, full of pleasure and pain; there are thorns and flowers; night as well as day. It is necessary and useful to pass through that experience. Yes, if simply by seeing others such understanding arises in you that you are jolted awake and the urge itself dissolves, that’s different. Otherwise, where will you get understanding? Right now you don’t have it.

You say: “Nothing makes sense to me.”
Get married—then it will make sense! If it dawned on the mighty, why wouldn’t it dawn on you? I’ve seen the strongest; it dawned on them.

Throw the scrap into the scrap, Babu Musaddilal
came from the office,
but before setting foot across the threshold
he was so nervous—
as if within the lintel, stretching for miles,
there lay a blazing desert
and he were parched.
Or else a haunt of spirits,
a ghostly cremation ground,
with cleavers raised overhead.
Home was no home, but some kind of menagerie
with ferocious beasts inside,
all hungry and all unchained.
Who knows what curse of Durvasa
was upon him
that he was not of one, not of two—
he was the father of five girls.
Ill-starred and pitiable,
they were turning pale;
their hands had not yet been hennaed—still maidens.
The first girl, with red ink,
was coloring her nails;
the second wanted to as well, was tempted,
but held back out of shame;
the third was saving yesterday’s chutney
for tomorrow;
the fourth, a dry roti in hand,
was raising a clamor for that chutney;
the fifth, five years old, who knows why,
was rattling her bones with sobs.
The wife was a walking, living corpse—
perhaps Yama himself was looking for just her.
A string of illnesses had eaten up the body,
but all the strength had gathered on the tongue.
Again and again she wrung her heart,
scolded Musaddi, fought, cursed.
Therefore the house—
for Musaddilal it was the greatest dread;
as he stepped inside
his brow was slick with sweat.
He had reached the office a little late,
so the boss had scolded him;
here, since he lay down outright,
why wouldn’t the wife scold?
Slaps of words began to rain—
“As soon as you arrive you flop down,
you’ve become completely alien to the house!
You didn’t bring vegetables today either—
how long can anyone live on chutney!
You’re neither eating nor drinking—
God knows how you’re surviving!
Even the jaggery for tea is finished,
and my torn blouse
has torn even more!
It’s rotten, yet for three years
I’ve been making do with the same sari.
Leave me—somehow
I’m keeping the vehicle going,
but fill the bellies of these wretches—
do something for them at least.
Calamity has taken a stand here;
the eldest has grown far too big.
For hours she sits silent in the loft,
feeding grain to pigeons,
and stares at every passerby.
The middle one’s fees still haven’t been paid—
and alas,
the ache in my teeth still hasn’t gone.
Did you bring the medicine?
Listen—did you bring the medicine?”
Poor Musaddi—what could he say?
Somehow a few words reached his lips—
“What to say of toothache!
All pains have become teeth,
embedded throughout the body—
the teeth of debt,
the teeth of disease,
the teeth of rent,
the teeth of fees,
the teeth of rations,
the teeth of twinges,
the teeth of inflation,
the teeth of schooling—
they’re all biting.”
“What babble is this? You forgot
the grocer Lala had called?
The landlord came twice too.
I told them, this time the rent will surely be paid;
the wretch was glowering at the eldest.
And what ruin has fate fixed for us
that on the very next Ekadashi
our niece’s wedding is set.
What have you thought for the bhat (the ceremonial gift)?”
“There isn’t rice to eat, and you talk of giving bhat!
Why do you strike at my heart?
You could even put Yama to shame.
I’m dying—
not from death; from you I’m afraid.”

In this way, friends,
while the leaders of our country,
sunk in sofas, are listening to classical music,
here a kind of “kalesi-cal” music plays;
all are habituated—no one minds.
When the “kalesi-cal” notes reach their climax,
poor, beleaguered Musaddilal dies.
Before you die, brother, understand—good if you do; wake up—good if you do. Because marriage is only the beginning; then there is more and more ruin. Then there are children, and their experience will come too. Just as now the mind is tempted to marry, then the mind will be tempted to have children. Now the mind is tempted to become a husband; then it will be tempted to become a father. And where does it stop! Then it longs to become a grandfather! People even want to become great-grandfathers! They want to see their grandchildren with their own eyes and even get them married. This game goes on and on.

If understanding can arise, let it arise quickly. If it arises now, all the better.

O bridegroom seated on the mare, what are you laughing at?
Look—before you stands your future
with a fallen face.
Now you laugh; later you will weep,
when in the shehnai’s notes the children will scream;
a crown of anxieties will sit upon your head.
The mares of expenses will say,
“Come now, mount up!”
Then you’ll know what that engagement meant,
what auspiciousness that wedding had.
O impatient one!
Had you asked someone married,
he would have explained to you
what the fruit of the bridal vine is like.
Ask a father; he will tell you
how terrible the duty of fatherhood is in India.
O you goat!
Run if you can;
the sacrificial altar stands before you.
The wicked wedding guests, dancing and prancing,
deck you out with great fanfare
to offer you as a gift
to the bride-as-Chamunda.
O mud idol seated beneath the canopy!
This is not a fire-sacrifice; it is the great conflagration
of the ocean of becoming.
These are not mantras; they are the roar of waves.
Not a priest, but the tides themselves.
These are not circumambulations, fool—this is a whirlpool.
Not a bride—this is a whale.
What you think is a bond of union—
run, it is Yama’s noose.
O fool!
O naive, unknowing, ill-starred one!
Break them if you can—the threads are still raw;
once they’re baked, you’ll tug at this rope your whole life.
O illiterate!
Even with B.A., B.T.,
you fail to grasp the meaning of panigrahan,
the taking of the hand.
All eclipses are one, unlucky one—
solar eclipse,
lunar eclipse,
or hand-eclipse!

Ramesh Satyarthi, then as you wish!
That’s all for today.