Rahiman Dhaga Prem Ka #12

Yogananda! When the heart is filled with pranam, it becomes impossible to say anything. Everything else can be said; grace is beyond words. Gratitude cannot be spoken. If spoken, it becomes small. The feeling is vast; the words are too small.

And only in the state of reverence does it first begin to be felt that there is something outside language. It is; it comes into experience—and yet it is outside language. It does not come into language’s grasp; it slips through the net of words.

Therefore the experience of pranam is the only—only—evidence of God. The experience of reverence is the sole proof of God. There is no other way to prove him, no argument. When the feeling of grace arises within—by some pretext, some occasion… if, seeing the night sky full of stars, a feeling stirs in your heart, “I am blessed—for I never earned anything, I have no qualification to inherit a sky laden with stars,” then at that very instant you will experience the presence of God! Or seeing a sunset, or hearing a bird’s song, or a rose in bloom, something within becomes moist, tender, feelingful, the eyes are on the verge of tears, nothing can be said, the tongue falters—then you will have the first experience of God. This is how God enters. When the feeling of pranam arises, know that God has knocked at the door.

That is why in our land whenever we bow to someone we take God’s name. We say: Jai Ram! or some other name. In this country we have joined God’s name to the gesture of pranam. Nowhere else has this happened. Salutations are offered everywhere, greetings are given everywhere. But those greetings are ordinary. In English you say, “Good morning.” Fine, beautiful—but human, not far-reaching. But when you look at a person and say, “Hare Krishna,” “Jai Ramji,” “Sat Sri Akal,” you are going beyond the human boundary. You are saying: I am not only seeing you; I am seeing that Invisible hidden within you which cannot be seen. I am not only bowing to you; I am bowing to That to which one truly ought to bow.

Yogananda, your question is meaningful, valuable. Seek. Life has countless doorways. Know that every particle is pervaded by That; therefore every particle will evoke in you the feeling of salutation.

Yellow oleander blooming in the courtyard
sends invitations to the eyes;
let someone pluck it gently—
it has composed a love-chant;
let someone listen with longing—
let the first kiss be entered in the ledger.

Yellow oleander blooming in the courtyard,
a parrot-winged veil
brings out its saffron hue;
the honey-flood of youth rises,
desire climbs upon the limbs—
it greets those who come and go.

Even before dawn’s first blush
the flowers bathe in dew;
let some eye behold them, brimming,
and draw the awning of shy modesty—
as though a naked beauty were bathing.

Yellow oleander blooming in the courtyard.

A small oleander blossom—even that is enough, if you look with care; for in it too the juice of That is flowing—“rasa vai sah,” That indeed is Rasa. God is of the nature of rasa, of flavor, of ecstasy. Wherever there is rasa, there is God. Then whether it is the babble of a waterfall, or the roar of wind through the trees, or the slap of waves on the shore, or the rumble of clouds—you need only a little sensitivity, and proofs will begin to arrive in abundance. And for one within whom the feeling of reverence is arising, proofs are assured. Then don’t worry about saying much, because God understands no language; he understands silence. He understands only one language—the language of the wordless, of silence.

So bow in silence; your pranam will reach him. Bow in any direction—east or west, toward the Kaaba or toward Girnar—it makes no difference. For in all directions he is present. The point is to bow. Only bow! But bow from the heart, not out of formality. Don’t bow because “one should bow.” Bow because it is impossible not to bow.

As a tree, when laden with fruit, its branches bend. Not “it should bend”—it must bend. What else can laden branches do?

When the fruits and flowers of grace ripen within you, your very life will bow. The bowing will become silence itself.

Don’t ask, “How should I do it? I don’t know how to pranam.”
Pranam is not something to be learned, there are no schools that teach bowing. And wherever pranam is taught, it becomes false. Learned pranams turn false. This is how we have made everything in life false. We tell children: “These are your father’s feet—touch them.” “This is your mother—bow to her.” “This is God’s idol—full prostration.” We are teaching. And the children will learn—what choice do they have? Where can they run? They must learn; they are helpless, dependent on you. Without you they cannot live. You are their food, their clothing, their future. So they will obey whatever you say. But you have made their pranams false.

In reverence there is no “therefore”—no “bow because this is mother, or father, or God’s image.” Wherever there is a because, the thing is false. Pranam has no arithmetic. Pranam is poetry; there is no “because” in it, no cause. It is causeless. It surges up. Even if you want to avoid it, you cannot. Then silence is enough.

In which language will you speak? The Christians have ready-made prayers—repeat them; they will not reach. The Hindus have fixed mantras; they will not reach. Keep reciting the Japji—it will not reach. Because when it rose in Nanak, there was heartfulness in it; when it rises in you, there is only formality. You were born in a Sikh home. Have you ever considered the word “Sikh”? It comes from “shishya,” disciple. You never became a disciple, and you became a Sikh! You never embraced discipleship, and you became a Sikh! Then you will be a false Sikh.

You became a Buddhist; no ray of Buddhahood has descended; the inner lamp has not been lit—and you became “Buddhist”! False, verbal, traditional. Keep repeating mantras—chant the Gayatri, recite the Namokar, repeat verses of the Quran—so many people repeat; where do they reach?

