Rahiman Dhaga Prem Ka #3

Vidyadhar! The very idea of searching for God is wrong. Seek yourself, and you will find God. Seek yourself, and God will seek you. If you do not seek yourself, you can bang your head a thousand times in the hunt for God—you may find many things, but God you will not find. One who does not know himself is not qualified to know God; he has no worthiness. First become worthy.

Self-ignorance is the greatest unworthiness. It is the only sin. All other sins are shadows of that supreme sin. And people fight all those other sins—fight anger, fight lust, fight greed, fight hatred, fight pride and jealousy—and they forget one thing: inside there is darkness. Snakes and scorpions breed in that darkness. What is needed within is light, illumination, self-knowing.

Ask about meditation; don’t even raise the topic of God. You haven’t sown the seed, and you start talking of flowers! From where will the flowers come?

Yes, plastic flowers can be found in the market. In temples, mosques, gurdwaras, and churches there are plastic gods, gods made by man. Those you can find. And if you work very hard and spur your imagination, then in your imagination you may even have a vision of Rama with his bow. It is a dream, nothing more. Krishna, peacock-feathered, may appear—also your imagination, nothing more.

Until you awaken within—so long as you sleep inside, and that very sleep I call self-ignorance—whatever you do will go wrong.

Vidyadhar, why do you want to search for God? What harm has God done to you? And if God wants to hide from you… surely He must want to, otherwise He would have come, He would have knocked at your door Himself. After all, clapping needs both hands; fire must be lit from both sides. One hand cannot clap. If the Divine does not want to seek you and keeps fleeing, then however much you search, what is your capacity? How far can your hands reach? Your reach has limits; He is limitless. He will keep Himself hidden.

People think it is a very philosophical thing—to search for God. They will not search themselves, but they are ready to search for God. The real question is: If I am, then what am I? Who am I? Apart from this one question, all other questions are futile—no more than scratching the skull.

You want to search for God? God—who is that? Until you meet, you don’t even know the meaning of the word “God.” For Christians it means one thing, for Hindus another, for Muslims a third. As many religions, as many meanings. And in each religion, how many sects! And within each sect, sub-sects! And each has its own conception. Which God will you search for? All these conceptions are manufactured by man. And God is found only when all human-made notions drop, when you become free of concepts, empty of fixed ideas.

Why does this urge to search for God arise in your mind? Is it your search? Or is it because the pundits, priests, sadhus, and mahatmas keep talking about God, so the same idea begins to echo in your head?

In Russia no one searches for God, because there the talk of God simply doesn’t arise. Speak of God and people will laugh. Two hundred million people will laugh in unison and call it foolish talk—because God is not being advertised. For sixty years the propaganda has been shut off; people have forgotten—no one goes searching for God. Leave Russia aside: right in your neighborhood live the Jains; they do not search for God, because in Jainism there is no place for a creator God. Buddhists do not search for God. All of Asia is Buddhist.

So what is it that you seek? Is this search really yours? Is this thirst yours? Like the thirst of a parched man for water—is it like that?

No, it is not like that. This search is like one born from reading an advertisement in the newspaper. A moment ago nothing troubled you; then you read an ad for some new thing you did not need a moment earlier, and suddenly it seems that life is useless without it. You feel you are living in vain. “If you haven’t smoked this brand of cigarette, what kind of life have you lived! If you haven’t drunk this brand of liquor, why were you born at all! Until you’ve bought this machine, your life has no meaning!”

Economists used to say: where there is demand, producers arise to supply. Now things have changed. Now supply is arranged first, and then a blitz of advertising creates demand. First there was demand; then came supply. Now it’s reversed. The art of advertising has become highly developed. In countries like America, production begins two or three years later; advertising begins two or three years earlier. Before a product appears in the market, for three years there’s a barrage of propaganda. People’s heads begin to buzz with it. The newspapers repeat: “The real joy of life is with Coca-Cola!” Who doesn’t want joy in life? And who really has joy? So people think, “It must be—there must be joy in Coca-Cola! Who knows where it’s hidden?” The campaign goes full steam: in newspapers, on giant billboards, in the cinema ads, on radio and television.

And those who make the ads do it cleverly. The man drinking Coca-Cola in the ad has such a smile that even Buddhas would feel envy, that Mahavira would stand embarrassed—“We wasted our lives for nothing; we didn’t drink Coca-Cola!” Beautiful women gaze—hungrily—at those who are drinking Coca-Cola. The one who drinks Coca-Cola—there isn’t blood in his veins, nectar flows. He doesn’t grow old; he remains forever young. Youth’s fragrance is in him, freshness. A Coke bottle in his hand, a smile on his face, the gestures of youth! Wherever he passes, women turn to look, look again and again, gather in little groups. Your heart too thinks: surely there is some secret in that Coca-Cola bottle!

Your God is like that. The advertising has been going on for centuries. What have you to do with God? You have not yet even searched for yourself, and you set out to seek the ultimate truth—without first seeing your own truth? But the propaganda is massive, relentless, millennia old. Every scripture repeats: bliss, bliss, bliss—he who finds God has it; he has eternal delight, the pleasures of heaven, the taste of liberation. And your mouth begins to water; you too are tempted. You think: “So many mahatmas say it; they can’t all be wrong.”

The only result of propaganda is that people become hypnotized. If one thing is hammered hard enough, again and again, for centuries, who could be so sensible as not to go looking? Otherwise, do you have any thirst for God? Search within and be honest. If others hadn’t spoken to you about God, would you be searching for Him? If the priests weren’t doing continual advertising, would you be searching for God?

There was a very rich Jewish magnate: Rothschild. He never advertised—an old-fashioned tycoon, untouched by modern winds. An advertising expert was after him. Rothschild pushed ad-salesmen out of his office. “My business runs very well without advertising. Why should I worry?” But the expert resolved: if we can’t entangle this man in advertising, what use is our expertise? One morning he arrived early. He didn’t come as though to solicit an ad; he came as if on some other errand. He didn’t go to the office; he went to the house. Rothschild was walking in the garden. The man went in, praised the flowers, praised the garden. Rothschild became curious, took him around to show the garden, even forgot who the man was. “How did you come?”

The man said, “I’ve just moved into your neighborhood. I thought I should introduce myself. And what moment could be more auspicious than morning, finding you in your garden, so I came!”

