Preetam Chhabi Nainan Basee #9

Anand Maitreya,
the mind lives in duality. Whether the duality is of love or hate, faith or disbelief, enmity or friendship—duality is duality. The atheist moves in duality and so does the theist. The atheist accepts only half—denial. The theist also accepts only half—affirmation. Yes and no—this too is duality. If you choose one of the two, you will not be able to escape the other.

This is the fundamental principle of duality: choose one, and inevitably the other is chosen along with it. If you love, you will also hate; there is no escape from hate. If there is light, there will be darkness. If there are flowers, there will be thorns. If you choose one, the other will come from behind.

Agnosticism means: do not choose either pole—neither yes nor no. Agnosticism is the pinnacle of religion. Buddha is an agnostic. And Buddha is the supreme being; from the height from which Buddha has spoken, no one else has spoken. Everyone else has chosen one or another duality.

The atheist says: God is not. The theist says: God is. But the two are bound to each other. If there were no atheists in the world, could there be any theists? How? The atheist is absolutely necessary for the theist to exist.

And what kind of theism is it that needs an atheist for its very being? And if all were atheists and there were no theists, atheism too would disappear; it could not survive. What a strange atheism that needs theism as its foundation stone!

The theist and the atheist live side by side; they are two sides of the same coin. A religious person is neither a theist nor an atheist. The religious one says: rise above yes and no, go beyond duality, transcend it. So I shall not choose. I shall awaken into choiceless awareness. I will not adopt yes, nor will I adopt no; I will not drape myself in any bias, I will remain impartial. I am not going to fall into any net of the mind. I will not again be taken in by any of the mind’s delusions.

Atheists and theists remain embroiled in dispute, forever fighting and struggling. Their arguments are not different. If you survey the whole history of atheists and theists you will be amazed—their arguments are exactly the same. The conclusions appear different. But if the reasoning is the same, the conclusions cannot be very different.

The theist says: Since the world exists, there must be a maker; how can anything be without being made? Therefore God is. The atheist says: If every thing needs a maker, then who made God? The same logic—no difference. The theist is left without an answer, or he begins to fume with anger.

In King Janaka’s assembly, the remarkable woman Gargi asked Yajnavalkya this very question: If the support of all is the Supreme, then what is the support of the Supreme?

Yajnavalkya grew angry. Sparks fell from his eyes. He said, Woman, keep your mouth shut! This is an over-question. If you speak more, your head will fall.

Is that an answer? That is a threat—that your head will be cut off! It is no answer at all, nor is it even courteous. Not even a decent way to treat a woman. And the argument she used was the very one Yajnavalkya himself had offered. He was saying that the world needs a support. How can there be a world without a support? God is its support. So what mistake did Gargi make! If the world cannot be without a support, how can God be without a support? She merely stretched the same logic a little further, pushed it toward its conclusion. But Yajnavalkya panicked, because if God too has to be given a support, he is in trouble. Why? Because whatever answer you give, the question still arises: then what is the support of that? You say God’s support is A, A’s support is B, B’s support is C—the question remains where it was: what is the support of C? Yajnavalkya understood that to drag the discussion further is to land oneself in a mess. And where discussion can no longer be carried forward, swords are drawn.

Why, after all, did Hindus and Muslims draw swords against one another? Because it became difficult to carry the discussion forward. Why did Christians and Muslims fight for centuries? The discussion could go no further. A point comes where the discussion stops. And the irony is that there is no difference whatsoever in their logic—not the slightest. If everything needs a maker, then the maker too would need someone who made him. If you cannot be born without a father, then your father also needs a father, and his father too, and his father too. Where will this series end? Can you ever arrive at a place where you can say: this man needed no father; he was born without a father?

That is exactly what the Christians say about Jesus—that he was born without a father. Why? Precisely so that if you can concede that Jesus can be born without a father, from a virgin mother, then God too needs no maker. If you can swallow this small thing, then you will swallow the big thing too. If you gulp down this little point without hemming and hawing and asking, How can this be?—out of fear, out of greed, for some reason—though the question is plain and simple: Jesus too cannot be born without a father. It is impossible. It cannot be.

But your so-called theism stands upon impossibilities, upon foolishness. And atheism stands upon refuting those same foolishnesses. There is no difference in their folly.

Agnosticism declares: we take no side—on this side a ditch, on that side a pit. Both yes and no are ditches and pits. One who walks in the middle, balanced, right, leaning neither here nor there, who does not choose, who says: I will agree with neither yes nor no—I will simply remain awake, I will keep my awareness! Why should I be concerned with whether God is or is not? What problem of mine is that? What hindrance is it to me? That is not the question of a truly religious person. The truly religious person asks: Who am I? The pseudo-religious person asks: Is there a God or not? This is merely a way of postponing the real questions.

What do you need that for? Do you want to know God, or do you want to know those who have known God? You never ask, “What is the sign of a man who has tasted sweetness?” Is there any such sign? It makes sense to be eager to taste the sweet yourself; but what would be the “mark” of someone who has tasted it? Could there be one? A man has tasted the sweet and another has not; both are standing before you—will there be any outer difference? If there is a difference, it will be inner, not visible on the surface. The one who has tasted knows what sweetness is; the one who has not knows nothing of it. But how will you find out from the outside? What will you measure? Can you weigh it on a scale? There is no outer way.

Yet people ask such questions and think they are being religious. Why bother? Even the question “I want to know God” is not yet the question of a truly religious person. And to ask, “What is the sign of one who has known God?”—this is the limit! You have gone far, far away—borrowed upon borrowed, the shadow of a shadow. Speak of the root. Ask, “Who am I?” Know “Who am I?” In that very knowing, everything else is known.

