Rahiman Dhaga Prem Ka #5

Krishnananda! For God you need preparedness for infinite waiting. It’s not that you actually have to wait infinitely; if you are ready for infinite waiting, revolution can happen in a single instant. But if you are in a hurry, it will not happen even in eternity. Hurry is an obstacle. The more impatient you are, the longer it will take. Impatience keeps the mind unquiet; patience quiets it. Impatience agitates the mind, raises ripples, storms and tempests. And even if the Divine wants to enter such a mind, how can He? The mind has to be like a silent lake—with not even the slightest ripple.

Even the idea of attaining God is nothing but desire. It’s desire in a new form, a new style—old desire in new clothes. Once you lusted for wealth, so you were impatient—let it come quickly, let the lottery hit! You didn’t even have the peace to run a business—let’s gamble, or steal, or cheat; later we’ll do virtue, take a dip in the Ganges, build a temple, do all the worship. Just once let the treasure fall into my hands.

When it was ambition for position, it was the same race, the same scramble. Even if you had to climb on people’s heads as steps—no concern. Even if you had to throw down those by whose support you climbed—no concern. The truth is: those you climb upon, you will have to topple, because they are a danger—others could climb using them too.

So never, by mistake, give a politician your support, because you will be his first victim. The day he is in power, he will kill you first. You are dangerous—you put him there; you could put someone else there. Your very presence is unsafe for him. In politics no one is anyone’s friend; everyone is everyone’s adversary.

Whether it is position, wealth, or fame—somehow you may get free of them, but the old story remains the same. The label changes, the color and clothes change, but you haven’t understood desire. Desire means: more! more! Whatever is, is not enough. Desire means an eternal discontent. Desire means: let it happen quickly, it’s getting too late. Desire doesn’t want to wait even a moment. If it has to wait even a moment, the fire of restlessness starts burning, fever rises, you heat up, you flare up.

Now you ask: “How much longer should I wait?”

Krishnananda, you have not yet tasted the joy of waiting; that’s why you ask, “How much longer should I wait?” Waiting for God is bliss, a great fortune. What greater blessedness can there be? It is even greater than attaining God—the waiting for Him, the expectancy. And the savor there is in expectancy is not even in the having. The sweetness of laying your eyes along the road, of sitting with doors and windows open, awake, sending invitations with a prayerful heart, laying out a welcome with your very eyelashes—even the attaining doesn’t hold that. The day your waiting becomes joyous, will you still ask, “How much longer should I wait?” The day waiting turns blissful, that very day the meeting with the Divine also happens. Because when waiting itself has become joy, the revolution has occurred. Now it’s no longer the old desire. Now desire itself has dropped; the mind is free of craving. Now there is no demand for more-and-more. No hurry either. No demand, no haste. Now you say: As You wish! If You come today—welcome. If You come tomorrow—welcome. If You come the day after—welcome. If You never come—welcome! Such infinite patience is what prayer is. Prayer is the depth of waiting.

You don’t pray; you desire: let this be granted, let that be granted. Prayer means: thank You for what You have given. And desire means: whatever You have given is too little, less than my worth. You gave more to others—who have no merit, no capacity. Prayer means: to me, the unworthy one, You have given so much—so much that it won’t fit in my bowl! My bowl is too small! My soul is too small! And You—You just keep showering! Where shall I keep it? How shall I hold it? Where shall I store these pearls? Where shall I safeguard these treasures? And You keep giving—morning and evening! Neither seeing day nor night! Night and day You give! With every breath You give!

Prayer means: thank You. Desire means: complaint. This is a complaint, Krishnananda.

You say: “How much longer should I wait?”

You are in effect saying: I am a worthy vessel in every way. I have practiced yoga, meditated, done austerities, renounced—and still there’s a delay! And Ajamil and the like were saved—sinned all their lives, had no scent of virtue, never remembered the Lord. At the moment of dying that great sinner Ajamil called his son. The son’s name was Narayan. Because the son was named Narayan, the Narayan above was fooled! But Ajamil had called his son. And surely Ajamil had called him to tell where the money was buried, some trick of theft or robbery, some last secret—the things he had done all his life, he would want to teach his son. What else! At the time of death a man’s whole life is distilled. Ajamil would hardly have been saying, “Son, get up every morning and pray, remember the Lord, perform worship.” Certainly not. He had never done it himself. Nor would he say, “Son, do not steal; I stole and found it all pointless.”