No, I will not tell you to say your pranam this or that way. I will say: as the pranam arises, bow. This earth is his; this sky is his; these stars are his; these trees are his. Wherever the mood moves you, bow. Bowing means: wherever you drop the ego; wherever you say, “I am not”; wherever you are filled with the feeling “I am not—You are. Let me dissolve; let me dissolve so that You may be whole”; wherever you, a drop, fall into the ocean—there is pranam. Then silence will do the work. What could be more beautiful than that which happens without words?

Silence too is a sweet moment.
On the soft, fragrant breeze it is the flower’s new veil—
silence too is a sweet moment.

When the evening cloud is changing at every instant,
and a kind of bewilderment spreads across the heated sky,
is not that star-point in the heavens a seed of hope?
Silence too is a sweet moment.

Tormented by the gusts of the senses, this dust-grain of a feeble body—
who will guide some powerless one
if the footprint of a hero of reverence has been imprinted upon it?
Silence too is a sweet moment.

When in life restlessness or helplessness has arrived,
and a new revolution of revenge has overcast it,
is not that death, in life’s immortality, a victory?
Silence too is a sweet moment.

Be still. Sink into dense silence. Merge into a hush. And bow. Say nothing, speak nothing. In that moment you will be neither Hindu nor Muslim, nor Sikh, nor Christian, nor Jain, nor Buddhist. In that moment you will not be at all—so how will you be Hindu? How will you be Muslim? In that moment there will be only God. And God is not Hindu, and God is not Muslim. In that moment will you bow toward the Kaaba or toward Kashi? And in that moment who will care where is Kaaba, where is Kashi? Wherever you bow in that moment—there is Kaaba, there is Kashi. In that silent moment, wherever you sit becomes a place of pilgrimage; wherever your feet fall, a tirtha is created.

A religious person does not go to tirthas; around a religious person tirthas are created. The irreligious go to tirthas—only the irreligious go. Around a religious person God begins to dance. You have heard that around Krishna the gopis danced, the cowherds danced; but that story is half, incomplete. I tell you this too: if you are a gopal, a gopi, then Krishna will dance around you. Then the story is complete—only then is it complete!

Yogananda, learn silence! That silence I call meditation. The fragrance that rises in that meditation—that is prayer, that is pranam. The feeling of grace that arises—“I have no worthiness, and yet so much has been given! I had earned nothing, and still so much has come to me!”—that very awareness of gratitude transforms a person’s life.

You say: “You have refined me so much that only You remain. The ego will melt only through You.”
It is melting, Yogananda. Ego dissolves slowly, slowly. It has been accumulating for lifetimes; it will take time to melt. Do not hurry.

You say: “Melt it and free me from this pain—this is my prayer.”
For this very reason I have given you sannyas. Sannyas means you have decided to be ready to erase the ego. You have, on your part, signaled: I agree—break me, erase me! Sannyas has no other meaning. It means only this: If you break me, I will not refuse; if you erase me, I will not run; even if you raise the sword and cut off my head, my head will remain bowed; if you give me death, I will accept it as great life. This is the meaning of sannyas.

Therefore sannyas is only for those who are not cowards. It is not for cowards. A coward runs around protecting himself, using every trick. He finds countless excuses and arguments to save himself. He says “tomorrow,” he says “the day after.” Neither tomorrow comes, nor the day after. Then he says, “What will happen by taking sannyas? Whatever is to be done, I’ll do without taking sannyas.” He says, “Sannyas is an outer thing.”

When thirst comes, he drinks outer water; then he does not say, “Water is an outer thing—thirst is inner. Why drink water?” When hungry, he eats outer food; when cold, he wraps an outer blanket. He does not say then, “Why wrap an outer blanket? The cold is inside.” When illness comes, he takes outer medicine, goes to an outer physician. But when the matter of sannyas arises, he thinks, “Why take an outer sannyas!”

Many people write to me: “We are sannyasis within.”
If you are already so within, what hindrance is there without? Within there is nothing at all. But to avoid the outer, they have convinced themselves that inwardly they are already sannyasi. To evade, man finds a thousand arguments.

You did not go hunting for arguments, Yogananda. You came. You dived in with a simple heart. You had faults, as everyone has; you had mistakes, lapses. You were afraid too—whether I would give you sannyas or not. For me there is only one fault that can stop: cowardice. That was not in you. All other faults have no weight. Someone even said to me: “You are giving sannyas to Yogananda? He has a habit of intoxicants!”
I said: “We will give him an even greater intoxication! Let us see which intoxication wins.”
And the new intoxication has begun to win. In the past Yogananda would come only sometimes. Now he has settled—now he doesn’t go. Now he wants to be part of the ashram, wants to be absorbed in the work.

I don’t bother with little, petty matters. Someone said: “He smokes.”
So let him! What is made or marred by smoking? He’ll become dear to God a year or two earlier—is that all? The meeting with the Beloved will be a little sooner. No worry. But one thing is of value: he is courageous.

And I have often seen that those who are full of faults and mistakes in life have some courage; it is because of courage that they even make mistakes. To err also takes guts! Those who make no mistakes are almost like dumb idols of dung. They cannot muster the courage to make even a mistake—“What if someone sees? What if someone comes to know? What will father say, what will mother say, what will the wife say, what will the neighbors say!” Out of fear they appear good. But has goodness ever been born of fear? Has goodness ever arisen from dread? However good a frightened person may look, it is only appearance; inside there is rot of a thousand kinds.

