Rahiman Dhaga Prem Ka #4

Ramakrishna! Who gave you that name? You are neither Ram nor Krishna. You’ve disgraced both Ram and Krishna. At least keep some honor of your name!

A novelist once said to Mulla Nasruddin, “This is my new novel—please read it and give me your critique or suggestions.”
Mulla read it and said, “The novel as you’ve written it is fine, but the title you’ve given it isn’t.”
The author said, “But I thought the title was quite strong.”
Mulla said, “Exactly—that’s my point too. But the plot has smeared the whole thing with mud!”
Your name is so forceful, and the storyline is making a mess of it.

Ramakrishna! What are you asking—that before taking sannyas you want to be assured! A guarantee? What does sannyas mean? It means stepping into insecurity. Those who want assurance are householders. Those who want every kind of security are householders. Sannyas means: God is my security. As He keeps, I will be. As He makes me live, I will live. Whatever He makes me do, I will do. Life is His—and death is in His hands. Now I am His. What bookkeeping do I need to keep now?

Do you take sannyas to be shopkeeping? You want to be assured first? That’s a gambler’s business. I just told you about Jareen! Things have reached a point where her family says, “Choose—either sannyas, or your life.”
I’ve sent word to her: Don’t worry. If it comes to that, this ashram is your home. Don’t think for a single moment. What else is this ashram for! If you want to drop sannyas, drop it happily. I don’t say keep it. You be happy, your home be happy. But if you don’t want to drop it, don’t think you have no home. The small home will be left—this is the bigger home. The small family will be left—this is the bigger family.

There are three thousand sannyasins here now. Where will you find a bigger family? And can you imagine how lovingly this family runs—and without any “management”! In a house of three people there’s constant bickering. You don’t even need five; three are enough to create an uproar. Here there are three thousand—yet there’s no question of squabbling. And I, for one, never even come out of my room; it all runs by itself, as if no one is running it! I don’t even know how it runs—and I don’t want to know. I’ve already left everything to Him. This ashram too is left to Him. As He wills! Yet everything runs—with an unparalleled beauty, with an unparalleled grace!

So I’ve sent word to Jareen: This is your home; don’t think for a moment. Yes, if you want to leave sannyas, that’s your joy. And if you feel, “I shouldn’t leave sannyas—but then where will I go?”—this is your home.

Ramakrishna, why worry so much about assurance beforehand? Are you taking sannyas or making a deal? Learn to be a bit of a gambler. Learn to place a stake.

But our mind is businesslike.

Two youths met after many years. One’s condition was miserable—going office to office, unemployed—though he had left university with a gold medal. The other never even reached college—failed the tenth grade ten times, then gave up. But now he was a millionaire. He was a businessman’s son—maybe a Marwari. The first one’s shoes were torn, clothes dirty. He said, “What’s this? And this palatial house! Screens of khus! I’m ashamed to sit on these spotless white cushions—what if I dirty them!” He shrank and sat in a corner. He asked, “Tell me your secret! I’m starving—yet I won a gold medal. And you never went beyond tenth grade.”
The other said, “What’s tenth got to do with it! We buy a thing for one rupee and sell it for two! The whole business runs on a one percent profit.”
One percent profit! Buy for one rupee, sell for two. Ten times failed in tenth—of course! If you think a one-rupee profit on one rupee is one percent, you’re bound to become a millionaire.

Mulla Nasruddin once won the lottery—ten lakhs. Everyone was astonished: “Mulla, how did you figure out the winning ticket number?”
Mulla said, “What to say! In the night I saw the number seven appear three times. So I thought, seven times three is eighteen. So I bought ticket number eighteen—and won the lottery.”
Someone said, “This is too much—seven times three is twenty-one, not eighteen!”
Mulla said, “You do the arithmetic—I got the lottery! You go to hell—and your arithmetic too! The question is: who got the lottery?”

You sit there doing arithmetic! You ask: “Before taking sannyas I want to be assured whether I will succeed in attaining nirvana or not?”

And nirvana and success—do they have any relation? The longing for success is the world. To be free of success—that is nirvana. And you’re trying to smuggle success in there too—in nirvana itself! It’s good you didn’t ask, “If I get nirvana, will I receive the Bharat Ratna? Will I get the Nobel Prize?” The rhyme works—nirvana and Nobel Prize! But I don’t think that if Buddha were alive today he would get a Nobel Prize.

Just look at the irony: Jesus got the cross, and Teresa of Calcutta got the Nobel Prize! She’s a follower of Jesus. Would Jesus get a Nobel Prize? Even today he’d get the cross. Nobel Prizes are given—to rubbish, to trash. To those who keep beating society’s beaten tracks—to sycophants. To those who nurture society’s orthodoxies. To those who serve society’s vested interests. The Bharat Ratna too goes to them—“jewels” in whom there is nothing at all! Call them the country’s “jewels”—accomplished rascals! They’re the ones who get it.