“What do you do?” Rothschild asked.

“I’m an advertising specialist.”

Rothschild was a bit startled. But it was too late; this wasn’t the time to throw someone out. And this man wasn’t asking for advertising. Rothschild asked, “These ad-people are always after me. Is there any substance in it, or is it nonsense? I’ve earned plenty without advertising—why should I bother? You’re an expert; what do you say? What’s your opinion?”

Just then the bells began to ring at a church standing on a nearby hill. The expert said, “Listen—how old is that church?”

“At least a hundred and fifty years old,” said Rothschild.

“Yet still it rings its bell every day—so that people won’t forget. Every morning the bell rings to remind the village: the church is here. It keeps it in memory. That is the secret of advertising: keep reminding people so they don’t forget. If you’ve made so much without advertising, imagine how much more you would have made with it!”

For the first time, Rothschild began to advertise. The expert had won his heart—and the method he revealed was this: even the church, the house of God, doesn’t survive without advertising. The cymbals in the temple, the aarti, the bell in the church, the chanting of mantras, the akhand path, the kirtan, the bhajan—these are old-fashioned ways of spreading the news in the village: “Don’t forget—we are here!” And if such messaging keeps falling upon you relentlessly, then sooner or later the question arises in your mind too: “So many are searching; we should search too!”

Vidyadhar, a search that is not born from your innermost being will not succeed. Do you truly have a longing for the Divine—or is it a borrowed desire? People are imitators. Because others are searching, you think you should search. God cannot be found that way.

My suggestion is: drop worrying about God. What have you to do with God? Take care of yourself. And I tell you this with certainty: those who took care of themselves, who put their inner house in order, the Guest comes of His own accord. Prepare yourself, and He will come seeking you—He must! It is inevitable, inescapable. Become a worthy vessel, and how could God not pour into that vessel? That would go against the eternal law. Whatever one is worthy of in this world—that is what one receives. This existence is profoundly just.

Man has created a social arrangement that is unjust. But the Divine is not confined within man’s arrangement. The word “Divine” means the eternal law, rita, Tao, dharma. Prepare yourself. Clean out the rubbish within. Become soft, pure. Become innocent. Make room within you! Your throne must be empty! If the Divine arrives, where will you seat Him? Will you think then, “Today of all days, I have no mat in the house!” There won’t even be a mat to spread. Where will you seat Him? If you are inviting the Master, at least adorn the house. Even for an ordinary guest, we prepare, we clean, we paint. If you want to invite God, first create so much open sky within that the Vast can enter! You are calling the Infinite; at least become quiet, become silent. You are calling Truth; at least remove the trash of lies. You call in Light, and you have married yourself to darkness; you live in darkness; all your vested interests are tied to darkness.

The truth is, if today the Divine were to come and stand at your door, you would run out the back door. I don’t say this idly; this is what would happen. You would escape at once. How would you face Him? How would you find the courage to lift your eyes to His? He would want to take you into His embrace. Would you find yourself worthy to melt into His arms?

Therefore, I do not place great value on the search for God. I want to begin the search from the right place. Ask: Who am I? How may I know myself?

But the pundits and priests have no interest in this; because with “Who am I?” there will be no worship, no Satyanarayan katha, no Ramayana; no temple can be built around it, no mosque can stand, no Quran, no Gita, no Bible—nothing. “Who am I?” is a direct, existential question. You yourself will have to settle it. There is no scope for a mediator. Yes, if you want to search for God, you must go to a priest; you must ask him for explanations, the signs of God, the road to reach Him—What is God like? Where is God?

Vidyadhar, I am not a pundit, not a priest. I am not here to teach you rituals of worship. You must have asked this question elsewhere too. Yes, if you ask the Shankaracharya of Puri, you will surely get an answer—because what other use is a Shankaracharya? The farther and more inaccessible they can make God, the longer and more arduous they can make the road—the more useful it is for them. You will never set out on such a long road…

And the irony is: God is not far; He is closer than the closest—He beats in your heart, flows in your breathing. But because you are unacquainted with yourself, you are unacquainted with Him. No mediator is needed.

Yet people ask such questions and think them philosophical. They are not philosophical; they are shallow, non-philosophical.

The pains of this earth were lived long ago;
Why sieve the sky for a new note now?
What secret can the stars divulge? Do they know anything at all?
What could the moon say? Has it any tale to tell?
A footprint marks the cloud—but whose foot?
Even here, no one knows this secret.

Eternal, unmoving—the heaven never stirs;
It never melts, though it fall into the fire of thirst.
One who knows nothing of the raptures of restlessness—
Why would he accept the world of a new sound?

Fool, this is a land of smoke; the deception is vast.
The mine of new experiences lies below.
The life laced with trouble—that life grew radiant;
He seeks the ray, yet he does not recognize it.

Not in the sky; rather, something glows in the fire.
The treasury of the new note is brimming, but still in the deep.
Breaking its prison, the stream of nectar will arise;
Why don’t you draw the bowstring tight to your ear?

Seeker of a new sound! Break through the nether depths.
Whatever surface your foot touches—leave it behind.
Where does the world of new resonance end?
Only he knows who accepts no boundary.

What lies there, where the fountains burst forth?
Does a touch of moisture bring the seed to sprout?
What rains from the sky gathers in the earth—
Why not resolve to descend into the deep?

Gather yourself and dive in the heart’s waters—plumb its depth.
Go down and bathe in the lake of essences below.
Leaving the lake, for the joy of sipping a mere drop,
You aim your arrow, in vain, at a flower in the sky.

You keep looking toward the sky—and He is hidden within. You seek in the heavens, you ask the moon and stars. Ask your own self! If the answer comes, it will come from your inner being, from your inmost core. There are the Vedas; there is the Quran; there is the Bible. All the rest is human intellectual acrobatics. Be free of mind. Be free of the mind’s constant entanglements. Slowly, become a witness of the mind. Watch the mind. Neither fight with it nor flow along with it. Be only the seer of the mind! And you will be astonished: as the witnessing settles, steadies, deepens, the mind will become thin, then dissolve, then disappear. The day your witnessing becomes total, that day the mind becomes zero. When the mind is zero and witnessing is whole, you come to the temple’s door; you arrive at the Divine’s door! He will call to you. He will take you into His embrace. Do not search for Him. Become a worthy vessel.