My own experience is this: those whom you call “bad people” are easier to transform than those whom you call “good.” Those who take vows, fast, go to temples, do worship, recite scriptures—transforming them is very difficult; because behind their vows, worship, fasting there is not strength but weakness. They are timid. They worship only because they are afraid of God.

Yogananda came to me not believing in God; he had probably never gone to a temple. How he happened to end up here… Often such people come to me. I am for those for whom there is no temple—for those who will set foot in no temple, no mosque, no church, no gurdwara; for whom that sort of thing does not appeal; who have a little life, a little vitality, a little prana. Yogananda was an atheist. “What God!” Every strong person is, in truth, an atheist. Theism arises from experience, not from acceptance. The one who merely accepts is weak, impotent.

Examine within yourself: is your theism merely a belief? Because others believe, you too have believed? If that is your theism, it is worth two pennies. Such a boat will not take you across. Theism should arise from experience. And who will experience? Only one who searches. And who will search? Not the one already sitting with a ready-made belief—how will he search?

When I saw Yogananda for the first time I felt: Good—this man is fit for my work. An atheist, making a thousand kinds of mistakes, caring for no one’s opinions—a man of courage. There is a little individuality. He is a rebel. And only rebels—only rebels—are truly religious! Therefore the revolution within you has begun; sparks have started to fly. Now the fire is smoldering; soon it will become flames. You will be lost in those flames. What remains—that is God.

Do not fear, do not worry. Be assured.

You ask: “My prayer resounds; will it go on resounding—may I keep such hope?”
Certainly you may, because this prayer is not the prayer of a weakling, not the prayer of a poor, broken one. This prayer is authentic. I know both kinds of people.

People come to me and say, “Please give us self-realization.” I ask them, “How long can you stay?” They say, “We have to leave tomorrow morning.”
When I used to travel, I would be going to catch a train; on the platform someone would grab my hand: “One minute—just one minute. Is there a God?” I would say, “What are you doing—do you have any idea? I have to catch a train; you have to catch a train. One minute!” They say, “Answer yes or no!” But by answering yes or no, will an answer be found? Suppose I say yes—what will happen? Suppose I say no—what will happen?

They don’t want to search. They want to risk nothing. If, walking along the road, God were to be given free of charge, without losing a grain, without standing a moment, perhaps they would consider whether to accept or not. If God himself were to stand at their door and ask, “Will you take me or not?” they would say, “Let me ask the wife.” “Hey, Munna’s mother—God is here; shall we take him or not?”

I have heard: an emperor… A chat in court went on, and in the middle of talk one courtier said, “Your courtiers talk big things, but as far as I know, every one of them is henpecked.” The emperor was shocked. His courtiers—and henpecked! He said, “That must be proven.” The man said, “I’ll prove it now.” He stood and announced: “All who are henpecked, stand in a line here. And if anyone lies—your wives will be called, they will be asked in court—who lies will be punished by death. And those who are not henpecked, stand in a line there.”

The line of the henpecked grew so long that the court became too small. The emperor also hesitated a little. Only one man stood in the line of those not henpecked. Only one, whom the emperor could never have imagined—utterly shabby, the most insignificant fellow in the court! The emperor said, “Well, at least there is one real man!”

The man said, “Wait—don’t misunderstand. When I was leaving home, Munna’s mother said, ‘Listen—don’t stand in a crowd!’ That’s why I am standing here. There is no other reason. Over there the crowd is too big.”

Then the emperor said, “We’ll have to investigate further. Is the state so pitiable that if the courtiers are like this, what of the rest!” He told the man who had raised the question and proven it: “Here—take these two fine horses—a white and a black—and also take many hens. Go in the capital from house to house, and ask every man: Are you a slave to your wife or not? And tell him, if you lie, this is a matter of life and death; the emperor is investigating—speak the truth, or you’ll be in trouble. Whoever says, ‘Yes, I am henpecked,’ give him a hen as a reward. And if you find a man who is not henpecked, then offer him his choice of these two splendid horses—the finest on earth; tell him to choose, black or white—it is his.”

The man went. Naturally, he kept distributing hens, and more hens. So many hens had to be sent from the palace. As many as could be found in the market had to be purchased, for every man in the capital had to be given a hen. The emperor began to worry—his treasury would be emptied on hens! He had thought he would quickly find someone to take a horse and end the matter. But until someone took a horse, hens had to be distributed.

At last, in front of one house, the envoy thought: Here, finally, is a man to whom a horse will have to be given. He had never seen such a person. What limbs! What a body—like iron! So strong that if he punched a wall, it would fall; if he squeezed iron bars, they would snap. His muscles were a sight to behold. A cold morning, he was sunning himself and oiling his body—his muscles rippling. The envoy stood awhile and then said, “Brother, I have come to ask: the emperor is inquiring—are you a slave to your wife?”

He said, “I—and a slave to my wife!” He brought his hand close, showed his muscle, said, “See these muscles! Put your hand in this palm.” He took the envoy’s hand and squeezed. The envoy screamed.

