Preetam Chhabi Nainan Basee #4

Paritosh,
If the “I” remains, you will miss. Other than the I, there is no obstacle. Even the faintest line of I is enough for you to miss.

And the wonder of wonders is that the I is a lie—yet behind this veil of untruth the truth gets hidden. The I does not exist; it only appears to. Like seeing a snake in a rope and running away. The snake is false, but the running is real. From the false, the real has been born. One might get so terrified, run so frantically, fall, get injured, break limbs, have a heart attack—even die. And there was no snake at all, only a rope. A delusion in the dark.

The I does not exist; it is only a delusion in darkness.

Meditation means: to kindle the inner light. The ember is there, but smothered under ashes. Just blow the ash a bit, brush it aside a little—and the ember will flare up, there will be light. And in the light the I is not found. The day you see that the I is not, that very day you have found everything. Losing the I is finding the Divine. To be absorbed in the I is the world. To be entangled in the I is to wander. And the I uses great strategies to save itself.

By its very nature, untruth contrives in every way. So that untruth may appear true, it arranges everything. Untruth is a consummate diplomat. It gathers proofs, it builds foundations. When one deception breaks, it manufactures new ones. If a wall begins to fall from one side, it raises a new wall, props up the crumbling one. Untruth does not want to die; it too wants to live.

Truth is unconcerned, because truth cannot die. Untruth is very anxious. Truth makes no efforts to safeguard itself, because truth is already safe. Fire cannot burn it, weapons cannot pierce it, death cannot erase it. Truth is carefree, intoxicated with itself. Truth gathers neither proofs nor arguments. Untruth amasses proofs, collects arguments. The bigger the lie, the bigger the arrangement required.

This I is one of the greatest lies in the world. What arrangements it makes! Recognize its arrangements. Recognize its tricks. It will hoard wealth, because without wealth the I has no support. The I craves props: “I have so much!” The more I have, the more I am. The I seeks expansion: “This much is my power, this my rank—this is how much I am.” The I climbs the ladders of ambition. The higher it stands, the more it stiffens, the more assured it feels that it is. The I craves fame, glory, respect. The I fears insult, fears defamation. It panics. A small abuse, a slight humiliation, and it flares up. Why? Because the balloon of the I can burst with the prick of the tiniest pin. It is in danger. It is only a balloon, only air. A bubble on water—touch it and it is gone.

Hence the I is very touchy; it is always careful—“Let no one touch me!” It makes all kinds of arrangements—for prestige, for honor. It agrees to do whatever people say—so long as respect is given, reverence is offered. People may ask for foolish acts, and it is willing—if only they will honor it. Homage is the food of the I. Respect is the food of the I—whether it comes by position or by renunciation.

And look: your so-called saints teach you that true honor lies only in renunciation; true glory only in renunciation; real prestige only in renunciation. They are soothing your ego, inviting your ego: “What is there in wealth? Wealth is transient—here today, gone tomorrow. We will give you a treasure no one can take away.”

Your money can be snatched, but who can snatch your renunciation? Renunciation is safer. That is why the renunciate’s ego is unlike the indulger’s. The poor indulger’s ego is small; he himself regrets within, knows his limits. The renunciate’s ego becomes gold-plated—shining like temple spires in the sunlight. The renunciate’s ego proclaims loudly.

And so your renunciates have caused more conflicts, disturbances, brawls, riots than your indulgers ever have. These temples burn, these mosques burn, these idols are shattered—who makes this happen? The egos of your renunciates! The egos of your “great souls”! The stiffness of their pride knows no bounds. They won’t let human beings meet one another. They have fragmented humanity, because only if humanity remains divided is there any hope of their honor. If humanity becomes whole, it will be very difficult—most difficult for your renunciates.

Think on this a little. Understand the arithmetic. If all humanity becomes one, who will then honor your renunciates? Because the oneness of humanity can only mean that the thousands of differing creeds and dogmas will fall away, lose their value. It is on the basis of these very dogmas that you honor the renunciate.

For example, there was a Christian sect in Russia that used to cut off their genitals. Whoever did so was regarded as a saint. In another country he would be called a lunatic. In another community he would be thought insane; if someone did it, we would inform the police: “Arrest this man, his mind is deranged.”

But what our renunciate does is not visible to us; it is visible to others. Our renunciate appears a renunciate to us—because he fits our tradition, our prejudices—no matter how absurd his acts. If someone stands on his head, we call him a king of yogis, a great yogi—he can stand for hours on his head!

If the Divine wanted man to stand on his head, why did he make him stand on his feet? He would have made you stand on your head, put your feet there.

And have you ever seen any brilliance in those who stand on their heads? Any intelligence? Any flash of discernment in their lives? Any aura of meditation?

It cannot be, because they are acting against nature. The one who stands on his head destroys his brain; he becomes dull. The brain is made of extremely delicate fibers. In this small head there are seventy million fibers! From their number alone you can surmise how fine, how subtle! If you stacked a hundred thousand of them one upon another, they would be the thickness of a single hair. You can’t see them with the naked eye. And you stand on your head! The powerful rush of blood toward the head, due to gravity, breaks those subtle fibers. When they break, brilliance is destroyed.