Buddha is the supreme agnostic of this world. You cannot call him a theist, nor an atheist. He neither says yes nor no about God. The foolish could not understand him—hence Buddha’s very name practically vanished from this land. This is a country with a vast crowd of fools. Had Buddha been an atheist, some fools would at least have agreed to follow him. Had he been a theist, then of course the whole Kumbh Mela would have fallen in behind him. But Buddha said: “I am neither theist nor atheist; the very question is irrelevant. Whether God is or is not is not worth considering.”

Buddha used to say: Imagine a man is struck by an arrow and is dying. You sit by him and say, “If I pull the arrow out, you will live.” But the man is a philosopher and says, “Before you pull it, answer a few questions. First, is this arrow real or illusory? If it is illusion, what is there to pull—who will pull, and of what? If it is real, once we establish that, then pull it. I also want to know who shot it—friend or foe? My own or a stranger? Was it deliberate or an accident? Is there a purpose behind it or none? Is the arrow poisoned or not?” He raises a thousand questions. What will you do? You will say, “Ask your questions later—first let me pull the arrow, or else, while we get lost in answers for you, you will die. The arrow is lodged in your chest; it is taking your life. Leave the philosophical dilemmas for later. First let me pull the arrow.”

Likewise, said Buddha, whoever is truly eager for a revolution in life first sets about pulling out the arrow of ignorance. He does not ask idle questions—“Does God exist or not? If he exists, what is he like? How many faces, how many hands? Where does he live? What is the sign of those who have known him? What are their marks?”

The true seeker asks only one question: “There is darkness within—how do I light the lamp? How can there be light within me?” The true person does not get entangled in theist–atheist. And that tangle is huge; once you fall into it, it is very hard to get out. It’s a very long tangle. The irony is that those who know nothing are precisely the ones who fall into it.

First of all, you don’t know—so how can you say God is? Yet millions proclaim that he is, and they know nothing. They have not known, lived, recognized; there has been no encounter, no experience, not even a taste—and still they say “he is.” What greater falsehood could there be? And these are your “religious” people. In my view, none are as hypocritical as so-called religious people. The reason there is so much hypocrisy in this country is that so many “religious” people sit on thrones here. Terrible hypocrisy—because your very foundation is false. You don’t know, and you have already believed. That is dishonesty, inauthenticity. At least say, “How can I affirm? I don’t know yet—how can I say yes?” But out of fear or greed you nodded yes. Or since everyone around you was saying “God is,” you thought, “Why invite trouble? These are the people I must deal with—work, trade—so I’ll say yes.” Your yes is merely formal. And gradually, what you adopted formally, you yourself begin to take as truth.

There’s a strange thing in the world: delude others deliberately, and in the very act of deluding, one starts believing in the delusion oneself. If you manage to trick some people, you think, “There must be some truth in it—otherwise how could I deceive so many?” Then you stop thinking at all and go on living by that very deception. What kind of religion is this?

Religion does not come from belief; it comes from experience. But all your religions are of belief—whether Hindu, Jew, Christian, Jain, or anything else. Your religion is of belief, not experience. And what is of belief is worth two pennies; what is of experience is beyond price, immeasurable. I say to you: do not believe. If you wish to know, do not believe. Nowhere is greater caution needed than caution about belief, for belief is what is devouring people. One believes in advance—before walking, one has concluded; before searching, one has decided.

If scientists did the same, science would become as worthless as your religion has become. But science does not do that. First experiment—and not once, a thousand times. When something is proved true without exception, thousands of times, then it is accepted. Even then the acceptance is not absolute, it is provisional, conditional. The scientist only says: “On the basis of what we know so far, it appears to be so; tomorrow, with more knowledge, we may have to change our whole view.”

In that sense, the scientist is far more principled, honest, truly religious than your so-called religious people. Once you have accepted one thing without knowing, you can accept anything; no hurdle remains. One wrong step, and wrong steps follow—because the direction itself has gone wrong. And leave aside the little people—this is true even of those we call great thinkers.

There was a great logician in Greece—Aristotle. In Greece there was a notion that women have fewer teeth than men. Men must have spread it. Men are very skilled at spreading such notions: how could women possibly have as many teeth as men? The idea is that in women everything ought to be less! How can the “slave of the feet” be equal? So no one questioned it. The belief traveled on and on, for thousands of years.

Is there any shortage of women? In truth there are slightly more women than men, because men indulge in all sorts of foolishness—fighting wars and whatnot—and keep getting themselves wiped out. Women are always a little more in number. Men also hustle far more, run around more. One dies of a heart attack, one goes mad, one jumps off a balcony in suicide. Women talk about suicide; they don’t usually do it. Men commit suicide twice as often; they also go mad twice as often. And they should—given how many kinds of craziness they chase: hoarding wealth, climbing to positions, ladder upon ladder—and then they fall, flat on their backs, and the crowd claps!

After forty, people often start having heart attacks—till then the body somehow puts up with it; there is strength, youth. Around forty to forty-two the warning bell starts ringing—blood pressure rises, heart trouble begins; something is about to break.

And wars must be going on somewhere—if not in Vietnam, then in Israel; if not in Israel, then in Afghanistan. Somewhere they must go on—else men cannot rest. Even in free time they sit sharpening their swords. When no hot war is happening, they call it a “cold war”—meaning the preparations are on, let it happen soon! And sometimes it happens precisely because of the preparations: you sharpen your sword, Pakistan sharpens theirs; you get angry seeing them sharpen—dangerous!—so you sharpen more; they see you and sharpen more. Words escalate. You shout, “If you sharpen any further, it won’t be good!”

How long does it take for a quarrel to break out? Swords are drawn. Leave real things aside: men are so crazy that over the game of chess they have drawn swords and cut necks. Chess—where everything is make-believe: elephants and horses, king and minister—all fake. If poor, they are wooden; if rich, ivory—but fake is fake, whether wood or ivory or gold or studded with gems. Still, swords are drawn.