The intellect searches. Becoming a vessel belongs to the heart. These are different things. Searching is the trade of the intellect—hence in science, searching is right. The heart does not search. The heart is feminine: it waits, it prays. The intellect is aggressive, almost rapacious; that is why science has violated nature. Mind is male; heart is female. The heart is receptive, like a woman’s womb.

Slip from intellect toward heart. Drop all this thinking—Where is God? What is He? How shall I find Him?

Vidyadhar, forget all this “knowledge.” It is borrowed and stale. Know that you are ignorant. Know that you know nothing—and you will be freed of intellect. Become innocent like a small child, and move toward the heart—so that you are filled with wonder; so that, seeing the beauty of nature all around, you are struck dumb; so that within you music arises, dance arises, song arises; so that colors burst within you, powders of joy fly; so that celebration begins within! In that very festival, in that springtime moment, the Divine arrives. Become a witness and ask: Who am I?

And do not ask me. You must ask yourself. Whatever answer I give will become knowledge inside you; it will become part of the intellect; you will store it in memory. My answer will not help. The asking must be your own.

Do a small meditation. Whenever you find time, sit silently and ask within one question: Who am I? First, ask in words, “Who am I?” Then slowly drop the words and keep only the feeling: Who am I? Let there remain only a questioning state: Who am I? As long as you ask with words, the intellect will remain active. When you drop the words and only the feeling remains, the question will descend into the heart. And from there the answer comes. From there a spring will burst forth. If even a single drop is tasted, you will know the flavor of nectar. And from there you will become a vessel. From there—and only from there—whenever anyone has known, he has known!

Yes, if you want to become a pundit, that’s another matter. Becoming a pundit is cheap. Even parrots become pundits. Who is a pundit, if not a parrot? Beware of pedantry.

Vidyadhar, your name is dangerous. Remember your ignorance. Do not put your trust in that name. Names are deceptive. We give children the most beautiful names, and the children come to trust them. Those names become their stiffness, their conceit. They begin to live as if they are that. You are born nameless, and we stick a label on you. Naturally, we give a good name; who is stingy when giving a name? Sweet names we give—and then you begin to trust them. Then you get stuck behind them.

Those who have known have said: two things only entangle man—name and form. Name is false; form is false. Name settles in the mind; form is the body. You are neither. You are nameless, formless. And if you experience your nameless, formless Self—that is the first experience of the Divine.

Sita Maiyya! You have started a dangerous enterprise. Create something else. Create in a way that doesn’t amount to an assault on others. Poetry, as you are doing it, turns into an attack—because once you compose, you need listeners. But the poor listener also has the right to self-defense.

A man fell into a well and was shouting, “Help! Help!” Another man was standing on the ghat above, peering down and saying nothing. A second passerby arrived and said, “What are you looking at? The man is dying down there—aren’t you going to save him?”
The first said, “He jumped himself.”
“Why did he jump?”
“I’m a poet. I was reciting my poem to him. He suddenly leapt into the well—and now he’s yelling, ‘Help! Help!’”
The second said, “Don’t worry, I’m also a poet. I’ll go down into the well and recite to him.” He too jumped. “I’ll do the poetry reading right there. What’s the worry! If he’s in the well, all the better—he can’t run away. We’ll recite to our heart’s content.”

I’ve heard of a village where there were so many poets that they had to change the whole arrangement. They seated the listeners on the stage and the poets in the hall. They had to present shawls and garlands to the listeners and give each of them twenty-one rupees—if not flowers, then at least petals as offerings. And even then they had to lock the doors and post wrestlers so no one could escape. Then the poetry gathering could proceed in earnest.

Create in such a way that nobody else is demolished by it. If others don’t want to hear Sita Maiyya’s poems, how can I give my blessing? Write as much poetry as you like, but read it to yourself. Hum it in solitude; pat your own back. A little nonviolence is necessary too.

Plato, the great Greek thinker, imagined in his famous Republic what kind of society there should be. He allowed everyone in—except the poets. When I first read that I thought, This is not right. Why this bias against poets?
But after I listened to poets, I was forced to agree with Plato. I said, He has hit the nail on the head. There’s no harm in poetry itself, but in a hundred poets, there may be one real poet; the other ninety-nine are dangerous people. They eat others’ heads. They mistake rhyming for poetry. And is rhyming any difficulty?

A thief broke into a poet’s house one night. The poet caught him. “Sit down,” he said. “Since you’ve come, you’ll have to leave only after listening.”
The thief said, “Brother, hands folded, let me go. I have other places to visit. I came here by mistake; I’ll never come again. How was I to know a poet lives here! And what’s there to steal in a poet’s house anyway! Don’t punish me so severely for my mistake.”
But the poet had no intention of letting him off. At last the thief said, “At least let me phone home,” and he called the police station: “Hello, I’m calling from such-and-such address. A thief has broken into this house. Send the police at once.”
The inspector said, “We’re sending them. Who are you?”
“I’m the thief.”
The inspector was astonished. “This is the first time in my life a thief has called.”
He replied, “And this is the first time in my life I’ve been trapped in a poet’s house. Jail is better than this. He’ll kill me before dawn. He’s opened such a huge manuscript and locked the doors.”
After much pleading the poet said, “All right, go.”
The thief said, “I’ll come sometime when I’m free and listen, but now it’s my business hours.”
The poet said, “At least take something with you. Take this book home and read it.”
“What’s in it?”
“Epic poems, long poems. Tuktaks and muktaks.”
“Then give me a muktak—the ‘free’ one—because I want to be freed.”

Sita Maiyya, I did say a sannyasin should be creative. Whatever you do, do it with so much love, so much relish, as if your whole life were made for that act—as if there were no tomorrow. Pour yourself totally into what you are doing today. Do whatever you do with such festivity and gratefulness—whether you say God, the unknown nature, the unknowable energy, any name will do—that it is clear some unknown energy is doing so much. Otherwise how would we be? How would the moon be? The stars? How would flowers blossom on trees? How would songs arise in birds’ throats? The cuckoo calling from afar! The papihā crying “pi-kahan!” This whole beauty! Such colors on a butterfly’s wings! A vast creative power is at work. So whatever you do, take it as your offering—your collaboration with that vast creative power.

