Preetam Chhabi Nainan Basee #11

Narendra Bodhisattva,

Alexander the Great came to India. He saw a fakir holding a small shining thing in his hand. He asked, “What is that?” The fakir said, “I won’t tell you. I cannot tell you. This secret is not to be told.”

But Alexander insisted. He said, “I have never learned to accept defeat in life. I will know it.”

The fakir said, “I can tell you just one thing: all your wealth, set against this tiny thing, weighs less.”

Alexander immediately had a huge scale brought, and on one pan he piled all that he had plundered—diamonds and jewels, gold and silver. The fakir placed the little shining thing on the other pan. The moment he put it there, the fakir’s pan sank and Alexander’s pan rose—as if empty! Alexander was nonplussed. He bowed at the fakir’s feet and said, “Whatever it is, I bow. But tell me the secret.”

The fakir said, “It is very difficult to tell the secret. It isn’t that I don’t want to say it; it cannot be said. But since you have bowed, I will tell you one more thing.”

He picked up a pinch of dust from the road and sprinkled it on the shining thing. And, who knows how, the fakir’s pan at once grew light and began to rise, and Alexander’s pan became heavy and sank. Naturally Alexander was even more astonished. He said, “What is going on? You are turning riddles into more riddles, throwing me into greater confusion. Speak plainly. If you want to say it, say it; if not, don’t.”

The fakir said, “Now I can speak. Now you ask out of curiosity, not out of force. This is no special object; it is the human eye. Let dust settle on it, and it is worth two pennies. Remove the dust, and nothing is more precious—not the empire of the whole earth, not all the wealth of the world.”

Sambodhi means, Narendra, your inner eye. And it isn’t a very difficult matter; a little dust has settled—dust of dreams. The dust itself isn’t real. The dust of thoughts. The dust of imagination. The dust of desires. The dust is not really something; it is smoky—just smoke. Yet that smoke has veiled your inner eye. As clouds come and the sun is hidden. The clouds disperse and the sun appears. That is all sambodhi means: the clouds disperse and the sun is revealed.

You are the sun. Buddhahood is your nature. But you have arranged thick clouds all around you! Who knows what clouds of imagination! Who knows what clouds of desire! They have no value. They were never fulfilled. They will never be fulfilled. Yet you are surrounded by that which is not and will not be—and you are missing that which is, which always is, and will always be!

Sambodhi means: to live in what is; to see what is; to be joined to what is. And to let go of what is not.

The past is not. Yet we cling to the past. Yesterday is gone, and we preserve it as if it were jewels. It is ash; not even embers now; everything is extinguished. As if someone were carrying corpses. Such is our past. Or we are entangled in desires for the future. We are Sheikh Chillis, daydreamers. We think: let this happen, let that happen. How many dreams you spread! How many webs of dreams you weave!

And between these two millstones—which both are not: the past is not, it has already gone; the future is not, it has not yet come—the tiny moment that is the present is being crushed. Between these two stones your very being is being ground down.

Whoever becomes free of past and future is sambuddha; he has attained bodhi. His eye has opened. The dust has fallen from his eye.

But you are skilled at deception. Deceiving others, you have become so adept that you have begun to deceive yourself. If you deceive others, you cannot do much harm. What will you steal from them? But if you deceive yourself, you will lose all. And everyone is deceiving himself, cheating himself, keeping himself in illusion. Our condition is stupor, whereas it ought to be wakefulness. Yet the whole world teaches us only one lesson: don’t be deceived by others, and deceive everyone. Deceiving all, you will forget that life is not in deception. In deceiving, you yourself will be deceived. The pits you dig for others will become your own pits; you yourself will fall into them. In your anger you yourself will rot. In your lust you yourself will melt away. Your ambitions will sit on your chest like a stone. In your ambitions, it is not someone else’s life that is being destroyed; it is yours.

Even little children we teach to cheat. We think this is worldliness. Here life is a struggle. Here everyone grapples with everyone.

Mulla Nasruddin’s son, Fazlu, came home late from school on the very first day. Perhaps there was a street performer on the way; he must have stopped to watch. When such great performers have enthralled us, what of small children! He came home. Mulla grabbed his ear, thrashed him, and said, “Take a lesson from this: never come home late again.”

The second day he came on time, but his clothes were dirty and torn. A scuffle had broken out during play. He was in a fight with the boys. Again Mulla beat him and said, “Take a lesson from this: from now on, let your clothes be neither dirty nor torn. Be careful.”

On the third day his clothes were fine, and he came home on time, but he had proved the class dunce. He came first from the last. Again Mulla beat him and said, “Take a lesson from this, son. This won’t do. Life is harsh struggle. There is snatching and grabbing. If you stay at the back, you’ll be crushed. Do whatever it takes, right or wrong—climb the steps. Move ahead. Always come first, by any means whatsoever—by hook or by crook, you must be first.”

On the fourth day the boy came home cheerful. He was on time, his clothes were intact, and he brought a certificate from the teacher. He was very happy: today there won’t be a beating. But Mulla, without rhyme or reason, pounced, grabbed his neck, and thrashed him. The boy kept shouting, “Listen! Listen!” But by then the beating was done. The boy said, “Are you in your senses? Haven’t you gone mad? I didn’t come late, my clothes aren’t torn, and here is a certificate that today I came first in the class!”

Mulla said, “From this take a lesson, son: in this world there is no justice at all.”

Every person is being initiated in this way. Every person is being conditioned thus. Parents are doing it, the family is doing it, teachers are doing it, priests are doing it, politicians are doing it. Dishonesty and deceit have become our style of life. Therefore we miss that which is our treasure, our real wealth.

None of us is poor. None of us is a beggar. God does not create beggars. Even if God wanted to, he could not create a beggar. Whoever God creates, he creates as an emperor. Only emperors can be fashioned by his hands. You too are emperors. To know this is sambodhi. You too are the master of masters. To recognize this is buddhahood. Within you is a realm—of inexhaustible riches, boundless bliss, mysteries such that, reveal them as you may, you can never reveal them all. Such an infinite series! So many lamps are lit within, so much light—and you live in darkness because your eyes are fixed outside. Outside is darkness; inside is light. Outside is night; inside is illumination. Whoever turns within and recognizes his inner light is a Buddha.

