Prem Panth Aiso Kathin #3

Krishna Prem! There is little the Indian Parliament will not do. It is a club of aged children—old in body, very childish in mind. The bill being called a Freedom of Religion Bill is in fact a bill to bring religious bondage. Its very name is a lie; the name is inverted.

Through this bill they are trying to ensure that people cannot change their religion: that no Hindu can become a Christian, no Christian a Muslim, no Muslim a Hindu. Muslims do not become Hindus anyway; Christians do not become Hindus. So the bill is in fact against Christianity, because Hindus do become Christians.

And to call the snatching away of a person’s freedom to choose his religion a “freedom” bill is sheer stupidity. If someone wants to be a Christian, he has the right to be a Christian. The truth is, religion has no connection with birth. Otherwise, today or tomorrow the Indian Parliament should bring one more bill—a Freedom of Political Ideology Bill—declaring that whoever is born in a communist home must remain a communist, and whoever is born in a Congress home must remain a Congressman.

If politics is not determined by birth, how can a religious outlook be determined by birth? What has birth to do with an ideology? Can you tell from a man’s blood test whether he is Hindu, Muslim, or Christian? Will anyone’s bones reveal what his outlook was—atheist or theist?

Religion has nothing to do with birth.

But this country is falling into the hands of Hindu bigots. What has happened here should not be called a revolution but a counterrevolution. This country is becoming prey to Hindu fanatics. The effort is that no Hindu should be able to go to another religion. But no one asks why Hindus want to go to another religion. And if they do want to, remove the reasons. If Hindus don’t want Hindus to become Christians, remove the causes. On the one hand you burn Harijans alive, rape their women, roast their children, devastate villages and set them on fire; and on the other hand you say they may not even become Christians. Some freedom that is! In the very religion where their lives are in danger, there they must continue to live. And you call this freedom?

But those bringing the bill say that Christians mislead people. “We are making a bill against deception.”

You cannot mislead them, but Christians can?

Those proposing the bill say Christians lure people with money, positions, jobs, prestige, education, food, hospitals, schools.

Then what have you been doing for five thousand years? Could you not open schools? Could you not build hospitals? Could you not provide people food, livelihood, clothing? If Christians can “mislead” people by giving them bread, livelihood, and clothing, that is only an indictment of you. The blame lands squarely on you. Soot has been smeared on your face. In five thousand years you could not even give people bread and livelihood! People are so hungry, so impoverished, so weak that they change their religion for bread and livelihood! Then clearly your religion is worth no more than bread and livelihood.

And what has your religion given them? If it had given, why would they change?

If you want them not to change, then give something. Open hospitals, open schools. Send your sannyasins to serve them. You don’t lack sannyasins: there are five million Hindu sannyasins! Send them—let them serve, run schools, open hospitals. But the Hindu sannyasin takes service—he does not render it. For centuries he has only taken service: “Press his feet, bow your head at his feet.”

People are tired of placing their heads at the feet of fools. And people are hungry. They lack dignity; they are humiliated. It is a wonder that they are still with you at all! The Shudras should long ago have severed their ties with you. That the Shudras have remained with you this long is a miracle! You have made them drink poison for thousands of years, so now even the sense of freedom has been destroyed in them. They do not even have the strength to say, “Enough! You have tormented us enough. At least give us permission to step outside this circle.”

Out of fear that Shudras and Adivasis will go on becoming Christians, this bill is being brought. The sole intention behind it is that the freedom to change religion should not remain.

This is not a good sign; nor is it democratic. For a nation that calls itself secular, such a bill is utterly shameful.

So, the first thing I want to say: this is a bill for religious bondage, not freedom. I am not a Christian, I am not a Hindu. I follow no religion. Even so I hold that if a person wants to change his religion, it is his birthright to do so. And if he wants to change for bread and livelihood, even then it is his birthright. Why he wants to change is not the issue; the reasons are for him to decide. And if he changes his religion for bread and livelihood, that only proves that the religion he was in could not even give him bread and livelihood—what else will it give?

Empty verbiage, hollow doctrines do not fill the belly. Hungry people cannot sing bhajans, Gopala! He has listened long enough to being told to sing on an empty stomach; neither the soul is satisfied nor the body. Forget the other world—this very world is passing in suffering and hell. If someone wants to change that, I regard it as his birthright. And any nation that snatches this birthright ceases to be democratic. That is the first point.

The second point: Christians are opposing it. I am not much in favor of Christians being the ones to oppose it. Why only Christians? Are there no other thinking people in this country? Hindus are silent, Jains silent, Buddhists silent, Sikhs silent. Why are only Christians opposing it? Because the blow is falling only on Christians.

And I must say this: the methods Christians use to convert people are not religious. They are methods akin to bribery. They are not dignified. They do not honor any religion. They are tricks.

Therefore I too oppose this bill—but not for the reasons Christians oppose it. The Christians’ opposition and the Hindus’ support are two sides of the same coin.

The Hindus say, “We want that no one should be able to buy our people cheaply; hence we are making this bill.” The Christians say, “We believe the right to convert is part of human freedom; hence we oppose the bill.” Both are speaking untruths.

Christians are not concerned with freedom of religion. In America, Christians oppose Christians converting. Christians there oppose it when their own join the Hare Krishna movement; they say it should not happen, that our children are being incited, filled with nonsensical ideas, that their minds are immature, that our children are being hypnotized.

In America the churches are clamoring loudly that our children should not join the Hare Krishna movement, because that would be to become Hindu. Not only that, the churches protest that no Christian should even practice Maharishi Mahesh Yogi’s meditation technique. Why? Meditation is not some indispensable part of a religion. Maharishi Mahesh Yogi’s technique is very simple—a mantra-japa. And he has no such injunction that you must not chant Jesus. You can chant whatever you wish. If you want to chant Ave Maria, chant Ave Maria; it will yield the same fruit as chanting Ram-Ram. Maharishi’s meditation movement is not a propagation of Hinduism—what has meditation to do with Hinduism? Meditation is in Jainism, in Buddhism too. Meditation is a scientific process. I do not agree with Maharishi’s meditation; I do not consider it such a deep meditation that it deserves to be called “transcendental.” But on this point I certainly support him: the Christians’ opposition is dishonest.