“Hey! I’m done for! Help! Leave me! What are you doing—will you kill me? I only came to ask—I need no proof.”

The strong man said, “I—and henpecked! Take back your words, or you will not return alive. To hell with your horses, and to hell with you! How did you dare speak those words?”

The envoy said, “Brother, I ask forgiveness—I touch your feet. Let me go. It isn’t my fault. It’s the emperor’s affair; he sent me. I had to come. Choose whichever horse you like.”

And the strong man called out, “Munna’s mother! Shall I take the white horse or the black?”

And a thin, frail woman came out and said, “Take the black!”

And the envoy said, “Here—take your hen.”

Even if God stands at your door, you will still have to ask Munna’s mother!

This life of yours is fear-ridden, built on fear. Everywhere there are people to frighten you. First the father frightens, the mother frightens; then the wife frightens; and it doesn’t stop there—the children frighten and make you anxious. Go to the office—the officer frightens you. Take a job—the boss frightens you. Wherever you go—frighteners everywhere. You are scared from all sides. Even to the temple you go—out of fear. You pray—out of fear.

I saw in Yogananda that he is not a fearful man. There was no Munna’s mother. He was alone. After becoming a sannyasin he married; then it did not work with Munna’s mother—it could not. So he said, “Take care of Munna too and set him on the path!” So both Munna and Munna’s mother have been bid farewell.

I said, “This man is fit for the work! If I had a white and a black horse, I would give him both.”

Yogananda, do not panic. Your prayer is going to succeed, to be fulfilled.

Sant Maharaj! Sitting on watch like that, who knows what all comes to your mind! There at the door, keeping guard, one lofty notion after another arises for you. But first, brother, let us at least ask God whether he wants to have your darshan or not! You have wished it—how gracious! Only, this is a two-way matter. It won’t be only you who will have his darshan; he too will have to have yours. So first let me ask him, “Do you wish to see Sant Maharaj?” As far as I can tell, right now he’s not agreed. So wait a little.

Such high thoughts arise when you sit idle.

The train was late, and with every hour its lateness kept increasing. One hour, then two, and even after six hours there was no sign of it. At last Mulla Nasruddin, exasperated, went to the station master and said, “Listen, sir, is there a graveyard around here or not?”
The station master replied, “No—why, what’s the matter?”
Mulla said, “Well, sir, I was just wondering: the people who die waiting for the train—where do they get buried?”

Now you too are sitting... sitting at the door, so lofty thoughts arise: “Please give us a vision of God!” What has God done to you, brother? You in your house are fine, he in his house is fine—and the Ganges right there in your washbowl! He hasn’t come after you, so don’t you go after him. If he decides to take on the bother, he himself will come after you. You just sit peacefully. Don’t get into such philosophical tangles. Being a Punjabi, such talk doesn’t even suit you.

In the beginning, Sant Maharaj, when you arrived and used to meditate, your meditation was something to see. The place where you meditated had to be cleared of people, because in meditation you would suddenly start babbling all sorts of things, hurling weighty curses! Fists flying, shadow-boxing, full-on wrestling. With whom—no one could tell. As if grappling with some invisible force. As if fighting ghosts and spirits. People would come to me and ask, “What is Sant doing?” I’d say, “Nothing—he’s Punjabi. Slowly, slowly the Punjabiness will wear off.” And it did wear off. Now you have become quiet. Since you became quiet, I started calling you Sant Maharaj. I gave you the name Sant precisely so that, brother, in any way, become peaceful! Assume peace!

Such entanglements do happen. I was conducting a camp in Navsari. Some three hundred friends were meditating. A Sikh gentleman arrived. Good that he came! But what meditation did he do—during Dynamic Meditation he began a full-on brawl! Sant used to box the air; he actually started hitting people. He thrashed two, four, ten of those nearby. Whoever came close, he’d land one on them. He got so inflamed he practically launched a jihad—a holy war! It was with great difficulty that we could stop him. And when we did, he shouted, “They’re not letting me meditate!”
How can they let you meditate like that! You’ll split someone’s head, break someone’s limbs. He was saying, “Just now my meditation is coming into full force. And you yourself said to let whatever happens happen, to throw everything out! So whatever is stuffed inside...”
He wasn’t a bad man. Later he asked everyone’s forgiveness: “Brothers, forgive me. I have no enmity with anyone; I don’t want to harm anyone. But my mind feels so light now. This had been building for days.” Say thanks he hadn’t brought his kirpan along.

Sant is quiet now. And I’ve given him the job of guarding the door, because there is no work more attentive than that; there’s nothing to do but sit. People come and go through the door—just watch that.

That is exactly the process of meditation. In meditation too you have to sit like a watchman within, and by the mind’s doorway, where thoughts come and go, you simply watch their traffic. Sitting at the door, Sant will attain samadhi.

Don’t you worry, Sant! I am doing the worrying for you. Be carefree. You will have the vision of the Divine too. God isn’t hiding anywhere; he is present—only there’s a little dust on our eyes, the dust of thoughts. Let that dust be shaken off, and you will begin to see God. Whoever comes through the doorway, whoever goes, you will see God in them.