No one sees this stupidity. Men keep fighting, cutting, killing—so they have often been fewer. At times so few that Muhammad had to say: each man should marry four women. In Muhammad’s time there were four times as many women. So out of sheer necessity he had to say it. Otherwise there would be great turmoil. If there are four times as many women and only one can marry while three remain unmarried, will the unmarried simply sit quietly? There will be trouble—better to marry them. Muhammad himself married nine times. He had to! If you teach four, at least do nine to set the example; otherwise people would say, “Bravo—celibate yourself and you’re trapping us!” So the poor man got trapped himself. Those who have experience of one wife can imagine the result of nine! Muhammad must have been a man of courage. Mahavira and the like ran away from even one. Muhammad seems strong—he wrestled it out, bravely stayed in the ring.

Men were fewer, women more—so what would it have cost Aristotle, or the people of his time, to gather a hundred or fifty women and count their teeth? How long would it take? He had two wives himself; he could have said, “Sit down, Lallu’s mother, Munnu’s mother, let me count your teeth!” At least the house would have been peaceful while he counted; at least that long the women would have been quiet. But he did not count. He even wrote in his books. Such a great thinker—and he wrote that women have fewer teeth than men. With two wives at home, he didn’t have the sense to count!

We have stopped trusting experiment, we have stopped trusting experience. We just accept whatever is going around. Others believe it, so it must be right; someone must have counted. And everyone thinks the same: “Someone must have counted.” This is how a scrap of string becomes a snake—and no one checks if there is even a snake. Sometimes there isn’t even a scrap. If there were at least a scrap, it would be something.

For centuries man has lived by beliefs. Not only about small matters, but about the ultimate truth of life—he has simply believed. Then who will experience?

Believing “God exists” is just a belief—the theist’s belief. And once you have believed, what is left to search for? The matter is finished; journey ended; destination reached. Now just ring a bell, do a little worship, bow your head sometimes, offer a bit of prasad to distribute in the neighborhood—nothing much remains to be done. God is!

And there are those who have believed that God does not exist. They too have not searched, not meditated, not practiced, not entered the inner realm. Seeing these theists and their notions, they refuted those notions and believed that God is not. As if God’s being or non-being depended on the believers’ notions. Every atheist on earth has done little more than say: what the theist says is wrong. And you can indeed prove the theist wrong—because he too has only believed, not known. Those who have known are very few. And those who have known did not get entangled in theist and atheist; they got to the work of inquiry, of exploration.

The first rule of exploration is: be impartial. If you have already concluded, how will you inquire? Impartial!

That is the meaning of agnosticism: I take neither side. I do not know what truth is. I am ready to search. I am willing to know.

Agnosticism has a great sweetness. It means: I am ignorant, and the truth is as yet unknowable to me. But I am eager, ardent, inquisitive, a seeker. I am ready to stake everything to know. But only when I know will I accept—never before. And the irony is: once you know, the very question of belief disappears. Belief is futile in both conditions: before knowing, belief is false; after knowing, it is redundant. When you know, what is there to “believe”? The question of belief or non-belief does not arise.

That’s why when people asked Buddha, “Do you believe in God?” he would smile and remain silent. One who knows will not say, “I believe,” because believing is the business of those who do not know. Buddha smiled and kept quiet. People asked, “Is there a God?” He said nothing. “Is there no God?” He said nothing. And people were so foolish they concluded, “Silence means consent!” We asked, “Is there a God?” He was silent—therefore, there is. Those bent on believing will extract that meaning.

So after Buddha died, even his silence sprouted a thousand meanings. This world is strange: speak, and you will be misinterpreted; remain silent, and you will be misinterpreted. Buddha said nothing—and how many meanings were drawn! After his death, thirty-six sects of Buddhists arose. Fools are very eager to make sects!

Some said: “God is—hence Buddha was silent. The unsayable cannot be said; it is ineffable—therefore he was silent.”

Some said: “He kept silent because he did not want to hurt your feelings; God is not. But why hurt you? He was nonviolent; why wound anyone’s belief? Why snatch away the straw people cling to? They are already drowning; take away the straw and it will be worse. Let them hold on to their beliefs.” Out of compassion, they said, Buddha did not declare that God is not—though he knew there is no God. Otherwise he would have said it. Or he could have said, as the Upanishads say: it is, but it is inexpressible.

Thus some proved from his silence that there is no God. And the debate has gone on for centuries—no conclusion possible. Buddha is silent because to say yes or no is to create duality. Where duality is created, mind revives. The secret of Buddha’s silence is: go beyond mind. Just go beyond mind, and you too will know what is. Then call it God if you like, or moksha, or nirvana, or give it no name at all—for in truth it has none.

The foundational stance of agnosticism is: until I know, I will not believe anything. And when some have known, then belief does not arise—there is knowing, and then living it.

H. G. Wells wrote something very significant about Buddha: that on this earth there has been no one more Godless and more Godlike than Buddha. Godless, in the sense that he is not a theist. Godlike, because though he does not subscribe to the idea of God, his life is divine, godly. That is why we called Buddha “Bhagwan”—even though he made no pronouncement about God, neither yes nor no. Still we called him “Bhagwan,” because such godliness blossomed in him—such a lotus of consciousness opened—how rarely it blooms!

Agnosticism is a priceless method. If you truly want to seek truth, your starting point should be agnosticism—not theism, not atheism. One day you will surely know what truth is. And when you know, you too will smile; you too will laugh, seeing that all the talk was futile—the theist’s talk as futile as the atheist’s. About that, neither yes is appropriate nor no. It cannot be split in two. It is indivisible.

That ultimate truth, that supreme experience—about it the mind can take no decision; it is beyond mind. Whoever rises beyond mind, knows it.