Buddhahood is every person’s capacity, one’s birthright. If you miss, none but you is responsible.

Be joyous! Share joy! And remember: only the joyous can share joy. The unhappy can share only unhappiness. We can share only what we are. What we are not, even if we desire it, we cannot share.

It is not that people in this world do not wish to give happiness to others. What parents would want to make their children unhappy? What husband would want to make his wife suffer? What wife would want to give her husband sorrow? What children would want to cause pain to their parents?

No—but it is not a question of your wishing. What bears fruit is sorrow. A neem tree may wish a thousand times to bear sweet mangoes, and thorns may wish to become roses—but what will wishing do? By wishing alone, nothing happens. So you do wish to make people joyful, but all you end up spreading is misery. You want the earth to become heaven, but day by day it turns into hell.

Therefore I want to say to you—this is my message: before you go to give anyone else joy, the flute of joy must begin to play within you; the spring of joy must first burst forth inside you. I want to make you “selfish.”

This word swarth (selfish) is very lovely. It has been dirtied. People have given it wrong meanings. Swarth means: the meaning of the self. One who knows the significance within oneself, who knows the awareness of the Self—such a person is truly “self-ish.” I tell you: become swarthi! For only in your becoming truly centered in your own self does pararth—benefit to others—become possible. If you become wholly swarthi, and flowers of meaning bloom within you, the lamp of bliss is lit, the ocean of nectar surges—then pararth will happen through you inevitably.

That is why I do not teach “service”; I teach swarth. I do not say, “Serve others.” You will not be able to. Even if you try, you will blunder. You will go to serve and return having caused some harm. You will want to create, and destruction will come through you. If you yourself are wrong, then whatever you do will be wrong. Therefore I do not lay much emphasis on your actions; my emphasis is on you. What you do is secondary; what you are is what is important.

Be joyous! And there is only one way to be joyous—only one way. There has never been a second way; there is none today, and there never will be: apart from meditation there is no way to be joyous. No one becomes joyous through wealth; yes, if wealth is in the hands of a meditator, even from wealth joy will flow. No one becomes joyous through palaces; but if a meditator is in a palace, joy will rain down. If a meditator is in a hut, even the hut becomes a palace. If a meditator is in hell, he is still in heaven. There is simply no way to send a meditator to hell. Wherever he is, that is heaven, because moment to moment heaven is arising from within him; moment to moment rays of heaven stream out all around him. As flowers blossom on trees, so in the meditator heaven blossoms.

My message is: dive into meditation. And do not think of meditation as some grim task. To think of meditation as grim has been the great mistake. Take meditation lightly, playfully. Hansiba kheliba kariba dhyanam—remember the saying of Gorakhnath: laugh, play, and do meditation. Meditate laughing and playing. Do not sit with a long face, stiff, ponderous, “religious.” The earth is full of such corpses. People are already sad enough, and you sit there making yourself even more joyless—forgive me! People are already so downtrodden and miserable; the earth can no longer bear more gloom-mongers. Now the earth needs meditators who dance and sing, who are delighted! The earth needs a religion whose fundamental note is joy, whose fundamental note is celebration.

Until now all religions have been sad. Buddha was not sad, nor Christ, nor Mahavira. But those who gathered around them were all sad people. Those who gathered around them were sick people. They came for the wrong reasons. It was not their fault. What could Buddha do? It often happens that whenever a buddha appears, all kinds of deranged, diseased, mentally ill people begin to gather around him—in the hope that some miracle will happen! In the hope that since no therapy elsewhere has worked, perhaps here it will; perhaps in the Buddha they will find a physician; perhaps in the Buddha’s words they will find a medicine!

Scholars gather too. Because news of the Buddha’s words spreads far and wide. And the scholar is always eager to collect information. He has no use for knowing, nor for meditation. He is a collector of information—collects sayings, collects maxims. He himself remains inwardly as he was, but in his memory he stores lovely sayings, commits them to heart. Then this scholar later becomes the “successor.” After the Buddha departs, he can repeat the Buddha’s words. He becomes the owner of the inheritance.

And those sick ones who had come to the Buddha—the sad, the ill, the defeated, the escapists who panicked and fled, who could not win in life and had not even the capacity to struggle, who were cowards—they gathered there. The assembly of cowards becomes a religion. And they are the ones who then interpret religion, who give it meaning.

Thus there is a vast difference between Jesus and the religion made in his name. Between Mahavira and Jainism there is hostility. Between Buddha and the Buddhists there is no kinship, no friendship.

And then this crowd of pundits and lunatics and joyless escapists creates a thousand kinds of trouble. They set people to fighting one another. Hindus fight Muslims. Muslims fight Christians. All are busy cutting each other’s throats. Where is the time, where the leisure to look within? First others must be wiped out; first the whole earth must be conquered.

So religion becomes politics. Wherever there are sick people, politics arrives. Politics is the stench of the sick man, and religion the fragrance of the healthy human being. But whenever a healthy person appears, this uproar begins.

I have heard: one day the devil’s disciples came running to him and said, “Master, hurry! Hurry! On earth a man has once again attained to truth. A man has attained to buddhahood again.”

The devil said, “Don’t panic; don’t worry. There is no hurry.”

The disciple said, “No hurry? If he proclaims the truth, our whole business will shut down!”

The devil said, “Fool! We have already seated the pundits and priests. Will they let him proclaim truth? They have already reached; they are gathered all around. They have begun to interpret his words. Whatever he says, the pundits are explaining, ‘This is exactly what is written in the Upanishads, exactly what is in the Gita; this is the essence of the scriptures.’ They will drown his truth in the scriptures. Do not fret. Our work the pundits have been doing for centuries. We need not go directly ourselves. And all kinds of crazies have gathered there. Soon there will be politics, competition—throat-cutting competitions will arise. Soon they will fight one another, kill, hack, beat. And centuries will pass while the mayhem continues.”

The Jews crucified Jesus—two thousand years have gone by, yet the conflict has not ended. The Jews are still not ready to accept Jesus as a knower. Their pundits will not allow it. Even a lovable person like Jesus, the Jews cannot bring themselves to acknowledge as a knower. It is not the Jews’ fault—it is the priests standing in between. They interpret, “This Jesus is a dangerous man. He corrupted our tradition. He tore our scriptures to shreds. He uprooted our heritage. Because of him we have been ruined.”