And your sitting at the door is arranged precisely for that. And you are using it well. Because that is the very process of meditation—witnessing. What is the mind? A continuous coming and going of thoughts. The road is forever busy—thoughts, passions, desires, ambitions; a commotion of hustle and bustle; a market in full swing. You sit off to the side and watch. You need do nothing, only see—who came, who went; keep an eye on it. Don’t even make judgments—who is good, who is bad. Sitting like that, this small sentry’s job will teach you the inner sentry’s art.

Here, whoever I’ve given whatever work to, there is a purpose behind it—keep that in mind. Perhaps you’ll understand it at once, perhaps not; perhaps you’ll understand much later what the purpose was. Maybe only when the purpose is fulfilled will it be clear. But here, whatever work I’ve given anyone, it has a purpose. There is no work here that is not tied to sadhana. Whatever is necessary for someone, I’ve woven that very sadhana into their work.

And when the new commune is built—the vast commune—many more kinds of work will become possible, because here many things still can’t be done. So many people, for whom even more fitting means could be found—work that would move them more swiftly toward meditation—are not yet getting that opportunity. But that too will happen soon. For now, those who have been given any facility here should remember: every act is meditation. Don’t run away from work, because running from work will be running from meditation. And you must do each task as if you are praying, as if you are practicing sadhana.

Sant, you will meet the Divine too. God is present all around. There is no veil drawn over him. God is not some Muslim woman sitting veiled in a burqa. Have you read the news from Pakistan? Even stupidity has its limits! Now women are prohibited from wearing pants and shirts in any sport—lest their bare legs be seen! Not only that, at women’s sports there can be no male spectators. Let women play football and play tennis, but only women may watch. It’s a great mercy they didn’t take one more step and decree: women should play hockey wearing the burqa. Then the full fun would begin. Then the religion would be complete.

These are the limits of foolishness! What do such things prove? The bestiality of man, his brutishness. What pettiness! And women are silent; there is no protest. First you didn’t let them enter mosques; all right, let that be. Now you won’t let them enter sports either. And the final logical outcome, sooner or later, will be: wear a burqa and play hockey.

God is not a Muslim woman sitting veiled in a burqa. God is manifest—in every flower, every leaf, every moon, every star. Only we are blind, or our eyes are closed, or there is a veil over our eyes. The work here is to remove that veil.

Sant, the veil is lifting. And as it lifts, your longing will deepen, your thirst to realize God will grow intense. The ache will grow, the pang of separation will arise. “Now I must find him, now I must find him”—such urgency will take birth. These are all good signs. Auspicious signs. They announce that spring is near.

Rama Devi! Understand my definition of a religious person: a religious person makes a total effort to transform himself, but he has no ambition to transform someone else. The desire to change the other is politics. There is a kick in it—what kick? Ego! I am superior and the other is inferior, therefore I have the right to change them.

And as if women have taken a contract to change their husbands! Always on their backs—do this, don’t do that; don’t eat this, don’t drink that. They make life miserable. Often that is precisely why the poor fellows start drinking. If you make their life hell—and they, too, have a right to live—what else is left for them but to drink to forget you for a while?

Now, Rama Devi, you say: “In every other way my husband is a veritable god.”
Of course he is. He is your husband. You are Rama Devi; naturally your husband must be a devata!

“Only one habit...”
But the habit isn’t all that terrible. The gods in heaven also drink heartily. It’s an old habit of the gods. In the Muslim paradise, fountains of wine flow—drink to your heart’s content! No restrictions there—no prohibition, no temperance. Why drink by the tumblerful? Drink to the brim! Bring pitchers home! Take dips in it, bathe in it! Drink it yourself and serve it to others—what’s the obstacle?

That’s why Omar Khayyam said: let me practice a little here; otherwise if I drink all at once there, I’ll fall ill. Sensible enough—keep up a little practice! So if your husband is a god, it’s certain he’ll go to heaven. And these days Hindu and Muslim hells aren’t so separate anyway—Gandhi-ji declared, “Allah and Ishwar are one; O God, grant good sense to all.” Now it’s all mixed up. The Hindu heaven has entered the Muslim heaven and vice versa. Your godly husband is simply rehearsing for the realm of the gods. Why be so troubled? And if in every other way he is divine and only this one fault remains—well, a person should have one fault at least; otherwise he can hardly remain in the world. Imperfection is the entry ticket to the world. That’s why it’s said that the enlightened ones are not born again.

What do you think? Shall we finish him off completely? This is the one thread by which he is still attached here. You are preparing to cut even that last thread—then consider his kite cut. No return!

And are you sure that the very divinity you see in him in other matters isn’t because he drinks? He comes home, and whatever you say he listens to quietly and smiles. You break dishes, smash things, beat the children—he remains equanimous. Of course he does—he doesn’t quite know what’s going on, or he’s seeing things a bit differently!

Mulla Nasruddin’s wife once raised a hue and cry. She said, “Listen—you call me ‘Fairy’ when you come home on English whisky, and you call me ‘Queen’ when you come home on country liquor. What have you drunk today that you’re calling me a witch?”
Nasruddin said, “This is the fruit of your preaching. You’re always after me: don’t drink, don’t drink. Today I’ve come home without drinking.”

Now, if he behaves like a god, who knows—perhaps it’s the intoxication. Don’t make him quit. Everything is going along fine; why start a quarrel?