No father admits before his son, “I lost; I failed.” Every father wants the son to become like him. That is every father’s longing—without considering what I myself have achieved that I am trying to make my son into the same! Every father tries that his son be his copy, his reflection, his image. There is a reason behind it. The father knows: I will die, but there is one way to be immortal—that I leave my imprint behind. Someone born of my seed keeps doing exactly what I did. So every father loads his unfulfilled ambitions onto his son’s shoulders; he hands down all his diseases to his sons. And sons are helpless. They must accept. What else can they do? If the father couldn’t study properly, he shoves the sons into school. He will educate them. His ambition remained incomplete. He thinks: had I studied, who knows how many more millions I would have amassed! The millions I did amass brought no contentment—and who knows how many more I would have piled up!

Uneducated fathers jostle their sons a lot; they are bent on making them educated. If the father is poor, he strives to make his son rich. If he couldn’t reach office or position—though he tried all his life—then the son should carry on the effort. Generation after generation the same diseases keep going.

Ajamil didn’t call his son to preach devotion. It was a coincidence that the boy’s name was Narayan. In those days most names were God’s names. Even now, most names are divine names. We have an entire scripture: Vishnu Sahasranama—the Thousand Names of Vishnu. When you go to choose a name, where will you look? It will be one among those thousand names. Some are Ram, some Hari, some Vishnu, some Krishna, some Shiva, and so on. The names are the same. Among Muslims there are a hundred names—all names of God. It was so the world over in ancient times: people’s names were the names of the Divine.

So by coincidence the name was Narayan. But the Narayan above took it that Ajamil had come to his senses at the last moment. How absurd! Even the Narayan above got tricked so easily! So Ajamil died and went straight to Vaikuntha, the celestial realm.

Certainly tricksters invented this tale. The dishonest made it up. Priests and pundits spun it: “Don’t worry; even if a drop of Ganges water is poured in the mouth at the time of death, all is well. Even if the Gayatri mantra is whispered in the ear at the last moment, all is well!”

A dying man—he can neither hear nor understand; darkness is closing in—and someone else recites the Gayatri in his ear! Life passed without Gayatri, and now there is hope that Gayatri will become a boat at death.

And the story of Ajamil! So you may feel, Krishnananda: how much longer should I wait? He cried “Narayan” once and reached Vaikuntha; and I am crying myself hoarse and there is no news of Vaikuntha—no letters, no messenger, no angel descending. You, while meditating, probably half-open your eyes to see whether the angels have arrived yet—and then close them again: “Oh, come on! What a delay!” You’ve heard the saying “There may be delay, but not injustice,” but now you feel only injustice—so much delay! This itself is injustice. And sinners are getting saved, sinners are getting there; while you are shouting, “O Redeemer of the fallen!” and He is sitting utterly deaf. No inquiry, no good day. Far from auspicious days, only inauspicious ones keep coming; troubles arrive daily.

No; this is not waiting. You have not yet understood prayer. You have not yet drunk the nectar of waiting. You have not learned the love of waiting. Give thanks! He gave you life—did you say thank you? He gave you eyes to see the sun, the moon and stars, the beauty of this vast universe! He gave you ears to hear the soundless sound resonant all around! Did you thank Him? He gave you sensitivity to see and discern beauty, awareness to experience life, consciousness itself. Did you thank Him? No; for what we already have, we do not give thanks. If someone were to say to you, “Sell me one of your eyes,” for what price would you agree? The poorest of the poor would say, “At no price can I sell my eye. How can one sell such a thing?”

A man was about to die—committing suicide. A fakir caught hold of him: “Brother, what are you doing?”

He said: “Leave me! Just let me go! I will die.”

The fakir said: “Die if you must; I am not stopping you. But before you go, do me a small good turn. What will it hurt you?”

The man asked: “What good turn?”

The fakir said: “You’re going to die anyway, right?”

He said: “I’m completely decided—no doubt about it.”

“Then do this much. Stay three hours more—you’ve lived so many days; now for my sake!”

The man asked: “But what will I have to do?”

“Just come with me.”

He took him to the emperor. The emperor was a devotee of the fakir. The fakir whispered something in the emperor’s ear and said: “Buy this man’s eyes.”

The emperor said: “How much will you take? How much money?”

The man said: “Eyes? What do you think they are? Can something as precious as eyes be sold for money?”

The emperor said: “Take a hundred thousand, a million, five million, ten million!”