In the ruin of this country’s genius, your so-called yoga has done more harm than anything else. Yes, it may be that the yogi’s body becomes strong. But animals too have strong bodies. Go wrestle a buffalo for a moment! However much a champion you may be, a single buffalo will put you in your place. Don’t conclude from this that the buffalo is a king of yogis. Bodily strength—at a great price. What will you do with it? What is its value? Sacrifice the brain and the body will indeed be powerful. That is precisely why animals are so strong: lacking brain, they must rely on the body.

Scientists say the human brain arose precisely because man stood on two legs; it could not arise in monkeys. According to scientists, man came from the lineage of monkeys. All men are descendants of Hanuman. If you worship Hanuman, at least know that you worship your ancestors. Better to worship Hanuman than someone else; at least you are remembering your forebears.

Scientists say man came from the monkey—but look at man’s genius! Monkeys have none; they still use all four limbs. When you move on all fours, your head is not against gravity but aligned with it. That’s why when you lie down at night, sleep comes quickly—your whole body is aligned with gravity. When you stand, more blood goes to the legs and less to the brain—naturally, because the heart must strain to send blood upward while the earth pulls downward. Since less blood reaches the brain, extremely subtle fibers have developed there. Among jungle tribes, among aboriginals, you don’t find people like Albert Einstein, Rabindranath Tagore, or Gautam Buddha. You would think you should, because they are such simple folk. But among many reasons, one is this: tribal people sleep without pillows; you sleep on pillows. Because you sleep on pillows, your head remains higher than the rest of your body even at night; higher means less blood reaches it; less blood means the subtle fibers do not rupture. If those delicate fibers break, your intelligence becomes poor, inferior.

These are scientific truths. Yet say what you will, the one standing on his head will be called a yogi. No one will see his foolishness. He will contort and twist the body, and you will say, “Such great austerity!” Torturing the body—and that is called sadhana? He will lie on thorns, and you will bow in instant worship, your flowers of reverence falling at his feet. And the one sleeping on thorns has only desensitized his body; his sensitivity has withered. It can be withered.

Look at the soles of your feet—insensitive now, because you must walk on them. They have had to become tough, the skin thick. That’s why we call a stupid man “thick-skinned.” One who understands nothing—we say his skin is thick, meaning he lacks sensitivity. Any part of the body can be made insensitive—only a little practice is needed. Rub ash on your back, lie on pebbles; gradually increase the practice: first lie on smooth round pebbles, then on uneven ones, then keep lying; then on thick nails; then on thorns. You are only killing your back—murdering its sensitive fibers, finishing them off. You are turning your back into the skin of the sole. There is no other art in it.

And you give such a man respect! He is mad.

The body should be sensitive. The more sensitive the body, the more beautiful, the more grace-filled. The greater the sensitivity, the greater the possibility of inner subtle intelligence. If you kill all bodily sensation—remember, the body is the doorway through which we connect with existence—if you close all the doors and windows of the body, your connection with existence is broken. You are shut within yourself, like a turtle. If you make your entire body like a turtle’s shell, you are already dead, entombed alive.

Yet we give great honor to turtles. We say: turtle means great yogi! The whole world will laugh, because they don’t share our prejudice; it is ours.

If the whole world, all humanity, became one, these petty prejudices would fall—and with them your monks, your renunciates, your votaries, your “great souls.” They would be worth two pennies. That is why neither politicians nor your religious leaders want you to meet. The strength of both depends on your division. As long as you are divided, they can rule over you. If you unite, their power ends.

This I takes ever-new forms—of wealth, of status, of renunciation, of austerity, of fasting, of vows, of rules. The more fasts a man undertakes, the more he thinks, “I am greater than others.” As if starving were some art! As if the Divine wanted to starve you! As if the Divine were some malicious character who delights in tormenting you: you stand in the blazing sun and he is amused; you shiver naked in winter and he is amused; you go hungry and he is amused; you are thirsty and don’t drink water, and he is amused. Consider what your concept of God is. Is he God—or some Adolf Hitler? Is he God—or a madman?

But the ego has devised all these arrangements. If one arrangement is lost, it quickly sets up another. “If not wealth, then knowledge.” People labor to collect knowledge! They pile up scriptures upon scriptures. Nothing of their own. Nothing truly known. All borrowed, stale—trash. What has not been born of your own experience is trash. To believe in it is foolish. Only fools believe. The intelligent person seeks; fools believe. The intelligent one attains, then believes. Fools believe first; the question of attaining never arises, the need to attain vanishes. And the more you believe, the more puffed-up you become.

Look at the theist—what swagger! He struts. He looks at the atheist as if to say, “You will rot in hell! My heaven is assured! Apsaras wait with garlands in hand; as soon as I arrive the bands will play, the gods will dance around me, celestial nymphs will garland me, I will rest beneath the wish-fulfilling tree.” He has imagined heaven in detail. And all his stuff is borrowed trash. His theism is not real; he does not know God, has not recognized God, has had no face-to-face. He has not even met himself—how will he meet God? But the Vedas are on his tongue, the Upanishads memorized, he repeats the Gita like a parrot.

