Preetam Chhabi Nainan Basee #15

Chinta,
Innocence is the absence of mind. As long as mind is, innocence is impossible. Mind itself is the flaw; the mind is the disorder.

By mind I mean memory, imagination, worry—about the future, about the past. And lost in that whole turmoil, we go on missing what is; our connection with it gets severed.

What is, is another name for the divine. The divine is ever-present. And the mind is never present: it is either in the past or the future. The past—what has happened—is no more. Wasting time over it is useless; to remain entangled in it is foolish. The future has not yet come. To drown in anxiety about it is to lose the precious that is in your hands right now. Between these two a person gets ruined—past and future. Between these two one misses life. Life is in the middle of the two.

Hence Buddha said: Majjhima Nikaya—the middle way. Stay in the middle. Neither here nor there. Have you seen a tightrope walker? Neither left nor right; he holds himself exactly in the middle. One who can hold himself in the middle attains to innocence.

Innocence is another name for meditation. Innocence is the state of no-mind. The mind is the source of many diseases. First of all the mind gives birth to ego; it is its first offspring. Then the ego brings in a whole procession of troubles—anger, lust, greed, delusion, hatred, jealousy, envy—with no end in sight. A single ego creates an entire world. One lie becomes the progenitor of a thousand lies. And there is no lie bigger than the ego. It does not exist; it only appears—like taking a rope in the dark to be a snake, or a dewdrop in the morning sun for a pearl; come close and it is only water in your hand.

Mulla Nasruddin was walking down the road with his wife. Suddenly he lunged forward, bent down, picked up something from the street, hurled the foulest abuse in anger, and threw away what he had picked up. “If I ever find the man who did this, I’ll cut off his neck!”

His wife asked, “What’s the matter? Whose neck are you cutting? What did you pick up? What did you throw?”

He said, “Some scoundrel coughs in such a way that it sounds like a coin!”

In the morning sun someone must have coughed in a way that misled him—what fault of the cougher! He would take off the man’s head. We live in just such delusions. Who knows what all we are clutching! Who knows what absurdities we trust! We rely on the body—which is momentary; here today, gone tomorrow; dust returning to dust. We rely on the mind—which is but a part of the body, a useful instrument—but we have made it the master. As a servant it is fine. But when the servant becomes the master, there is great mischief. He does not know how to be a master; he was meant to be a servant. Put masterhood in his hands and there will be trouble—no sense, no method, no tact.

I have heard: a crackpot emperor, pleased with his servant, said, “I will fulfill whatever wish you have. Today I’m very pleased with you, happy with your service. Ask!”

The servant said, “My lord, what more to ask! You have given me so much already. Only one thing rises in my heart now and then: make me emperor for twenty-four hours. Just once let me be emperor too. Let this life not pass without it. Let me sit on the throne once.”

The emperor was crazy—and he had given his word; he was true to his promise. So for twenty-four hours he made the servant the emperor.

In those twenty-four hours the havoc he wrought no emperor could wreak in twenty-four lifetimes. First thing he did was to have the emperor hanged—finished the matter at the root. Now there was no need to descend from the throne after twenty-four hours.

This story is meaningful. It concerns you—every human being. This is what has happened. If the mind is a servant, it is alright; use it—it is an instrument, a useful one. As you use a pen to write a letter. The pen does not write; you write. But if the illusion arises that the pen writes, then there will be trouble. The mind is only like a pen. You use it: to read, to write.

But things have gone wrong. The mind has long been riding your chest. Even if you do not want it to, it goes on. You say, “Stop.” It does not stop. The more you say “stop,” the harder it becomes to stop. That is the disorder. That is the sickness of your life: you have no mastery over your own mind.

An innocent person is the master. A simple person is the master. The mind is very cunning, very crafty. If you make it the master, it will make you cunning and crafty too. It will teach you tricks; it will make you do things you would never have done on your own.

Think a little. I am not speaking theoretically. I have no interest in theories. I am stating a fact. Examine your own mind. What all has your mind not made you do! What foolishnesses it has not made you commit! And then for those foolishnesses how many kinds of reasons it has not found! The mind is very skillful at finding reasons—that is the very web of its cunningness. It finds reasons, arguments, excuses for everything.

But if you become just a little alert, you will recognize. If you start holding a little of the witness attitude—just an inch—you will begin to see the mind’s web.

Mulla Nasruddin slept at night. In his sleep he started saying, “Kamla! Kamla! Oh dear Kamla!”

His wife was listening. She shook him awake and said, “Who is this slut Kamla? Whom are you talking to? The secret has slipped out in your sleep. I always suspected it. I see long hairs on your clothes every day when you come from the office. Between office and home you go somewhere else. And you come late every day—every day excuses. Today the truth is out. Who is this Kamla? You will have to tell, right now!”

Nasruddin instantly found an argument. He said, “You’re crazy. Kamla is the name of a mare. I have bet on her at the racecourse. So she must have come to mind. I have great hopes that perhaps this time Kamla will win and our fortune will open, the bad days will end.”

He soothed her and went back to sleep; the wife too slept. Next day he returned from the office; the wife was sitting outside. Seeing her he understood something was wrong. He asked, “Why are you looking at me like this? As if I’m a stranger!”

His wife said, “No, not like that. That mare phoned; she said to meet by Plaza Talkies in the evening.”

The mind contrives, spreads nets—and to escape one net it spreads another. But how long? How far? Truths surface. You cannot escape truth. You press them down, hide them, still they surface. The nature of truth is that it cannot be suppressed forever. And the nature of lies is that they cannot be protected forever. For a little while you may deceive yourself and others; but the play does not last long—and it is good that it does not.

But man is so foolish that the play keeps breaking; he falls again and again; he gets up, dusts himself off, and starts walking in the same way again; totters again, falls again; and before he has even steadied himself, he begins preparing to fall yet again.

If you want awakening, then from the mind’s deceit, its nets, its dishonesty—Chinta—freedom will be possible. And the moment you are free of the mind’s deception and nets, you are free of mind itself. What remains is a mere mechanism, a process of thought. Use it. It has external utility. It has no use in the inner world. Language, for example, has use outside. To speak to others you need language. To speak to yourself there is no need of language; feeling is enough. To go out, use mind; to go within, no-mind.

That is why I praise innocence so much—because the cunning remain stuck outside. And one day death comes and topples all the sandcastles you have built, sinks all your paper boats. But by then it is too late. Then however much you thrash about, you can do nothing. So wake up before; take care before. That taking care is sannyas.

Sannyas is the mastery of consciousness over the mind.

Sannyas is witnessing.