The man said: “Ten million! Even if you give a billion, I cannot give my eyes.”

The fakir said: “Hey! What are you doing? Just now you were going to jump into the river—your eyes would go with you. This emperor is ready to buy everything—eyes, ears, hands, teeth, nose. Let us sell it all. That’s all I asked—that before you go, let me make the sale. I’ll go from fakir to rich man for life. You can die in peace. I sit by the river hoping someone will come to die so I can sell his parts. You came—my prayer was heard. Now why are you balking?”

The man came to his senses: “What was I doing! I don’t want to die. I’m going home. I won’t sell my eyes; I won’t die. Today, for the first time, I know how precious life is!”

There’s a similar story about Alexander. When he was coming to India, he lost his way in a desert. He grew parched with thirst. A fakir appeared with a lota of water. Alexander was overjoyed: “You’re an angel! I was dying. Give me water. It’s my last breaths; if I don’t get water, my throat will crack.”

The fakir said: “What are you willing to give for one lota of water?”

Alexander said: “I am dying and you want to bargain?”

The fakir said: “Many died and you never hesitated to bargain—you killed how many! I am not killing you. I have a lota of water—take it if you want. Are you ready to give half your empire?”

For a moment Alexander hesitated—half the empire! He had risked his life to gain half an empire. But in that hour even half a lota would do. He said: “All right.”

The fakir said: “No, I’m just asking how much you are willing to give. If I take it all, I’ll give you the whole lota. Ready to give the entire empire?”

Reluctantly Alexander said: “Yes. But give me the water; take the realm.”

The fakir said: “Take the water for free. I only wanted to say: What is the price of your empire? Not more than a lota of water—for which you gambled your life! And how precious is life!”

Let us learn to give thanks. Let us recognize a little what the value of our life is—how extraordinary is the rain of blessings that has fallen on us, is falling, falling at every moment! Only blessings are showering! The day you give thanks for those blessings, that day you have learned prayer, Krishnananda.

And prayer is fulfilled instantly. But in prayer the very feeling of “when will it be fulfilled?” does not arise.

And you ask: “How long will it take?”

In prayer, time dissolves. Where is there any talk of sooner or later? You have not prayed yet. The moment you truly pray, you are freed of time, you step outside it, the clock stops. The ticking of all clocks disappears.

Among the greatest discoveries of this century is Albert Einstein’s theory of relativity. It is difficult and complex—naturally so, because it tries to unravel great complexities of life. Whenever someone asked him to explain, he was in a fix about how to make it simple. People asked everywhere—in parties, clubs, among friends, on his walks—“Are you Albert Einstein? Kindly tell us briefly, what is your theory of relativity?”

He eventually devised a trick. He would say: “Relativity is quite simple. Suppose you meet your beloved after years—like Majnu meeting Laila. They sit hand in hand. It is the full moon. They are by the sea; fresh, salty breezes; spring in its intoxication; fragrance all around; the sky lit like a wedding procession of stars. Sitting hand in hand—will time pass quickly or slowly? It will fly. So quickly that they’ll check their watch: is it betraying us? It’s racing so fast! An hour will pass like a moment. Now suppose your wife—who said she would go to her mother’s for three days—returns the very first day. You had just breathed a sigh of relief...

Mulla Nasruddin told me one day, ‘Bangalore is amazing—peace, tranquility, healthful air, and such mental calm!’ I asked: ‘Nasruddin, you’re always here—when did you go to Bangalore?’ He said: ‘I didn’t. My wife did. And as long as she was in Bangalore, such health and peace I enjoyed for a whole month—ah, Bangalore!’

Now imagine the wife comes back the very first day, or turns back from the station—hearts do change! Who can trust wives? They cannot bear to see their husbands happy.

In France there is a saying: When a woman you love closes her eyes while kissing, why does she do it? The saying goes: she closes them because she cannot bear to see her husband enjoying himself. It’s beyond tolerance that this good-for-nothing is getting so much bliss! She shuts her eyes quickly.

Einstein would say: your wife comes back early from her mother’s, and you must sit with her. The same moon, the same wedding of stars, the same seashore—but time seems to stop, as if the clock has died. Again and again you put the watch to your ear: is it ticking or has it stopped? Time won’t seem to move. This is relativity. The clock goes at its own pace; it knows nothing of beloveds or wives. What has the clock to do with it? When you are happy, time seems to race—to you. When you are unhappy, it seems to crawl, to drag—to you. Time itself goes at the same speed.”