Now they are trying to prevent anyone from practicing Transcendental Meditation. Because whoever practices TM is “becoming Hindu”—and Christianity is under threat. In America they are opposing TM; bans are being placed in schools, colleges, pressure is being put on universities. In the states there is a strong push to make rules that no person should leave Christianity to join another religion.

And not just that: the children, the youth who think and reflect—and be sure, the young have a greater capacity to think; they are better educated, their horizon is wider. They have read the Bible and they have read the Gita and the Upanishads and the Tao Te Ching. Now choices are before them. They have to choose. And they are finding greater depth in the teachings of the East—and there is depth. If they choose the East, great panic spreads. There Christians oppose anyone becoming Hindu or Buddhist.

My sannyasins are being opposed. And my sannyasins are becoming neither Hindu, nor Buddhist, nor Jain. My sannyasins are simply freeing themselves from all prisons. They are simply becoming religious. They will have no tie to any religion. Yet even they are being opposed. My communes are being raided by police. In Germany the Protestant Church has widely campaigned that no one should take sannyas with me. They have sent spies here too—the Protestant Church—to provoke people, to spread stories against this place, to circulate lies.

So I am not in support of the Christians. The Christians who oppose this bill do not have clean intentions. They want the convenience of being able to hand someone medicine, give someone bread, and under the pretext of bread and medicine, change his religion. Is that any religious conversion? To get someone a job and change his religion—is that conversion? Will anyone come closer to Jesus that way? He was not close to Rama, nor will he be close to Jesus; and if tomorrow a follower of Rama gets him a bigger salary, he will go back to Rama. He has nothing to do with Rama or Jesus; it has become a marketplace.

So I do not agree with the Christians’ reasons for opposing it.

And that Mother Teresa has also opposed it makes it clear. Mother Teresa’s mind is revealed before you: all that “service of the poor, the destitute, the lepers, the orphans” is just on the surface. Deep down the real eye is on how to make people Christians. Service is a lure; the gaze is fixed on increasing the number of Christians.

I am an opponent of the bill, but not for the reasons Christians give. My reason is simple and straightforward: every person should have the right to choose his own religion. No religion should be imposed upon anyone by birth.

Then let someone choose Jesus—because Jesus has very lovely sayings, and many have reached through Jesus’ path. If someone chooses, he should certainly have the right. Let someone choose Krishna, or someone choose Buddha. Each person should choose his religion according to his inner leaning and inclination. Religion should not be imposed. Therefore I oppose the bill.

But I want to ask Mother Teresa: in America, where Christians are opposing people joining the Hare Krishna movement, opposing Transcendental Meditation, opposing anyone becoming my sannyasin—about that Mother Teresa has not said a single word! She did not oppose that! She should have opposed that too.

And here a bill is only being brought; there still more frauds are being practiced. If someone joins the Hare Krishna movement, parents have their own children abducted—kidnapped! Surrounded by hired agents, they are locked in rooms. They are confined and forcibly given tranquilizer injections, given electric shocks, re-hypnotized: “Only Christianity is right.” They are harassed in every possible way. Parents are doing this to their children! Agencies exist for it. It has become a known business in America: if your child has left Christianity and become a Hindu or a Buddhist, how to bring him back. There are agencies, detectives, hypnotists—playing all kinds of tricks with the children.

Mother Teresa has not opposed any of this! Nor do the Christians of India take out any processions against it anywhere!

All of them are the same kind of dishonest. Those Hindus who sit in Parliament bringing, in the name of freedom, a bill for bondage, and those Christians and Mother Teresa who are holding rallies all over India—there is not a bit of difference between them. They are all cousins of the same sort. Thieves are all the same. The eyes of both are only on how to increase their numbers. The Hindu wants his numbers not to diminish; the Christian wants his numbers to increase. These are political maneuvers; what have they to do with religion!

I oppose what Christians are doing in America; and I oppose what Hindus want to do in India through Parliament. My declaration is simple: every person has the intrinsic right to choose his own religion. No one has any claim over this. And every person should have unobstructed facility to choose his religion. If some Hindu wishes to become a Christian, he certainly has the right to become a Christian.

But becoming Christian should be an inner transformation. If someone puts a knife to your chest and makes you Christian, will you call that becoming Christian? In the same way, who knows how many have been made Muslims with a knife at the chest. Is that becoming Muslim? Is that Islam?

Times have changed; now you cannot hold a knife to the chest. But you can place a wad of hundred-rupee notes on the chest! It is the same thing. To that man we used to give the threat of death—“we will kill you!”—to this man we give the lure of life—“look, a wad of notes!” But it is the same thing. The threat of death and the lure of life are two sides of the same coin.

There should be an air of freedom in the country. Temples, mosques, churches, gurdwaras—all should be open. Whoever finds what endearing, let him go there. But there should be no tug-of-war. Wherever one feels at home, let him hum there, pray there, meditate there. But there should be no chains on hands and feet—neither chains to drag people into temples nor chains to keep them trapped in temples. Only then will this country be a democracy.

But the Parliament of this country is extremely impoverished.

Even about me, a few days ago there was an hour-long debate in Parliament. I was told to answer it. But the debate was so childish that I did not even consider it worthy of reply. There was no strength in it; no substance at all.

The Indian Parliament is like a primary school. And they feel no shame: to impose bondage and call the bill “Freedom of Religion”! It should certainly be opposed. But not only by Christians. The Christians’ opposition is motivated by vested interests. And by issuing a statement, Mother Teresa has, in a way, done well: at least her true picture has come out; the halo of saintliness is exposed. It should be opposed from all sides—by Hindus, by Jains, by Buddhists, by Sikhs. And especially my people should oppose it, because we do not believe in any one religion and we claim all religions as ours.