Sannyas is the declaration: I will no longer let consciousness be run by the mind; now consciousness will run the mind. I hand over the reins of the mind into the hands of consciousness.

And when there is mastery, it will be in your hands to use the mind when you want, and to switch it off when you want.

In Switzerland a few years ago an incident happened. A man was confined in a hospital. In a car accident his brain was badly injured. Sometimes accidents produce strange outcomes. Because of the injury something happened to his ears: he began to pick up the radio stations within a ten-mile radius—through his ears. His aural apparatus became that sensitive. Lying in bed… it wasn’t clear as on a radio; as when two or three stations overlap on your set—that was the state of his ears: a buzzing, but sometimes a line or two could be made out, sometimes a song would be caught.

At first he thought it was all mind’s illusion. But when it happened repeatedly, he complained to the nurses: “Something’s wrong; there’s a constant buzzing inside; it feels as if a radio is broken and two or three stations are coming together.”

The nurses said, “You’re hallucinating. You’ve had a head injury; the nervous system is upset. It will all be fine.”

They kept putting him off. But he wouldn’t relent: “I am in great difficulty; I can’t even sleep at night, because it keeps going. Only when the radio stations close at midnight does it stop.” At midnight it would stop. Then the nurses too felt maybe something is there; they told the doctors. At first the doctors too didn’t believe. Then one doctor said, “Let’s try an experiment.” He set a radio in the next room and asked the patient, “You speak out what you are hearing.” And what he spoke were the very lines of the song playing on the radio.

Then they investigated further and found that an accidental event had altered his ears. They had to operate and repair them. But scientists learned one thing from it: sooner or later human ears can be engineered so that a person need not carry a radio. This man’s accident opened the door to that possibility.

But think of the man’s plight. You have a radio at home too, but it is no trouble—because when you want it on, you switch it on; when you don’t, you switch it off. He had no way to turn it off. Whether it played or not was not in his hands.

Right now your mind is in the same state. You say “Be quiet!”—it doesn’t happen; it keeps doing its thing, keeps humming. And not just two or three stations—who knows how many! Sit once and write down everything running through your mind on a sheet of paper—you will be shocked at what garbage floats there! Garbage upon garbage! Who knows from where what thought appears! And you call this a healthy state?

Chinta, this is not health; it is a great sickness. It may be normal, because everyone else is like this, but it is not healthy. Nothing becomes healthy by being common. It is common, but not as it should be. The whole human race lives in a kind of derangement. Everyone hides his own craziness; no one tells. But sometimes it breaks out.

Sometimes in anger you say things for which you later repent. You had thought those things many times, but never said them; in anger you forgot, and what ran inside came out. Sometimes in love too you say things for which you later repent: “What did I say! Now what will happen!” You even end up proposing marriage—now repent for life! Cry now! No way to take it back.

These things run inside you; they don’t come out; you hold them in. But the hold is very thin, just a flimsy curtain. Give someone a little alcohol and the curtain drops. The person starts blurting things you never imagined. He is a Khadi-wearing gentleman, a Gandhian; give him a little drink and he starts hurling abuse, talking like a paramahansa. Do you think alcohol produces abuse? There is nothing in alcohol that produces abuse. The abuses were inside. He had hidden them under Khadi; he chanted “Ram, Ram” on the surface; that was on the periphery. Inside there was uproar. The alcohol put the “Ram-Ram” to sleep; it made him forget he was a Gandhian.

Akbar was proceeding on an elephant in a procession on a festival day. A man standing on his thatched roof began shouting filthy things at Akbar: “You bastard! Aren’t you ashamed! Riding on an elephant!”

He was at once seized and thrown into jail. The next day Akbar called him and said, “Are you in your senses? What were you shouting?”

He said, “I said nothing; I was drunk. So I ask forgiveness. The fault is not mine. I did not say anything deliberately. And I don’t even remember what I said.”

If a drunk man says something to you, you too say, “He’s drunk—let it go.” But when a man is not drunk, he keeps saying it inside. Let him keep it inside, not let it out.

Reflect a little on your own mind. Guests arrive at your home; on the surface you say, “My heart leapt with joy to see you! I’ve been waiting with eyes spread out for you to come and sanctify our humble home!” Inside you are saying, “These scoundrels! They had to come just now! A thousand troubles, and now these have arrived!” Inside something else is going on; outside you say something else.

Yes, if you are drunk, then what runs inside will come outside. Alcohol reveals your inner truths. That is why your so-called saints are so against alcohol; the real reason is only that alcohol will expose your truths.

Whoever went to George Gurdjieff as a disciple—first he would make him drink, and drink a lot; so much that he would fall to the floor, roll around, babble. Then Gurdjieff would sit by him and listen: what is he saying? Because he would say, “Man is so dishonest that if you ask him directly he will say one thing while the reality is another. His reality can be known only when he is totally unconscious—because in unconsciousness he cannot deceive.”

What an irony that in your waking state your words cannot be trusted; only in your intoxication can they be trusted—because your dishonest one is asleep then. Psychologists do the same. They don’t ask what you thought by day; they ask what you saw in your dreams at night. Why? After all, you are there by day too. But by day you are deceitful. By day you are repressing. At night your realities are revealed. In dreams all your security arrangements, all your inhibitions, fall away. Your walls fall. Your inner diseases present themselves plainly.

And the language of dreams is pictorial, such that even while narrating you don’t quite know what you are telling. Only the psychologist understands. You just say, “I saw this dream.” You don’t see clearly what it means. If you did, perhaps you would deceive even there.

It goes further. It has been found that those who undergo therapy for a long time start producing false dreams—false meaning those that the therapist wants; false meaning those that look “nice,” with the “bad” cut out.

Human beings aside—I was reading yesterday—that if animals live with humans, even animals learn to lie and cheat. Animals—learn to lie! At first I didn’t believe it. But when I read the whole experiment, I understood.

A scientist performed an experiment. Some monkeys were locked in a room, chained so they couldn’t run, could do nothing—but they could watch what happened in the room. A man in a blue uniform enters. Many boxes are placed in the room, twenty or twenty-five. He comes to one box—say number five—shows sweets to the monkeys and locks them in that box.

Then a second man in a yellow uniform enters. He searches for where the sweets are hidden. The monkeys signal to him. They point to the fifth box, wink in that direction. He opens the box and eats the sweets himself. The monkeys are greatly pained.

A third man comes in a red uniform. They tell him too. He takes out the sweets and feeds the monkeys.

Now the monkeys know who is their friend and who their enemy. And dishonesty starts. When the friend enters, they wink toward the right box. When the one who ate the sweets himself comes, they point to the wrong box—any box but the fifth. If he moves toward the fifth, they go “Uh-uh! Don’t go there, nothing there,” and lure him elsewhere.