And naturally the Christians are enemies of the Jews—taking revenge for two thousand years. For crucifying one man, Christians have crucified millions. The revenge is still not repaid; it goes on and on. For two thousand years the Jews have been hanging on the cross, suffering the consequence of hanging one man on a cross.

I have heard this happened in America. Two hippies—super-hippies, really—were very hungry; they had no money. No other idea occurred to them. But in looks—long hair, beards—they looked exactly like Jesus. They thought of a scheme. It was Sunday, they were ravenous. Passing by a church, they decided to go in. It was a Protestant church. They prepared a little play. One fellow tied two sticks into a cross, put it on his shoulder and followed behind; the other went ahead. The first youth entered and said, “Make way! The Lord has arrived! The Master is coming—make way!”

The Christians looked, and they seemed exactly like Jesus. They fell at their feet. He was carrying a cross too! Quickly people gave donations. Some forty or fifty dollars were collected. They were very happy. They came out and said, “This is amazing—what a business! This will last a week. Next week, another church.”

The second week they reached a Catholic church. Same method. Now their act was even more polished; they had practiced it. The first youth entered and announced loudly, “Attention! The promise is being fulfilled. The Lord has arrived! He is coming—make way!” And then the second youth, carrying the cross, entered.

An uproar! Women fainted on the spot. Men grabbed at their feet. There was a shower of notes. With a hundred, hundred-and-fifty dollars they walked out. Very pleased: “What a marvelous idea! Why didn’t we think of it earlier!”

The third time, mischievous now, they thought, “Let’s go to the Jews’ synagogue and see what happens!” They had enough money—two or three weeks’ worth—no hurry now. “Let’s see how the Jews behave!” They did the same. The first person went and shouted, “Attention! The Lord has come. The promise He made is being fulfilled!” And the second youth, carrying the cross, entered.

The old Jewish priest peered over his glasses, looked carefully, and said to his young assistant, “Go, bring nails—bring the hammer. It looks like this bastard has come again!”

Two thousand years have passed, but the Jews have still not been able to forgive. They never will. The priests will not let them.

Religion is one. How can there be two religions? When even the sciences are not two, when even the science of matter is one, how can the science of consciousness be many?

There are three hundred religions on earth, and for those three hundred at least three thousand sub-religions, and at least three hundred thousand tiny sects of those sub-religions—so many and so small that even their names are hard to remember.

Now a friend keeps asking again and again: “Tell me, who created the Gahoi community?” Another gentleman asks, “Who was the founder of the Vishnoi community? You speak on Mahavira, on Buddha, on Krishna, on Christ, on Mohammed; why don’t you speak on our Lord Jambheshwarnath? Jambheshwarnath founded the Vishnoi community.”

He surely must have! One more disturbance among countless disturbances—how many are afoot! And they have no concern with understanding anything. The Gahoi is concerned with, “What is the meaning of ‘Gahoi’?” The Vishnoi with, “What is the meaning of ‘Vishnoi’?” Everyone is occupied only with their own label. No one has anything to do with truth. And truth is one—not Gahoi, not Vishnoi. And that one truth is hidden within you—not in the Vedas, not in the Koran, not in the Bible. Seek that truth through meditation.

Meditation means: be quiet, be silent, awaken within! You too can be enlightened. It needs just a little effort, a slight change of direction. Of the energy you are spending racing outward, of the energy you are wasting gathering useless things—if even a tenth were invested in sitting within, a revolution would happen. Then a thousand suns would rise within you! Within you too there would be dance, there would be music. Within you too fountains of joy would burst forth, fireworks of laughter would explode, the raas–maha-raas would be enacted! Within you too there would be springtime, colors would shower, water-squirters would be filled, gulal would fly!

Is this how you are going to die—without knowing life? Most people die like this. They never live, and they die. Make at least this resolve: we will not die without having lived; we will depart only after knowing life. And the wonder is: the one who knows life has no death. To know life is to know the Divine, to know the eternal, to know truth. Call it truth, call it the eternal, call it God, call it nirvana, call it buddhahood—these are different names for the same happening. Do not get entangled in the names.

I have one small formula, one small message: dive within. Go as deep as you can—into yourself! There you will find that which is worth finding. And having found it, you will certainly be able to share. The earth can be filled with the flowers of your laughter.

Sheela, Why take such a gloomy meaning? Why shouldn’t you all awaken? What is the need to be so pessimistic? My whole effort is to kindle hope within you; to sprout the seeds of your hope.

Mulla Nasruddin had two sons—one an optimist, the other a pessimist. He was troubled. He consulted a psychologist: “What should I do?” The psychologist said, “Diwali is coming. Put the optimist in one room and fill it up with horse dung. Excessive optimism isn’t healthy. The stench and the sight of nothing but dung will create at least a little disappointment—‘What a Diwali gift from my father! Is this even a gift?’ It will bring some balance. And for the pessimist, fill his room with flowers, light lamps everywhere, sparklers, firecrackers, toys, sweets—everything beautiful you can find in the market. Let’s see how he handles his pessimism. Perhaps a little hope will arise—that life has flavor and fun too. In this way, both will move away from their extremes and come to the middle.”

Nasruddin liked the idea and did just that. Two hours later he went to the first room—the one adorned with flowers, lamps, toys; where the pessimist had been left. The pessimist sat in the middle in padmasana—completely forlorn, tears rolling down.

Nasruddin asked, “Son, you’re crying? The sweets are untouched, you haven’t touched the toys, the sparklers and firecrackers are all there. What’s the matter?”

The boy said, “I am crying! What will sweets do? A little taste and then stomachache, then indigestion. I’ve suffered enough; I won’t be fooled again. These aren’t sweets, they’re poison.”

“And such beautiful flowers?” the father asked.

“How long before they wilt? Here now, gone in a moment. What’s the use? They’re momentary!”

Nasruddin was at a loss. “And these toys?”

“Toys? The moment you touch them, they break. That’s what toys are—for breaking.”

“And the sparklers and firecrackers?”