In my view, if God is the Creator, then whenever you come to the state of being a creator, your rhythm aligns with God. There is no prayer greater than creation. Bake bread, Sita Maiyya—wonderful. Bake it with the feeling you are making it for Ram. Whoever you’re making it for, Ram is within them. Don’t sit waiting for the bow-bearing Ram. Nowadays where will you find a Ram with bow and arrows? He may arrive in a suit, with a tie. No problem. However he comes, recognize him.

Once there was a great uproar in a village where I was staying. The college boys had staged a comic skit. A fight broke out, sticks were used—over a small thing! The boys had organized a comedy. But India has forgotten how to laugh. India has become so serious! The so-called knowers of Brahman have thrashed India so much; they loaded so much trash on people that their lips are sewn shut—they can’t laugh. Laughter feels irreligious. The boys were just joking. But the villagers didn’t understand. The joke was that Lord Ram came onstage wearing a suit and tie, a pith helmet tucked under his arm. That was still tolerable, but Sita Maiyya wore high heels and was smoking a cigarette! The village said, “This is the limit—Sita Maiyya smoking?” They tore the curtains down and beat the boys. They beat up “Sita Maiyya.” They snatched Ramchandraji’s tie and said, “Aren’t you ashamed?”
Had it been the bow-bearing Ram—the same good-for-nothings would have touched his feet. In any village Ramleela, whoever becomes Ram—usually the local ruffian, because who else has the time?—people touch his feet, offer money, worship him, wave lamps before him, all the while knowing perfectly well he’s the village hooligan. Yesterday he was causing trouble, tomorrow he will again. Today he sits on the chariot as Ram, the wedding procession is going to Janakpuri, and they worship him—knowing full well that “Sita Maiyya” is just a village boy in costume.
But there they got angry, a riot erupted—over a trifling matter. And the “wise men” keep telling you to see Ram in everyone. Then what obstacle is there in seeing Ram wearing a tie? Can a tie finish Ram off? So mighty is the tie? The weak God Ram—killed by a tie! Spoiled by a tie!
And if Sita Maiyya smokes a cigarette, so what? A little nicotine went inside—what’s the harm? It doesn’t stay; in twenty-four hours it’s out of the body. What’s the big obstacle?
But they objected. And high heels—oh, they objected mightily, “What kind of Sita Maiyya is this!”

So I say to you: whether you bake bread, stitch clothes, or clean the house—do it as if for Ram.
People asked Kabir, “Now that you are enlightened, why do you still weave cloth? Stop it.” His disciples said, “We’re ready to provide whatever you need. Why should you weave?”
Kabir said, “No, Ramji loves my cloth.” And when he went to the village to sell his cloth, he addressed every customer, “Ramji, please take it.” There was no one other than Ram. Whoever came was Ram. Only Ram is—there is nothing else.

To me, there is more meaning, dignity and glory in Kabir’s way than in that incident about Tulsidas recorded by Nabhadas: when Tulsidas was taken to a Krishna temple, he did not bow. How could he bow to Krishna? He was a devotee of Ram. And the same Tulsidas says he saw only Sita-Ram in the entire world—“Siyaram-maya sab jag jani.” But there he forgot—he saw Ram everywhere only in poetry, in rhyme, not as a living experience. He could not see Ram in Krishna; he refused to bow even before Krishna. “Take the bow and arrow in your hands,” he said, “then my head will bow.” The true colors of Baba Tulsidas showed. That seeing of Ram everywhere was poetry; it was not realization. He could not see Ram in Krishna. He even set conditions on God: “First fulfill my condition, then I will bow.” Even his surrender was conditional. And conditional surrender dies; it commits suicide. Surrender is unconditional: “As You will.” If today Your will is to stand with a peacock feather on Your crown, then so be it—we will see You thus as well.

Kabir is doing the right thing. The ordinary customer who comes to buy, he addresses, “Ramji, take it. I have woven it not casually, but with great love. Bhini-bhini beeni re chadariya! Dyed again and again in Ram-ras. Woven in ecstasy. Sung as it was woven.”
He would hum and weave. Sway and weave. Surely his inebriation, his inner wine, would spread onto the warp and weft—some trace must remain. And he would say, “I have woven it so carefully, so strongly, that even if you want to tear it, it will take years. Take it!”
He would say, “Ramji comes to the market looking for whether Kabir has come or not; if He doesn’t find me, He will be very sad.” Till his last breath Kabir kept weaving.

This is what I call creativity. People make the mistake of thinking creativity means making a statue, writing poetry, or painting—two or three such things. Creativity does not mean only that.
Here in the ashram, what touches visitors most is the joyfully working people—even those cleaning toilets. There isn’t a single servant here; the very idea of a servant is inhuman. All the work is being done by sannyasins. And there is no discrimination. There is no difference between the one who cleans the latrines and the one who sits in the office as chancellor of the University of Meditation. In any case, there is no basis for difference. Among those who clean the bathrooms are Ph.D.s. One Ph.D. drives the ashram cars. Another Ph.D. grows vegetables in the garden.
Creativity does not only mean writing poetry. Whatever you do should be your meditation, your joy, your celebration. If you clean the floor, do it as if it were for God.

That’s why in the ashram you will sense a freshness, a fragrance, a cleanliness, a different perfume—the perfume of creativity. Whoever is engaged in whatever work is so absorbed that that very work is worship, that very work is prayer.

Sita Maiyya, write poetry—no harm. There is nothing wrong with poetry. The only danger is that poetry is seldom of much use. And once you have made it, naturally the thought arises that someone should listen; if no one listens, what substance is there in the poem? Someone should praise it. Then the trouble begins. If it is swantah sukhaya—done for one’s own delight—fine; otherwise it is dangerous.

The great poet Dhabbhuji once fell ill. The illness was such that the doctors could not understand it. Finally, defeated, they asked Dhabbhuji himself, “Tell us—you’ve bested us all; what is the root of this illness? You are a great poet; you discover deep things. Say something about your illness too. Is there some mental pain? Some stress? What is the matter?”
Dhabbhuji said, “How could I not be ill! For the last three weeks I haven’t found a single listener. So the poems are boiling inside. I need a listener.”
Then a light went on in the doctors’ heads. They gave ten rupees to a deaf man and persuaded him to sit all night, pretending to listen as if he were enjoying it immensely. “This is the only way to save Dhabbhuji from death.” The deaf man agreed. Early next morning when the doctor came to see what had happened, he was astonished! Dhabbhuji was completely healthy, happy, exuberant, intoxicated—reciting poems—and the poor deaf listener had died who knows when.