This experiment was repeated many times and with many kinds of animals; it was found that all animals learn to lie if given the chance. Give them the opportunity and they pick up trickery. As if man’s contagious disease catches them too.

Therapy patients, after long sessions, begin to dream “to order.” A unique fact has emerged: different psychologists have different theories; hence patients of Freudians begin to dream dreams that fit Freud’s interpretations, those of Jungians dream Jung-like dreams, and those of Adlerians dream Adler-like dreams. Man’s dishonesty has no limit! He does not only deceive by day; slowly he begins to deceive in his dreams at night too.

Yet even in those deceits, if you watch carefully, somewhere the truth will be found revealing itself.

I have heard: Adolf Hitler went one night to Berlin’s most famous cinema—to see how people behave when his picture appears. Before the film started, Hitler’s picture came on. Everyone stood and shouted slogans of praise. Naturally, Hitler himself did not stand—why would he, he was Hitler himself. He forgot that he had not come there as Hitler. Everyone is shouting; he is very pleased. The man next to him, standing and shouting, nudged him on the shoulder, “Stand up, brother! If that bastard finds out, you’ll be in trouble.”

How long can you hide? Somewhere it comes out.

Mulla Nasruddin stood on the road cursing the president: “The president is a bloody fool. If I meet him I’ll spit in his face. I’ve never seen a bigger idiot.”

A policeman seized him: “Come to the station.”

Mulla sobered up. “Look, I wasn’t speaking about our country’s president. I was talking about the American president.”

The policeman said, “You take us for fools? Don’t we know which country’s president is a fool? You want to make a fool of us? Come on!”

Seeing no escape, Mulla said, “Well then, what’s wrong in criticizing our own president?”

The policeman said, “Nothing wrong at all. But you are telling people such things that if they come to know that a man with these qualities can be president, then the whole country will try to become president. You’ll create trouble for us. You are spelling out the qualifications for president. Come on!”

Man cannot save himself; somehow the truth gets exposed. Lies keep breaking.

Start seeing the mind’s lies as they break. That is how the beginning of revolution will be made in your life. See the mind’s lies.

The mind drags you into the past—don’t wander with it. Say: you wander; we won’t follow. The mind takes you into the future, shows dreams, plants hopes, makes big plans—say: you go; we have no designs. We are fine here. We will remain in tathata, suchness. The present is enough. We neither want to look back to the past nor ahead to the future.

For a few days, out of old habit, the mind will pull and tug—toward the past, toward the future. But if you have truly decided not to go after it, then soon the mind gets tired. Without your cooperation the mind cannot move an inch. You supply its energy, its fuel; only with your company does it go on—otherwise how?

Soon it will tire. And when it tires and sees there is no way, it behaves almost like dogs: first they bark; seeing that you are unaffected, they begin to wag their tails. The mind is the same.

Vivekananda wrote that when he first went to the Himalayas, he was passing by a hill. A sannyasin’s ochre robes! Some monkeys found it amusing; a bunch of monkeys began teasing him.

A sannyasin’s robes provoke many kinds of monkeys. Monkeys love teasing—whom else will they tease! Monkeys are not religious by nature; they are mischievous by nature. Their style is like the mind’s. Hence the mind is called a monkey.

Vivekananda felt afraid—although he was a strong man. But however strong you are, if twenty or twenty-five monkeys are after you… even one is enough. The monkeys trailed him, jeering, mocking, then began throwing pebbles and stones. Vivekananda started running; they ran too; when some ran, others on the trees got interested and joined; soon he was surrounded. He saw, “If I keep running they will tear me to pieces.” He stopped. He stood still. The monkeys also stopped—they are monkeys after all. Seeing that his stopping made them stop, he turned and stared at them. The monkeys faltered and took two steps back. He ran toward them—they fled up the trees.

Vivekananda wrote in his memoirs: that day I understood that the mind is exactly the same. Fear it, obey it, run from it—it torments you more. Stop, stand still, glare at it; don’t be afraid; take two steps toward it; challenge it—Do whatever you want, I am not moving—and it starts wagging its tail.

Try it and see. Some experiments must be done in the inner world. Chinta, answers to questions won’t come from me; I can only indicate, point—point so you can experiment. From experiments you will receive answers, solutions. Your own experiment will become your solution.

The mind dominates you because you let it. The moment you decide, “No more domination—enough,” that very moment the mind climbs down, comes to the path, begins to walk behind you like a shadow. And when the mind is not your master, then innocence arises, simplicity arises. Pride dissolves—because mind breeds pride. Greed dissolves, anger dissolves, attachment dissolves, illusion dissolves. In the present there is neither anger nor greed nor illusion. In the present there is supreme peace, supreme emptiness. In the present there is not even knowledge—not even the pride of knowledge: that I am a knower of the Vedas, of the Upanishads, of the Quran. All that so-called knowledge too proves futile. What is, casts its image within you.

Birds are singing—their song resounds within you—and that is the hymn of the Vedas. Flowers have bloomed on trees and their colors spread within you like Holi’s riot of colors—color everywhere! That is the color of the Upanishads. Raso vai sah—the divine is essence and savor. The murmur of a waterfall descending a mountain, the music born of the wind passing through the trees—these are the verses of the Quran. Then what surrounds you is the divine’s own world. When you are simple and clear like a mirror, its reflection happens within you. And life fills with blessedness and wonder.

When did I understand life? When did I recognize myself?
When did my eyes pierce the warp and woof of attachment?
I am only a traveler, brother,
Whose destination is endless,
A glimmer in whose eyes,
Who is oblivious even of himself!
All I have known is to keep dissolving and being born again!
When did I understand life? When did I recognize myself?

What is past is past; I cannot bind it to my breath again,
I have no taste to tangle with stones of bitterness!
Call me a coward if you wish,
These two feet cannot stand still,
I search, restless and dazed,
For a world of beauty of my own imagining,
All I have received is this: to move on and on unbidden!
When did I understand life? When did I recognize myself?

I took myself to be capable; I was helpless and ignorant,
Beggar’s bowl in my hand, I posed as donor and noble!
I have always received disappointment,
Received insult and defeat,
My bewildered breath, having drunk
The bitter wine of distrust, fell dumb!
Yet when did I blame anyone? With whom did I keep enmity?
When did I understand life? When did I recognize myself?

Melody, color, wealth, splendor—all turned out to be dreams,
Here—even my dreams turned out not to be mine!
With open throat I declare today,
I accept my defeat,
Before my eyes
The darkness is imperishable!
At every step I have collided with my own weakness!
When did I understand life? When did I recognize myself?