Take my words to heart.

My sannyasin is not a follower of any one religion, and at the same time my sannyasin assimilates all religions. His chest is broad. In it the Quran can be contained and the Vedas too, and the Dhammapada. In one corner Buddha can be enthroned, in another Christ can dwell. The heart of my sannyasin is large. Only such a large sannyasin can now save this world. Only such a spacious religious heart can now save the world.

And taste that beauty; taste that dignity and grandeur, that richness—when in your breath a respiration of Buddha also flows, of Mahavira also, of Meera also. Let all these flowers bloom in your garden; that is better than having only one kind—marigolds everywhere. Marigolds are beautiful, but if there are only marigolds, the garden will become a little sad, drab; it will start to bore.

All seven colors are ours. All seven notes are ours. All the enlightened ones who have happened on this earth are ours. All temples and mosques are ours. Bring such a bill that no one is stopped from entering any temple or mosque. If a Hindu wants some day to go to a Christian church, he should not be stopped—because for a Hindu, Jesus is as much his as Rama or Krishna. Bring such a bill—that would be a Freedom of Religion Bill—in which a Christian who wants to go into a Jain temple to meditate cannot be obstructed.

Right now the situation is very strange. So strange that it is not just that a Christian or a Muslim cannot enter a Jain temple—Shvetambar Jains will not let a Digambar Jain enter a Digambar temple! Protestants will not let Catholics enter their church! In a Hindu temple, if it is a savarna temple, a Shudra is not allowed!

Bring such a bill that all temples, all mosques, all gurdwaras belong to everyone. Whoever wants to go wherever, whenever he feels like it. And why not have it that one day a temple, one day a mosque, one day a gurdwara—why not taste all flavors? A gurdwara has its own delight! The Guru Granth has its own nectar! Taste it sometimes too. Why the same spiritual fare every day? And then boredom arises.

Mulla Nasruddin’s wife cooked okra, and Mulla praised it greatly and said, “Okra is marvelous!” The next day too she made okra. Mulla offered no praise; he just ate silently. On the third day she made okra again. Mulla twisted his mouth, but somehow swallowed the okra. On the fourth day when okra appeared again, Mulla flung his plate. The wife said, “This is very inconsistent behavior. Why did you throw the plate?”
Mulla said, “Okra, okra, okra—are you trying to drive me completely mad?”
She said, “It was you who said the first day that okra is very tasty! I have only been following your word.”

There would be less dullness and dust in your life if you sometimes tasted the Quran, and sometimes the Gita, and the Upanishads, and the Bible. There would be more color in your life, more flavor. Your life would have more dimensions, more facets. When a jeweler polishes a diamond, he cuts facets—many facets. The more facets there are, the more brilliance the diamond has.

We need a world where every person has the whole inheritance of humanity available, entire and entire. It is great poverty that because you are Hindu, Jesus’ lovely sayings will never resound in your being—you will be deprived! And Jesus’ words are such that whoever is deprived of them is left somewhat less—he could have been more. Another bud could have bloomed. Another fragrance could have arisen. The light could have grown denser. Whoever is unacquainted with Jesus will certainly have some corner of his soul left in darkness—certainly! For Krishna’s sayings are very lovely, but Jesus is unique, incomparable. Krishna is Krishna; Jesus is Jesus; Buddha is Buddha. All are unique. Enjoy the unique flavor of all.

If someone asks me, this is what I would call a freedom bill: every person has the right to choose his own religion, and every person has the right to savor every religion; and every person has the right to enter every house of worship—temple, mosque, church. No one can be stopped anywhere.

And what need is there to paste labels—this one Christian, that one Hindu, this one Muslim, that one Jain? Why the need for labels, for adjectives? Is it not enough to be religious? Is being religious not sufficient? Do you think that by being Hindu you will become something more than religious? You will become something less, not more.

Religion should come to the earth—and these are all streams of religion. All these streams together form the Ganges of religion.

This bill being brought is undemocratic, anti-people, anti-religion.

But let me repeat: my reason for opposing it is not the Christians’ reason. Their reason is the same as that of those bringing the bill.

Behind the bill are Hindu bigots—Arya Samajis and the like. And those opposing the bill are Christians. I am neither Christian nor Hindu. I am simply saying plainly what I see; I have no bias.

Jamuna Singh! Who is worthy of being a sannyasin? Who has the qualifications for sannyas? And if one already had the qualifications, what need would there be for sannyas at all? You are unprepared—that is precisely why sannyas exists: to bring preparedness. When you fall ill you take medicine. You don’t say, “I’m sick—how can I take medicine now? I’ll take it when I’m well.” Sannyas is medicine, therapy, treatment. You are unfit; therefore it is needed. If you make your unfitness the reason to stop, you’ll be in great trouble—how will you ever become a sannyasin then? Sannyas will bring the fitness. Sannyas is not the goal; it is the means—remember this. It is a means to make you fit, to refine you, to sweep and dust your soul, to wash it clean, to bathe it—so you may become worthy of the divine. Sannyas will give you the worthiness to befit God.

And you say, “First let me become worthy, then I’ll become a sannyasin.” By then you’ll have become a siddha, an accomplished one—not a sannyasin. You’ll be a buddha then, not a sannyasin. The very meaning of sannyas is: “I am unworthy; I have a thousand mistakes and confusions; I bring my neck precisely so that the sword of sannyas may rise and sever it.”

And what are you calling “unworthiness”? That too is worth examining—because people have devised amazing definitions of it. Someone considers himself unfit because he can’t get up in brahma-muhurta, the pre-dawn.