Einstein had only these two examples, because he didn’t know a third. Had he ever meditated, he would have known a realm of feeling where time neither races nor drags—time is not. It becomes zero. With your beloved the clock runs fast; with your wife it runs slow; in meditation it does not run at all—it stands still.

So what are you asking when you ask, “How long?”

Exactly as long as you retain the sense of time—that long. Let the sense of time dissolve—and in that very moment it happens. Instantly.

And you say: “I am eager to meet the Lord.”

Brother, you are eager—fine; but something is still lacking in you: the Lord does not seem equally eager. And this is a clap that needs both hands. Your eagerness alone won’t do; His eagerness is needed too. Make Him eager. He becomes eager when you are intoxicated with bliss. The Lord, who is Bliss, longs to meet those who are joyous.

But this world is strange! Here the unhappy pray, and the happy forget God. Yet only the happy can find Him.

My words may sound topsy-turvy to you. But I must speak the truth. In misery you remember Him—but you are not remembering God; you want relief from misery. You think perhaps by remembering God, the misery will be removed. You want to use God as your servant. You want to employ Him, use Him as a means: “I am unhappy—come, remove my sorrow.” It’s as if you have challenged Him: “If you have the guts, do it! Are you there at all? If you are, show up!”

But when you are miserable, you will not find God anywhere near. When you are blissful, intoxicated, when there is a soft sway within you—then! God joins company with those who are dancing. He delights in dance—He is Nataraj. He revels in song—He is the flute-player. He is thrilled by music. When your heart becomes musical, He is drawn. Cultivate that state of joy within which pulls Him in—He has to come. Stop fretting. Don’t run after Him; let Him run after you.

Kabir said: “Searching, searching, O friend, Kabir himself got lost.” I searched until I got lost. He did not appear—I disappeared. But the day I disappeared, a wonder happened. Before, I ran about crying, “O Lord, where are You?” I roamed in every direction, wandered from land to land. Now the condition is reversed: He trails after me—calling, “Kabir! Kabir!”

Give birth to joy. Let flowers of consciousness bloom within you. Let your fragrance rise. Become a temple. And prayer and waiting will make you a temple. The day you become a temple and incense and lamps are lit—He is bound to come. It is certain—inevitable. It has never been otherwise and cannot be. Everything has its time; everything has its season. Sow the seed and wait. Then the monsoon clouds will come, the rains will fall, the seeds will sprout, green shoots will emerge. Then the season of spring will come and flowers will bloom. And bees will arrive out of nowhere, humming their songs; butterflies will flit from unseen corners.

Whenever we have sown flowers
babul thorns have sprung.
From the cracks in earth’s torn breast
cacti and spines of disbelief have grown.
Love has become the sky—
so beautiful, powerful
and all-pervading, and yet
in truth, it is nothing,
for what is, is self-pleasing,
or mere give-and-take,
not love.
The crowd has turned to idols all at once.
The mind, tormented by loneliness,
has become like a silent tree on a riverbank.
It is parched with thirst,
but nowhere is there a well,
for everywhere there is thirst.
Every bare arm of the tree, like a beggar,
asks the generous sky for something,
but nothing comes from above.
New leaves, flowers, and fruit
burst forth from inner strength alone,
yet blooming too has its season,
which comes after the autumn of sorrows.
Now and again the tree’s shadow shivers
in the river’s water,
but nothing blooms out of season.
Let the season come.

Nothing blooms out of season. The more you worry, the more you delay it. Be peaceful, silent—leave it to His will. He will come when it is time. Is there any compulsion? At least drop the intention to commit violence upon God! We even intend to coerce Him. If we had our way, we would stage a sit-in at His door. He doesn’t show up; He hides—because of people like you, Krishnananda!

I’ve heard that He once lived right here on earth, in the marketplace. But people ate His head off. They wouldn’t let Him sleep even a moment. All the time they lined up at His door. This one wants this; that one wants that. And people’s demands are such that if you fulfill one, another’s is ruined; fulfill the second and a third goes awry. One says: “Send rain today—I’ve sown my seed.” Another says: “Don’t send rain today—I’ve dyed clothes to dry.” What should God do? A thousand people with a thousand demands. So I’ve heard He called His counselors and said, “Brothers, find me a place to hide. The mistake is done—the creation is made.”