At times a pang suddenly rises in my dull heart,
In just such a strange pain I have sunk right now!
Days feel heavy, heavy;
Nights feel somewhat timid;
Both my own and others’ words
Seem empty and desolate!
My feet wish to stop; my head wishes to bow!
When did I understand life? When did I recognize myself?

As if time and destiny’s boundaries are slipping from my hands,
Everything to right and left seems unfamiliar!
What is here? What is not here?
A question suddenly arises!
When did I start walking?
How long must I go on?
These simple questions are so hard to answer!
When did I understand life? When did I recognize myself?

Today my very consciousness has become a burden on my heart;
Darkness and light both appear as illusion!
To believe in this illusion is intolerable,
Yet belief here is life itself;
How can I call life an illusion
When the heart’s throbbing is the truth!
What do I know of truth and illusion, when I myself am unknown!
When did I understand life? When did I recognize myself?

I cry out unbidden—have mercy on me, my Lord!
You are the doer and the deed; you are the indweller!
In my pain you are pained,
In my doubt you are doubting,
Your presence is in every atom,
Every breath bears your imprint!
Today this madman offers his surrender!
When did I understand life? When did I recognize myself?

What do we know? We know the scriptures. But what has knowing scriptures to do with knowing? We know words. But has anyone recognized truth by recognizing words? We are familiar with the mind’s turmoil. But the mind’s turmoil is the obstacle; it is the smoke, the dust that covers our mirror. And this world is an immeasurable mystery. We set out to measure it with the mind’s little spoon—like someone trying to measure the ocean! We are mad.

Chinta, without being free of mind we remain deprived of life: we cannot experience life’s celebration, its exuberance; its meaning does not open, nor its mystery, nor does its stream of rasa flow. That is why I say: be simple. Simple like small children. Simple like flowers. Simple as if you know nothing at all.

Socrates said: I know this much only—that I know nothing.
That is simplicity. That is the pinnacle of meditation.

The rishis of the Upanishads said: ignorance leads one to wander in darkness, the “knowers” wander in even greater darkness.
Which knowers? Certainly they meant the pundits. The mind becomes a parrot—learned; it composes pretty maxims. It gathers knowledge, gathers wealth, gathers prestige—it lives to accumulate. It keeps collecting junk—and dies collecting.

Know yourself as a little separate from this mind. You are other. Be a witness to this mind. Look at this mind too. Make it an object of observation. Be the seer; make it the seen. From there a new ray, a new light will kindle in your life—of simplicity, gentleness, beauty, innocence.

I do not want to make you pundits; I want to make you simple. And do not take simplicity to mean what your priests tell you—that living simply means to wear a loincloth, or to go naked; that a hut is simplicity, and under a tree even more so. These are all mind’s games. I know people who live in huts and under trees, who have left everything. Simplicity has not even brushed them in name. It is hard to find people as complex as they are. They are doing book-keeping to secure a place in heaven. They are arranging their journey to the other world. They are very cunning; more cunning than you. You are accumulating money here; they are accumulating in God’s bank. They are hoarding merit. They sit thinking, “Alright, you enjoy here; life is of four days; then you will rot in hell!” Their relish is that you will all rot in hell—while we! We will sit in heaven and enjoy all the pleasures—all the pleasures we have left here.

Just look up the descriptions of heaven—there are all the same pleasures that you are told to renounce here. What logic is this? What mathematics? Here you must renounce wine, there rivers of wine flow. Here if you drink it is forbidden; there it is permitted. What fun is that? If drinking here is forbidden, how will it be holy there? Wine is wine. And here it is mixed with water; there it will be pure—no adulteration in heaven. Did you take heaven to be an Indian bazaar? There you will get the purest, the most ancient—eternal wine—one sip and you won’t get up for centuries. Streams of wine—bathe, wash, dive, swim! And here do not drink. Here people somehow restrain themselves: “Never mind—two days of life; it will pass; so much already has, a little remains—it too will pass. Then only fun!” They endure, they bargain. These are traders. They are not simple people. If they were told right now there is no heaven, they would fling away their rosaries and loincloths and return to the world: “What fools we were! Wasted our time for nothing.” They would pounce on the world. They too are eager for enjoyment—but more eager than you; they are not satisfied with the momentary. They want pleasure that lasts forever.

This is the mind expanded; it hasn’t diminished—it has grown larger, imperial. Now it wants a big empire; petty things won’t do. Ordinary women won’t do; it wants Urvashi and Menaka. This world’s beauty is not to its taste; it wants trees of gold with diamond-and-emerald flowers, roads paved with jewels. Just look at its desires. Heaven is a testimony to its desires.

Those who wrote such scriptures, who described such heavens—these cannot be the words of simple-hearted people. In heaven there are beautiful garments; everything is beautiful; there is only pleasure, no name or sign of pain. And the same people imagined hell—heaven for themselves, hell for those who don’t obey them.

Now the difficulty: if you follow Christians, even then by Jain standards you’ll go to hell. If you follow Muslims, then by Christian standards you’ll go to hell. There are three hundred religions in the world. If you follow one, then by two hundred and ninety-nine you go to hell, and by one to heaven. The odds are overwhelmingly in favor of hell. Two hundred and ninety-nine sets of holy men are eager to send you to hell; perhaps only one will support you. And who can trust holy men! There too will be jostling. Here too they jostle enough: who is ahead, who is the greater saint! Their claims are not small here. Each tries to outdo the other. Will they give up the competition there? Not so easy. Politics will run there too. There too will be a great melee. Your hell is certain—accept it. How will you reach heaven? Here you have already fallen behind—where the stakes are momentary. There, where the eternal is to be fought over, how will you win?

They have arranged hell for you. And those who have arranged hell—can you call them simple-hearted? Then the phrase loses meaning. These are great villains who have conceived hell—what a loathsome imagination! Boiling people in cauldrons, rotting them. Worms running through people’s bodies. People neither dying nor able to die. In hell, you know, one cannot commit suicide. There is no way. Throw yourself off a mountain—you will remain alive. Bones shatter, fractures everywhere. You thirst; lakes are before you; your lips are stitched—you cannot drink. What wretches imagined this! Are they any less than a Hitler?

I often think that Hitler and Stalin must have got their ideas from scriptures. From where else would such high ideas come? Such refined, cruel imaginations—where else to find them but in religious texts?