“Why burn my hands and feet? Don’t you read the papers—how many children die every Diwali! Are you after my life? That’s why I’m crying—is this a father or a murderer!”

That’s the outlook of a gloomy man. Give him anything—he’ll find gloom in it. Take him to a rose bush—he’ll count the thorns, not the flowers. Ask him about the world and he’ll say, “What’s in it! A small day between two nights—and two long nights! What’s the essence! Darkness before birth, darkness after death. A life of four days—what’s there in it! It will just pass. Life is a ripple on water.” And your so‑called saints belong to the same class—pessimists—who see thorns and darkness everywhere; who have sworn never to look at a flower, and even if they look, to find fault in it.

Then Nasruddin thought, “Let me see what happened to the optimist.” He even felt a little pity: “For that fool I did all this and he gave me such an answer—what must be his state!” He was a bit afraid: “What if he gets violent? If this one is crying and calling me a murderer, that one’s room is filled only with dung.”

But when he opened the optimist’s door he was stunned. The boy was tossing dung into the air, diving into it, searching for something inside, utterly delighted. “What’s going on? Why are you so happy?” Nasruddin asked.

The boy said, “Where there’s so much dung, there must be a horse somewhere! I’m looking for the horse. Come on, you too! When you search, what can’t you find! ‘Jin khoja tin paiyan, ghere pani paith’—those who seek, find; dive into the deep waters!”

Sheela, you are wonderfully crazy! You ask, “As you said that when we all awaken, that day you will laugh...” Why shouldn’t everyone awaken? If all can sleep, why can’t all awaken? If all can cry, why can’t all laugh? These very eyes cry; these very eyes laugh. These very eyes sleep; these very eyes wake.

No, there’s no reason to be disheartened. And don’t worry—the hour will come. It has to come. A little effort is needed. And when so many vibrant people have gathered... I consider myself fortunate, for who else has so many talented sannyasins! So many young, energy‑filled people! We can fill this whole earth with laughter.

And I was speaking symbolically. Don’t cling hard to symbols. Symbols are only pointers. I was tempting you: “Wake up quickly—if you want to see me laugh.” Good—wake up for that reason, at least.

And if you don’t wake up, if you are stubborn about it, I’ll still laugh—laugh at the marvel of it! What a people you are—hatha‑yogis! Born, it seems, having sworn that come what may, you won’t budge; no matter how much you’re shaken, you won’t turn over, won’t open your eyes. Shout as one may, call as loud as one may—you’ll hear and ignore. Even if you come to your senses, you’ll insist you’re unconscious.

I was speaking symbolically—offering you a lure, a hint. I do laugh even now. It’s not that I can only laugh when you all awaken. The alchemy of telling a joke is precisely that the teller must not laugh. If the teller laughs, the listeners fall silent.

It’s said: if you tell a joke to an Englishman, he laughs twice. The first time out of courtesy; he doesn’t really understand. An Englishman is a stiff fellow. To laugh you need a little looseness, a touch of lightness. The Englishman is heavy—he carries the weight of the whole earth: the white man’s burden! How can he laugh! But he is very courteous. If you say something funny, he will laugh—so you won’t feel bad. So courteous that I’ve heard of an old woman in London. A man in a car stopped, saw her, and said, “Mother, get in. Where do you need to go? I’ll drop you.” She sat down. Two miles later he asked, “Where shall I drop you?” She said, “Son, since you’re asking now—I was going the other way.” He said, “Then why did you get in?” She said, “Out of courtesy! You asked so lovingly. I’m English—I can’t say no.”

So the Englishman laughs twice—once out of courtesy, and the second time when, awake at midnight, he finally gets the joke in bed: “Ah, so that’s what it meant!”

About Americans it’s said: tell them a joke and they laugh immediately—because they get it immediately. Why delay? Delay is not their business.

About Germans: they too laugh twice—first out of courtesy, like the English, and the second time when, not having understood, they repeat the joke to someone else. The other person doesn’t laugh—but they laugh, and are puzzled why the other isn’t laughing. “What’s the matter?”

And of Jews it’s said: tell them a joke and they say, “Very old. And besides, you’re telling it all wrong.” No question of laughing—instead they scold you: “It’s a very old joke, and you don’t even know how to tell it properly.”

Different peoples behave differently with humor. Indians? They have no jokes of their own—not one truly Indian joke. How could they! When do they have time—from Vedanta! Discussing Vedanta till their teeth fall out—then to laugh would be even more indecorous. Here we only have serious talk—Brahma‑discourse.

So it’s not that I don’t laugh—I laugh invisibly. I do laugh, but by the rule that when a funny thing is being told, the teller should not laugh. I follow that rule. The only rule I follow in life! And Sheela, you want me to break even that—when I have no other rule at all.

But sometimes a joke comes along—rarely—when I just can’t hold myself. It becomes very hard. Then I discover how difficult self‑restraint is. Like in this story! Whenever I’ve told it, inwardly I’ve bowed to the restrained—those who practice restraint.

The story is simple. Perhaps you’ve heard the name: Chuhadmal‑Fuhradmal Sindhi! That was his earlier name; now people call him Dadaji—the Sindhi guru, resident of Ulhasnagar. A miracle‑man. He used to live in Ulhasnagar and make “Made in U.S.A.” goods—fountain pens, batteries—whatever he made: “Made in U.S.A.” Someone asked, “You live in Ulhasnagar and make things labeled ‘Made in U.S.A.’?” Chuhadmal‑Fuhradmal said, “Does America have a monopoly on U.S.A.? Has America taken a contract on it? Is U.S.A. somebody’s father’s property? U.S.A. doesn’t have only one meaning. It also means: Ulhasnagar Sindhi Association.”

After making U.S.A. goods he got tired—as everyone here eventually does. Tired of swindling, he became a saint, a sannyasin. Somewhere he was discoursing on Vedanta, perhaps here in Poona. Chandulal’s wife went to listen, taking her son. The boy kept saying, again and again, “Mom, I need to pee.” Poor mother—Vedanta, Brahman were being discussed—she scolded him: “Quiet, we don’t say such things.” But how could he keep quiet! Finally he said, “Mom, will you let me go or not? Otherwise it won’t stay under my control. My restraint is breaking.”