Success? The very sense of success is the sense of ego. And nirvana is the dissolution of the ego. If you go there carrying any ambition, any craving, you won’t get nirvana—though you may get many other things.

Take sannyas in a mood of awe, not for assurance; not with any ambition for success—out of sheer joy! By recognizing the futility of life. It is a change in the style of living. You’ve tried one way—striving for success, going to Delhi, seeking position, wealth—you’ve lived that way and found there is nothing there; nothing comes into your hands. The very life-breath is spent—utterly spent. In “bhaijaan,” the jaan—the life—goes; only “bhai” remains! Like Morarji Bhai! Only “bhai,” “bhai”! Pfft! Nothing left inside. Inside it’s all straw. Only “bhai,” “bhai”! Gujarati “bhai”! Where’s the jaan! The life has gone.

Whoever understands that in worldly life there is only loss—losing your prana, losing your very self—sannyas is for him. Sannyas flowers from that understanding. Sannyas is not for obtaining anything. In the insight that there is nothing in the world worth attaining, the flower of sannyas blossoms. Sannyas is not a means to something else—it is the end itself. Swantah sukhaya—for the joy of the inner self!

Walk your own path, traveler, walk—what have you to do with victory or defeat?

Whirlpools rise in the ocean,
clouds mass in the sky,
storms and tempests on the road—
yours is only to walk, to keep walking; then what is there to fear?
Walk your own path, traveler, walk—what have you to do with victory or defeat?

There is no happiness anywhere in this world,
there is no sorrow anywhere in this world—
life is the drift of a breeze.
Let what is happening, happen; what verdict can you pass on happening itself?
Walk your own path, traveler, walk—what have you to do with victory or defeat?

Ah, tired? Then move on again;
rise, stand firm against the struggles;
life is a difficult path—keep walking.
Even if the Himalaya stands before you, “Shall I climb or turn back?”—what doubt is this?
Walk your own path, traveler, walk—what have you to do with victory or defeat?

Someone loses everything by weeping,
someone, losing, sleeps in bliss—
that’s how it is in this world.
The price of life here is death; if the goal is certain, then why fear loss?
Walk your own path, traveler, walk—what have you to do with victory or defeat?

Khayali Ram! Even you got a shock—and you’re only Khayali Ram! Not Ayaram, not Gayaram, not Jagjivan Ram—Khayali Ram! Ram only in your imagination! If even you were shocked, you think I wouldn’t be? I was too. Very much so—as if someone stabbed me right in the chest.

There was a reason for the shock. First of all, Sita Maiyya was smoking a Panama cigarette. That’s just not right. Is Panama even a cigarette? Neither donkey nor horse—call it a mule. Why, even a bidi would have been better—at least it’s swadeshi! At least Gandhi-baba’s principle would be honored! But Panama—neither a bidi nor a proper cigarette. A few people smoke it. People? Call them pajama-people! Panama cigarette! If you had to make Sita Maiyya smoke, at least give her Five-Five-Five! An American cigarette, imported. The ad for 555 in Time says: “The taste of success!” And who is more successful than Sita Maiyya? She got Ramji—what more is there to get!

So when I learned she was smoking Panama, I was very pained. And the car she stepped out of was an Ambassador! Have some shame! You’ll seat Sita Maiyya in an Ambassador? All right, even if they were terribly afraid of washermen and so didn’t seat her in a Rolls-Royce—because washermen are wicked! Some washerman might raise an objection. Washermen see nothing but stains! Washing people’s sheets day after day, all they can see is spots; the first person to see spots on the sun and moon must have been a washerman. They even saw spots in Sita Maiyya! So some washerman might object. Let him! What can washermen make or break!

But since Ramji himself once got frightened by a washerman, these poor college lads must have been scared too. Otherwise, they’d at least have brought an Impala. They seated Sita Maiyya in an Ambassador. Put a pregnant woman in an Ambassador and the baby will arrive before you reach the maternity home. And Sita Maiyya had two babies in the womb—at least think a little! I was hurt, very hurt—as if a knife had been thrust into my chest.

Khayali Ram, you asked the right question. Only good-for-nothing college brats can do such things—who have no sense of India’s pride and no reverence for religion in their hearts. Otherwise, who would do this!

But Khayali Ram, India needs a little capacity to understand satire, a little capacity to laugh. India has forgotten the art of laughter. Faces here have become absolutely funereal.

So in that sense I was a bit happy—at least there was something to laugh about. But people are such fools that they stormed the stage; then they didn’t even see whether it was Sita Maiyya or Ramchandraji—they thrashed them. Beating Ramchandraji and Sita Maiyya! This is the limit! That hurt me even more. Panama—fine, leave it; the Ambassador—fine, leave it. What happened, happened. Those were small lapses. But people beat them up. They didn’t even consider that whatever else, she is Sita Maiyya! As for Ramchandraji, granted he had a tie and a suit on—it doesn’t quite fit; but in modern times what objection can there be? The play itself was titled: Modern Ramlila!