In India it is believed that whatever the Germans got, they took from our Vedas—and from them they made things. Whether they took or not, one thing is certain: their ideas about hell must have come from your Vedas, your shastras. Hindus and Arya Samajis think: they got airplanes, came close to atomic bombs—all from our Veda. And what are you doing? Your Veda has been with you five thousand years; you haven’t made even a bicycle. At least make a bicycle! What have you been doing? Your Veda fell into their hands and they made airplanes. Your Vedas don’t even describe a bicycle. You couldn’t even make a puncture solution, and you talk of the atom bomb!

But on one point I agree: whatever knowledge Adolf Hitler received about hell likely came from your Vedas and scriptures. Otherwise how these lofty notions—how to torment. Hitler discovered ways of tormenting that surpassed even the gurus. In his camps the tortures inflicted on Jews—just hearing of them your every hair stands on end, your heart stops. How they tormented! In the worst ways! Neither letting die nor letting live. So many new inventions of torture! Little children, women, men—everyone, no discrimination; thoroughly nondualistic: “What discrimination—who is woman, who man, who child, who old; these are superficial—maya! Inside all are one!” He had no hesitation in killing, because he must have believed the soul is immortal: what fear in killing? Does the soul ever die? Kill!

As Krishna says in the Gita: na hanyate hanyamane sharire—it is not slain when the body is slain. “Cut without worry!”—perhaps this strange sutra fell into Hitler’s hands. He cut down millions.

I’ve heard: an Indian who lived and died in Germany, upon arriving at hell’s gate was asked by the devil, “Which hell do you want—Indian or German?”

He said, “I thought hell was one. Are there differences in hell too? Never read that in any scripture.”

The devil said, “Man can’t accept anything without distinguishing; he creates divisions wherever he goes. The rascals have made distinctions even here; Indians have their own quarter, Germans theirs. Where do you want to go? We ask you because you were born in India but lived in Germany.”

He asked, “Can I have a little information about the differences? What is German hell like?”

He said, “In German hell there is beating—promptly at six every morning; it goes on until six in the evening. Such beating that you will be covered in blood. To eat, bread mixed with garbage and stones. Electric cauldrons will boil you. Everything as described.”

“And Indian hell?”

“There too you will be boiled in electric cauldrons; there too from six to six you will be beaten and made bloody; the bread will have stones.”

“I see no difference.”

The devil laughed. “You will experience it. In German hell, arrangements are German style: six means six. In Indian hell, sometimes the guards don’t show up even by seven, sometimes eight; sometimes they don’t come all day—they go on leave or fall ill. In German hell the electricity never fails. In Indian hell it goes out ten or fifteen times a day.”

The man said, “Then send me to the Indian one; I don’t want the German.” That difference was enough.

The Germans refined it further—they read your scriptures and perfected them. German intellect knows how to refine things, arrange them, run everything by the clock.

Even in the ashram I have given the electricity work to Haridas—a German sannyasin. However many times Pune’s electricity fails, the ashram’s does not. Let Pune fail, but not the ashram. Haridas takes great care; he has arranged everything—automatic generators: the moment the power fails, they kick in; you can’t even tell there was a failure.

Where has this been learned? This much evil in the world—your saints had already arranged for it in the scriptures. Hell for others, heaven for themselves. These are not marks of simple-hearted people.

A simple person—why would he think of hell and heaven? He has no such notions, no such fantasies. For the simple, liberation is here. Neither heaven nor hell—freedom from both. The simple attains nirvana here, lives in nirvana moment to moment. And he has only one longing, one aspiration, one prayer and worship: that others too may enter the same nirvana. Why would he talk of hell? Such thinking is not the mark of the virtuous. Those depictions of hell are inventions of the wicked; they wish to torment you. If they can’t do it here, they are arranging to do it there.

Your so-called great men are not very great. They appear so to you because they fit your notions. It is your notion that decides who is a great soul and who is not.

Krishna Satyarthi,
Those who believe in Acharya Tulsi will not find any difficulty in this. Everything is proceeding according to their assumptions. For those who follow him, all is just as it should be: mouth covered with a cloth; eating once a day, food begged; going on foot; no shoes. What more could one ask for? These, after all, are the marks of a mahatma. And the mahatma is the representative of the Supreme in the world. God is the giver of grain, so the mahatma, his symbol, too is annadata—giver of grain. Hence “Khammaghani, annadata.”

Then there is Rajasthan—the land of kings—whose very language is saturated with such expressions. When I used to go to Rajasthan, they would call even me annadata. I told them many times, “Brother, don’t call me that. You call Acharya Tulsi that—fine. I am not anyone’s annadata.” But however much I refused, they insisted, “No, no, what are you saying, annadata!”

These are old habits. The ways of kings and feudal accounts—imprints remain. Say anything and they respond, “Hukum!” (Your command!) I would tell them, “There’s no need to say hukum before me. Who am I to command?” But that old servility remains.

Those who call Acharya Tulsi annadata won’t feel any discrepancy; it matches their beliefs. They are all Marwaris. Didn’t you hear yesterday? Meera sang: “Mharo des Marwar”—my land is Marwar. Marwar is indeed a peculiar land. For centuries it has grown in the tradition of subservience; even the language is steeped in it. A monk yet appoints a successor and even calls him “yuvaraj,” as if king and prince… Kings and princes are gone—the snakes are dead, but the tracks remain. And there is not even shame that a mahatma’s successor is called a crown prince! But in Marwar everything fits, everything looks proper. “Hukum, Maharaj!” They’ll say, “Perfectly right. There should indeed be a ‘yuvaraj.’”

Now who needs to check how old Nathmal is? He is sixty-five. But among Acharya Tulsi’s disciples he is the most sycophantic. I call him muni Thothumal—the most hollow man in Acharya Tulsi’s fold. If Tulsi is number one, he is number two. Naturally he chose him as his yuvaraj. One chooses one’s own kind—flatterers, lickspittles, chamchas.

But each person fails to see the faults in his own religion, while he sees them clearly in another’s. Why? Because we are born into a religion, raised in its color, nurtured in its notions; they become part of our blood, bone, flesh, and marrow.

A Digambara Jain monk walks nude, and the Digambaras are thrilled: “Aha, this is true monkhood!” Others object: “Parading naked on the streets—this is not right. Our children see it, our wives see it. And what is there to see in a Digambara monk anyway? He’s a skeleton.” Even if there were something worth seeing, still! To see him is to be repelled. One look and dispassion arises: let the husband see him and he’ll run from his wife; let the wife see him and she’ll never sit with her husband again—“If this is what happens to the body, I’m done!” Precisely for this he makes his body so repellent—to produce dispassion in people. He doesn’t brush, he doesn’t bathe. What contrivances he has devised to produce detachment!