Sita Maiyya, my blessing to you! Compose to your heart’s content. But don’t recite to anyone. Hum in solitude with the doors closed—I will listen! That’s the advantage. Hang my picture and recite to it. Or you have the locket—just hold the locket and recite. A picture can’t die, and I’ll keep smiling. You happy, I happy!

But give your creativity other avenues too. Let your whole life be creative. Then a prasada descends, a beauty appears—in how you get up and sit, how you walk and move. When Buddha walks, it is poetry. When Krishna sits, it is poetry; when he rises, it is poetry. Even when Jesus hangs on the cross, there is a grace. And you—even if you sit on a throne—there will be no grace.
This is possible only when you are surrendered to God, to existence—when you have put your ego aside. That’s all. Creativity means: put the ego aside and do what God makes you do; become a medium in His hands. If His winds come and lift you like a dry leaf, fly! If His river, His flood comes and carries you toward the ocean, flow. Do what God makes you do.
Leave everything to existence. Anxiety will melt, sorrow will vanish. Then poetry may arise, songs may be born. Then you won’t have to seek listeners—listeners will seek you. Because each of your words will have nectar. Nectar—rasa—is another name for God. Raso vai sah!

Shantanand Saraswati! First, never compare—if you do, you will get more and more entangled instead of becoming clear. If you think of Buddha and Mahavira together, you will go mad. If you think of Krishna and Christ together, you will fall into a terrible inner conflict, become deranged.

One true master is enough to set you free. But if you want to go insane, then get entangled in the sayings of many masters. Because each master’s expression is unique. Every master is one of a kind, incomparable. He is not an imitation of anyone. He speaks from his own experience, his own seeing. He discovers his own approaches and methods. So the words of masters will naturally be different.

Now if you try to think of Buddha, Mahavira, Krishna, Christ, Shankaracharya, and me all at once, your difficulties will never end; your confusions will grow day by day and you will go mad.

This has just happened. Advait Bodhisattva’s brother is educated, intelligent, talented. He reads and listens to me; he also reads and listens to Krishnamurti. Now he has fallen into heavy tension. He wants to take sannyas. But Krishnamurti says: do not become anyone’s disciple, do not make anyone a master. A great dilemma! If he heeds Krishnamurti, he cannot become a sannyasin. If he heeds me, he has to become a sannyasin. Whom to follow? And his trouble increases because I say: Krishnamurti is an enlightened man—what he says is right from his vision. That makes it even harder. If I were to say he is not enlightened, it would be simpler: choose either him or me. He was also told not to get too entangled in this. All day he listens to my tapes, then to Krishnamurti’s; Krishnamurti’s, then mine. Just four or six days ago news came that he ran away from home—vanished. Advait Bodhisattva went searching: what happened? Where did he go? He has been found unconscious. For four or five days now he has been unconscious in the hospital. What happened? Too much inner strain.

It happened on the twenty-first. He wanted to come here, and Krishnamurti must have been pulling him: Where are you going! So he neither came here nor went to Krishnamurti; he ran away from home just to escape the mess somehow. What really happened will be known when he regains consciousness—how he fell unconscious, where he was found, how he was brought—this whole story will come later. For now the doctors say: the longer he remains unconscious, the better. Let him sleep. The longer he stays in sleep, the better his brain can quiet down again.

So first, Shantanand: do not compare, otherwise you will fall into conflict. Every master speaks to his moment. Time changes every day. With time, problems change. Each master speaks to his disciples—not to the whole world, because the whole world does not come to listen. He speaks to those who are near him. He answers their needs, takes care of their illnesses.

For example, Patanjali emphasized yama and niyama; I do not. There are reasons. The society in which Patanjali was born five thousand years ago was extremely hedonistic, utterly pleasure-seeking. Even religion was not religion; it was an extension of the desire for enjoyment. The so-called rishis were not rishis at all. They had wives; not only wives but also secondary wives—vadhus. They had wealth and comforts. They were entangled in all kinds of politics. They were called rishis, but they were all tangled up in politics. Vedic religion was not a yogic religion. People performed fire sacrifices, but those too were for enjoyment.

Read the hymns of the Vedas a little. They are all petitions of desire—O Lord, give me this! O Lord, give me that! Nothing but asking. And such petty asking! It’s astonishing what fools collected such verses into the Vedas! “Increase the milk in my cow’s udder.” This too a prayer! “Let more water fall in my field.” This too a prayer! And it doesn’t stop there—it never does. “Let my enemy’s cow’s udder dry up.” This too a prayer! “Let no rain fall on my enemy’s field.” This too a prayer! Indra must have been in great difficulty—make rain fall on one field and not on the neighbor’s! Because the enemy is usually the neighbor. To be an enemy you must first be a neighbor. You won’t go far to find enemies—you live in Hindustan and your enemy in China? Your enemy will be next door—the one who plays the radio too loud, whose boys scream and play stickball, breaking your windowpanes. Who will be your enemy? The neighbor, of course. And less rain for the enemy’s field... certainly not in another village; that much is sure. And in those days there were no trains or airplanes that you could have enemies far away. So more rain on one field and less on the other. You see Indra’s trouble! Increase one cow’s milk and dry up another’s!

Are these prayers? These are the signs of pure hedonists—and of the lowest kind—full of cruelty and harshness. And how much quarrel! How much discord between Vishvamitra and Vashishtha! The same bickering went on and on. Society was hedonistic, utterly so. Every town had courtesans, and they were an accepted institution—called the “bride of the city.” In fact, the rule was that the most beautiful young woman in the city be declared the city’s bride so jealousy would not arise. Otherwise, if she became the wife of one man, there would be quarrels—the others were candidates too. To avoid conflict, better declare her the city’s bride, wife to all.