And you have valued these parrots so highly! You have. And because of this value, the ego hoards knowledge. The ego is busy collecting—anything will do: knowledge, wealth, renunciation—just keep filling yourself. Because the ego is utterly empty; fill it with something so it appears full. In itself it is hollow. If you don’t fill it with anything, soon you will see it does not exist at all. Keep stuffing it to keep the deception going.

You ask, Paritosh: “Will I miss you again this time?”

Everything depends on whether you feed the I or not. Better than knowledge is not-knowing. It is far more fitting to know, “I do not know.” Far more fitting to see, “What merit of mine? My life is full of mistakes, full of sins. I am ignorant.” This knowing is wholesome, because if you see, “I am ignorant,” the ego dies. Ignorance carries no swagger. What will you strut about in ignorance? In ignorance, one becomes humble; in “knowledge,” one struts.

If you see, “My life is full of mistakes, full of misses; sins upon sins—where are the virtues, the vows, the rules, the fasts?”—how will you be filled with ego? But you go to the temple, or mosque, or gurudwara—and you return home more puffed up. Better if you hadn’t gone; at least you wouldn’t have acquired this swagger. Do you go daily to the temple to bestow grace upon God? And you come back puffed up, day after day. A tilak on your forehead—and look at the strut! A sacred thread—and see the swagger! There’s nothing there—three strands! A little tuft—and you strut! You’re puffed up on such nothings!

Paritosh, in every way you can, help the fall of pride. Know that you are ignorant. Put the scriptures aside. They are not your knowing; therefore knowing them is meaningless. Know that you have limits. Know that you are a nobody. Don’t aggrandize yourself: “I have performed so many sacrifices, so many fire rituals; every week I conduct the Satyanarayan katha; I have built so many temples, so many mosques.” Don’t get entangled in such hollow things. Wherever the I ripens, wherever it fills, wherever it gets a little nourishment—be alert there.

This very alertness is what I call meditation. And if one keeps examining rightly, watching within with wakefulness, one soon recognizes all the acrobatics of the ego. Then the ego cannot enter—neither through the front door nor the back. Its ways are very subtle. But if you are aware, it cannot deceive you. And one who is not deceived by the ego certainly will not miss. There is nothing to miss. Once the ego is gone, you have already attained.

Do not get entangled in my mistakes; I am ignorant through many births!
Adorning my own path with thorns,
I learned to walk upon it;
nestling exhalation inside my breath,
I learned to grow upon it;
I learned to melt day and night,
becoming the water of my own eyes;
setting fire to my own house,
I learned to burn within it.
Fate has given me a youth brimming with madness;
do not get entangled in my mistakes; I am ignorant through many births!

I keep on drinking; my cup keeps filling!
What do I know of what is nectar?
What is honey? What here is poison?
The sea’s water is salty;
the Ganga’s water is sweet.
I do hear the world’s bitter-sweet words,
lightning writhes and leaps,
year after year the clouds pour.
Tell me, who is the one who serves?
Who here is the one who drinks?
I keep on drinking; my cup keeps filling!

Your knowledge is straight and simple;
my words are wandering, intoxicated.
A single longing in each heartbeat—
the thing you all call the heart;
ah, I myself am a wave—
what do I know of the shore?
New surges rise in my mind,
restlessness in my feet.
I have left the last milestone behind;
the next destination is unknown.
Everyone’s dreams are different, though the nights are the same for all;
your knowledge is straight and simple, my words are wandering, intoxicated!

Do not get entangled in my mistakes; I am ignorant through many births!
Adorning my own path with thorns,
I learned to walk upon it;
nestling exhalation inside my breath,
I learned to grow upon it;
I learned to melt day and night,
becoming the water of my own eyes;
setting fire to my own house,
I learned to burn within it.
Fate has given me a youth brimming with madness;
do not get entangled in my mistakes; I am ignorant through many births!

Look at your mistakes. Don’t count your virtues; recognize your vices. Don’t talk of your wealth; count your poverty. Your “knowledge” is worth two pennies; your not-knowing is precious. If only you could see: “I am ignorant. How could theism come to me? What do I know? What do I understand of prayer? What taste have I had of worship?” See your mistakes. See your limits. See your nakedness. Know yourself stripped of coverings. And you will find that the I has begun to melt, the ice of I has begun to thaw.

And the day the I disappears, Paritosh, in that very instant there is union with the Divine. As the I goes, the Divine descends. This tiny I alone is the obstruction.

A question may arise: how can such a tiny I stop such an immense God? How can such a small untruth veil such an immense truth? The question seems logical. But have you noticed—if a speck of dust enters the eye, it is enough: even with the Himalayas standing before you, you will not see them. A speck of dust can so irritate and shut the eye that the vast Himalayas, with their towering peaks, disappear. A single speck has hidden the Himalayas. Remove the speck, and the Himalayas appear. The Himalayas were always there; they never went anywhere. Only your eye was covered by the speck.

The ego has covered our inner eye. The Divine is manifest. The Divine is present every moment. That is all there is; there is nothing else. But don’t believe me just because I say so; that would be borrowed, stale. My insistence—always—is that you remove the pebble of ego from within your eye. It takes only a little effort. Let your inner sight be emptied of ego, let it be clear—then what you see will be only the Divine, nothing but the Divine.