Someone else, seeing this non-bathing, will say, “This is most unhygienic. At least a person should maintain cleanliness. And that a mahatma remain unclean—this is not right. What kind of saint does not even brush? Plaque coats his teeth. His mouth stinks. If you don’t brush, it will stink.”

It is hard to talk to a Jain monk sitting close. When they came to me, I was astonished and it was difficult; their mouths stank—terribly. They are spreading such foul odor to engender dispassion. They are in service—of that sort! But others will be disturbed: “What kind of saintliness is this? This seems pathological, some madness.”

A Digambara Jain plucks his hair because he uses no instruments. To use a razor would be to use a tool; so he plucks by hand. Crowds gather to watch the keś‑lunch (hair-plucking); a grand festival is made of it. Tears flow from Jain eyes: “Aha, blessed are we to witness keś‑lunch!” And you will think, “What folly is this? Is the man insane or sane? What is he doing—plucking his hair?” Some people with particular mental derangements pluck their hair. You’ll say, “This man is in some way deranged.”

If a psychologist gets hold of him, he’ll treat him; if he won’t listen, he’ll give electric shocks—“We must set him right.” If these Digambara monks went to the West, they would be promptly arrested and put in jail.

That is why Jain monks never went abroad. The reason is clear. Why did Jainism not spread outside India? Buddhism did. Both arose around the same time. Buddhism colored the whole of Asia. Why did Jainism lag behind?

The basic reason is that a Buddhist monk could wear clothes, bathe, brush. Who would tolerate a Jain monk? Wherever he went, he would be chased away. Hence he could not go outside India. Even in India he moves only where Jain households are; he cannot move in non‑Jain areas—who would tolerate him there?

But this is true of all religions. A Hindu mahatma appears a mahatma to a Hindu. Ask a Christian; he will say, “What is saintly in this? A saint is Mother Teresa, who serves the disabled, the orphans, the lame, the blind—that is a saint!” “What kind of saints are these? A Nityananda—Muktananda’s guru—a mahatma? Impossible.” Just look at Nityananda’s photo. I don’t think anyone in the world had such a huge belly. Usually people have a belly; here it was the reverse: there was a belly, to which a man was attached. Just think of a belly—with a little head fixed on, legs added, hands attached. The belly is the essential thing. How this man even sat or stood is hard to imagine. No Christian will agree to call him a saint. He will say, “This man is deranged. No ordinary sensualist eats and drinks as much as this man did—with such a belly!”

But for a Hindu, if a mahatma doesn’t have a big belly, what kind of mahatma is he? The belly must be big; that’s how you tell how big the soul is! In a small belly only a small soul can reside. If the belly is big, the soul is big; if the soul is vast, the belly will become vast.

The Hindu mahatma takes service; he does not render it. For centuries he has taken service. The question of serving does not arise. The Christian mahatma serves; the thought of taking service does not arise. But he appears a saint only to a Christian. Ask someone else. Ask the Jains about a Christian saint—this Mother Teresa who serves, who got the Nobel Prize, now the Bharat Ratna, honors everywhere—what do the Jains think? They’ll say, “She must have committed misdeeds in a past life. Because of sinful karma one is compelled to such work—pressing the feet of lepers. Without sin, why would anyone do that? One who has done meritorious deeds will have others press his feet; why would he press others’?”

There is force in their argument too. And then the Jains—especially the followers of Acharya Tulsi, the Terapanthis—hold that you must never, ever do service. Because to serve someone is to interfere with his karma. Suppose a man has fallen into a well; you, being a do‑gooder, pull him out. Perhaps in a past birth he pushed someone into a well, did some mischief; now he was reaping its fruit by falling in. You came and obstructed the working of his karma. He will have to fall into a well again. The law of karma must be fulfilled completely. And by obstructing it, you have created a demerit for yourself. You have gained nothing for him; rather, you have harmed him. He was getting free of a tangle; one sin was being exhausted through its fruit; you came in between and didn’t let him exhaust it—like snatching a plate from someone just as he is about to eat, and leaving him hungry again.

And suppose now he goes to the village and commits a murder, or steals, or sets a house on fire. A man who was committing suicide by falling into a well is capable of anything. Alive, he will do something or other. Then you share in whatever sins he commits. Had you not saved him, he would not have committed those sins.

This arithmetic is worth pondering.

So the Terapanthis say: therefore never serve anyone. If someone has fallen into a well, go your way, eyes lowered; do not get excited. This excitation will seize your mind. He is shouting for help—beware! Do not get into the entanglement of rescuing. If you want liberation, don’t spin new webs.

Mother Teresa, by Jain standards, is no saint.

A Jain monk once said to me, “When you mention Jesus alongside Mahavira, we feel very hurt.”

I asked, “Why?”

He said, “Naturally. Jesus was crucified. The Jain scriptures clearly state: crucifixion befalls one due to some great sin in past lives. Had he not sinned, why would he be crucified? Mahavira would walk, and if a thorn lay on the path, even if it lay upright, it would quickly turn aside. For such a meritorious soul, even a thorn cannot prick. Forget the cross—even a thorn cannot prick. Merit protects.”

Ask the Muslims. They will say, “He should not have been crucified.” When Mohammed walked in Arabia, a cloud moved shading him. Wherever he went, the cloud went—kept him in shade. God takes care. What kind of only‑begotten son of God is this, that at the critical moment the Father betrayed him! Even his Father did not prove a father.

And Jesus did say while dying, “O Father, have you forsaken me?” “What is this you are showing me?”

So the Muslims say: what does this reveal? That even Jesus himself began to doubt: “What have I been caught up in! For whom am I giving up my life!” He did not descend; no miracle happened. This was the opportunity—one knows friends in time of need. And I kept calling him Father, Abba, Abba—but no word was heard, no prayer reached.

Every religion has its own notion. According to that notion, its followers are utterly blind. They see only their own view; they cannot see others’. Ask a Christian and he will say, “What did Mahavira and Buddha do? What sacrifice did they make? Jesus gave his life; he surrendered himself; he poured himself out. What did they do? What is their worth? They were self‑absorbed. Meditating for twelve years—is that any way to live? While orphans starve, the poor suffer, the sick languish—Mahavira should have opened hospitals and schools. Buddha should have opened old‑age homes. And they sit under a tree in Bodhgaya, meditating—selfish men! Jesus gave sight to the blind, legs to the lame, raised the dead. What did Mahavira or Buddha do?”

It is a difficult matter. How will you decide? Ask the Jains about Rama. They will say, “Is he any God? He goes about with bow and arrows! It’s like God going around with a gun. If he lived today, he’d carry a gun. In olden times it was a bow.” Will you accept a God who walks around with a gun? What kind of God is that? A gun ruins the whole matter. But he holds a bow!