And in my experience, as long as someone is after you to quit, quitting becomes difficult—it feels humiliating. You drop the worry. If the husband wants to drink, let him; he isn’t harming anyone; he isn’t picking fights; he isn’t beating anyone up; he drinks quietly and sleeps at home. Who is being wronged?

We have a peculiar neurosis in this country. People drink all over the world; nowhere is there such a fuss—only here! Because everywhere else people have learned the art of drinking. There is a way, a manner to it. If you don’t allow people to drink, they drink without any manner and overdo it. It’s like not being allowed to eat all day—then when you get a chance, you overeat. Force someone to fast for two or three days; when he gets to eat, he will fall ill. Whatever he eats will end in vomiting and diarrhea.

People drink everywhere, and as casually as drinking water. But there are no riots, no brawls, no one cursing from the gutters. These are specialities that blossom only in the Indian character. Worth thinking about. Two meanings: one, the Indian character is repressed. It is filled to the brim with curses and rage; they don’t find a way out. Drink a little and they spill out. Don’t drink and they remain bottled up.

The world’s character is not so repressed. People are more authentic. They haven’t stuffed themselves inside with so much frustration. So there is nothing much to spill; they drink and sleep peacefully. Alcohol is an ordinary beverage there—like coke or Fanta. Who fusses about it! Parents even teach young children at home—teach them the manner. And if alcohol is drunk in moderation it can be healthful; it doesn’t harm. In excess, anything harms—even water. Shall we place prohibition on water then? Drink ten buckets and you’ll be flat on your back, babbling nonsense—just on water. You’ll see strange things and lose control. Anything, in moderation...

In the West, even small children are taught at home—so a manner is formed, a culture. They learn when to drink, how much, at what time, and then how to sleep. Alcohol becomes health-giving. Not every alcohol is harmful. But when no one teaches and no one guides, who knows what you’ll drink! Here, under prohibition, one drinks spirit, another petrol, another turpentine—and then they die. Nowhere else does this happen—only in this land of rishis and sages! Who is so mad as to drink spirit or petrol! And who knows what goes into what we call “country liquor” here? The makers don’t know, the drinkers don’t know.

I am not anti-alcohol. Nor am I a partisan for alcohol. I don’t say that those who don’t drink should start, nor that those who do should stop. I say: those who drink should learn the art of drinking. And those who don’t drink should learn at least the courtesy not to interfere in the lives of those who do.

Your husband may be a god, but you don’t sound like a goddess. One day if he comes home sober he may well see you as a witch—you’re hounding him! People are after each other with a vengeance; life turns into endless squabbles over trifles.

Chandu Lal and his wife fell into a fight—the same old fight: don’t drink this, don’t eat that. His wife screamed, “Do you think I’m a bitch, the way you’re talking to me?”
Chandu Lal said, “Not at all. But for God’s sake, at least stop barking!”

No, I will not advise you to chase your husband so hard. The world already has enough suffering—why add more? Lighten his life a bit; make it a little comfortable—perhaps then the drinking will drop on its own. Ask why he drinks. He must be burdened with worries; do you do anything to lessen them? A new necklace comes into the market—then one must buy it. If he brings it, and if he doesn’t drink—what then, shall he sip Ganga water? Debts are piling up, the shop is going under—and you want a new necklace! The neighbors have bought a new car; you want one too. Where is the husband to get all this? The load on his head keeps growing. To put it down for a while he drinks—he forgets for a bit, steps out of the world, immerses himself in a web of dreams. You won’t even allow him that! Do you want him to haul that rock on his chest and then sit in the Hanuman shrine and pray? The stone is already on his chest—do you want to seat Hanuman on top as well? He’s dying as it is—and you want him to ring the bell too! His life is ebbing away—and you want him to sit and chant the rosary!

Lighten your husband’s life. Remove a few of his difficulties.

Once, I rode in Mulla Nasruddin’s car to his house. Summer heat, we were both drenched in sweat. I asked him several times, “Why don’t you open a window?”
He said, “Please don’t even mention windows.”
He said it in such a way that I thought, this must touch a hidden nerve—better to keep quiet. As soon as we reached home and he opened the door, he collapsed—unconscious. His wife brought a fan, fanned him. As soon as he came to, she started her tirade: “You’ve been drinking again!”
I said, “No, he hasn’t been drinking. The heat, and he had the doors and windows shut—no air coming in—he fainted. I asked him several times to open a window. Do you want to die? And if you do, why kill me with you?” The moment I mentioned windows he would flare up, so I thought, all right, let it be—it’s only for a few minutes.
He turned to his wife and said, “Now ask me why I don’t open the windows. She won’t let me. She says, ‘Why bring disgrace by opening windows? The neighborhood will think your car isn’t air-conditioned. Either bring an air-conditioned car or keep the windows shut!’ Now tell me—on one side a well, on the other a ditch. Where am I to get an air-conditioned car? My business is going bust. This Diwali there will be no festival, only bankruptcy! Better to keep the windows shut and hope I die before then—end of the hassle.”

If such a man doesn’t take to drink, what else is he to do? I see husbands dying under the load while the piles of saris keep growing. I’ve been a guest in homes where there are three hundred saris. I’m astonished—how will you wear three hundred? A woman can wear only one at a time. Try hard and wear two—what then? Three? But three hundred?