Sahajanand,
mahatmas, sadhus and munis have always done exactly this. It is nothing new. If they have no experience of their own, poor fellows have to steal from somewhere! Whether they steal from the Upanishads, from the Gita, from the Quran, from the Samaysar—what difference does it make? Those who have nothing of their own and yet want to nourish the ego that “we know,” will steal from somewhere or other. And if they have begun stealing from me too, that is actually an honor—nothing to be upset about. At least they are now counting me alongside the Upanishads, the Quran and the Bible!

Though when they steal from the Upanishads, the Quran or the Bible, they have no fear in saying they are quoting them. When they steal my words, they are afraid to say so. They read my books—there is hardly a so-called mahatma in this country who doesn’t—but they read them secretly, hiding. One hides my book inside the Gita, another inside the Bible—lest someone sees he is reading me! There is fear. There is trepidation about being linked with my name. So even if they would like to take my name, they cannot; they don’t have that much courage. If they had that much courage, would they have become escapees? If they had that much guts, would they be escapists?

Those whom you call mahatmas, munis, sadhus—what are they in truth? Spiritually, they are cowards who could not stand in the struggle of life; who were defeated everywhere in life’s battle. So they began to say, “The grapes are sour,” that there is nothing in the world, and they ran away from it.

If there is nothing in the world, why so much running? If there is nothing there, what is the point of fleeing from it? And if the grapes are sour, leave them; let those who like sour grapes taste them. Little children at least like them. Why are you so busy abusing the grapes? Your abuse shows you still have juice for the grapes; the taste has not gone; it is appearing as abuse. The thorn of failure is still lodged within.

Here the defeated run away from life. Life is a struggle, and staying in it takes strength. What strength is needed to run away? To live in life, you need a little intelligence; to run away, what intelligence is needed? It takes no great talent to tuck in your tail.

These are talentless people. They have nothing of their own. In fact, they can have nothing of their own, because what they are doing leads nowhere near real experience. Someone is starving, sitting on a fast—as if by starving one attains truth! Does fasting, starving, give you an experience of truth?

If that were so, in a country like ours there would be multitudes of knowers of truth—where there is so much hunger; where God is making everyone fast; at least a one-meal-a-day fast He is imposing! Where everyone is underfed; where three out of four go hungry. Perhaps that’s why people call it a land of merit, where even the gods long to be born.

But gods do not die of hunger. In the realm of the gods there are fifty-six varieties of dishes! They sit under the wish-fulfilling tree and whatever they desire appears. In no story of the gods do you hear there was ever a famine, or scant rain, or a population problem, or people dying of hunger, or a need for relief. And still they long to be born here! Perhaps they long because there is no facility for fasting there—you have to come here to fast. And fasting brings merit!

What happens inside you when you starve and fast? You are eating your own flesh, nothing else. Fasting is an irreligious act. It is self-cannibalism. You are man-eaters, nothing else. That’s why if you fast, the first day two pounds of weight disappears, the second day a pound and a half, then a pound, and then it slowly decreases. Where is this weight going? Have you ever thought? When you fast one day, where do the two pounds go? You digest it—you digest your own flesh!

And the big joke is that vegetarians relish fasting. A Jain muni should never fast, because it is meat-eating. Yet we sing great glories of fasting. This fasting has nothing to do with spirituality. But why has it gained so much respect? Whoever starts doing things against nature, we honor him. Because it seems—“we can’t do it, and he is doing it.” Anyone who begins weird, upside-down acts makes us feel reverence: “Ah, there must be something to him!” One fasts, one stands on his head, one twists and tortures the body. People are busy with upside-down practices—and hope that truth will be realized through them.

Truth has nothing to do with such futile nonsense. And then people go to them asking, “Mahatmaji, give us a sermon!” What sermon can they give! They will steal it from somewhere.

You say: “Many mahatmas, sadhus and munis steal your words and speak as if they were their own.”
No harm. Let them speak! At least it becomes a kind of publicity. The words reach people. Whose they are—what does that matter? That the words reach is the essential thing. And in any case, whose words are they? About what I say, do I have some franchise? Exactly this is what the knowers have always said; exactly this will the knowers to come say again. No personal claim can be made on such words. If the words are true, they are not personal; only if they are false are they personal. Falsehood is personal; truth is universal. So the more it is “yours,” know it is false; the more universal, know it is true. Then what claim over truth?

If anything of mine is true, it is not mine—let them repeat it to their heart’s content; what’s the harm? Consider them the cones of a loudspeaker—no harm. Coneji Maharaj! These poor fellows work hard—reading secretly so no one sees! Look at their labor, their austerity. Then they have to save face; they must also juggle the words, because otherwise people catch them. People stand up and say, “Where are you borrowing this from?” I have received reports of people standing up and saying, “You are speaking on credit.” So they have to change the words, twist the language. At least honor their hard work!

And if the content is useful, it should reach people. What difference does it make that they speak as if it were their own? Why does it pain you, Sahajanand? Let them speak. Fine—let it be “theirs.” What is gained or lost?

And you ask: “Isn’t it necessary to stop them in time?”
No, not at all necessary. And you can’t stop them anyway. There is no way to stop them. How will you stop them?