And Tulsidas says, “I will not bow until he holds bow and arrows.” First take up the bow! He went to Krishna’s temple and said the same: “I won’t bow until you take up bow and arrows.” Baba Tulsidas stuck to his insistence. And he says Krishna had to take bow and arrows in hand. If you want someone to bow, a man will do anything. Poor Krishna must have taken them: “All right, brother, but at least bow!” The zeal to make others bow! And Baba Tulsidas—what a one! He said, “I won’t bow otherwise; even for bowing I have conditions. For my surrender there are terms: you must first change your style—take up the bow. This peacock-feather crown and flute won’t do. Stand properly; then I’ll bow. If you want me to bow, your wish; if not, move on.”

Without bow and arrows Rama does not appeal to Tulsidas. To the Jains, a Rama armed with bow and arrows seems positively troublesome. What kind of model is this! Mahavira is the true model—possessing nothing, unarmed, weaponless. An ahimsak should be like that.

On the other hand there is Krishna—peacock feather tied, dancing. Not dancing alone—women are dancing; not even his own: he makes others’ women dance too. Sixteen thousand women; of these only one was legitimately his wife. And with the legitimate one there seems little connection. Rukmini is scarcely mentioned in the stories. The others he whisked away—someone else’s he abducted—who knows how many homes he ruined! Sixteen thousand wives!

I used to go to Saurashtra. Once there was a camp at Tulsi‑Shyam. It is a beautiful place. Down below is the temple of Tulsi‑Shyam; on the hill above is Rukmini’s temple. I asked, “What is the story? Why so far away for Rukmini?”

They said, “Rukmini is sitting there in anger. These dear ones are down here romancing with Tulsi; Rukmini, upset, is sitting there.” But even she sits where she can still see—“What are you doing, how far has it gone?” Keeping an eye on it. The temple is built such that Rukmini can observe what play is going on.

Rukmini is rarely mentioned; she is the one lawfully wedded. The others—Radha and so on—are the ones mentioned; they are not wedded. How can the Jains accept that such a one is God!

These peculiar notions of different religions—an innocent, simple person drops them all. He becomes neither Hindu, nor Muslim, nor Jain, nor Christian. All boundaries dissolve. He becomes simply simple. These notions make one complex. He becomes absorbed in meditation, empty. And from that very emptiness he lives. In that emptiness the Whole descends. In that emptiness the Guest comes one day, knocks at the door.

Chinta, become empty. Become simple, innocent. The world does not need Hindus, Muslims, Christians, Indians, Japanese, Chinese. On this earth all divisions must now fall. On this earth we need religious people. Not religions—religiousness. A religious feeling. Prayer and love and naturalness and simplicity and innocence. Then we can lay the foundation of a new humanity.

Sita,
Mother, as you wish. Learn it. I am not against the English language. I only thought, considering your age, why get into such hassles now! Now is the time to forget, and you want to start learning? Now is the time to let go of what you know. Now is the time to drop language, to descend into silence. The time has come to let words go and grasp the wordless. And you say, “I will learn English!” You are worried that since you’ll be staying here and there are so many people from abroad, how will you relate to them?

Here, are you to relate to me, or to them? Here, are you to relate to the divine, or to the crowd and bustle? If it is the divine you seek, learn silence—and forget everything else. But if it is the people here you want to relate to, then it’s your choice; learn English, learn German, learn Japanese—learn whatever you like. However many days of life remain, squander them as you wish. You have been squandering life just like that. Life is only four days long.

We begged for a long life—were given four days;
two were spent in longing, two in waiting.

That’s how the four days slip by—two in longing, two in waiting. And now you want to learn English!

I am not at all against English. In fact, I would like English to remain compulsory in India. I would like every person in India to learn three languages: English as a compulsory international language; Hindi as a compulsory national language; and a third, compulsory regional language. English is being broken away from India—and the moment English is broken off, India’s future will turn dark. Because English is a bridge to the world. English is a bridge to the future. English is a bridge to science. The moment India’s link with English is severed, India will fall back into the clutches of pandits and priests—the same superstitions, the same stupidities we have carried for centuries, we will start carrying again.

That is why the pandit-priest is totally against it. They say: make Sanskrit the national language. Naturally—there is a vested interest. If Sanskrit becomes the national language, what a windfall! Then they can bring back all the stupidities that somehow dropped away—or were at least close to dropping away. Then the practice of sati will start again. Then deck out tableaux glorifying Sati! Then do all the mischief you have done for centuries and keep losing. Then fall back into the stupidity of the past.

No, I am not anti-English. I only said it because—at this age, why get into such a tangle? Now you should take care of yourself; who knows when the last breath may come—tomorrow, the day after, or today itself. Still, I understand your point too: there are people who are crazy about English.

Yashoda has Hari studying English.
My darling goes to a convent, sings English poems.
Saying “ta-ta” when he takes his leave, every pore thrills.
Hearing “aunty,” the aunt swoons; uncle twirls his moustache.
Dancing with his cousin-sister, Nanda Baba smiles.
Beholding this scene in Barsana, even the English blush.
Yashoda has Hari studying English.

Sita, Mother, as you wish! Study yourself—and teach Lord Ram as well!

Kamal Bharati,
The very meaning of “ordinary people” is: those to whom nothing really makes sense. If it did, why call them ordinary? Then they would be extraordinary! Understanding makes one extraordinary. Without understanding, one is ordinary, separate. No insight, blind, a stickler for the beaten track, living traditionally, rigid—ordinary.

Everyone is born extraordinary and then becomes ordinary. Because soon enough all get entangled in who knows what. Their brilliance is lost. Everyone brings a fresh mirror in which the image of the divine could be reflected, but very soon a thick layer of dust gathers upon it.

Then, the ordinary person thinks and hears in his own way. What I say is hardly what he hears. I say one thing; he hears something else.

Mulla Nasruddin’s wife was ill. A doctor came to see her. After examining her, he went with Nasruddin into another room. Nasruddin said, “My condition is bad too. Now that you’re here, please examine me as well.” The doctor said, “Lie down.” After checking him, he said, “Your condition is certainly bad. It seems there is some very old disease that is destroying your health and peace of mind.”
Nasruddin said, “For God’s sake, speak softly—she’s sitting in the next room.”
The doctor said, “The disease is sitting in the next room?”
He said, “The very one you just examined—that’s what’s eating up my health and my peace of mind. Since she came into my life, everything has gone to pieces.”

The doctor is speaking of a disease; Nasruddin understands he is speaking of his wife. Inside him only one thing is revolving: how to get rid of this ‘disease’! Everyone carries their own fantasies and biases within.