Paritosh, there is no reason for you to miss this time. In fact, there was never any reason for you to have missed. You missed only because of this I. Now let this I go. Bid it farewell—alvida! Bow to it and dismiss it—enough is enough.

Jaipal,
Had a Mangala, instead of a Mangaldas, asked this question, my answer would have been entirely different. The old sannyas tormented women immensely. The full weight of its suffering fell on women. The old sannyas was like a knife in a woman’s chest. No other institution has inflicted as much oppression and violation upon women as the old renunciation did.

First, for centuries your so-called mahatmas have abused women: “Woman is the gateway to hell! Woman is the mine of hell! Woman is the root of all sin!” Your saints left no stone unturned in maligning women. What is striking is that the women were not at fault. The mahatmas were frightened by the lingering attachment within themselves toward women. They hurled abuses at women, but their fear was of women’s allure. And for that allure, the woman is not responsible. If a rose attracts you, what responsibility is the rose to bear? Your attraction troubles you; what can the rose do? The rose may not even know you are drawn to it.

Mahatmas have always made this mistake. They curse wealth as if money captures you! Strange indeed—when has money ever captured anyone? You are the one who grips money. If abuse is to be hurled, hurl it at yourself: “What a fool I am to cling to money.” But they abuse money: “Money is dust—don’t touch it! Touching it is sin!”

All these are inner fears. They were afraid of two things in particular: woman and gold. They suffered on account of both—because they had tried to become saints by renouncing both. They fled from them. And whatever you run from leaves behind a craving. In fact, repression intensifies desire; it doesn’t diminish it. The more you press something down, the stronger the desire becomes. Try suppressing anything—the very thing you suppress will grow in fascination. Prohibition breeds curiosity—that’s a simple law of nature.

Write on a door, “Peeping here is forbidden,” and then see whether a renunciant passes without peeking. Hard indeed! If he passes out of modesty in daylight, he’ll return at night, before dawn, to sneak a look: “Now no one will be around—the street will be empty—let me see what’s going on here! If peeping is forbidden, surely there must be something. Why else forbid it?” Even if there’s nothing there, he’ll dream about that very door. In dreams he’ll peep in.

If a newspaper prints, in big bold letters above an ad: “Please do not read this advertisement,” you’ll skip all other ads and read that one—read it you must.

Or notice this: a tooth breaks, and your tongue keeps going right there. You tell your tongue, “I know the tooth is broken—why keep going there?” But day and night the tongue returns to check the situation! That empty space arouses curiosity. All your life the tooth was there—your tongue never bothered. Now that it’s gone, the tongue keeps visiting. And the more you forbid it, the more it goes; the more you restrain, the stronger the urge, the greater the lure.

These mahatmas ran away from two things—woman and gold—and cursed both. Those curses are proof that attachment still burned inside them, and not superficially—deeply, sickly; it had become a wound. Naturally, they were terrified: “This woman will drag me to hell.” They were not talking about women out there; properly understood, they were talking about the thrill of woman rising within them. The inner image of woman they were clutching grew more and more beautiful the farther they ran. Real women are not that beautiful, nor are real men that handsome. But the woman of imagination—what can one say of her! The man of imagination—what can one say!

These mahatmas went on abusing women, urging people, “Leave! Flee! The world!” And what did “the world” mean? Wife, children, family. And these deserters were honored, revered. They were criminals. Who tells the story of what their wives endured? Who kept account of what happened to their children? For centuries, millions became sannyasins. Even today in India there are five million Hindu sannyasins—so over the centuries there must have been tens of millions. Tens of millions of families were destroyed. Their wives begged, or became prostitutes, or were driven to suicide—what became of them? What happened to their children? Did they study? Or did they become beggars, thieves, dacoits, hooligans?

Naturally, women harbor fear toward the old sannyas. Whether they say it or not, women have a deep, justified fear of the old religion—what did it ever give them except humiliation? The old religion created a hell on earth for women.

And the joke is that those who condemned women on such grounds never considered that the same grounds apply to them as well. “A woman is a heap of filth.” And the mahatma writing this—what is he, a heap of gold and silver? “What is there in a woman’s body anyway? Flesh and bone, feces and urine, phlegm and bile!”—they described it in detail. As if in their own bodies something else resided! And the irony is that they themselves were born from that very woman’s body. For nine months they were formed out of that same flesh and blood, phlegm and bile. That same substance runs in every fiber of their being—yet they abuse women.

They abuse out of fear. They are so frightened that, by abusing, they try to restrain themselves. They are not trying to convince you that “woman is filth”; they are trying to convince themselves: “Woman is filth! Why are you thinking of women? There’s nothing in women!” Since the scriptures were written by men—how could women have written? They weren’t even allowed to read scriptures—writing was out of the question. Men wrote all the scriptures, so they are one-sided; they speak the male point of view. Women were not even counted as people; we didn’t grant them basic human dignity. The so-called religious people could not bring themselves to give women equal human rights. They called woman “stri-dhan”—women as property, no more than things. Hence women were sold in markets.