A poets’ conference was being held.
The emcee, with a guffaw, said—
“You have just been listening to Mor Banarasi,
now listen to Chor Itarsi.”
The thief-poet came on stage and recited—
“Maiya mori, main nahin makhan khayo...”
A voice rose from the crowd—
“Stop the poem, brother—that is Surdas!”
The poet replied—“You’re right.
Surdas could not see,
and my great-great-grandfather
used to write his poems into our diary—
I have an ancestral right to recite his creations.”
The audience said—“No doubt about it!”
The poet went on—“Many great poets
dump whole compositions of others into their bags,
and you people bear it.
I am only justifying my pen-name:
if I don’t recite stolen pieces,
how will I be called Chor Itarsi?
“Each of their nights passes like Diwali,
and we stole one bulb and you took offense.”
The listeners said—“Give us more!”
The thief began a song:
“Panditji, after I die,
please do me this small favor...”
A voice said—“That is by Dharma Khalik.”
The poet replied—“He too has stolen it
from a Punjabi poet of Delhi—
it’s another matter the song
appeared in a film under his name.
When we steal from a thief,
we feel no shame:
as the goods come, so they go.
“And as for us,
we are general-store people—
we arrange all the goods on our shelves,
we don’t make them ourselves.
We bring some from one company,
some from another—
it’s another matter
we put our own label on them.
“If we are reciting fearlessly,
why are you getting scared?
You can buy stolen goods,
but you can’t listen to a stolen poem!
“Brothers! India is very big—
the poet whose piece it is,
how many places can he sing at?
In how many cities can he go?
He is a man—he won’t become an airplane!
“We are taking the trouble
to bring his creations to you—
even as sannyasins, for your happiness,
we are carrying away two thousand.
What a bad age has come,
that an honest distributor
you call a thief!”

Don’t worry at all, Sahajanand. The mahatmas, sadhus, munis are engaged in a good work—distribution. Let them do it. And the deception won’t last. People are becoming alert. My words are such, so contrary, that however much someone tries to hide them, they cannot be hidden; they will be caught out. And those words cannot tally with their way of life. So anyone will immediately recognize: “This is not theirs.”

Suppose I have said that fasting is meat-eating. Let some sadhu steal that! His own devotees will beat him up. He can’t steal that—impossible. Or when I say a milk diet is the same as meat-eating, like drinking blood—let a mahatma steal that! Or when I say belief in God is dishonesty, an irreligious act—let a mahatma steal that! He will be caught at once.

What I am saying is so different that it won’t fit them; their entire lifestyle will clash with my statements. If they want to walk according to my words, if they want to speak my words, little by little they will have to become my sannyasins. Slowly, I take a finger, then the wrist; gradually it becomes difficult to run away.

When someone is reciting my words, it has appealed to him; it has pierced him somewhere deep within, it has struck him—only then is he reciting it. He has understood something of it, but his vested interests today are such that he cannot make a clear declaration.

I receive countless letters from sadhus: “We want to leave everything and join your sannyas, but what will become of our arrangements? There should be arrangements in your ashram for our residence. Right now we are honored in every way; people look after everything for us, they protect us. If we leave the old style of sannyas, we will be in trouble.”

But in my ashram, if one is not creative, there is no place for him. And your so-called mahatmas and munis—what creativity do they have?
I tell them: surely a place can be made here, but here you will have to do something. Here you cannot sit and take service. Some sannyasins make clothes, some make furniture, some make shoes, some make other things. What can you do?
They say, “We can’t do anything—because we have been sannyasins for thirty or forty years; we have done nothing. We know only one thing—taking service.”
What will I do with them here?
They say, “We will sit, meditate, do bhajan-kirtan.”
Just sitting and bhajan-kirtan will not do anything. Here you have to live life.

Jain munis write, news comes that they can come, leaving everything—and not a few but in large numbers—because they are fed up, bored. But then, “Where shall we go? We can’t do anything. And the very lay followers who today touch our feet, if we drop this old mode of monkhood, will not be ready to give us even a peon’s job.”

And that is the fun. Just think: the very mahatma whose feet you press—if tomorrow he gives up being a mahatma and comes to your house and says, “Give me a peon’s job,” or “Give me work washing dishes,” you will say, “No, brother, look elsewhere.” You will ask a thousand things: “What are your qualifications? Your eligibility? Bring certificates! Where have you worked before? Why were you let go? How far have you studied?”
And if they say, “We know the Gita by heart,” you’ll say, “What will we do with the Gita? Will you scrub the pots? What has learning the Gita by heart to do with that?” If they say, “We can do bhajan-kirtan,” you’ll say, “Fine—but the job is peon, not singing.”

Who will give work to your so-called mahatmas and munis? What ability, what competence, what eligibility do they have? They have become crippled. With all limbs intact, they are disabled. With eyes, yet blind. With hands and feet, yet lame. This is a fraternity of the crippled. Therefore, poor fellows, they cannot even leave; now they depend on you. They live as you tell them. They are your slaves. And the great joke is: from those who are your slaves, you are receiving moral instruction.

Just think! Will a true master be your slave? A true master is no one’s slave; nor does he make anyone a slave. A true master is his own master, and he teaches others to be their own masters. But your gurus—what is their stature? What is their quality? They are devoid of creativity, crippled and lame in every way. Yet you keep worshiping them, because there is a tradition, a line to beat—so you go on beating the line.

Sahajanand, let the poor fellows speak; there is no need to stop anyone. It hurts, I know. It’s not just your question—many sannyasins have come and said the same. From place to place sannyasins come and say something should be done about it.

Nothing needs to be done. Nor do I have any insistence that I hold a seal over my thoughts. Once spoken, they belong to the winds. Whoever wishes, may take them. Once spoken, there is no ownership left over thoughts—nor should there be. I speak precisely so they become everyone’s, so they are shared. I am sharing my bliss, sharing my awareness. Whoever can, however he can, let him take.

They are uncomprehending, poor fellows. Instead of understanding my words and transforming their own lives, they are only using those words to instruct you. They themselves have not understood, nor can they fully understand—because until they live it, my words cannot be understood. This is a wholly living religion, a cash-in-hand religion. But they think that because so many people are influenced by my words, by repeating them perhaps some people will be influenced by them too.

That is fine. If a few people, hearing my words even from them, are influenced, then unknowingly they have turned some faces toward me. Today or tomorrow, those people will come seeking me. Once they get a whiff of the fragrance, they will have to come—there will be no other way. So unknowingly, indirectly, they are engaged in my very work.