Courtesans were accepted. People were pleasure-seeking. Alcohol was common. Under the name soma, various intoxicants were in use—ganja, opium. Don’t think only modern sadhus use these. It’s an ancient tradition—forefathers used them. The truth is, nowadays poor fellows get criticized. If you catch a sadhu smoking ganja you say, “What sort of sadhu are you?” Yet he’s following a five-thousand-year-old tradition—he’s a real sadhu! If a sadhu doesn’t smoke ganja, that’s when you should ask, “What sort of sadhu are you?” If he neither smokes ganja nor chews bhang nor tastes soma—how is he a sadhu? First have some experiences! Without bhang where is God? Has anyone entered samadhi without ganja? It’s in ganja the flight comes!

So in Patanjali’s time, with indulgence and luxury everywhere, and such goings-on even in the name of sadhus, he gave value to yama and niyama to stop that tide.

Today the situation is precisely the opposite. Today the condition is repression. People are sick with repression. Natural tendencies have been so suppressed; yama-niyama has become so overemphasized that people have nothing left but yama-niyama. And inside? Inside flames are raging—of passions and desires. Terrible flames! They need discharge. They cannot be eliminated by suppression; they must be transformed upward.

That is why I do not emphasize yama-niyama; I emphasize awareness. Because by emphasizing yama-niyama, people began to repress. The hedonist is wrong; and the one who represses is also wrong. The way is neither in indulgence nor in repression; it lies between the two.

But if you sit down to think all this through, you will get into great difficulty. You do not know clearly what the situation was when Patanjali spoke of yama-niyama. To whom did he speak? Who were the listeners?

Further, everyone has his own experience, his own life-stream. It is from his own experience that he speaks and prescribes.

Shankaracharya was not merely a scholar—he was an enlightened man. But the language he chose for expression was traditional. Perhaps in those days it was not possible to speak in any other language. Even today how difficult it is! You can see my difficulty. Because I have not chosen traditional language or formalities, I am showered with abuse! Only those who have a little courage to be free of tradition—indeed one should say audacity—can be truly interested in me. That is why more people come from other countries and fewer Indians; Indians are tightly bound by orthodoxy and tradition. And then there is fear: if they come here, what will the neighbors say! News will reach the village that this man too has gone!

When I was in Bombay, friends there who never came to hear me used to come here. Many of them took sannyas here. I asked them: why didn’t you come in Bombay? They said: there were obstacles in Bombay. When I was in Jabalpur, those who never came to meet me there come here. And I’m certain, when I leave Poona then Poona people will also start coming. Right now it’s difficult to come in Poona—who wants a bad name? One must manage the village, market, business. A daughter must be married. A boy admitted to school. A thousand hassles. To go against the crowd you live among is not without danger.

Shankaracharya chose the traditional idiom. Using the language tradition sanctioned, he conveyed his message. Naturally, in that language many errors are visible today; they were not visible then. Therefore Shankaracharya could be easily accepted.

Notice something: Buddha could not be easily accepted, because he chose a nontraditional language. That is why after Buddha’s death, Buddhism was uprooted from India. India is a very rigid, tradition-bound country. People here are line-drawers—lakīr ke fakīr. People are dead—long dead—yet keep going! They keep moving in a shove-and-push somehow.

You’ve heard stories that Rana Sanga’s head was cut off and still he kept fighting. Whether such stories are true or not, in India you will find people everywhere whose heads were cut off long ago—yet they keep fighting, keep going, keep doing business, going to market, having children. Here people die long before they are buried.

Buddha tried an experiment here. Mahavira spoke in traditional language, so Jainism did not die. He spoke so traditionally that Jainism could not go outside India, because in such a traditional tongue no one outside India could be interested. It remained confined, but survived—its stream became faint, yet it lived.

Buddha spoke a completely new, original language. He minted his own coins, opened his own mint, did not circulate old coins. Therefore, while Buddha was alive he was much abused, but his personality had impact; people stayed with him. After Buddha departed, the difficulty arose—Buddhism was uprooted from India.

Shankaracharya became alert from Buddha’s experience. Shankaracharya said almost the same things Buddha said—you will be surprised. In my understanding Shankaracharya is a concealed Buddhist, a prachchhanna bauddha. Ramanuja, Nimbarka, and Vallabha have criticized him precisely for this: he is a hidden Buddhist. He uses Hindu scriptures, but interprets them non-Hindu; he uses Hindu words, but gives them Buddhist meanings. The thoroughly traditional Ramanuja, Nimbarka, and Vallabha saw this—they recognized Shankara’s cleverness.

What Buddha “did wrong”—wrong only in the sense that his teaching did not stick—was an unprecedented experiment that did not endure. Shankaracharya made the same thing endure, but then had to use traditional words. So Shankaracharya appears conservative. He stuck—and so much so that he became the most influential figure. No one has left as deep an imprint on India as Shankaracharya. All sannyas in India became Shankara-influenced. But he paid a precious price: the edge was blunted. The cutting edge of the message was lost.

Buddha’s words have an edge. True, the religion was lost in India, its roots did not remain here; but in Buddha’s words the sword-like edge is still free of rust. Shankaracharya made the creed endure, but the edge was lost.

Yet everyone must choose for himself. No one can dictate why he should choose this or that. Each person must see his circumstances, his time, his needs.

But Shantanand, don’t get tangled in these knots. Consider this: if I were to use traditional language, my fate would be that of Mahavira—I would remain limited to India. For about ten years I did use such language. Then I saw this would not travel outside India; it could not be carried to the world. In those days Jains were pleased with me; Hindus were pleased; Muslims were pleased. For whatever I wished to say, I said it via the Quran; or in the name of Mahavira; or via the Gita. What have I to do with the Gita—or with Mahavira? I can say my thing directly. But I saw that there was no one to listen to a direct voice. Yes, in Mahavira’s name a Jain would come to listen; he came to hear Mahavira—but in that pretext he also heard me, a little of my word entered his ears. Slowly he became interested in me too.

Then I saw this would remain cramped; it would not expand; it would not become global. And today what humanity needs is a world religion—a religious movement bound nowhere, in which people of the entire world can participate. Naturally, to move toward that expanse meant that the small circles gathered around me would scatter. That price had to be paid—but it was no price at all.