A gentleman once said to me, “How can I take sannyas? I don’t get up before nine in the morning!” He was confident, as if the arithmetic were clear: a sannyasin must rise in brahma-muhurta; I get up at nine—how can I be a sannyasin?

I asked him, “Think a moment: what necessary connection does sannyas have with the hour you rise? Whether the clock shows nine or six or five or three—what compulsion of sannyas is there in that? You do get up—that much is good enough. You get up at nine—fine. But the real question is: when you rise, are you truly awake, or do you keep sleep-walking through the day? It is waking within waking that matters. If there is no meditation, no awareness, no alertness, what difference does it make whether you rise at five or at nine?

Brahma-muhurta has nothing to do with a clock. It relates to that wondrous inner moment when waking happens within waking—that is brahma-muhurta. It can happen at high noon, it can happen at midnight. The literal hour is irrelevant. Will merely rising at three make Brahman reveal itself? Plenty of fools have been waking at three all their lives—then dozing through the day, with nothing else to show for it! Look at your so-called monks who rise at three—watch their eyes; they nod off all day.

Yesterday I read in the newspaper that two leading Sarvodaya and Gandhian elders met in Ahmedabad to discuss the nation’s problems: Acharya J. B. Kripalani, ninety-three, and Ravishankar Maharaj, ninety-five. Three people had to lift and bring Ravishankar Maharaj; two had to prop up Kripalani. They sat together for half an hour; not much was discussed—both kept nodding off in between. Old age—ninety-five—and they would doze; the conversation was forgotten. What little was said amounted to “How is your health?”—each asked the other. And when they took leave, each advised the other, “Do take care of your health!”

Wake at three if you want; keep doing it all your life—you’ll only keep nodding. Brahma-muhurta won’t come that way. It comes to the meditative.

But that gentleman considered this his disqualification. He said, “You’ve relieved me so much; I was being crushed under a mountain. My wife gets up at five, does bhajans and kirtans; I feel utterly small before her because I lie in bed till nine. She calls me tamasic, inert—and I had agreed. You mean I’m not tamasic?”

“What has getting up at nine got to do with tamas? When do you sleep?”

He said, “I never sleep before two.”

“And your wife?”

“She sleeps by eight.”

“So what’s the issue?” I said. “If she sleeps at eight, she will, naturally, rise at five. If you sleep at two, you’ll rise at nine—quite natural. One must sleep seven or eight hours. Where is the unfitness in that? Where is the tamas?”

Another thinks, “I eat twice a day; that’s tamasic. A sannyasin should eat once.” Sannyas has to do with this: eat only as much as is truly needed. If your body needs two meals, then two. If it needs three, then three. In fact, if a person really understands his body, smaller portions eaten more times are healthier.

You should know: in India, people suffer from wind disorders in huge numbers—more than anywhere else. Why? Because we heap food in one sitting. No one eats quite as much at one go as Indians do. In America, people eat five times, but a little each time—never overloading the stomach. So if bodies there look more proportionate on average, it’s natural. If women’s figures look more proportionate, again, natural. Here we stuff ourselves in one go because we limit ourselves to two meals. And those who eat only once—imagine their plight! They must fill up for twenty-four hours—like a camel tanking up before crossing the desert.

Digambara Jain monks eat only once—but all of them have potbellies. Astonishing! Those who eat once a day—and such bellies! Their bellies should cling to their spines. Why the paunches? Because they must cram that one meal to last twenty-four hours.

Jain monks won’t drink water at night, so they drink copiously in the evening—beyond measure.

Once I was a guest at Sohan’s home, and four or five Jain nuns wanted to see me; they stayed there as guests too. If you tank up on water in the evening, you have to urinate all night. But Jain nuns cannot use modern bathrooms, because Jain scriptures forbid excreting in water. In those days the rule made sense—if people defecate in the pond or river from which you bathe and drink, a ban is sensible. But the limits of stupidity seem endless! So they won’t use the river or stream. And now, modern toilets use water—septic tank systems. How can they defecate into water? And since they drink heavily in the evening—because it’s hot and they can’t drink at night—they have to. So all night long they urinate in a plate and throw it out on the street. The watchman observed this all night. In the morning he told Sohan, “These ladies are something! All night they fill some plate with God-knows-what and throw it onto the road.”

See the madness? But you have made your monks as foolish as yourselves. Another thinks, “I eat thrice—so I’m unfit.”

Examine the human body, and you’ll find: eating small amounts more often is healthier; it won’t burden you. Humans are herbivores. Look at the monkey—herbivorous—nibbling all day, this tree and that. The lion is carnivorous; he eats once in twenty-four hours. Carnivores have short intestines; herbivores have very long ones. Humans have very long intestines—that proves we are herbivores. Meat is already predigested by another animal; that’s why it is meat. Vegetables require you to do both jobs—hence a long process, with much fiber to eliminate. Meat can be digested almost entirely; nothing much to discard.

So a lion eats once—do you think he’s highly sattvic because he eats only once, and the monkey is tamasic? The monkey is vegetarian, a pure Gandhian, thoroughly Jain. The lion, though he eats once like a Jain monk, cannot be called a Jain—he is carnivorous.

What is tamas? You’ve built notions—never examined them—and then you get bound by them.

Now, Jamuna Singh, you say you’re not worthy of sannyas.

What is your unworthiness? That you smoke? That’s no big unworthiness. Drawing smoke in and out—what unworthiness is there in that? Tie transcendental meditation to it: keep chanting Ram–Hari, Ram–Hari. When you exhale—Ram; when you inhale—Hari. Ram–Hari, Ram–Hari—and you’ll ride the smoke to meditation.

What are you calling unfitness? You have a wife and children? So did Rama; so did King Janaka—they weren’t unfit. You have a small house? Janaka had a palace and he wasn’t unfit—and you in a hut feel unfit? Do some arithmetic! Sometimes you get angry? Remember Durvasa! The sages have left such lovely examples—learn a bit from them. Your mind wavers when you see a beautiful woman? So did the sages’. Urvashis and apsaras descended again and again, and sages wavered. If your heart quivers, you too are a sage! If apsaras start visiting you, it means Indra’s throne is shaking. Jamuna Singh, a step or two more and you’ll be seated on that throne! What is this “unfitness”? It’s all simple human-ness—nothing unworthy.