Chuhadmal‑Fuhradmal heard. He said, “Sister, take him. And teach your boy something—such words are not used in religious discourse.”

She said, “But what to do? He’s a child.”

“Of course he is—so teach him. Make a symbol—a code. Instead of saying ‘I need to pee,’ teach him to say, ‘I want to sing a bhajan.’ No one will understand; and in a spiritual gathering, people will be pleased: ‘What a religious child!’ And you’ll understand. A code word!”

Chandulal’s wife liked the idea and taught the boy. Six months passed. Dadaji came again, stayed at Chandulal’s house. That night a relative died; the wife had to go. She left the boy with Dadaji: “Please put him to sleep.” In the middle of the night the boy shook him: “Dadaji, Dadaji! I want to sing a bhajan.”

Wake anyone at midnight... “Quiet!” Dadaji said. “Is this a time to sing bhajans? Sing at brahma‑muhurt in the morning.”

The boy said, “I can’t wait till brahma‑muhurt. I have to sing now.”

“Are you mad? You won’t sleep and won’t let me sleep! Lie down quietly. If you speak again, it won’t be good.”

For a while the boy was silent. Then—once Dadaji had dozed off—he shook him again: “No, Dadaji, I can’t hold it. I’m going to sing a bhajan.”

“This is too much!” Dadaji said. “You’ll sing and wake me and the whole neighborhood. What will people say! Bhajan isn’t something to sing at any odd time!”

The boy said, “I’m burning up!”

Dadaji slapped his forehead: “What kind of fool am I dealing with!” He forgot all his saintliness. “Ill‑mannered brat! Is this any time?”

The boy said, “Scold me or do whatever you like—either let me sing, or I’m telling you, it will come out! It’s almost out. Don’t blame me if I soak the bhajan everywhere!”

“Enough!” Dadaji said. “Soak the bhajan—what are you saying! If you won’t listen, then do this: sing it softly into my ear.”

The boy sang the bhajan into his ear. When the warm, trickling “bhajan” reached Dadaji’s ear, his wits returned—“I’m ruined!” He sprang up. “Your father Chandulal—he’s a fool, your mother a fool, and you the arch‑fool! You call this a bhajan? This is the limit of irreligion! The height of atheism!”

The boy said, “I told you beforehand, Dadaji, if you didn’t agree I’d soak it. And this isn’t something that waits till brahma‑muhurt. And let me remind you—you yourself taught my mother six months ago.”

Then Dadaji remembered.

Symbols can sometimes be costly. Symbols can land you in trouble. I was speaking symbolically. Don’t take it to mean I won’t laugh at all. If you don’t laugh, I’ll laugh at that. If you laugh, if you awaken, I’ll laugh at your awakening.

I am laughing. My bliss is flowing—day and night. I want to include you in it. Sannyas is an invitation to that.

And what I am saying—these are all symbols. Don’t hold them with rigidity. I’ve received many letters: “Hearing you, we became very sad.”

Nonsense—how much sadder can you get! You’re already so sad that I don’t think you can become any sadder. Siddharth wrote, “Hearing you, I became very sad.” I recall Siddharth’s face—I can’t imagine how he could be any sadder. Can sadness go beyond this? Siddharth is a thoroughly dispassionate monk. In some other company of monks he would be made a mahatma. Here, poor fellows, no one bothers. Here the arithmetic is different; the heads are wired the other way around.

More letters came: “Then it means we’ll never get to see you laugh.”

When you laugh, I am laughing in you. My sannyasins are my hands; my sannyasins are my life‑breath.

When Ramakrishna was dying of throat cancer, he couldn’t eat or drink. Vivekananda said to him, “Paramahansadev, can’t you ask God? It’s a small thing. If you just say it, it will be done. How can your word be denied? At least let there be food and water.”

Ramakrishna was a simple, guileless man. He closed his eyes. When he opened them he said, “Look, you asked, and I agreed—so I asked. God scolded me thoroughly and said, ‘Listen—how long will you rely on your own throat? And who is eating through your disciples’ throats? Who is drinking through their throats?’”

Ramakrishna told Vivekananda, “Don’t give me such advice again. I’m simple—I agree, and then I get rebuked. And he is right. How long will I drink through this throat? Now I will drink through yours. How long will I live in this body? Now I will live in your bodies. And he is right—I will spread out in all of you.”

When you laugh, I laugh in you. Your throats are my throat. That is the very meaning of sannyas—that there is no distance left between you and me, no gap. We have removed the wall. All the bonds and boundaries in between have dissolved. Union has happened. Where master and disciple meet, the flower of sannyas blooms. You laugh, I laugh. You dance, I dance. I don’t need to laugh separately, to dance separately.

Prem Pradeep, There is no simpler way. You’ve already chosen the simplest—and the most effective. Let the family be annoyed. One thing is certain: you’ll save yourself from great upheavals. And if you get out with your life, you’ve gained a fortune; and the fool who comes back home, comes back home! If you’re going to “come home,” then do it wholeheartedly. Whenever anyone comes to “see” you, don’t miss the chance. And don’t do it half‑heartedly either—do it so openly that the whole neighborhood gathers.

In France, Italy, and Germany, young men are required to do military service. Now a few have taken sannyas; they say, what should we do? I told them: don’t worry, go. And when you’re called into the office for the interview, start Active Meditation right there—do Kundalini. Launch into a discourse on Brahma‑gyan. Don’t come down from Brahma‑gyan at all. They’ll assume you’re crazy and won’t recruit you. It worked two or three times, but now a little suspicion has arisen: “Whoever shows up suddenly starts heavy breathing—what’s going on?” A couple of fellows got off. They’re asking his name, and he’s huffing and puffing; they’re asking something, and he’s doing Kundalini. Naturally they’ll conclude, “This one’s brain isn’t right.”

You’ve done exactly the right thing to save your brain. The family will surely be unhappy, because ours is a strange world: the pain they themselves have lived in, they want to put you in too. If only they would pause to reflect once—what did they gain by making a family, marrying, lining up children? What did they gain except sorrow and trouble? But no—they’re unconscious. They think to “settle” you just as their parents settled them, and their parents theirs. This sickness has run through generations, and every parent passes it on to the children.