When I came to Poona to speak on Mahavira, thousands listened. Of them only a handful are here now. When I spoke on the Gita, thousands listened; today only two or four of them are present—you can count them on your fingers. Where did the rest go? If I talk on the Gita again, those thousands will return. But meanwhile, sannyasins have spread across the world. Within ten years there will be a million sannyasins worldwide—without hindrance.

So rather than remain bound among thirty million Indian Jains—and there was no real point to their listening: their only concern was that I praised Mahavira and they went home happy. Praise of Mahavira felt like praise of themselves; their egos got a little juice, that’s all. Nothing would change in them. Likewise, Hindus would gather for the Gita, listen, feel good—entertained that their tradition was praised—and go home. No transformation.

I saw this clearly through a decade of experiment: nothing in their lives would be transformed, and I’d waste my time. I had to change my whole set-up. And once I did, a revolution began. Now what I say has a global impact. Today there is no country whose language my words have not reached, where books have not been translated. There is no country without sannyasins, without centers.

So each person must think in his own way and respond to his time and its problems.

Do not worry about all this. As for what Shankaracharya says about women, that is less his own statement and more a repetition of what the Hindu scriptures had been saying about women. Hindus were pleased by that. The male Hindu ego was gratified. And in Shankara’s time women had no value. Among those who come to listen to me today, as many women come as men—because this is a global community. But when I used the old idiom, there were scarcely any women; the gatherings were male. Those who listened to Shankaracharya would have been all men; where was the opportunity for women? They didn’t even have the right to listen. Shankaracharya was merely speaking what the scriptures had written. I know he spoke it without heart, but there were compulsions; otherwise his work would have been impossible.

There is a certain fear of woman in the male mind. The cause of that fear is repression. There is no fear in woman—what fear would there be in her? The cause of fear is repression. The more you have suppressed your sexuality, the more you will fear woman. It is striking that women do not fear men. They have not spoken against men, though they have plenty of material to do so. Because women haven’t repressed. Women are more natural, earthy, practical. They have no fascination with Brahman-knowledge and such; they don’t get into such idle talk. They leave that to men.

Someone once asked Mulla Nasruddin how he and his wife never quarrel—how did he solve this eternal issue? He said: I solved it on the very first day. I said, look, let’s decide. On the important matters I will be the final authority; on the unimportant ones, you will be. And since then there has been no quarrel. I settle the important matters; she settles the unimportant ones. The listener said: Amazing! How can that work? Which are important and which are unimportant? Nasruddin said: Don’t ask—that would give the whole thing away. Important matters are: does God exist or not? When was the world created? Is there heaven or not? How many hells? The law of karma? Is there rebirth? Are ghosts real? I decide all that. Which house to buy, which car to buy, which school to enroll the children in, which sari to purchase, even which coat to buy for me—she decides all that. Small matters! There is no question of quarrel.

Women are perfectly pleased—“You do all the metaphysical discussion you like; enjoy yourself. Just put your salary here on the first of the month.”

Women are more natural and earthly. Having not repressed, they have not blamed men. Men, on the other hand, have always been nervous.

A scientist’s students once asked him for a chemical definition of woman. He said: “A member of the human species; seldom found in her natural state; coated in layers of pigment; temperature uncertain—sometimes hot, sometimes cold; highly explosive; chiefly ornamental; probably the greatest known capacity to lead man astray; keeping more than one is illegal.”

Men are afraid. Chandu Lal’s son asked him: “Papa, why is it a crime to have two marriages?” Chandu Lal said: “Son, that law was made for those who can’t protect themselves. One is enough. Look at your mother! Look at me—I strut like a lion outside the house; the moment I enter, my tail is tucked like a dog’s. If one woman brings me to this, imagine two or three—what trouble that would be! And since men are incapable of protecting themselves, the law had to be made. Otherwise, not just two or three or four—he would keep increasing the number.”

Men remain frightened—of what they have suppressed within. Hence for centuries they have spoken against women. They are not really against women; they are only expressing their own mental condition.

A reporter asked the gold medalist sprinter at the Olympics: “What motivates your astonishing speed?” He replied: “While running I imagine my wife is chasing me, shouting, ‘Now I’ve got you! Now I’ve got you!’ Then the speed that comes into my body—I myself can hardly believe it.” And he added: “Don’t call me ‘dear brother’—I’m only a brother now; the ‘dear’ ended with marriage.”

Men are afraid.

A woman was on her deathbed. With difficulty she propped herself up and asked her husband: “Beloved, will you remarry immediately after I die?” “No, no—never!” he said. “Don’t think such things. First I will take some rest.”

Men are more sex-obsessed—for the very reason that repression has been imposed on them. So they are afraid. At the sight of a woman they tremble, panic, become restless. They know that if they take liberty something or other will erupt. They cannot allow themselves freedom. Hence yama-niyama, restraint—tie yourself up!

And it is most unbecoming that you cannot be spontaneous, and have to rely on yama-niyama—see a woman and immediately look here and there, drop your eyes, begin chanting Ram’s name, start fingering your mala, suddenly think lofty thoughts—anything so that the woman somehow passes out of sight!

Revered Sant! This is proof that they are the true progeny of the rishis and munis. They were born in the meritorious land of India. They are religious people. This is the hallmark of religious people. And then, naturally, they will feel guilt, a sense of sin—so they will abuse me. They will go out and abuse me, and fabricate one lie after another—lies beyond counting.

Yesterday I was looking at a Bengali magazine, Parivartan. They had published a long article, with pictures of the ashram on both sides of the front cover. And the journalist wrote that he himself had been to the ashram. Nothing could be a bigger lie, because what he wrote was: “The first person I met was Ma Yoga Laxmi, dressed in white like a Catholic nun.” Did this man ever come here? Does he even know where here is? Who knows where he landed up and what happened! Whatever he has written is sheer nonsense. He wrote that every night I give sannyas to a hundred people. If I had my way, I would certainly want a hundred people to take sannyas every night. And he writes this as an eyewitness account! He adds that at the time of initiation each person has to be naked; unless you are naked you cannot receive sannyas.

All such lies spread and appeal to people, because inside them there is a morbid condition, and these stories harmonize with it.

And when your sadhus and saints kept abusing women—they were abusing themselves, really, but kept abusing women—then the life-relationship they had with the women in their own lives, the experiences they had with their wives, must have been bitter. They too must have been responsible, but no one speaks of his own part; people hide their own. The denunciation of women is still dogging them. Even now they think women are dangerous. They ran away from home and became sadhus...