Mark my words: it’s all human. These are human limits. Don’t stuff yourself with self-condemnation by calling them unworthiness. Once self-condemnation enters you, you’ll never again live with courage. Your so-called holy men are adept precisely at this art—filling you with self-condemnation. They have insulted you in every possible way, until you began to consider yourself a great sinner. And because of this notion, you think: How can sannyas happen? How can prayer happen? How can worship happen? This is for special pure souls. And with that excuse, you’ll continue as you are.

I tell you: sannyas is for you. Embrace all human limits. You are human as humans are. Humans feel anger, greed, attachment, sexual desire—these are natural traits. There is neither sin in them nor any reason for shame. I am not saying, however, to remain stuck in them. If I were, I wouldn’t speak of sannyas at all.

Then what is sannyas?

It is the art of using the same human limitations as steps. Make anger a step toward compassion. Make sex a step toward the divine. Sannyas is alchemy—the science of transmuting iron into gold.

You say, “The feeling for sannyas arises, and then the mind runs.”

Whenever there is a conflict between feeling and thought, choose feeling—otherwise you’ll remain as you are. Thought is cowardly—always. Feeling carries courage. Only from feeling do people take risks; thought never does. The thinker stands and thinks. That’s why, at moments of real risk, the thought-process falls silent on its own.

Imagine you’re driving and suddenly see a truck bearing down on you—driven by a sardarji drunk on toddy, eyes shut, barreling toward you—and there’s no way out. A few seconds before impact you’ll sense: “It’s over.” If you survive, you’ll later notice that in those moments thinking stopped; action continued, but thought ceased. You acted from feeling. You might swerve into a field. Rather than collide with the truck, you might plunge into a river—there’s still hope there. This won’t come from thought—thought takes time; and here it’s a matter of instants.

Sometimes such moments happen in life; actions from feeling are astonishing. Sannyas is initiation into such action. Gradually, even in ordinary life—where there is no truck, no sardarji—you begin to act from feeling. Sannyas is a move from the mind to the heart; leaving logic to live by love.

And you say, “The feeling for sannyas rises, and the mind says, ‘Run.’”

The mind will say that. Mind means thought. It will say, “What madness are you getting into? Run! Before the color catches you—before the company of these madmen gives you courage and you do something you later regret—run!” The mind always counsels caution. If you leave life to the mind, nothing will ever be done. Your life will pass empty. Leave decisions to the mind and you will never decide—decision is not the mind’s capacity. The mind only vacillates: this way, that way; if this, then that; if that, then this—endlessly. Feeling acts.

Sannyas happens from feeling. Those who “think it through” haven’t taken sannyas; they’ve only done arithmetic. They haven’t gone mad in love. The mind will caution you; it’s a lawyer. It will say, “Think first! When you go home, what will your wife say?”

Mulla Nasruddin was boasting among friends: “Once I went hunting. We got lost in the jungle; no trace of lions or lionesses anywhere. But I know a call—when all the hunters gave up and fell at my feet begging, ‘Mulla, do something or the trip is wasted,’ I said, ‘It won’t be wasted. I know a call. The moment I make it, not one but two–four lions and lionesses will appear.’ I gave the call—and immediately a lioness came out of the bushes. The hunt succeeded!”

Friends said, “What was that call? Do it once!”

Mulla made the call. Instantly his wife came out from inside with a rolling pin. “Again you made that sound! How many times have I told you not to!”

Mulla said, “See? There’s no lioness here, but what’s available will do!”

The mind will say, “Go home and a lioness will jump out! Then what? The neighbors will laugh. At the office they’ll call you crazy. People will ask, ‘What happened to you? You were fine—what’s this? What nonsense have you fallen into?’” The mind will parade all this. If you listen, no revolution will ever happen in your life. The mind is not revolutionary; it is thoroughly reactionary—a stick-in-the-mud, a bullock bound to the oil-press.

Revolution happens from feeling. If feeling rises and courage stirs within, don’t hunt for excuses like worthy/unworthy. I don’t worry about your unworthiness. I have chosen to make the unworthy worthy. However unfit you think you are, I offer no refusal. No human can be so unfit as to be eternally far from God. A thread is always tied—otherwise we’d die. Our life is tied to that thread. He breathes and we breathe; He throbs and we throb. God already deems you worthy enough to go on living. If His grace is showering on you, who am I to block your sannyas?

People say to me, “You give sannyas to anyone and everyone!” I say, “What can I do? God gives life to anyone and everyone. If He has no hesitation in giving life, why should I hesitate to give sannyas? Sannyas is merely the art of polishing life. If He has given the mirror, I only offer a small arrangement to wipe off the dust. When God has given life, who am I to say no to sannyas?”

So I’ve never refused anyone. Yes, you may run away, believing in your unfitness—that’s your choice. But then why not pray to God as well, “Why did you give life to me, the unfit? How am I to live? Take it back—I am unworthy. I don’t get up in brahma-muhurta, I smoke, I eat four times, I sleep late, I even play cards—why did you give me life?” In my book, whoever is worthy of being alive is worthy of sannyas—because sannyas is only the alchemy to transform life. You already have life; I can give you the art of transforming it.

You say, “I can’t decide whether to take sannyas or not.”

You will never be able to decide. Such things do not happen by decision. If you sit tallying pros and cons, life will pass and you’ll never decide.