If you meet such mahatmas, munis, sadhus, thank them. There is absolutely no need to be upset.

Shailendra,
The psychology of atonement is worth understanding. Everyone has, at one time or another, done atonement, felt remorse—Christian or not, Catholic or not. Whether one confessed before others or not, one has confessed before oneself. Everyone has! And not once, but many times.

You flare up in anger. An hour later a pang arises: “What have I done? Again the same ignorance, the same stupidity, the same unconsciousness grabbed me! And I had resolved not to be angry. Only two days ago I decided: No more anger. And again it happened!” You feel ashamed.

But if you understand and analyze it rightly, that shame is arising because your idol of ego has been shattered.

Two days ago you had decorated your ego: “Now I will not be angry. I resolve—no more anger. I am free of anger.” Your ego rejoiced: “I have become non‑angry.” And within two days the idol of ego lies in fragments—anger happened again. Now your ego is in pain. It is not the soul’s pain—though you will say, “My soul is suffering; I feel deep inner shame.” These are pretty words used to cover a simple fact: only your ego is hurting. Your image has fallen in your own eyes. All those grand declarations—“I am a man of resolve; I have decided; a great decision; I will never be angry again”—all blew away in a moment. Somebody just pressed a little button and it was over. Two words from someone and you forgot everything; you dropped into your reality; all religiosity, purity, saintliness took leave. You were ready to kill.

A Japanese emperor went to visit a fakir whose fame was spreading that he had attained Buddhahood. The emperor bowed and asked, “I have come to ask—is there heaven? Is there hell? These questions keep arising in me. No one has satisfied me yet.”

The fakir looked him up and down as a policeman might look at a thief. The emperor felt a prick; there was a moment of silence. The fakir’s disciples were puzzled. And the fakir kept looking—as if seeing through him, as if he had X‑ray eyes. It was early morning; a cold wind was blowing, yet sweat stood on the emperor’s brow. Then the fakir said, “Just look at your face—flies are buzzing around it! You’ve come to ask about heaven and hell? You haven’t got a drop of sense, you blockhead!”

That was too much for the emperor. He had come with a spiritual question—and this man! And people say he’s enlightened! He forgot himself, drew his sword, and was about to strike, to take off the fakir’s head, when the fakir said, “Stop! This is the gate of hell. This is hell!”

The emperor was struck by the word, paused for a split second, and slid the sword back into its sheath. The fakir said, “Now the gate of heaven is open. Go home—the matter is finished. Have you got your answer? When you are in anger, you are in hell; when you are in non‑anger, you are in heaven. All the other heavens and hells are imaginary. They are not in geography; they are your psychology.”

So when you resolve, “I will not be angry; I will not descend into lust; I will not insult anyone; I will not behave harshly,” for a moment the cool breeze of heaven flows over you. Your ego feels gratified, very sweetly pleased: “What an extraordinary person you are! Where the whole world is rotting in lust, anger, greed, attachment—you have transcended!”

But someone will press the button. In such a crowd, someone or other will press it. They may not even know they pressed it; nevertheless your button is pressed. The man who greeted you every day on the road walks by, absorbed in himself, and forgets to greet you—he has done nothing, yet a fire ignites within you: “So! What does this fellow think of himself? I’ll set him right!” Coals begin to glow: “This riff‑raff passed without greeting me! Without greeting me!”

I heard a Rajasthani tale. In a village lived a sardār. He had decreed that no one was to twirl his mustache while passing his house—only he could twirl his mustache. Whoever passed must lower his mustache. He was a quarrelsome, wicked man; people knew better than to create a scene. They passed with their mustaches lowered. Some, out of fear, even shaved them off—lest they forget and pass by and get thrashed on the spot.

A new trader came to the village—a young man with handsome mustaches, striding along proudly with turban and all. People advised him, “Brother, shave first! If you plan to live here, shave. The sardār is absolutely crazy. If he sees your mustaches, your head may roll. Either your mustache or your neck—your choice.”

The trader said, “I’ve seen such sardārs!” He was young and didn’t know the village; he didn’t foresee trouble. Fired with bravado he went straight past the sardār’s house, twirling his mustache.

The sardār shouted, “Stop, trader’s whelp! Where do you think you’re going?”

He came out with a sword. The trader now realized this had gone too far. “I didn’t think it would be like this. I thought the villagers were joking.”

The trader said, “All right then—if it must be, it must be. Shall I fetch my sword too?”

“That’s fair,” said the sardār.

“And one more thing,” said the trader. “It will take me a little time. Don’t worry, I won’t run away. Let me first settle my wife and children. Who knows, I may be cut down—why should they suffer? And I’ll advise you as well: you too go settle yours. You might be cut down. Why should your wife and children suffer?”

Sardār as he was, the idea appealed to him. Half an hour later the trader returned—clean‑shaven. The sardār asked, “What happened to your mustaches?”

The trader said, “I thought—why make a fuss? Why kill my wife and children; why kill you? What’s the point! I snipped off a few hairs—trouble over. Let it be, brother. Jai Ramji!”

The sardār said, “Ah! And I… I finished off my wife and children.”

“As you wish!” said the trader.

People become inflamed over trifles. You resolve “never again,” and then a little something goes awry—and it will. In this crowded world, someone steps on your toe, someone bumps your shoulder.

A friend gifted me a car many years ago. A year later he came to see me. He said, “I came to check one thing. Please take me around the whole village in your car.” I did. He said, “Now I’m reassured. You’ve done what no one can do.”

I asked, “What do you mean? Do you think driving is such a big accomplishment?”