Don’t worry, Prem Pradeep. Slowly, the girl’s people won’t come at all. And if the girls get to know about you, rest easy. Even if someday you decide you want to marry, it will be difficult—by then the girls too will have learned Active Meditation; beware!

In life, until there arises in you your own clear feeling to enter the experience of marriage, don’t enter it. If there is a feeling, then certainly do. I am not against marriage. If your own feeling is there, then certainly enter; if it is not, then even if the whole world says so, don’t. Be alert, stay protected—as long as you can. Yes, if the feeling is there, then not even a moment need be saved. If the feeling is there, you’ll learn by marrying. Some people learn from their own experience; some learn simply by seeing others’ experience.

In a village in Rajasthan, a Ramleela was going on. The scene of Surpanakha’s nose being cut was to come. A fellow tells the inside story in rustic style: “Ladies and gentlemen, let me tell you a secret. In the Ramleela I was cast as Lakshman—now listen to a tale. The day Surpanakha’s nose was to be cut, I was strutting, thinking, ‘Lakshman! Today your glory will be sung.’ Just then, onto the stage comes a rolling pin. I thought, ‘These days, before anyone arrives, they send their visiting card ahead.’ And right behind the rolling pin, in walks my wife. People thought Surpanakha had arrived and clapped. I slipped back and began smacking my own forehead. From behind the curtain the director calls out, ‘Your wife really does look like Surpanakha—cut her nose!’ I said, ‘Director, far from cutting, today I’m not even touching her.’ He said, ‘You’re Lakshman—you’ll have to cut it.’ I whispered to Lord Ram standing nearby, ‘Brother, save my honor—today you cut Surpanakha’s nose. Later, if you like, have me killed by Ravana himself!’ But why would he put his hand into a hornet’s nest? He flatly refused. I began cursing Tulsidas, ‘O Tulsidas! You wrote the Ramayana and left, but you’ve turned my life into a Mahabharata! Lakshman, were you Ramchandra’s enemy that you had him do everything else and made Lakshman cut the nose?’ But what use cursing? I began trembling in fear; people thought I was shaking with righteous anger and applauded! But applause does nothing. From behind the curtain the director barked, ‘Now thunder, and say—O Ravana’s sister Surpanakha, get back! Otherwise I’ll cut off your nose!’ But where did I have any thunder? I couldn’t remember a single line. I forgot everything and blurted out, ‘Hey, Kallu’s mother! I’m your only husband—today save my honor. Cut my nose yourself; when we get home, if you like, cut my head too!’ But my wife had turned into a fury—she slashed my nose and left me bleeding, and the people clapped. People only cared that a nose be cut—whether Lakshman’s or Surpanakha’s! So, brother, I went home noseless and thought, the same thing is happening in this country today: the one whose nose should be cut goes free; someone else’s gets cut. The one who should be spared, isn’t spared. Even today Surpanakha cuts Lakshman’s nose—and the public claps. And while clapping they forget that their own noses are cut, their own honor is gone, their own souls sold.’”

Your family will be unhappy. Their noses have been cut; they’re eager to have yours cut too. Protect yours. Save it as long as you can.

Prem Pradeep, my blessings—may your nose be saved! If not, some Surpanakha will cut it. But if someday the desire itself arises to have it cut—desires do arise; who can predict them!—then go ahead and get it cut, brother. So many have had it cut; they must have done it after thinking—surely they must have gained something by it.

When I was a university teacher, people would come and ask: should we marry or not? I would tell them, by all means marry. They’d say, then why didn’t you? I told them, I didn’t go to ask anyone. If you’ve come to ask, the matter is clear. What is there to ask? One who isn’t going to marry doesn’t go around asking.

If you truly want to be spared, there’s no harm in being spared—you have the right to protect yourself from needless entanglements. Women have this right; men have this right. In truth, if the institution of marriage were to bid farewell to the world, a new good fortune would dawn for humanity. Not that men and women won’t love, but love would no longer be a bondage. They will love, but it will be friendship—nothing more.

In my vision of humanity there is no place for marriage. The arrangements for children should be made by the commune, by the collective. And the collective should allow only as many children as it can care for; no one should have the right to produce more. Because the collective will take care, the collective should decide what kind of people should have children. Not everyone should have the right to procreate. The lame, the crippled, the blind, the half‑deaf, the witless, the malformed, the ugly—who knows what all kinds—mad, deranged—are all producing children! They are filling the earth with filth.

We behave with more sense about cows and bulls, about dogs. After all, the breed of dogs improves day by day, because the wrong dogs aren’t allowed to breed. I’m not talking about Indian dogs. Outside India. In India all dogs are stray. There’s no accounting here—here even humans aren’t accounted for; who will care about dogs! Here people are busy breeding like insects—as if they knew no other art, only one act of creation. And they puff out their chests—the more children, the more they strut.

Chandulal arrived at a circus with his twenty children. All kinds of exhibits were there. There were marvelous animals from Australia, beasts from Africa. There was a unique rhinoceros whose species has almost died out. Outside the rhino’s enclosure a curtain was hung, and a barker was shouting, “For one anna, behold the marvelous rhino!” There was a line to see it. Chandulal’s children were eager; he too stood in line with his twenty kids, trying to manage them—one bolting here, one there—slapping this one, straightening that one. Finally the rhino’s owner couldn’t restrain himself and asked, “Are all twenty yours?” “Yes!” said Chandulal. “If they’re not mine, are they your father’s? Whose would they be? Of course they’re mine!” The owner said, “Then don’t worry about buying tickets—I’ll bring the rhino out. Let him see what life is! He’s managed only one child in his whole life—and his species is dying out—while look at this! This is called life: one man producing a row of twenty! You couldn’t manage anything—only one offspring—and your species is dying.” And theirs? Their species is dying of overcrowding, and still twenty! If it weren’t dying of crowding, who knows—maybe they would produce two hundred!

The collective should decide how many children there should be, and who is qualified to have them. Not everyone should have the right. Then in humanity too, Buddhas, Mahaviras, Krishnas, Einsteins, Newtons, Edisons—such beings could be born in great numbers.