You know that after making man He made nothing more. Why? The reason is obvious—He became disillusioned with making. After making man He understood the mistake. “Stop now; put a full stop.” Until man, He kept making—horses, donkeys without worry; lions, monkeys, bears—still no worry. In joy He kept creating, and in that momentum, that intoxication, that oversight He made man. Then man troubled Him so much that He had to consult: “Where shall I hide? Tell me a place!”

One counselor said: “Sit on Mount Everest—the top of the Himalayas.”

He said: “You don’t see far. Soon there will be a man named Tenzing and one named Hillary, and they’ll climb. Once two reach, how long before the rest? Soon buses will go, hotels will open, cinemas will be built. They’ll eat my head there too. That’s only a temporary fix. I want a permanent solution—some way to escape man.”

Someone said: “Go to the moon.”

He said: “You too don’t understand. Give them two days and they’ll reach the moon. They won’t leave any place alone.”

Then an old counselor whispered in His ear: “Hide inside man.” The idea pleased Him. “There is one place man will never go—within himself. Everywhere else he will roam. He will scour the world. But within—never.”

Krishnananda, He is hiding there. Where are you keeping your eyes fixed? To the sky—will He descend from the stars? From Mecca or Medina? From Kashi or Kailash? From Girnar or Shikharji? Where are your eyes stuck? Close them. Sink into silence and peace—into bliss—within. Sit as deep as you can. There you will find Him. He is already there. There is neither delay nor injustice. Only you arrive at the right place. Align your strings; come into tune; set your instrument right—and the melody will rise, songs will shower, flowers will bloom.

Sita! It is He who is tying them; He is always the one. His hands are surely unknown, invisible—yet it is He who ties the ankle-bells to your feet. He is the one who sets flowers in your braid. He is the one who drenches you in His colors. Recognize His invisible hands.

And don’t be stingy with your dancing. Dance to your heart’s content. Dance in such a way that only the dance remains and you are lost. “In wonder, in wonder, O friend, Kabir vanished.” You keep dancing, so that one day you too can say: “Dancing and dancing, O friend…” Dancing and dancing!

Let me tell you: dance has a great virtue that no other act has. Nowhere else does the doer drown and disappear so quickly as in dance. In most things, duality remains; in dance there is a great nonduality. Paint a picture and the picture stands apart from the painter; carve a statue and it stands apart from the sculptor. But dance never stands apart from the dancer; they remain joined, there is no way to separate them. Dancer and dance are two faces of the same coin. And dance reaches its climax when the dancer is utterly forgotten—when within, no selfhood, no ego remains; the ego melts, liquefies in the dance and flows away—when it is not you who dance, but He who dances within you! An auspicious hour has come, an auspicious day has dawned!

Then tune the sitar again.
Set your mode once more and let it ring upon your lap.
Then tune the sitar again.
Let the buds of words unfold,
let the wind of movement fill it—trembling, shivering—
let the swarms of bees sway and spill,
let the fragrance of song flow, pure—
let there be spring again and again!
Then tune the sitar again.
As though a dream were adorned:
this boat, this river, this bank,
this sky, this whole assembly.
Let the clear waters of the eyes, ringed with lotus,
become a garland’s gift!
Then tune the sitar again.
Set your mode once more and let it ring upon your lap.
Then tune the sitar again.

This, Sita, is what I call sannyas—the art of dance, this wondrous process of diving in, of immersing yourself, dissolving and forgetting yourself. Sannyas, for me, is not renunciation. For me, sannyas is the enjoyment of the Divine. For me, sannyas is to join the great rasa, the vast round-dance with God and with this immense universe.

Keep dancing; and dancing, dancing, one day you will find That which you were seeking—and you will find it within! And if it can be found dancing, why find it weeping? If it can be found dancing, why find it gloomy and grave? What can be found laughing—people sit pointlessly by sacred fires, as if God were some fiend eager to torment you. As though in the heat of summer you sit stoking a blaze! When even that does not satisfy the mind, you smear ashes on the body so that even the pores through which breath flows get blocked. Whom are you tormenting? You are tormenting Him! And even then the mind is not satisfied, so you stand on your head. Fires all around, ashes on the body—you have become a ghost—and now you stand upside down.

If He wanted you to stand on your head, why did He make you to stand on your feet? Are you trying to improve on Him too? You tell Him He made a big mistake in making us stand on our feet—had He birthed us doing headstands, we would have been saints from birth! And what is this body with pores everywhere for breathing! He should have given a plastic body—then there would be no need for ash and such.