That Ram-rajya you praise so tirelessly—in that Ram-rajya, women were sold in markets. What sort of golden age was that! As animals are sold, so were women. And it wasn’t only commoners buying them; rishis and munis bought them too.

The Upanishads tell the story of a rishi—cart-driver Raikva. He moved about in a cart, hence the name. He went to a market to purchase a woman. He bid on a beautiful woman. There was an open auction. But the emperor also fancied her and bid. Raikva must have had money too—rishis had plenty; people donated wealth. They abused money and people offered them money. But he couldn’t outbid the emperor. The emperor took the woman in his chariot and drove to the palace. Raikva grew furious. Rishis were very prone to anger—Durvasa was not alone; he is just a symbol—anger pervaded them all.

Anyone who represses sex becomes angry, because repressed sexual energy turns into anger. These are psychological facts. The one who represses sex becomes greedy too—the energy will manifest somewhere. Block a spring in one place, it will find another outlet; it will flow from elsewhere, but it will flow. Block it again and it will find new routes; where once it flowed in one stream, it will now become a thousand streams.

Raikva seethed. He waited for an opportunity. Later, when old age came to the emperor, he felt the urge to make arrangements for the other world. People told him, “Raikva is the sage—take wisdom from him.” The emperor went with great wealth—chariots filled with gold, silver, jewels—and placed it at Raikva’s feet. He bowed. Raikva sat silent. The emperor said, “Won’t you say something? Bless me! I have come seeking your blessings.”

Raikva said, “Hey, shudra! Blessings don’t come from wealth.”

Hindu mahatmas cite this incident everywhere: “What a stunning thing Raikva said!” Vinoba Bhave cites it too—calling the emperor shudra because he brought wealth: “Hey shudra! Blessings are not for sale; wealth has no use here.”

But none of them tells the full story. The whole story is that the ministers said to the emperor, “Your Majesty, Raikva wants that woman. That’s why he’s angry; that’s why he calls you shudra.” So the emperor brought the woman. When he placed her at Raikva’s feet and pleaded, “Forgive my mistake—now grant me Brahma-knowledge,” Raikva gave him Brahma-knowledge. Such an enlightened one! And now he didn’t call him shudra—the heart’s desire had arrived.

Yet they keep abusing women. And know this: in Vedic times, rishis had one wife and many vadhus. Today we misuse the word vadhu—we call a newly married woman “nav-vadhu.” That’s inaccurate. In ancient times, vadhu meant a purchased woman, a second wife. She was treated like a wife—indeed, she was your wife—but she was a slave. So one wife, and many vadhus. The more vadhus, the greater the rishi was considered. Kings donated vadhus; rich men donated vadhus. And these very rishis hurled abuses at women!

These same rishis abuse women, yet the gods they worship—stories say—that when the rishis go for a pre-dawn bath in Mother Ganga, the gods come and sleep with their wives.

What gods they were! When I read these stories, I understood why the pre-dawn bath was given such importance! Otherwise if the rishis just sat at their firesides, when would the gods get a chance? So send the rishis to bathe in Ganga; meanwhile the moon, Indra, and other gods, disguised as the rishis, knock on the door, deceive the wife that they are her husband, sleep with her—and depart.

Your gods! Your rishis! Abuses continuing alongside all this!

Look closely at this madness and one thing becomes certain: women were mistreated.

So Jaipal, if your wife receives my sannyas reverentially, she is intelligent. Any intelligent woman will receive my sannyas reverentially. And every woman should be against the old sannyas. Women should stop bowing their heads at the feet of old-style renunciates. It is insulting. The very premise is wrong.

These sadhus go on preaching, go on abusing women. And the irony is: it is on the backs of these very women that your sadhus live! About ninety-nine percent of your sadhus live because of women. They serve them, cook for them, bring them clothes. Temples are crowded with women. A few louts turn up to jostle them; a few husbands come to protect their wives from such trouble. If women stopped going, you wouldn’t see any men—the swami would sit alone.

Women have given astonishing proof of simplicity. After so much insult, so much abuse, they continue to honor these fools, continue to bow in their feet. They’ve been taught to, and they’ve accepted within themselves that they are lesser.

Jain scriptures say that liberation is not possible in the female form. A woman cannot be liberated as a woman; she must first be born as a man. Only men have entry into moksha.

Why? What special excellence do men have that grants them entrance to liberation? Men have caused all the trouble in the world. Women neither wage wars nor instigate them; they don’t build atom bombs and hydrogen bombs. At most, when very angry, they pick up a rolling pin—that’s about it. No great calamity, no great sin has been committed by women. Men can attain moksha—but not women? Their very being a woman is their mistake. Women too have accepted this—because the teachers are men, the priests are men, the mahatmas are men, the sadhus and sannyasins are men—only men doing the explaining. From childhood, it’s been drilled into the mind.

This must be broken—utterly broken.

If we can free women from the orbit of these mahatmas, the orbit of mahatmas will collapse, because ninety-nine percent live off women. They torment women—and live off women. Quite a game!