That’s why it takes so long for them to get ready. If you have a train tomorrow, start preparations today—most of the time goes in deciding which sari to wear. This or that—that is the greatest philosophical problem.

And do you consider what your husband goes through? Are you a partner in his worries? Have you taken any steps to lessen them? If not, why hound him? Let him drink! He isn’t committing a great sin. He drinks a little and sleeps—fine; he gets relief; tomorrow he will again be fit for work, buy another sari, have more jewelry made, run about again.

Chandu Lal’s wife went to the doctor and said, “My husband, Mr. Chandu Lal, is losing his sight badly.”
“How do you know?” the eye doctor asked.
“Listen, the whole story is this,” she said. “Last evening at seven my husband was returning from the office and I was going over to my neighbor—Mulla Nasruddin’s wife, Guljaan. It’s a little dark in front of her house. There he met me. The moment he saw me he threw his arms around my neck and showered my cheeks with kisses. I had never seen Chandu Lal so romantic. He said to me, ‘Darling, your face is lovelier than the moon! Your eyes are like a doe’s, your lips like delicate rose petals! The fragrance of your body puts all flowers to shame! I am blessed to have your love! You’ve done so much for me, my love, but I’ve done nothing for you—forgive me. You are the goddess of my heart. I am yours forever. O life of my life, your touch alone fills me with vitality. My dear, call me again tomorrow the moment that jackal’s cub, Nasruddin, leaves for his office.’”
The doctor listened calmly and said, “Madam, this is the fruit of your past-life merits—that in the prime of life his eyesight has grown so poor. Don’t bother with treatment. Thank God—and let him stay exactly as he is.”

You ask me how to make him give up drinking!
And after you make him quit, then what? Don’t blame me later. It may be that whatever divinity remains in him is precisely because of the drinking. If he quits and starts beating you—don’t hold me responsible. If he quits and wreaks havoc at home—don’t hold me responsible. If he quits and his work collapses—don’t hold me responsible. If you’re prepared for such a ruin, then bring your godly husband to me—I’ll try too.

And be aware: my efforts usually succeed. I have my own way. I’ll explain to him: all this divinity and so on will be finished—drop the charade. Let the reality be revealed once and for all.

And then don’t come back to say, “Now please convince him to drink again!” That will be very difficult. It’s easy to “improve,” very hard to “spoil” again.

But the whole approach is wrong. Why are you after someone else? Don’t you see anything in your own life to change? Become quiet. Meditate. Sink into prayer. If your husband feels any obstacle, he will ask on his own. Why should you ask?

I am often amazed that people ask far less about themselves and far more about others. A father comes and says, “My son has these faults; how to fix him?” As if the father has no faults! Then how did the son get them? He is your offspring. You are the source of the trouble—those tendencies must be somewhere in you.

Fathers come and say, “This boy is such a fool—an utter fool!” And I know the father to be a grand fool. But how to say it! He thinks he is a great man, intelligent, brilliant—the only reason he hasn’t got the Nobel Prize is because the committee is biased. And the son—a fool. He’s anxious about how to bring intelligence into the boy.
Intelligence will come only if he chooses different parents next time—which in this life is a bit difficult! The matter never ends there; they start scheming his marriage too. That will produce an even more accomplished specimen.

Wives worry about reforming husbands; husbands worry about reforming wives. Everyone is busy improving someone else. No one seems concerned whether anything in one’s own life needs to change. Life is brief; it will pass before you know it. Do something. Gather yourself. Climb a few steps toward the temple. Come a little closer to God. Don’t let this life pass vainly. Know something, live something—taste a little joy, a little consciousness. No, none of that concerns anyone. How to make the husband quit drinking!

And if he quits, then what? Will you attain samadhi? Buddha-hood? So many husbands don’t drink—what Buddha-hood has their wives attained? Rama Devi, just look around—many husbands don’t drink; what did their wives get from it?

People come to me and say, “How to meditate? At home there are only children, children everywhere! How to meditate with ten or twelve kids? Chaos!” And who produced them? Do you still believe that when God gives, he tears open the roof? You produce the children and then wail and cry and shout and raise a ruckus.

Then others come who have no children and say, “Until a child is born, the mind won’t settle in meditation. Not a single child—who will look after us later?” As if the world runs because of them! If they don’t leave behind offspring, the world will sink! Not the mythical tortoise holds up the earth—your future child will! They can’t rest because they want a child. The others can’t rest because they have too many.

The truth is: others are never the obstacle—neither the presence of children nor their absence. You keep searching for excuses.

Rama Devi, take charge of yourself. These respectable gentlemen who drink—let them drink. Whatever sin or merit accrues, that’s their business. Don’t waste your time on them. Do something else—drink something else! And it may happen that if you begin to be intoxicated with meditation, he will notice: the ecstasy I buy is costly; there is another ecstasy that doesn’t deplete but creates; that doesn’t destroy life but gives birth to it. The alcohol I drink will spoil and distort me. And my wife is absorbed in a different rasa. Perhaps your husband, bound by your fragrance, will come to me.