Why torment yourself? People fast, starve, thinking that in this way God will be pleased. Do you think God is a pain-lover, a sadist—that if you torture yourself He will be pleased? So people pierce their cheeks with spears, sleep on thorns, walk on embers. All attempts to please Him! And I tell you: if He is anywhere, He will run from you. You are not good company; He would not want to stay with you. For if He stayed with you, you would make Him sleep on a bed of thorns too. Otherwise you would say, “Sinner! We sleep on thorns and you lie on a Dunlop mattress! We smeared ourselves with ash—what are you doing? Smear ash! Light the sacred fire! We fast, and you enjoy fifty-six kinds of delicacies! Will you let Him live?”

Someone asked Bernard Shaw, “Would you prefer to go to heaven or to hell?”
He said, “As far as company goes, I would prefer hell, because there at least you will find people a little cheerful, lighthearted, merry. I am afraid of heaven. Just remembering the mahatmas makes my mind tremble. And a single mahatma is enough to frighten you—what if there were mahatmas everywhere! Under every tree someone busy torturing himself! Heaven would be a full circus—and without a ticket! And people showing off their stunts, each outdoing the other. And you would be branded an utter sinner.”

There is truth in it. A person who smokes a cigarette, drinks a little wine, now and then plays cards—gambles a bit at Diwali or Holi—is sociable, somewhat agreeable, decent. Those who do not smoke—forget cigarettes, who don’t even drink tea or coffee; you speak of gambling, they won’t even play cards; if they see you holding a deck they look at you as if you will rot in hell! People greet such folk from a distance, because living with them becomes very difficult. If you had to stay twenty-four hours a day with them, they would make your life a hell. That’s why nobody stays around mahatmas; you touch their feet quickly and run! It’s a strategy: O Mahatmaji, you live and let us live! Live and let live! You do what you have to do; let us do what we have to do. You are doing great work—our salutations!

People do not linger long around mahatmas. Try staying with one for twenty-four hours—your face will become funereal. You won’t be able to laugh. Who laughs in the presence of a mahatma? If you do, the mahatma will glare and growl: “O worldly creature, you’ll drown in the ocean of becoming! You are drowning and laughing! You are drowning anyway; if you laugh, even more water will enter your mouth. Keep your mouth shut!”

No one wants to form close ties with mahatmas. There is only one strategy to escape them: quickly touch their feet—“Mahatma, give your blessing!”—and run! The reason is clear. Your mahatmas are sick, ill, psychologically disordered. They need therapy. Those who have lost their laughter—people want to avoid them, and God too would want to avoid them. Who would want to be with such people?

Therefore, Sita, dance! Dance to your heart’s content! Laugh! Sing! This world needs a religion that dances, laughs, and sings. Only that can save the world.

Kamal Bharti! Brother, ask Sheela. She is my bartender. But for your satisfaction I say: Are you really here? Then I am the beer.

Now, two very serious and philosophical questions. The questioner is Swami Shantanand Saraswati. Since he arrived, he has been writing and sending question after question. Daily. All trash questions. Yet he wants an answer to each. And when the answers don’t come he’s getting very agitated, very restless, very angry.

Before I read out his two questions to you and answer him, I need to say a few things, because there are others too whose questions come and who don’t receive answers.

First point: Just because you have asked is not enough to earn an answer. I am a man of my own whim; I am not your slave. You are free to ask; I am free to answer—or not. I have not taken any contract to answer all your questions. So there is no need for anyone to be angry or upset. I cannot force you to ask; can you force me to answer? There are many here who never ask—can I say to them, “Why don’t you ask? You must ask, because I have to answer”? They too are free; in their whim, they don’t ask. In your whim, you ask. But whether to answer or not is my prerogative. You have asked; that alone does not mean you must receive an answer. I think in my own way. If I consider your question worthy of an answer, I answer; if I don’t consider it worth answering, I don’t. There is no reason to be annoyed. If you get too annoyed, the door is open—outward! There is a restriction on coming in; there is no restriction on going out.

And when for many days I do not answer your questions, you should have at least enough intelligence to see there must be some trash in your questions. And if you think your questions are very precious, then find the answers yourself. If you can frame such valuable questions, can you not find the answers?