Immanuel Kant was a great German thinker. A woman—she must have been remarkable!—proposed to him. He was not the sort to inspire romance: utterly dry, pure mathematics. So mathematical that his servant didn’t announce, “Sir, breakfast”; he would say, “Sir, it’s seven o’clock”—which meant breakfast. “It’s twelve”—lunch. “It’s ten”—bedtime. If guests were present and the servant said, “Sir, it’s ten,” Kant would not even bid farewell; he would vanish into his blanket. The servant would inform the guests, “Please leave; master has gone to bed.” He moved like the hands of a clock.

They say when Kant walked to the university, people set their watches by him—for forty years he never erred by even a minute. One day the road was muddy; his shoe got stuck. He didn’t pull it out—because that would delay him! He left it there and went on with one shoe. When asked, he said, “It’s stuck in the mud; if I pull it out, I’ll be late.”

Such a clockwork man—and a woman fell in love with him. She proposed. He said, “I’ll think about it.” He could neither say yes nor no outright.

Three years passed. He thought and thought, listing hundreds of reasons pro and con: If I marry, these gains, these losses; if I don’t, these gains, these losses. In the end he found one extra gain in marrying—experience. And one loss in not marrying—no experience. The pan tilted.

After three years he knocked on her door. Her father opened it. Kant said, “I have finally decided—one reason more on this side; I will marry.”

The father laughed. “Too late. My daughter is married—and already has a child. You came far too late. Think again. And if someone else proposes, have your decision ready beforehand; don’t take so long.”

He never married—no one else proposed.

If you live by thinking, you’ll end up trivial. The vast requires a leap, not thinking. It requires courage—the gambler’s heart, not a shopkeeper’s book-keeping.

Jamuna Singh, if you want to take it, take it. If you don’t, don’t. But don’t get caught in thinking. Life has enough worries—why add a new one: “Should I take sannyas or not?” Forget it! If you want it, take it. If you don’t, don’t. But don’t be torn in mental debates. You already have a thousand thoughts within; let not a new one create upheaval. I wouldn’t want that. Bow to the whole thought-process and set it aside.

But if the feeling keeps rising, it will keep rising. Again and again a breeze will touch you. If feeling has truly arisen, you will have to drown in its whirlpool—sooner or later. The longer you delay, the more time is wasted—time in which some experience could have ripened, some flower could have blossomed. Conclusions are not of thought; they are leaps of feeling.

And as for “If I take sannyas I’ll feel I’m pretending”—

At first it may feel so—because you carry traditional notions of what a sannyasin should be. I’m offering a wholly new understanding. I say: as you are, you can be a sannyasin. I’m not imposing a new mold upon you.

The old sannyas came with a blueprint. Measured against that, you’ll feel fake. “An old-style sannyasin rises in brahma-muhurta; I rise at eight—so I’m a fraud.” The feeling of fraudulence arises from the notion. Drop the notion and the fraud vanishes. I ask you to be simple and natural. Why does hypocrisy arise in the world? Because ideals are imposed upon you. Where there are ideals, there is hypocrisy. I give no ideals; I take them away.

Suppose someone gives you an ideal: “Only this diet befits a sannyasin.” When Morarji Desai travels, a long list goes ahead: what he will take and when; this much milk—cow’s milk; this much ghee—cow’s; sweets like cham-cham and sandesh and cream—yes, but made from cow’s milk. He takes garlic—only the kind found in Gujarat. In Russia too—garlic from Gujarat! Mangos—those from Lucknow; the varieties listed: Langra, so-and-so—a long list.

But that’s nothing. I know a gentleman who won’t drink just any cow’s milk—only from a white cow. Once we traveled together—great trouble. If the cow had even a small black spot—finished. Perfectly white! I asked, “What’s the issue? Do you think a black cow’s milk will be black? The milk is white.” He said, “That’s true—but black is the color of tamas; white is sattvic.”

If you get entangled in such foolishness and spin these webs around you, you’ll have to act the hypocrite. Hungry as you are, no cow’s milk—buffalo’s, then you feel it’s hypocrisy. Not because buffalo milk is hypocrisy, but because of the notion “only cow’s milk is sattvic.”

The more notions you have, the more hypocrisy you’ll harbor—because you cannot possibly fulfill all of them in every circumstance.

I know a gentleman whose rule was: when he fills water and cleans his pot, no woman should pass by. If a woman passes, the pot becomes impure; he must scrub it again. When I heard this, I told a woman, “I’ll pay you five rupees a day—keep these ‘Maharaj’ in line. Your job: every time he goes to the tap with his pot, circle around right there.” Let’s see how long he keeps scrubbing!

Ten times, fifteen, twenty—he was a man of persistence; he kept scrubbing. He got angry, abused, but what could he do? At last he grew suspicious: “What’s going on? Why does this woman keep circling here?” He asked, “Sister, why do you keep circling here? Go somewhere else! Because of you I have to scrub the pot again and again.”

She said, “I can’t go today. I’ve been paid five rupees to keep circling. I don’t know why.” I hadn’t told her to mention him. “I’ll circle today—and if I get five tomorrow, I’ll circle tomorrow too. Do you have any problem?”

He said—with tears in his eyes—“Problem? I’ve washed this pot eighty times! Is my life to be spent like this? And I understand who gave you the five rupees.”

He ran straight to me with his pot: “Is this a joke?”

I said, “Today you’ll have to break your old rule.”

“That would be hypocrisy,” he said. “Even I thought, after eighty times, let me glance aside—pretend I didn’t see her. If I didn’t see, what’s the issue? Though I did see—pretend I didn’t. Fill the water and go home—how long can I keep doing this? But that would be hypocrisy.”

Do you see how hypocrisy is born? First, form a foolish rule. Then when you must break it, you feel hypocritical; if you do break it, you feel guilt. The grander your ideals, the smaller you become. The smaller you become, the slimmer your chances of meeting the divine.

I say: live simply, naturally—free of ideals. Do live with awareness—that alone is the one “rule” I give you. In each moment, do what is appropriate to that moment. Do not live by dead notions from the past in the living present.