Jaipal, if your wife feared your vows and rules, that’s natural. In fact, if someone in a household becomes religious in the old way, mayhem ensues. One person becomes religious—the whole house becomes hell. Those who have a religious person at home know this well. “I’m doing my worship—no one speak; no noise; don’t play the radio; the children can’t play; there must be silence; don’t disturb my meditation.”

What kind of meditation is disturbed by disturbance? Meditation means awareness amidst all disturbances. Will your meditation happen only if the whole world shuts down? Roads will run, traffic will move, buses will pass, airplanes will fly—what will you do about them? Trains will rattle by—what about them? Dogs will bark—what will you do? If your meditation breaks because of disturbances, it will never happen—there are disturbances everywhere.

And don’t imagine that in the forest there will be no disturbance. Try it once—go sit alone in a forest. Your home was more peaceful; at least you weren’t afraid there. In the forest you’ll open your eyes again and again—“Is there some wild animal?” If a lion roars—then what? You can’t tell a lion, “Quiet!” He is not your wife. A crow will drop his business on your head—then what? Crows keep no accounts of who’s a mahatma and who isn’t. Crows are crows. Simpletons! Born ignorant! They haven’t read scriptures or learned Sanskrit. They won’t see that you’re sitting, head shaved, beads in hand. They don’t care. In fact, a shaved head pleases them—“Ah, what a fine spot!” Go sit in the forest—you’ll find the house was better.

Disturbances remain everywhere. But the religious person creates great difficulties. “Right now I’m reading the Ramayana! Right now I’m reading the Gita!”—and the Gita he’s reading less than he’s watching whether the shop is running. I know such people: they sit with beads at the shop, signalling with their eyes to the clerk that a dog is entering—“Shoo it away.” Beads moving! A customer arrives—eye-signals: “Attend to him.” The beads keep rolling. Some even keep their beads in a pouch so no one sees, and slide them inside. Who knows if they are sliding them or not—the pouch conceals it. That’s the benefit: even if you don’t move them, no one knows—“They must be rolling.” Ram-ram, ram-ram—on and on.

If your wife feared your vows and rules, Jaipal, it’s natural.

A lady came to me: “Explain to my husband. If he listens to anyone, he listens to you. He won’t listen to anyone else.” I knew it was true. Husband—the sardar! I doubted he’d listen to me either. And religious! She said, “He’s making life hell. He wakes at two in the night to recite Japji! Two in the night! The kids—are they to sleep or not? And at such a volume! You know my sardarji—his voice is thunderous! The whole neighborhood is tormented. And the neighbors take it out on me: ‘Stop him!’ How to stop him? He says, ‘If you hinder religion, you’ll suffer for it.’”

I called him. He used to come sometimes. He was a major in the military, a senior officer. I asked, “What’s the matter?”

He said, “Nothing much—I rise at brahma-muhurta.”

“Brahma-muhurta? Your wife says two o’clock.”

“Yes, two o’clock. Two o’clock is brahma-muhurta.”

“Are you in your senses? Two o’clock, brahma-muhurta?”

“Yes. I go by the English calendar—the day changes at midnight. Twelve o’clock night—the new day begins. So two o’clock is the morning of the next day.”

I said, “Sardarji, that’s quite a point! But have some regard for the neighbors.”

“My voice is loud. What’s the harm? They all get religious benefit—dharma-labh!”

People arrange dharma-labh by putting up loudspeakers, offering religious benefit to the whole neighborhood. Twenty-four-hour akhand kirtan! It should really be called keerrantan—ranting—but they call it kirtan. They blast the loudspeaker whenever they like. Children can’t study; no one can do any work. And for twenty-four hours! And you can’t stop it. If you try to stop a religious activity—in this country—you’re in deep trouble. It’s religious—you should be happy that sitting at home you hear God’s name.

“So I recite Japji loudly. The children hear it, my wife hears it, the neighbors all benefit.”

This is their notion. Those who do vows and rules talk like this—they have no idea whom they are troubling, whom they are harassing. Their vow is being fulfilled. In fact, they imagine others are benefitting too—a windfall of merit. “The more you distribute merit, the better!”

One woman said to another, “My husband was extraordinary—unique—deeply religious; but he passed away.”

“What was his excellence? What was unique?”

“He slept only two hours. He had conquered sleep. The remaining twenty-two hours he continuously chanted Rama’s name—ram-ram, ram-ram. I’ve never seen such a religious person. By great good fortune I was married to him.”

“How did such a great man die so soon? What happened?”

“Better not ask.” “I strangled him.”

If someone chants ram-ram for twenty-two hours a day...

So Jaipal, it’s good you entered the new sannyas—otherwise your wife might have strangled you. Who knows what trouble your vows and rules would have caused!

Religious people create irritation in others. Their behavior becomes entirely uncouth. Under the cover of religion anything goes—ring as many bells as you like, make as much noise as you like—if it’s under the banner of religion, it’s fine. What doesn’t pass under the cover of religion! Everything goes—just let it bear the name “religion,” and no one can stop you. Whoever stops you is an atheist. Oppose him; harass him: “You hinder religion!” Who can stop anyone? On Muharram, if Muslims raise a racket—it is fine in the name of religion; oppose it and there’s a fight. On Holi, Hindus raise a racket—and you see what they do in the name of Holi! They hurl abuses, splash gutter-muck on each other—yet it all passes in the name of religion.