He said, “No, that’s not it. My wife keeps telling me, ‘Look at you—driving—always swearing!’ And I maintain no one can be a driver without swearing. Such scoundrels are on the roads—no matter how much you honk, they won’t move. If you don’t swear, what will you do? Some truckers—no matter how you honk—they won’t budge. Sardarji is driving his truck—he just drives. He doesn’t even hear. He’s wrapped his turban so his ears are sealed, and he’s chanting inside, ‘Vahe Guru Ji ka Khalsa, Vahe Guru Ji ki Fateh! Sat Sri Akal!’ Where will he hear? So if you don’t swear, what will you do? I only wanted to see whether you learned to swear while driving. You haven’t. You’ve done the impossible!”

In this teeming world, with thousands of people all around, it’s very hard to stay untouched. Even if you somehow dodge and weave and make it home, the wife will say something, or the husband will—one word leads to another. Later, looking back, you can’t even understand how such a mountain grew out of a molehill. If someone asks what it was about, you feel embarrassed to tell.

Mulla Nasruddin and his wife were quarreling. It had gone on for three hours. The neighborhood was exhausted. Finally some people came and said, “Enough now—whatever happened, happened. Can we ask what this big fight is about?”

Nasruddin said, “Ask Fuzzlu’s mother.”

She said, “No, you tell them.”

Nasruddin said, “You tell them.”

She said, “Tell them what! It’s been three hours. Do you think I remember what started it? Was I sitting with a notebook? One thing led to another, and now we’re God‑knows‑where. So what of it!”

This “remorse” is simply reinstalling the ego’s statue. The ego fell—once again you did what you had resolved not to do. How to enthrone the statue again? Atonement is the art of reinstalling the idol: “All right—let’s repent, let’s atone. We are very, very sorry.”

But even in that sorrow there is a web of ego. All religions have invented such devices. In Hinduism: go bathe in the Ganga. It’s convenient. Why repent every day? Every few years, or when the Kumbha Mela comes in twelve years, take one dip—twelve years wiped clean! Now write freely again on the slate—abuse and all, whatever you fancy. Begin again with Sri Ganeshaya Namah. And why worry? Mother Ganga isn’t about to dry up—after twelve years you can dip again. The clever ones even say, “If the mind is pure, the Ganges flows in your washbasin.” Why go all the way to the river? Scrub yourself thoroughly right at home—case closed. Those were the days people went to the Ganga; now the Ganga comes to every home in the tap—sit under the faucet, all washed! Then you’ll do the same things again.

Catholics say: go and confess to the priest.

I’ve heard Mulla Nasruddin once went into a Catholic church. The priest was hearing confessions; Mulla stood in line and entered. The priest asked, “What sin have you committed?”

The priest stays behind a screen so the penitent won’t feel ashamed and can be honest.

Nasruddin said, “What can I say, Father—last night I sinned a lot. Not a little—a lot. Not with one woman—three women last night. Father, forgive me!”

The priest said, “Three women! That won’t do. You’ll have to do penance. Swear that you’ll read the Bible every morning.”

Nasruddin said, “Since you’ve opened the topic, let me tell you—I’m not a Christian, not a Catholic.”

“Then why have you come to confess?” asked the priest.

“Brother,” said Nasruddin, “one has to tell someone. I had such an urge to say it. The heart wouldn’t be quiet without saying it. Tell anyone else and there’s trouble. I thought this place is perfect—you behind a screen, you don’t see me, I don’t see you. I’m a Muslim. I’m not going to read Bible‑wible. But I can’t keep this sin untold!”

I’ve heard about a woman who came every Sunday to confess, always narrating the same sin—the one she had committed years ago. The priest got tired: week after week, year after year. Finally he said, “Woman, will you ever do anything else—or only this one sin? How long will you confess the same thing?”

She said, “Even remembering it gives me such joy! Whenever I tell someone—ah!—I’m thrilled! So I’ll keep coming. Every Sunday I’ll come. I will confess.”

People who repent are strange! Who can say for what reasons they do it? Some do it to re‑establish their ego; some because even repentance is delicious—because it allows you to revisit, repeat, relive the episode, to look again. Like scratching a scabies itch—you know it hurts, and yet there’s a sweetness in scratching, a delicious pain.

A shop clerk had an argument with a big customer. The owner forced the clerk to apologize. He agreed reluctantly—he had to save his job. He called the customer: “Is Khan Sahib at home?”

“Yes, speaking.”

“I’m the manager from Heera Hosiery.”

“Yes?”

“This morning I told you to go to hell, remember?”

“Yes—so?”

“Well—don’t go, brother. There’s no need to go.”

People are doing “repentance”! It’s just a whitewash. You splash yourself clean, apply a new coat, and stand upright again. Then you can say, “I repented. Look, I am not ordinary—I made a mistake and I’ve owned it! I’ve repented!” And you’re back on your throne exactly where you were.

That’s why I say atonement is not truly religious. It is your lust, your anger, your greed, your attachment—doing a headstand.

A truly religious person does not repent. Then what does he do? He looks at his anger—totally, as a witness. And in that very seeing, he is free. He doesn’t lament, “I did something bad.” What’s the point of good and bad now? What’s done is done. You cannot erase it. You cannot make the done undone. So he looks carefully at what happened. And he takes no oaths that he won’t do it again—he only looks; and having seen, he leaves it there. If you swear oaths, you will repeat it—because you have sworn oaths before, too.

A man told me, “I am terribly hot‑tempered. I’ve sworn so many times; it won’t leave me. I’m tired of vows, yet it keeps happening. Show me a way.” I said, “Do one thing first—stop taking vows.” He said, “How will that help? Vows haven’t freed me from anger—how will dropping vows help?” I said, “Just do it. Come back after three months. For three months, don’t take a single vow.”

He returned in three days. “It’s very difficult,” he said. “I can’t stop taking vows. As soon as a mistake happens, a vow arises.”

I said, “Do you see? Both are mistakes, tied together—inseparable. You thought vows would remove anger—you were mistaken. The vow is part of anger; it follows behind it, its shadow. How will it drop? You can’t even drop vows—what else will you drop?”