A Jain monk, Ganeshvarni, died just a few years ago. The man who wrote his life story is known to me. When the book was published, he came to present it to me. I leafed through it and was stunned by one thing: thirty years earlier he had abandoned his wife. Thirty years later his wife died. She had to survive by grinding flour, somehow scraping by. In what misery she lived—she knows; there is scarcely any mention of it. But thirty years later, when he was in Kashi and got the news that his wife had passed away, an exclamation came from his mouth: “Good, the nuisance is over!” This is recorded in most laudatory terms: Ah, what a detached man! How desireless! That he did not shed a tear at his wife’s death—on the contrary, he said, “Good, the nuisance is over!”

I told that author, “You are a first-class fool.” Had he shed a tear, that would have been understandable—there would have been a little humanity in it, a little nonviolence, a little compassion. To say, “Good, the nuisance is over,” proves only one thing: that the nuisance of the wife he abandoned thirty years earlier was still going on inside him. It proves nothing else. The one you left thirty years ago—where does her nuisance remain for you? What nuisance? You haven’t seen her for thirty years, haven’t met her; you dumped every kind of nuisance on her—and now you say the nuisance is over! Then surely the fire must have been smoldering within, a live coal beneath the ashes. He still looks afraid of his wife. It may be that if the wife were to appear before him, she would still make him run for cover; he would forget his saintliness and such.

A woman went to buy a dog. The firm’s manager, showing her a dog, said, “Madam, this is the only one left of this breed. If you like it, buy it today itself—who knows, by tomorrow someone else might come!”
The lady said, “But my husband absolutely dislikes this breed of dog.”
The manager asked, “As far as I understand, you are the wife of the poet Dhabbuji.”
The woman said happily, “You have recognized me correctly. I am Mrs. Dhabbuji.”
The manager said, “Then I would like to tell you not to bother about your husband’s preferences. A dog of this breed is hard to find again, whereas husbands of your husband’s breed you can get as many as you want without even searching.”
And I have heard that on hearing this Mrs. Dhabbuji bought the dog and returned home, and since then Mr. Dhabbuji has been thinking of becoming a sadhu. Now if he becomes a sadhu, he will abuse women for the rest of his life. He will curse dogs—and not just dogs, women too! His abuse will reveal what his life-experiences have been.

You ask, Shantanand, why Tulsi reviled women?

Tulsi reviled women because Tulsi was a lustful man, very lustful. When his wife went to her parents’ home for a few days, he even followed her there. It was the rainy season; he swam across a river holding on to a corpse, thinking it was a drifting log. He must have been utterly blinded by passion. Then, climbing up the back of the house, he took a snake for a rope and climbed up. Such a sex-obsessed man was awakened by a woman herself. She said, “If you had this much love for God as you have for me, you would have attained him long ago. If only it were for God, what might you not have become!” That woman gave him the insight, and the same woman he went on abusing all his life. He should have thanked her, shown a little courtesy.

But Tulsidas is not a man who attained buddhahood. He is certainly a great poet, but being a great poet does not make one a Buddha. What that woman did felt like an insult to him—he felt insulted—and a guilt arose: “Ah, what a sensualist I am!” He turned back, but he turned back in anger. He left home indeed, but the resentment against the woman is obvious. Hence, “The drum, the boor, the shudra, the animal, the woman—all deserve to be beaten.” Torment them, beat them, thrash them—this became the tone of his whole life.

Don’t get into this tangle.

Many people are not enlightened at all, though you may think they are; they will only throw you into more entanglements. And those who are enlightened will still speak differently; their expressions will differ. If you want to be broken into fragments, that’s another matter. Shantanand, if you want to become Ashantanand—un-peaceful Anand—that’s another matter. Everyone has his own angle of seeing.

On the road, Mulla Nasruddin happened to meet a childhood friend. Mulla asked, “So, brother, how are things? Got married or not?”
The reply came, “It’s been quite a while since the marriage, and by the grace of the One above, just last month we had a child as well.”
Mulla asked, “Oh, so have you rented out the upper floor to someone?”

Don’t get into complications. Now that you have come to me, I am enough. How many people’s words will you keep pondering over? Don’t get into comparisons. Don’t set up a whole confusion. It will only tangle the mind and thicken the web. Truth is found by being simple, not by getting entangled.

Sahajanand! After hearing yesterday’s discourse, even Nasruddin got riled. I had said that even the devil cannot deceive a Marwari. So the mulla thought to himself: To hell with the Marwaris! Today I’ll trick a Marwari in such a way that her seven generations will remember it.

It was dusk; the sun had set, and because of a power failure the street was dark. Nasruddin saw that the neighbor, the Marwari Seth Dhannalal’s new daughter-in-law, was coming along with a long veil drawn, a beautiful bag dangling from her hand. The mulla thought, A good chance—let me give this Marwari woman a taste today. He quickly got up and fell into step with her. Half past seven in the evening, the darkness, and then that long veil! The woman thought, My husband has come. She said, Listen, dear, I feel like having a Coca-Cola.

The mulla understood she was taking him for her husband. He said, Come, there’s a restaurant right nearby; we’ll go and have a Coca-Cola.

In this way the mulla brought the woman to his house. Closing the door of the room, the mulla raped the woman. She neither cried nor screamed. The mulla felt very pleased that at last he had deceived a Marwari woman. But he was also surprised that she offered no resistance. When the woman left, Nasruddin too, out of curiosity, stealthily followed her to her house. Peeking in through the window at what he saw there, he got the fright of his life.

The woman, weeping, was telling them that a stranger had committed adultery with me. Her father-in-law and husband asked, You fool, the gold bangles you were carrying in the bag—were they snatched too? She said, No, no! Cleverly, I took those gold bangles out of the bag and hid them in my shoes. That bastard didn’t even notice. And not only that—his moneybag was under his pillow; I brought that too.

Saying this, the Marwari woman took the bangles out of her shoes and pulled out the mulla’s moneybag, which had three thousand rupees in it. Everyone was delighted; all their faces lit up. The father-in-law, with a sigh of relief, said, Well, so rape happened—so what! What have we lost? Our honor is saved—isn’t that enough?

That’s all for today.