Holika-dahan—on that day devotee Prahlad was saved. Prahlad’s being saved has become a nuisance for the world. Had he not been saved, it would have been better—at least this Holi nuisance wouldn’t exist. Had he burned with Holika, it would have been a blessing! But Prahlad was saved—and now all these people feel licensed to hurl abuses: “Hurl away!”

They abuse—and take Kabir’s name! What fault of poor Kabir? Why drag him in? Add Kabir’s name to the abuse and it acquires a touch of religiosity. Even abuse becomes religious. They fling muck on each other. A year’s repressed desires and urges burst out—and it’s all under the name of religion. And if anyone objects: “It’s Holi—don’t take offense!” If you take offense, you’re at fault.

When I was small, I used “It’s Holi—don’t mind” to the fullest; I extended it to Diwali as well. I’d set off crackers behind people and if they got angry, I’d say, “It’s Diwali—don’t mind.” A seth in my village said, “This is the limit! I’ve seen a lot in my life—‘It’s Holi—don’t mind’ I’ve heard; but ‘It’s Diwali—don’t mind’ I’ve never heard. What all goes on in your skull!”

I said, “If on Holi one doesn’t mind, why on Diwali—this festival of joy—should anyone mind?”

He was already vexed with me. A Rama-devotee, he had built a Rama temple. And every time I passed by—and in a day I passed at least fifty times, because you had to cross his house to go anywhere—I would call out, “Jai Ramji!” Once, twice, thrice—on the fourth time he said, “Listen, if you say ‘Jai Ramji’ a fifth time, no one will be worse than me.”

I said, “I thought, being Rama’s devotee, having built a temple, you’d be pleased by Rama’s praise. And you’re getting angry!”

He said, “I’m warning you.”

I said, “Then I’m warning you too: I’m not alone—there are two thousand students in the school. From tomorrow morning, all two thousand will chant ‘Jai Ramji!’”

Next morning the students began. I spread the rumor in school that he is delighted by “Jai Ramji.” By the afternoon he called me: “Boy, do you want sweets? Biscuits? Say what you want—but spare me! If these two thousand boys pass by all day, I’m finished! Tell you what, I’m ready to give up Rama altogether.”

He forgot his rosary-chanting! I said, “But you used to chant Rama’s name!” “I just wanted to see how attached you are to Rama. Or is it all just noise?” Whenever he saw me, he would sit absolutely silent—no ram-ram. After I passed, he resumed.

Your wife feared your vows, fasts, rules—and rightly so. She could see that sooner or later the end result would be your running away. You would abandon your wife—make her a widow while you still live. You would orphan your children—while you still live. She must have been afraid. She is a thoughtful woman.

That is why my sannyas made sense to her. Women will grasp my sannyas more easily than men. Because I say: do not leave your home; do not leave your family. Make life natural and spontaneous. Do not make life drab and indifferent—make it joy and celebration. Don’t impose vows and rules by force—let life be a grace. Give life beauty. Don’t make it insensate; give it creativity. Let there be poetry in life, dance in life, song in life. Let there be love in life—then one day there may be prayer. Love transforms, ultimately, into prayer; and prayer one day joins you to the divine.

I honor life. To me, life and God are synonymous. There is no God apart from life. Receive life with awe and gratitude. Live as and where existence has placed you. And there—living there—become quiet, become silent, become empty.

The question is not of leaving the world; the question is of leaving the ego. Not of leaving the wife; of leaving proprietorship over the wife. Understand the distinction. It is not about leaving the wife, but about dropping the swagger of being a husband. Husband means owner, master. You are the master, and the wife is your property—this is the mark of irreligion. To treat a soul-full woman as property, as an object...

We still use crude words. When a father marries off his daughter, he calls it kanyadaan—“donating the maiden.” Donation is for things, not persons. Kanyadaan? It is vulgar. Every woman should oppose it. Donation? It implies the woman has no soul—she is a chair, furniture, a thing.

And we still use stri-dhan—“woman-wealth.”

In China, for centuries, if a husband killed his wife, no case could be filed in court, because a wife was not considered to have a soul. If someone breaks his own chair, will you drag him to court? The chair is his—he broke it—who is harmed?

Even today there are tribes in the Himalayas where, if a guest comes, they offer their wife for the night—as part of hospitality. Just as you offer your best food, best bed, best room, you also offer your wife for the night. A woman has no soul!

You know the story: Draupadi had five husbands. The story is absurd, but your scriptures are full of absurd stories. One woman with five husbands—the woman divided up. Things can be divided. They divided the days: today she is one man’s wife, tomorrow another’s, on the third day the third’s. All five brothers wanted her—so to avoid a quarrel, divide her.

What was our notion of a woman! And we call them religious men—this includes Yudhishthira, whom we call Dharmaraj. At least he should have said, “I won’t divide her—this is irreligious.” But that thought didn’t arise; it was religious—what is a woman after all? Divide her! Not only did they divide her, Yudhishthira also staked her in a game of dice. What do we stake in gambling? Things. Can you stake a person? He staked her—and lost!