Shantanand Saraswati! First of all, do this: drop the mala and drop the saffron clothes. Why get entangled in anything that smells of tradition to you? I didn’t go calling you. I have no eagerness for you to become a sannyasin. You come and request to take sannyas; I don’t even step out of my room. I haven’t gone beyond the doorway for years. I have no interest in you, in your sannyas. Drop the mala and the saffron robe. Why get into this trouble? If it reeks of tradition to you, who is telling you to get involved? And if you don’t have the courage to drop the mala, then I am telling the sannyasin at the door: when you go out, he will take the mala back from you, so you’re freed of it. I don’t want such people here at all. I have no taste for such people.

I chose saffron precisely because tradition has defamed it. By choosing it, I am freeing saffron from tradition. Saffron is a lovely color, a deeply symbolic color. Saffron is the color of spring. Only when spring comes within you does the divine arrive. Saffron is the color of sunrise. When the sun of meditation rises within you, the divine dawns in you. Saffron is the color of flowers, of ecstasy, of blossoming. When the flower of samadhi blooms within you, when the thousand-petaled lotus opens, only then will you know what truth is. Saffron is the color of blood; it is the symbol of life.

Buddha chose yellow robes for his bhikkhus—yellow, because the yellow of a dried leaf is the symbol of death. And Buddha’s entire teaching was that life is insubstantial, futile, to be relinquished; death is to be embraced. Therefore he chose yellow. It is a symbolic color.

The Jains chose white robes for their monks—white garments. White is the symbol of renunciation. If you are familiar with the science of light, white is the symbol of renunciation. Why? Because white is not a color; it is the transcendence of all colors. White is neither red, nor yellow, nor green, nor blue. When all colors meet, when they merge and flow together—transcendence happens: that is white. White is going beyond colors. Life is seven-hued. Life is like a rainbow. It contains all seven colors. Life also has seven notes—sa, re, ga, ma, pa, dha, ni. White is without raga; it is dispassion. In it the seven notes are lost, the seven colors are gone. It is bare, pure. That is why the Jains chose white.

Hindus chose saffron. Merely because the Hindus chose saffron, should I avoid choosing it? That would be fear of tradition. I am neither a traditionalist nor afraid of tradition. Whatever seems right to me, whatever is dear to my heart, is mine. Wherever it appears—in the Bible, the Quran, the Gita, the Dhammapada, the Samayasara—I don’t consider it anyone’s monopoly. I regard saffron as higher than both white and yellow.

Islam chose green, because it is the symbol of greenery, of trees. But after considering all these colors, saffron is what resonated with me. Not because it is traditional—since I was not born in a Hindu home; being Hindu is not my tradition. I was born in a Jain family, yet I did not choose white. That would have been traditional for me. I chose saffron because, among all these colors, saffron has the most modalities, the most multidimensionality. It delighted me. And also because I want there to be so many of my saffron-clad sannyasins on the earth that the old-style saffron sannyasins simply drown—so that finding them becomes difficult. I want to drown them. Muktananda, Akhandananda, Nityananda, Shivananda... I want to drown these. That’s why I am giving my sannyasins those very names—Shivananda, Muktananda, Nityananda—so that within ten years it will be hard to tell who is who. I will raise up so many Shivanandas, Nityanandas, and Muktanandas that those hackneyed old Muktanandas will get lost in this crowd; no one will inquire after them.

And the question is not whether something is traditional. Life does not manifest all at once. Everything is connected, linked in a chain. The Ganga you encounter at Prayag has been flowing from Gangotri. It is not the same Ganga—and yet it is the same. Keep both facts in mind. Much that is new has entered it, yet the beginning, the source, is old.

So my sannyas is ancient of the ancient, and newest of the new. Therefore I have chosen the oldest color for it, and the newest way for it. This is my choice. If it pleases you, fine; if it doesn’t, you are free to leave it.

You ask about “accepting the address ‘Bhagwan’...” I have not accepted anyone’s address; this is my declaration. It is not anyone’s title. It is my declaration that every person is a Bhagwan, a God. So do you think I should make myself the sole exception—that everyone is divine except me? Divinity is hidden within every person—that is my proclamation. And what I proclaim about you applies to me as well. It is not your honorific. Even if not a single person in the world calls me God, I will still call myself God. What can I do about whether someone says it or not! That is your whim; call me what you like. There are people who call me the devil. Bear in mind: this is my proclamation.