I will say something to you; you will hear something else. Differences of interest. Prejudices. Where is the clean mind that can understand a thing exactly as it is said?

You may well grow
cacti
in your lawn,
but your mother
will place the lamp
only at the tulsi plant in the courtyard.

Naturally, however many cacti you grow, even if you decorate your whole house with cacti, don’t expect your mother to light the evening lamp beside a cactus. She will only at the tulsi…

You may well grow
cacti
in your lawn,
but your mother
will place the lamp
only at the tulsi plant in the courtyard.

In the drawing room
you may well hang
Picasso’s paintings,
but in the bedroom
the missus has hung
gaudy film-star calendars.

On the bookshelf
you may well keep
Kafka and Sartre,
but your little brother
sneaks and reads
Khuni Panja
and the Original Koka Shastra.

You ask why ordinary people can’t understand, Kamal. The ordinary person’s head is stuffed with who knows what kinds of junk! It’s not easy to reach through all that. Passing through that rubbish, the very color and shape of what is said gets changed.

“Today we are celebrating the silver jubilee of our marriage,” an actor said over the phone, inviting a friend.
“Amazing,” the friend said, “even in the dark age there are people like those of the golden age! Has it really been twenty-five years? I can’t believe it.”
The actor said, “Don’t misunderstand, brother. Silver jubilee means—this year this is my twenty-fifth marriage.”

The meaning is different, the feeling is different. It’s no wonder that ordinary people don’t understand what I say. If they understood, they would be extraordinary. Not understanding is precisely why they are ordinary.

Only a few will be able to understand my words. But if a few understand, that’s enough. Because only a few in this world become capable of inviting light. And if only a few become lamps, there is enough illumination. In that light, even the ordinary people gradually begin to light their own extinguished lamps.

But the ordinary will come later, much later. It is the talented, the courageous who can come to me first. My message will reach their understanding first. Those who have guts and daring, who can stake everything—only they will gather the courage to understand me. Otherwise many, even when they understand, act as if they don’t; even when they hear, they pretend not to have heard.

I was speaking in Allahabad. A friend sat right in front, listening. His wife was beside him. I saw tears rolling from his eyes. And then in the middle he suddenly got up and left. I was a little puzzled—what happened? After the talk I asked his wife, “What happened to your husband?”
She said, “I don’t understand either. He was so moved, he has awaited you for years. He reads your books, listens to tapes, he’s crazy about you, known in the neighborhood as a Rajneeshee. He was sitting there weeping—and then why he got up and left, I don’t know!”

I went to his house. It was on the way to where I was staying. On the way I said, “Take me to his home.”
When I arrived, he said, “You even came here! Spare me!”
I asked, “What’s the matter?”
He said, “Your words feel so right that I see danger. The danger is: if I get into this, my family life is fragile—there’s my wife, little children, aged parents—what will happen to them? Sitting there I felt I should take sannyas. The moment that feeling arose, I ran. I thought it better to get out. That’s why I left in the middle. Please forgive me! I disturbed your talk; I ask forgiveness. But not now. I will come—let the time come. Now I will neither read your books nor listen to your tapes. When I hadn’t met you, hadn’t seen you, hadn’t heard you, I thought: it’s only reading a book—fine. They appealed to me, touched my heart, pleased my intellect. But seeing you I felt this matter is deeper; it won’t stop at the intellect, it won’t even stop at the heart—this arrow will go right down to the soul. I don’t have that much courage yet.”

Ten years have passed; he still hasn’t found the courage; he hasn’t come. Sometimes someone brings news that when he hears my name, tears come to his eyes.

People hear and pretend not to have heard. Sometimes even after understanding, they choose not to understand. As for ordinary people, Kamal, better not even speak of them. They mostly don’t come at all. If they do come, what is happening here is completely beyond their comprehension. They are utterly nonplussed. They come with fixed notions. All their notions break down. For them an ashram means old fogeys sitting under trees, someone spinning a charkha, someone fingering a rosary; someone fasting, someone tending a sacred fire. Here you won’t see old fogeys sitting under trees, fingering rosaries—someone fasting, someone keeping a holy fire going. They are astonished: What kind of ashram is this! Their meaning of ashram is something else altogether.

My meaning of ashram is different. For me an ashram is a pilgrimage of beauty. For me an ashram is a pilgrimage of intelligence. For me an ashram is not renunciation; it is a celebration of joy.

For me, sannyas is not running away from life, not escape—it is to live life in its innermost depths. For them, sannyas means turning one’s face away from the outer. For me, sannyas means joining the outer and the inner, building a bridge between the two; living the outer and the inner both, and finding no conflict, no duality between them.

Therefore I say: the one in whom East and West meet, in whom science and religion meet, in whom the outer and the inner meet, in whom balance arises between these apparent opposites—that is what I call sannyas; that is the one I call a sannyasin.

This is not their notion. They go to a Shankaracharya; they understand him. They go to Acharya Tulsi; they understand him. They go to Vinoba Bhave; they understand him. They think I must have opened a gaushala, serving the cow-mother, or that the descendants of Hanuman, the monkeys, are being fed. None of that is happening here. I have no particular interest in cows, nor in monkeys. So they are surprised.

A few days ago three women came from Vinoba-ji’s ashram. What is happening here was beyond their grasp. People are dancing, people are joyous, people are in ecstasy! They got so frightened they simply left. It must have made them very uneasy.
They wrote from there: “We couldn’t even attend the discourse, nor see the meditation, because what we saw made us restless. Yes, some things we liked. For instance, some sannyasins weave cloth—we liked that. Some sannyasins make furniture—we liked that. Sannyasins are interested in cooking and they prepare food—we liked that. Some sannyasins grow vegetables—we liked that.”
These are the things they liked here. Their fixed ideas! Gandhian notions! What is fundamental here they did not like! They did not have the courage to see it, to join it, or even to listen to it! They told Laxmi, “We are happy there too.”
Laxmi said, “Then why trouble to come here? We don’t come there. Good—you are happy there, we are happy here!” But from their faces no joy was visible. Their faces were draped in lifelessness, in the gloom of a cremation ground. Where is the joy?

Even their meaning of joy is different. Their joy is not dancing. Their joy is like the silence of a cremation ground—void, empty, hollow. Not the joy of a flowering garden where blossoms open, birds sing, peacocks dance!

Therefore, Kamal, the ordinary do not understand. But if the extraordinary do, then sooner or later the ordinary will also understand. They will have to. Because what I am saying is what the whole future of humanity depends upon. Without it, there is no hope for man.

Enough for today.