A friend used to come here. His wife kept asking me to make him give up alcohol. I said, “He’s a good man. If he drinks a little, what’s it to you?”

But I don’t know what women think—that they are born to reform their husbands! Their lives are dedicated to this. They don’t care for themselves—only for fixing the husband!

Then I said, “If the husband gets fixed, he’ll go to heaven—where will you go? You’ll wander in hell. Care for yourself; let him care for himself. And do you know—streams of wine flow in heaven? A little practice will come in handy.”

She said, “What are you saying! And you’re saying this in front of my husband! He already makes my life miserable; now he’ll torment me more, saying even you support him.”

I said, “Do one thing. How long have you been trying to make him quit?”

“Thirty years—since we married. Not a moment of peace. And since he started listening to you, it’s worse. He drinks at night and recites your talks to me. He plays the tapes all day; at night he comes home drunk and wakes me at three a.m.: ‘Listen!’ The same talk again and again—I’ve heard the tape myself. But he repeats your discourse word for word when drunk! Somehow—make him quit; my life is ruined.”

I said, “Do one thing—stop telling him to quit. You’ve said it for thirty years and failed. You stop telling him.”

Within a week she came back: “I can’t stop.”

“Then think,” I said. “Think of your husband’s state. He has been drinking for thirty years—perhaps even before you arrived. You’ve been trying to make him quit—and you cannot even stop telling him to quit! Then he too is drinking—and you too are drinking. You can’t drop the pleasure of telling him; you enjoy being above him. You relish knocking him down in front of others. You drag him everywhere—to how many sadhus and monks have you taken him?”

“How did you know?” she asked.

How wouldn’t I know? It’s a trait—wives hauling their husbands to any holy man they can catch: “Come, Maharaj has come, Muni Maharaj has come, Mahatmaji has come—we’ll get you fixed there.” You brought him to me in that hope. You came to the wrong place. I cannot tell him to quit. When you cannot quit telling—what is telling worth? And he—poor fellow—has a thirty‑year practice. See his yogic discipline! See his resolve! You’re on his back—and you’re a strong woman; he’s thin and frail—yet see his courage! Anyone else would have become a Jain monk by now—run away long ago. It’s because of women that there are so many ‘mahatmas’—otherwise how would there be! Women drive them so hard they become saints because they have no other escape.

In this country there used to be no easy divorce. If there had been, there would be far fewer saints. That’s why in the West there are fewer saints—they have other ways to escape; here there was only one—become a saint!

“So look at his bravery! And perhaps he keeps drinking because you’re so after him. Maybe drinking is what keeps him going; otherwise he might not endure. You look strong. You stop telling him.”

She said, “I can’t.”

“Then understand,” I said, “if you can’t stop telling, how will he stop drinking? His habit is deeper. Impossible. If you stop telling him, then I will tell him to stop drinking. If you won’t stop telling him, I won’t tell him.”

She hasn’t stopped—three years have passed. And I haven’t had occasion to tell him—and I don’t think the occasion will come. She says, “I can’t help it. The moment I see him, the urge to reform him rises.” He does have such an innocent face—on seeing simple, innocent men many feel an urge to “improve” them.

Priests and pundits have taught you repentance. It is a device for those who enjoy fixing you. They know repentance won’t fix you—that’s why they’re not worried. Though by making you repent again and again, they make you meek and wretched; they instill inferiority in you. And once inferiority takes root, the possibility of the soul’s birth in your life is finished.

Your religious leaders have made you utterly inferior—over every little thing. Smoke a cigarette—sin. Chew betel—sin. Chew tobacco—sin. Wear good clothes—sin. Apply oil or perfume—sin. Sin, sin, sin! Their whole job is to label everything you do a sin—so you remain inferior. In your inferiority lies their greatness. The more inferior you are, the bigger the saint they appear.

I do not teach inferiority. I say: as you are, you are auspicious. Accept yourself. Not repentance. What will repentance do? Who has ever changed by repentance? Accept yourself as you are. Yes—wake up to yourself. I teach awakening—not atonement. Live with awareness. Be attentive to yourself—what you are doing, thinking, saying—be the witness of it all.

In that witnessing a revolution happens. Nothing to forcefully drop, nothing to clutch. The useless falls away on its own; the meaningful remains.

There is no other way than witnessing.

A young man was confessing to a Catholic priest: “I have sinned greatly. I had relations with another man’s wife.”

The priest asked, “Her name?”

The youth said, “Please don’t ask the name. I can’t tell it. First, she’s someone else’s wife; second, I gave her my word. Just forgive me and pray to God to forgive me. I can’t name her.”

The priest said, “Chandulal’s mistress?”

“No.”

“Dhabbuji’s wife?”

“No, absolutely not.”

“Matkanath the celibate’s kept woman?”

“No, not at all.”

“Then who?” asked the priest.

“I can’t tell,” said the youth.

“Then I can’t forgive you,” said the priest.

“As you wish,” said the youth.

But he came out beaming. Another youth, his friend, was waiting. “You look very happy! What’s the matter? Confession done? Prayer accepted?”

“Confession didn’t happen, prayer wasn’t accepted,” he said. “But I got three new addresses! Now I’ll confess later—first I’ll attend to these three. This church isn’t going anywhere; the priest isn’t dying; and if he dies, another priest will come. But these three women… I’m going now. And since he named them, it means others have confessed about them too—so the path is clear; something can be arranged.”

As long as a man is unconscious, what repentance will he do? What repentance will you make him do? He will extract tricks even out of repentance. He will go to do virtue and return having arranged for sin. Unconsciousness must break.

Therefore my emphasis is only on one thing: drop unconsciousness. Don’t get entangled in the rest. Awaken awareness. Let the lamp of attention be lit—darkness cuts itself away.

That’s all for today.