But parents have their fixed ideas. What they did, they’ll make you do. If they married, they’ll make you marry. Their ambitions are big. Your mother will want to see grandchildren. Go and see them in the neighborhood—why trap this poor fellow? If it’s just a matter of seeing grandchildren, see anyone’s. No, she wants to see only his—as if his grandchildren will be plated with gold and silver. Parents’ own desires remain unfulfilled; they rest their gun on their children’s shoulders. They worry: become this, become that.

Now, Pradeep, you’ve become a sannyasin; they must be alarmed that you’re smashing all their hopes.

A man carrying a suitcase went into a circus manager’s office and said, “Are you interested in unique acts?” “Of course,” said the manager, “that’s our business. What’s unique?” “I have a dog who plays the piano.” The manager’s eyes popped. “Where’s the dog?” The man opened the suitcase. Out came a tiny dog—and a tiny piano. He set the piano down, and the dog sat and began to play. What an astonishing tune he struck! The manager was dumbfounded—breathless. He had seen many acts—his whole business was such things. Just then a big dog walked in, grabbed the little one by the neck, and dragged him out. The manager stared. The man stared. “What’s going on? Who’s that dog?” asked the manager. “That’s his mother,” the man said. “She wants him to become a doctor.”

Parents have their own desires: they want to make you a husband, a father, a doctor, an engineer. And you poured water on their plans—you became a sannyasin. Naturally, when they bring someone to “see” their son and you begin Active Meditation, a snake must be crawling on their chest.

Don’t give in! If they aren’t giving in, why should you? You’re their very son! If there’s anything hereditary, stand firm—they’re standing firm. As long as they keep bringing girls’ parents to see you, you keep standing firm. There is no need to fear. Do Active Meditation with your whole heart, do Kundalini—do whatever your joy moves you to do. Until the feeling arises in you… Yes, if the feeling arises in you, I won’t stop you. Freedom granted by someone else’s wish is still bondage; to enter even a bondage by your own wish is freedom. The real question is of your own volition.

Ashok, Politics is no art; it’s loot and plunder. What “art” is there in it? Is there such a thing as the art of robbery? Politics is robbery—broad daylight robbery! Those who are looted even believe they are being served. It is a most astonishing robbery. Even bandits have been outdone, left behind—out of date. That’s why the poor bandits have begun to surrender: “What’s the point! Better to contest elections; there’s more sense in that.”

So bandits are surrendering before the politicians. Because they’ve understood—at least they have that much sense—what do you really get, wandering forests with your life always at risk? Politics is better: a modern system, a procedure for robbery.

A minister— out on a public-relations tour. Before he reached his destination he was seized by bandits, tied up with ropes, pulled from the car and presented before their “Sarkar,” the boss. He was panting, shaking with fear, when the chieftain spoke up: “Don’t be afraid, friend— you and we are one; both of us have ‘noble’ intentions. Both of us are made by the public: they give me notes, they give you votes. Power in your hands, a gun in ours— both hit the mark without fail. We survive by changing hideouts, you by changing parties. We are each other’s staunch friends, both well-trained at looting the people. Or say we’re blood brothers: different roads, one goal—money. The police are with us both— behind us, ahead of you. Since you’re here, do us a favor— rest among your own. In honor of a bank heist, tonight at eight sharp you’ll speak in our support, and with your own hands you’ll inaugurate our new hideout tomorrow.”

What is the art of politics? There is no art. It is plain, pure robbery. Gangs of bandits. They’ve spun a vast net. One gang of bandits loses, the other wins; the other loses, the first wins. And the people keep swaying from one gang of bandits to the other. You’ll be looted here and looted there; beaten here and beaten there. Who knows when you will come to your senses!

The day you become aware, politics will disappear from the world; a shroud will be thrown over it; a grave will be made for politics. There is no need for politics at all.

What a beautiful word people have coined—raajneeti, “politics”! It contains the word neeti, “ethics”—yet there is no ethics in it at all. Only trickery, fraud, dishonesty.

After Ravana abducted Sita, Rama called his devotee Hanuman and, with a heavy heart, said: “Whatever the world may say, you are my servant— but I trust you more than I trust myself. Go, go at once, find Sita and bring her back. Give her this token of mine, and console her.”

Hanuman touched Rama’s feet and set out in search of Sita. He reached Ravana’s court, saw him, and clenched his jaws in anger. He said, “Wretch! Return Sita! Why are you ready to die?”

But the Ravana of the dark age was shrewd. He embraced Hanuman warmly and reasoned with him: “Look, friend, why waste your youth languishing in forests? How your belly shrivels with hunger! If I wish, I can make you rich. There’s a vacancy in my cabinet— say the word and I’ll make you a minister.”

Hearing this, Hanuman—harder than stone— went soft. He used to touch Rama’s feet, but now he fell at Ravana’s feet. “My lord! Sita was only a pretext; I wanted to come to you anyway. How can I repay such a favor? Have them set fire to my tail and I’ll burn down Rama’s Ayodhya. I can smash his fate any time. If there’s another vacancy in your cabinet, I can break Lakshmana too. For this chair, not just one Sita— a thousand Sitas I can leave with you. You too are foolish— who steals Sitas in this age! For a post, today’s Ramas will come to you of their own accord and leave their Sitas with you themselves.”

Politics is no art. We call it art when it creates. Politics is destruction, exploitation, violence. Of course, one has to wear veils, wear masks, hide oneself and move in disguise. No one has as many faces as the political leader; even he doesn’t know which is his real face. He just keeps changing masks. And the world will go on being deceived until each person becomes a little aware, looks a little more consciously at what this whole net is.

Do we need nations? Leave nations aside: the politician wants provinces. Not just provinces; he would like every district to become a province. Keep breaking things up! The more fragments there are, the more prime ministers, the more presidents. If you unite the world, where will prime ministers be? Where will presidents be? Politics does not want human beings to unite—and your so-called religions also do not want you to unite; they are two sides of the same politics.

Whatever breaks is sin. Whatever joins is virtue. And virtue is an art; is there any “art” to sin? To kill someone—does that require some great art? To bring someone to life—art is needed for that.

Religion is art—the real religion; politics is not.