Otherwise the present is changing every moment—the Ganges keeps flowing—and you sit clinging to old notions. Those notions will harass you and trap you. With such notions there are only two outcomes. If you are stubborn, you’ll go mad trying to fulfill them. If you are clever, you’ll become a hypocrite—showing one thing outside, living another inside; saying one thing, doing another—your life split in two. These are the only options society has handed you. The clever have become hypocrites; the stubborn and foolish are going mad—scrubbing a pot eighty times. Yet one simple insight doesn’t dawn: how does a passing woman make the pot impure?

I told that gentleman, “Even after eighty scrubbings you didn’t get it. You guessed rightly that I gave the five rupees—but you didn’t grasp that a woman’s passing cannot defile a pot. Do pots know male from female? You’re at a tap whose water comes from a lake where women stroll. The pipeline runs through places where thousands of women pass overhead; it runs through a thousand kinds of filth—yet that’s fine. Only—no woman should be visible! Is it your eyes that are getting ‘impure,’ or the pot? Wash your eyes, why chase the pot? Who taught you this?”

“My guru told me,” he said. “He’s no more. I can’t abandon the rule now—it would be betrayal.”

“Then your guru must have been an even greater fool than you! Are these even matters to make rules about?”

And so it goes. “A monk must not sit where a woman has sat—her vibrations remain there.” You speak well! You lived nine months in your mother’s womb, bathed in nothing but her “vibrations,” and now if a woman sat on a seat you mustn’t sit there! Make useless rules, and you will be forced into hypocrisy. I say: make no rules. Impose no ideals. Look at life with simplicity and ease, and do what is appropriate in the moment—but let appropriateness arise from awareness in the moment, not from some pre-fabricated notion.

You say, “If I take sannyas, I’ll feel I’m pretending.”

No—not in the least. The feeling for sannyas is arising; the call of revolution is being heard; somewhere I have touched your heart; you are moist within—don’t deny it. Don’t distract yourself with such trivialities. As for worthiness—you are worthy. In this existence everything is worthy, for God pervades it. Where God is present, what unworthiness? Yes—we will make you more and more worthy.

This will sound paradoxical. I say to you: as you are, you are complete. And—we will make you more complete. As you are, you are worthy. And—we will make you more worthy. We will add beauty upon beauty. But you are not dirty; you are not a sinner. Upon your virtue we will place new ornaments of virtue, new jewels—we will make your virtue even more virtuous. But as you are, you are auspicious, you are beautiful—because you are accepted by God. If God accepts you, how can I reject you? You too should accept yourself—at least this much: God has given you life; honor it, accept it. From this acceptance, true religion arises within. From this acceptance, truth is born.

Veena Bharti! The very name of such a state of feeling is prayer. Nothing needs to be asked, nothing needs to be desired; the begging-bowl stays silent and is filled. The request is not even spoken, and the lap overflows. Prayer is not vocal; it is silent. And the Divine is not a doctrine of truth, but a way of loving existence. So see the Divine as your Beloved, as your Lover!

“Beloved, I know nothing…”
And what has love to do with knowing? Love does not know; love is innocent. Love is free of knowledge. Love does not carry the junk of knowledge. Those who haul the trash of knowledge never see love’s flowers blossom in their lives; they only go on collecting manure of ideas. Their lives fill with stench. Love brings a new ray; with love comes a new dimension.

“Beloved, I know nothing;
I am quietly, quietly longing.”
Longing is done in silence. Secretly, quietly. No ear catches wind of it. There is nothing to say—there is something to drink in. Something to digest. Let the thing become flesh and marrow; in such hush, prayer ripens. Let it settle like a seed in the womb—there begins your new life.

“My Beloved, how lovely you are;
rain down like the monsoon clouds of Sawan.”
And as love awakens within you, the whole existence begins to reveal the Beloved’s moods and gestures. It is there in the morning sun. It is there in the night’s stars. It is the gurgling song of the Ganges. It is in the sea’s heaving waves. It will pour upon you as the monsoon cloud. And when it pours as the monsoon cloud, be free—drop all garments, drop all knowledge—bathe, bathe to your heart’s content!

Yesterday I was reading a poem. It is a poem of two ordinary lovers, but we can give it wings and make it prayer.

Do not worry about your clothes;
there is bliss in such sweet folly.
Let us stand together and be drenched
in the first rain of the monsoon.

Leave the household tasks—
whatever they are, come to the rooftop.
See how youth has surged
upon this playful, cloud-laden season.
Purple banks of cloud have gathered,
the west wind has scattered your tresses,
drops have sailed into our eyes—come, to welcome these drops,
let us stand together and be drenched
in the first rain of the monsoon.

Let your hair be unbound;
if the bun loosens, let it loosen.
If the veil slips, let it slip.
If the kohl washes, let it wash.
This is the auspicious moment for restraint to break,
for breath to grow wild and patience to give way—
in this false coy refusal, only acceptance has meaning.
Let us stand together and be drenched
in the first rain of the monsoon.

Meet the showers upon your face;
let your eyelashes string pearls.
Behold the season’s bounty—
it is not like this every time.
The earthy fragrance has arisen,
a fire blazes in every vein;
now plant some dream of love
under the season’s hospitality.
Let us stand together and be drenched
in the first rain of the monsoon.

As a lover might say to his beloved—
Do not worry about your clothes; there is bliss in such sweet folly.
Let us stand together and be drenched in the first rain of the monsoon.

The first rain has come, the Ashaadh clouds encircle the sky, the first drizzle has begun, and the lover calls his beloved: forget the worries of household, of clothes, of hair, of kohl—come, let us be drenched in the first rain. Just so does the Master call the disciple. This is precisely the call, Veena, that I have given you too. Wherever there is a true Master, monsoon clouds gather. And if the disciple finds the courage to be a little nude with the Master—unburdened, trusting, free of argument, dropping thought and scripture—if, like a simple, innocent child bound in love, he takes the Guru’s hand and comes under the clouds, then the grime of lifetimes is washed away, the anguish of lifetimes is cleansed, all dust is rinsed off, and you become pure—as you are, as you are meant to be, as is your very nature.