But the village fools set a fire, burned the stage, tore the curtains, and thrashed them. From this too we should understand a little that this country has lost the capacity to laugh. Our very awareness is gone. We only know how to be “serious.” And being serious is not a good sign—it’s a symptom of illness.

I’ve heard: Picasso painted the portrait of an Indian and showed it to a friend. The friend was a doctor. For half an hour he kept looking—this way, that way. He didn’t just look; he pressed the painting too, even went behind it. Picasso said: This is the limit! Many have looked—but what are you doing behind the painting? And are you looking at it or pressing it? He said: This man has appendicitis. It’s clear from his face. He is in great pain. Picasso said: Sir, he’s not in pain; he’s an Indian.

It’s practically a national trait of Indians to look so grim—as if they had appendicitis, as if life were ebbing away. And even when they laugh, they are so miserly you can’t measure it.

And the last question:
Are Marwaris really such astonishing people?
Ranjan! Pay attention to this story—

A dispute arose between Akbar and Birbal. Akbar claimed that mullahs are the most original and cunning lot—the pundits and priests. Birbal said no one can beat a Marwari in cleverness. Akbar wanted proof. Birbal summoned Mulla Nasruddin and said the Emperor requires your beard and moustache. He will pay whatever they’re worth. He was told that if he refused to have them cut, he would be beheaded.

At first the mullah pleaded and argued: Please don’t cut my beard and moustache, Your Majesty. I am a mullah, a religious leader. If my beard and moustache are cut, my trade will suffer terribly. If my beard and moustache are gone, who will take me for a mullah? My whole business rests on them. But Birbal said: Then understand—decide. If you want to save the beard and moustache, your neck will be cut. The mullah thought: Compared to the beard and moustache, getting my neck cut is a costly bargain. Better to have the beard and moustache cut; they’ll grow again. The neck won’t grow again. The beard and moustache—two, four, six months—meanwhile I’ll run off somewhere, hide in a Himalayan cave; in four to six months they’ll grow back. So, under the threat, he agreed. In his fear he didn’t even think to name a price—“life saved is worth millions.” He quickly had the beard cut and ran away toward the forest.

Birbal then summoned Dhannalal the Marwari. Hearing about cutting his beard and moustache, he trembled at first, but steadying himself he said: Your Majesty, we Marwaris are not traitors. For you, what are a beard and moustache? We can give our very necks. Akbar smiled at Birbal. Birbal, with his eyes, said: Just watch what happens! Birbal asked: What price will you take? The Marwari said: One lakh ashrafis. Hearing this, Akbar boiled over with rage. So much for a beard and moustache! The Marwari said: Your Majesty, when my father died, I had to perform pind-daan and feed the whole village—for the sake of these two hairs of my beard. When my mother died, I had to do major charity and merit-making—for the sake of these two hairs of my beard. Why, for the honor of the beard, what haven’t I done! Your Majesty, I had to marry—for the sake of these two hairs of my beard. Otherwise people said, “What, are you unmanly?” So to prove I was a man, I even had to marry. Your Majesty, what hardships I’ve endured—you have no idea; how much shall I count! I had to beget children—for the sake of these two hairs of my beard. Today there’s a queue of dozens of children; their food and clothing, expenses—every kind of nuisance I am bearing—for the sake of these two hairs of my beard. Then their marriages, then grandchildren—I’ve had to spend on them—for the sake of these two hairs of my beard. And just the day before yesterday, at my wife’s insistence, we spent for our fiftieth wedding anniversary—for the sake of these two hairs of my beard.

Akbar could do nothing and paid the price. The next day Akbar sent a barber to the Marwari’s house to cut the beard and moustache, but the Marwari forbade him and said: Beware if you touch the Emperor’s beard! Aren’t you ashamed to lay a hand on the Emperor Akbar’s beard? He thoroughly threatened the barber and threw him out of the house. The barber came and complained to Akbar, whose anger shot to the skies. He was furious with Birbal too. The Marwari was summoned at once. Birbal asked: When the beard has been sold, why don’t you let it be cut now? The Marwari said: Your Majesty, this beard and moustache are no longer mine. They are the Emperor’s trust! No barber can dare touch them now. If anyone dares, I’ll have his neck cut. This is no longer a question of my honor; it is a question of the Emperor’s honor. To shave this would be the same as shaving the Emperor’s own beard and moustache. I will not allow that while I live. You may have my neck cut if you like, but protecting this precious trust is now my duty and my family’s duty.

Akbar was dumbfounded, and Birbal kept smiling. A month later a letter came to Akbar from the Marwari, in which he petitioned that, for guarding the beard and moustache and for keeping them clean and tidy, he should be paid a hundred ashrafis a month.

Ranjan, you ask whether Marwaris are really such astonishing people?
It seems you’ve never collided with Marwaris. May God grant that you never do!

That’s all for today.