Then what fault is Duryodhana’s if he began to strip her? If there is no fault in the five for dividing her, no fault in Yudhishthira for staking her—why blame Duryodhana alone? If a woman is a thing to be divided and wagered, then the winner may do as he likes. What heinous sin is it then to strip her? If someone changes the cover on a chair, what’s the issue?

But Duryodhana we call evil—while all that preceded was righteous!

We never analyze intelligently; we never examine our beliefs. That’s why there was no obstacle in leaving a woman and walking away.

I want a revolution between man and woman—certainly—but it should not be so superficial as to consist of merely leaving the woman. The revolution must be deep. You should not have the attitude of a husband toward a woman, no sense of proprietorship. She’s not property—she is a soul, just as you are. Nor are you her property. No one belongs to anyone. Only God is the master; otherwise, no one owns anyone. Ownership is absurd, indecent. And in the notion of ownership, renunciation is hidden—remember this.

An old-style sannyasin came to see me. He said, “I renounced my wife.” I said, “Was she yours that you renounced her? You can renounce only what is yours. Where did you get her? Did you bring her from your birth? What of her was yours? She is her own, and you are your own. How can you renounce? Drop this delusion.”

Thirty years since he left his wife, yet the delusion remains: “I renounced her.” Hidden in this delusion is the prior delusion: “She was mine.” Who are you? The wife is not yours, nor are you hers.

Between man and woman, this proprietorial relationship of husband and wife must go. Your children are not yours either—they belong to God. You are only instruments, mediums. They came through you; they are not yours. Respect them, honor them—they are gifts of God. See God in them. No one runs away from God. If God begins to be seen in your wife, in your children, I will call you a sannyasin.

But look at the trickery—men wrote the scriptures, and they taught that a woman should see God in her husband. Not one of them wrote that a man should see God in his wife. See the dishonesty? And you keep calling them mahatmas! How long will this blindness continue? These double standards!

My new sannyas is a new process altogether—a new arrangement of thinking, new values. There is nothing to leave—because nothing is ours; all is his. We are neither to renounce nor to cling. Then, wherever we are, whatever role existence has given us in this great play, play it to the full, with totality—live it to the brim. And live knowing it is a play—so no identification forms.

In the Ramleela, Sita is abducted and Rama roams the forest crying, “Where is my Sita?” He asks the trees, “Where is my Sita?” The real Rama may have been in pain, identified. But the actor playing Rama also sheds tears, cries out, “O Sita, where are you?” asks the trees. Inside, nothing is happening—it is all on the surface; he is acting. The curtain will fall and the matter will end. After the curtain falls, he won’t sit backstage still crying, “O Sita, where are you!”

If you attend a Ramleela, go behind the curtain sometimes—that’s where the real thing is seen. In my village, whenever Ramleela happened, I watched from backstage. The manager would say, “Watch from the front.” I’d say, “Let me sit here—I won’t interfere. I’ll just watch.”

I saw wondrous things there. Rama and Ravana are at war; Sita has been abducted—and as soon as the curtain falls, Mother Sita serves tea to both Rama and Ravana! The story is over. The curtain falls—the matter ends.

In the same way, in life one day the curtain will fall. No friend, no enemy; no mine, no thine. Until the curtain falls, play the game as a game.

An actor once asked me, “What do you say about the art of acting?”

I said, “The art of acting is: when you act, take it as life. And the art of life is: when you live, take it as acting. The skilled actor is he who, while acting, so immerses himself that you feel this is his life—you forget it is acting. And the skill of living is to live in such a way that all is acting.”

In my view, those who practice the art of acting find it easy to understand my sannyas. If Vinod has understood me deeply, that’s the reason.

People ask me, “Why do so many actors feel drawn to you?”

I say, “Because my definition of sannyas is: take the world as play-acting.” Those in the world of acting understand this at once. They must: “If we can act as if it were life, why not live as if it were acting!”

So Jaipal, your wife has no difficulty in this; she is blissful, delighted. Good that you escaped the old-style sannyas—a disaster was narrowly averted. You are fortunate!

The last question:

Dinesh, brother,
You shouldn’t ask such difficult questions. A story is a story. Of course something did happen afterward, but you’ll land me in a fix.
The two brothers were named Changu and Mangu. Changu-Mangu they already were. To spend sixty years entangled in “After you, after you”—they were accomplished fools! Their father’s name was Lallu, so it’s better to say: they were Lallu’s sons!
And when Changu and Mangu have studied such a lesson in civility for sixty years, they’re bound to leave their mark on the world. Both became prime ministers of India. Changu became Charan Singh; Mangu became Morarji Desai. The story ended in real tragedy.
But don’t ask such difficult questions. With questions like this I get into trouble. I have to answer. Now Charan Singh will be annoyed and Morarji will be annoyed. Though their annoyance makes no difference; even when they were in power they were annoyed—what difference did it make! Now the poor fellows are nowhere. Now they are fit objects of pity. Now they’ve become Changu-Mangu again. If Changu gets to power, he’s Chaudhary Charan Singh; if Mangu gets to power, he’s Morarji Bhai Desai. Once power is gone, Changu is just Changu, Mangu just Mangu!
That’s all for today.