“My Beloved, how lovely you are;
rain down like the monsoon clouds of Sawan.
I am silently bathing.”
This bathing is what meditation is. Open yourself. And remember: the Divine is raining every moment. Sawan does not come and go. This is not a seasonal season. The Divine is eternally present. Only we have shut our doors and windows. We allow neither his winds nor his light nor his drizzle to enter. We have taken cover on every side; we sit hiding in the dark.

“My Beloved, you are the immortal bridegroom;
having you, I am most fortunate.
I am being wed moment by moment.”
Veena! You speak truly. That is exactly how it is felt. One who is immersed in prayer feels just this: I am being wedded moment by moment. The wedding shehnai keeps playing; the pavilion is ceaselessly adorned; round upon round is taken. These rounds do not end at seven. They do not end at all. They are infinite. And each time the knot grows stronger, and stronger. A moment comes when the two no longer remain two—there is only One. Wait for that moment. Seek that moment. Search for that moment. Whoever attains it is truly blessed.

And those who are joined with me—their feet have slowly begun to move toward that moment. And if you move even a single step in that direction, a great revolution happens. For when you take one step toward the Divine, the Divine takes a thousand steps toward you. That is the law.

“Beloved, I know nothing;
I am quietly, quietly longing.”
There is no need to know. There is no need even to voice the longing. Remain silent, Veena. In that silence, music will arise; in that silence, the primal sound will arise. That sound touches his feet. The words you speak are heavy; they fall back to earth—like a stone thrown into the sky, it returns. Only silence can reach him, for silence is weightless. Only emptiness can reach him, for emptiness is beyond gravity’s pull.

There will be fear, though. Silence frightens. That is why people do not become silent. They go on talking—useful talk, useless talk. If there is no one else, they talk to themselves.

Mulla Nasruddin was sitting at a railway station. The train was very late. He was muttering to himself. Now and then he would mutter and laugh. Now and then he would mutter and, with a flick of the hand, say, “Shoo! Drat!” A man standing at a distance watched him. He could not make sense of it. Curiosity got the better of him; he came closer and said, “Forgive me, elder, I shouldn’t ask—this is your private affair. Whatever you are doing is your business, and one should not disturb a stranger. But I couldn’t restrain my curiosity. What is this all about? Your lips move as if you’re saying something inside; sometimes you smile, even burst out laughing; sometimes you say, ‘Drat!’ and seem to shoo something away.”

Mulla said, “No harm in asking. In fact, I was hoping someone would ask. Sitting alone, I got nervous—so I was talking to myself. I’ve been telling myself old jokes. When a really good one comes, I burst out laughing.”

The man said, “That much I understand. But what about the ‘drat!’ and the scolding?”

Mulla replied, “When a joke I’ve already heard turns up, I say, ‘Drat!’ and flick it away.”

Even sitting alone, people—watch yourself—though your lips may not move, you keep talking to yourself. The same things you’ve told yourself a hundred times. How many times! You’ve become a broken gramophone record; the needle is stuck in one groove. The same, the same goes on and on. You say the same to others; you say the same to yourself. You even know in advance what the others will say; they too have said it a hundred times. Silence is difficult.

Why difficult?
Because the moment you begin to fall silent, the ego starts to dissolve. As soon as the words begin to disappear, the ego hidden among the words begins to die. It lives on words. It stands supported by words. Words are its crutches. Therefore silence leads to egolessness. And being alone feels frightening. The moment talking ceases, you are utterly alone. That is why people talk even to themselves. People even play cards alone—making both sides’ moves. Have you ever walked down a dark lane alone? Fear arises, and you start singing loudly. Hearing your own song, courage returns; it feels as if you are not alone, someone is there singing. But there is no one.

Mountaineers have this experience: when on the high ranges they lose their way completely—no hope of survival remains; they hang suspended—above them a vast rock face they cannot cross, below a gorge that is death; their companions are lost; they cling to a rope or a root—at such times, in the mountain’s silence and solitude, it feels as if someone is with them. Someone is there; they are not alone. Who is there? No one. But the mind gives a last deception. Even when no one is there, it assures you—someone is with you.

And this is a path for the alone.

Fly on alone,
break the bonds of love, O bird, fly on alone.
Forget all songs of affection,
leave the tree and shore of attachment,
the restless, unknowing bird took wing,
white wings spread.
With hope, faith, and courage
filling the unsettled heart,
forgetting the road, love, and pain,
impatient, it flies on in this strange hour.
Fly on alone,
break the bonds of love, O bird, fly on alone.

We must go beyond all relationships. Even if you split yourself in two and talk within, relationship persists; two remain, duality remains. You must walk alone.

You must walk alone!

All are travelers in this world,
each one’s road is different.
In the world’s hubbub are merged
someone’s song, another’s sigh.
The thorns of the path must be crushed
beneath your soles—alone you must tread!
Alone you must walk!

Lamps burn upon the earth,
uncounted stars glow in the sky,
sun and moon illumine
our night and our day.
But if you would find your own way,
then alone you must burn!
Alone you must walk!

Veena! Practice silence. Practice quietude. Drink down prayer and digest it. Do not ask the Divine for anything. Only then is the Divine found. The moment asking arises, you have missed. Asking comes, and prayer dies.

Ask nothing, offer no petition. Simply surrender yourself, in the mood of emptiness, into his hands. Wherever he leads. As he wills. Then there will be abundant bathing in his monsoon showers. Then the veena will resound. The music of the Infinite will awaken. The nectar will be attained. And all this is our birthright. If we miss, it is by our own doing. Gather just a little awareness, a little watchfulness, and there is no need to miss.

That is all for today.