The last question:

Girish, What is the hurry to dedicate your life so soon? Are you certain that poetry is the expression of your life? Who knows—maybe people are right!

Ninety-nine out of a hundred “poets” aren’t poets at all; they are mere rhymesters. And people are quite harassed by rhymesters—deeply pained. Every village has poets, every neighborhood has poets. People find poetry easy to do. And then free verse has made it even easier—no need for rhyme, no need for meter. Whatever comes to mind, write it down. Scribble lines this way and that. Cut lines out of the newspaper and paste them onto a blank sheet—and there you are: modern poetry, “anti-poetry”!

People think poetry is easy. It is not. Poetry is extremely difficult. Unless your very life is poetry, poetry cannot flow from your life. Only from the lives of the awakened does true poetry flow; the rest are rhymesters.

So I will not tell you to dedicate your life to poetry. Poetry isn’t some actress you must sacrifice your life for! First, let poetry enter your life; first, let rasa—juice, flavor—arrive. Raso vai sah! When the divine savor is felt within you, if it wants to flow as poetry, it will; if it wants to manifest as dance, it will manifest as dance. Do not insist. Your insistence is wrong. Your insistence is nothing but ego.

You say you are a poet and you like to make poems. If you like it, keep doing it—but do not torment others. If they do not like to listen, at least do not snatch away their freedom.

You say: neither family, nor friends, nor acquaintances—no one likes my poems. Then have compassion on them. At least that much nonviolence you should have. Do not torment them. Forgive them. Keep your poetry within. Hum it in solitude; listen to it yourself.

And if you heed me, I will tell you: the moment for poetry has not yet come. First wake up; first drown in meditation. Since you have come here, drop rhyming and all that—for a while, drop it completely. For a while, just intoxication! Let ecstasy arise within you; then let God do what He wants to do through you. However He makes you dance, dance. But do not insist, “I will dance only this way! Say what you will, I will dance only this way! I must do poetry—nothing else!”

Who knows whether your life will blossom in poetry or not? You begin to sense your intrinsic capacity only in the final stages of meditation. Before that, people are all mixed up. One who should be a doctor is an engineer; one who should be an engineer is a doctor. One who should be a shopkeeper is writing poetry; one who should write poetry is running a shop. It’s all topsy-turvy. Here, everyone is in the wrong place.

That’s why there is so much sorrow, so much pain. No one seems fulfilled anywhere. No one seems content anywhere. Because no one knows: what is my destiny, my fate? What was I born to become—a juhi, a bela, a rose, a lotus? The juhi is trying to become a bela; the bela is trying to become a juhi. The rose is striving to be a lotus; the lotus is trying to be something else. Everyone is trying to be something else, therefore no one is able to be anything. There is gloom all around.

No—do not surrender so quickly.

I have heard: a poet—must have been like you, Girish—ran away from home. The family was fed up with him; he was fed up with the family. So the family placed advertisements like these.

For the missing poet—father’s advertisement: My son Chhadammi Lal son of Mausammi Lal nicknamed Nayab has been missing for the past three months. Wherever a crowd of listeners gathers, he rises only after reciting at least twenty poems. He has an old disease— reciting poetry. Great doctors are puzzled. We have already thrown away several hundred rupees on this illness. We have sent him twice to Agra and Bareilly. Where will we get the money to send him to Ranchi? There aren’t enough asylums in the country, there are more madmen than asylums— that is why people are so bent on doing poetry. Whoever encounters this missing poet, beware! Do not, even by mistake, ask him to recite a poem. First he will buy you tea in a restaurant, then he will recite a heap of his poems. Relatives are requested— do not give him any gifts. You may drink his tea, but do not give him a lift to recite poems. Please consider these few words as sufficient. Submitted by— the unfortunate father of a poet.

And in search of, or to save people from, the same poet—his brother’s ad: Dear brother-poet, wherever you are, stay there. Whatever hardships come, bear them alone. If you think anyone will be sad at your going, that is only a delusion of the mind. Since you left, there is complete peace at home. Your ailing mother is now living happily. Your wife drinks Bournvita twice a day. Your three brothers-in-law are pumping iron at home. All four children are playing gilli-danda in the lane. The shopkeepers to whom we owe money are truly anxious, they have made several rounds of the house. Therefore, dear brother-poet! wherever you are, stay there; whatever hardships come, bear them alone. Those who loved free poetry must surely be sad, but the whole neighborhood has become happy. Note— whoever gives us this missing man’s address will make himself our enemy. Whoever persuades him and brings him home, will not be rewarded, but punished.

And for the same missing poet—his wife’s ad: O father of my twelve children, may the goddess Sheetla lay her curse on you! I don’t know if you are a man or a butcher— did you feel no shame leaving like this? If you had to go, you could have taken half the children with you, left me half a dozen. You have left me a whole platoon, hitched twelve carriages to a single engine. When I get utterly harassed by them, I frighten them with one line: “If you don’t behave, I will call your father back, and make you listen to his heaps of poems!” The children fall silent in dread; some begin to cry in fear. Therefore— if the last trace of shame has not completely drained from your eyes, if even a little remains, then never come back home. No need to explain to you any further. Dance wherever you please, sing wherever you like, but send a money order home every month. Thirsty for your life— Mrs. Satyanashi!

Girish, you have come here. You say, “Now I have come to your refuge; what is your command?” Brother, don’t go home. And don’t do poetry here. Do meditation here. Yes—if after meditation a spontaneous poetry begins to flow through your life, then dedicate your whole life to it. Then have no hesitation; stake everything. But for now, talk of surrender is futile. Right now you do not even know who you are, for what you are, from where you have come, what your destiny is, what your purpose is! Right now you know nothing. Right now ask: Who am I? For now, let all your surrender be to meditation. First samadhi; then everything else happens by itself. And then whatever happens is auspicious.

Right now, whatever you do will be inauspicious. Even poetry will be futile now. What will you do in poetry? If there is no light within, you will pour only your darkness. If no songs are arising within, your poetry will be full of curses. It is from within that the without overflows.

Therefore, if you heed me—since you have come—do not remain under the notion that you will find people here to listen to your poems. Do not remain under the notion that I support every kind of foolishness. First meditation; after that, everything is fine. Then my blessings are for every act.

Enough for today.