Don’t bring him to me the way you bring men to other mahatmas—be careful. Some women make this mistake and then regret it deeply. Usually, if you take your husband to a mahatma, he’ll give your husband a good scolding. That’s their business. There is a conspiracy: women serve the mahatmas; mahatmas serve the women. Women massage their feet; the mahatmas do what the women ask and scold the husbands. A fine collusion between women and mahatmas—and the husband is ground between them. And when the mahatma also says it, what can the poor fellow do but sit there hanging his head?

It often happened to me when I used to travel and stay in people’s homes—the wives would bring their husbands, or parents would bring their children: “Please teach them something.” Just as they had taken them to others. And wherever they had gone, the “teacher” had taught. I am a contrarian man. If you bring your husband to me, I’ll tell him: “Drink unhesitatingly. Don’t listen to her. There is no sin in drinking. Quit only the day you yourself feel it is wrong. If your wife finds it wrong, she should not drink. Marriage is no contract that both must drink or both abstain. If she won’t drink, fine—it’s her inner journey. You make yours in your own way. Who is she to change you? And if she wants to drink, let her drink too.”

Often I suspect that the urge to drink also arises in Rama Devi’s heart. But how to do it? The Indian woman—public opinion, modesty, propriety, the land of Satis and Savitris! How to drink here? She sips Coca-Cola—that’s already a big act. Because Sati-Savitri didn’t even drink Coca-Cola—it didn’t exist; otherwise who knows! Perhaps she, too, would like to drink, but cannot say so. The revenge then is to torment the husband. It’s retaliation.

Parents bring their children and say, “They don’t obey us.”
I tell them, “They shouldn’t obey you. You want to make them obey—that itself is wrong. Why should they? They have to live their own lives. You lived yours—did you obey your father?”
They get into a fix. Later they complain, “What are you telling our children? If they hear such things, they will be spoiled.”
I say, “When you didn’t obey your father, why should they obey you? You learned from your own experience; they will learn from theirs. You smoke and chew pan—fine. They smoke—wrong. How will the children accept this? On what grounds do you lecture them? You lie constantly and tell your children not to lie. They watch you lie—blatantly—and hear you preach. It becomes incomprehensible—what hypocrisy! You say one thing, do another. That is exactly what they are learning—the same art. They practice it on you; later they will practice it outside. You are the cause.”

So don’t, even by mistake, bring your husband to me. You have come here—good. Drink the rasa that flows here. We, too, are drinking a wine here—drink it! Then perhaps one day your husband, drawn by your intoxication, will come along. If he comes on his own, something real can happen.

I do not make people give up. I don’t trust renunciation. I say: don’t throw away the mud—find the gold; the mud will fall away by itself. I don’t say: leave the world. I say: experience the self. When the self is known, the world drops. I don’t say: practice renunciation. I say: taste the divine. Once the taste of God arrives, the world becomes bitter, unpalatable. Even if it’s already in your mouth, you spit it out.

My way of looking at life is different. I am not an ascetic; I am a supreme lover of life. I call spirituality the ultimate enjoyment—the drinking of the divine. There is no tavern greater than that, and no drunkards greater than those who have drunk him. In the face of that great intoxication, what chance do the little ones have? One who has found the ocean will not go paddling his canoe in puddles; he will wrestle with the ocean’s storms, take on great challenges.

Let your husband come by himself. Don’t haul him here—there could be danger.

Last question:
You have called Ma Sheela your bar-tender, your Madhubala. What does it mean?

Siddharth! The meaning is clear—this is a tavern. This is a gathering of drinkers. And Sheela is not the only Madhubala here—there are many. Goblet upon goblet is being filled and drunk. And this wine never runs out—its source is inexhaustible.

O honey-showerer,
rain honey,
keep raining,
keep raining.
Let my ears be thrilled
by the tinkle of your bangles,
the girdle-bells at your waist,
the anklets on your feet—
golden anklets,
chiming ‘chan-chan,’ anklets.
O honey-showerer,
rain honey,
keep raining,
keep raining.

Madhubala means: the one who fills your cup. All my sannyasins are engaged in this—filling your bowls. They have tasted; they invite you to taste.

Accept their invitation. Drink! Pour for others! Live—and bring this dead country back to life! This is no temple and no mosque—this is a tavern. Here, religion is not ritual; it is life, dance, music, joy. The gloomy and indifferent have no business here. The invitation is for dancers, for lovers. This is rasa. Space here is only for those who can laugh and smile—not only with their lips but with their very life-breath.

This is a thoroughly topsy-turvy place. Not Rishikesh, not Haridwar, not the sacred Prayag. Not the Kaaba, not Amritsar, not Girnar. This is the kind of place that appears on Earth only once in a while. Yes—when Buddha was alive, he had such a tavern. When Nanak was alive, the same music, the same notes were there. When Mohammed was alive, the same songs, the same resonance. When Jesus lived, goblets were being filled like this. Only when a living Master is present does such an extraordinary happening take place.

Even if I explain, it is difficult to understand. Even if I make it clear, it will not be clear. Forget about clarity. Drink. What is there to clarify! Taste. What is there to understand—live! Experience!

This is an upside-down place anyway, so Sheela has done well to hang the locket upside down. It means, Vishnu Chaitanya, if you want to understand me, stand on your head before Sheela; then you will see me upright. This is the message of the headstand.

That’s all for today.