When the rishis of the Upanishads declared “Aham Brahmasmi,” that was not anyone’s address. They say: I am Brahman! When Al-Hallaj Mansur proclaimed “Anal Haq”—I am the Truth/God—that was not anyone’s address. What address will you give me? You do not know yourself; how will you address me? You have no awareness of the divinity within you; how will you recognize mine? I am aware of my divinity; therefore I recognize yours.

And you say “there is a desire in you to be a pir-prophet or an avataric being.” Are pir-prophets above God? Are avatars above God? I am not willing to come even an inch below God. What are you talking about!

And you send such questions every day. Now you want answers to them. Do you want to waste so many people’s time?

And the second question is even more astonishing, which he almost writes every day—revealing a great deal.

You are free to ask; I am free to answer. Do you think I grant only you the freedom to ask? I also take the freedom to answer. We are both free.

Many people ask why I don’t meet.

You want to meet—much obliged, thank you! But I must have some relish in meeting you too! Just seeing you, dispassion arises. Seeing you, I feel I should run off to the Himalayas. Seeing you, I understand why the poor rishis and munis used to flee—not from the world, but from “great souls” like you, who would sit on a dharna for satsang.

For a long time I used to meet people; I got tired—badly tired. Because there’s no measure to people coming and going. If someone gets the idea for satsang at midnight, he knocks at midnight! Once a gentleman arrived at two in the morning. He knocked; I thought he must be in some trouble. I opened the door; he said, “The thing is, I was to catch a train, but I missed it, so I thought I’d have satsang with you. The next train is at five—till then we can do satsang.” So from two until five in the morning he did satsang.

When I traveled by train, people would climb into the compartment—they had to do satsang! Someone wanted only to massage my feet. I’d say, “Brother, let me sleep.” They’d reply, “If you want to sleep, sleep—but we will serve. You cannot refuse service. Serving a mahatma has always been our tradition.” So one is pressing my feet, someone is pressing my head. How am I to sleep? Am I to respect their freedom, or my own?

It is very kind of you that you want to meet, but I have no desire left to meet you. This much time that I meet collectively—take it as enough; even this will not last long. If “great men” like you keep coming, even this will stop.

Understand this well: you have no claim over me, no right. I am my own master; you are yours. Fine—your fancy, you want to meet—but if I do not wish to meet, then both of us must agree; only then can there be a meeting. Otherwise it becomes coercion.

People come here. I get letters saying, “We will do satyagraha!” I say: do it. I am not a Gandhian that you will frighten me with satyagraha and such. I will seat more people around you and tell them, “Sing bhajans. Brother is doing satyagraha; you sing—support him.”

A loafer once staged a satyagraha in front of a man’s house. He declared, “I will marry your daughter. I have fallen in love.” The poor family panicked; a crowd gathered; the newspapers had a field day. People began encouraging the loafer: “Absolutely right—pure Gandhian, nonviolent! He isn’t attacking, doing nothing, just laying a bedroll and sitting in front.” Talk in the whole village, everyone’s sympathy: “Poor young man is giving his life. Ah, this is love! Even in the dark age there are lovers ready to die!”

The father was very distressed. He asked an old Gandhian, “Brother, what should we do? Help us.” He said, “Do one thing. Bring the old prostitute of the village. Lay her bedroll right beside his. And if he asks why, let the old woman say, ‘I will marry only you. I have fallen in love with you. Otherwise I will do satyagraha; I will die right here.’”

So they brought the old woman, paying her ten rupees. Seeing her, the youth was aghast. He said, “Why have you come here? Get away!” She said, “How can I move? Oh my beloved! I will die without you! You are my Krishna, my Kanhaiya.”

He said, “What nonsense are you talking? Come to your senses! You are eighty years old!” She said, “What has age to do with it? Does love count years? Love just happens—anyone with anyone. It has happened to me with you. No one does love; it happens.” And she began to spread her bedding.

He asked, “You… what are you thinking?” “I will do satyagraha, I will die right here, but I will marry only you.” By midnight the youth rolled up his bedding and ran. He thought, “This is a mess. The girl is gone anyway—and may this old lady not latch onto me.”

People come to do satyagraha, saying they will meet me no matter what.

I have no curiosity. There is no question of being some pir or prophet. Pirs and prophets are two-bit things to me. I have no interest in small-time matters.

But you have come to the wrong place.

They have even advised me, “Instead of making the question-answers unnecessarily long, can you not, by answering in five or ten minutes, settle more questions?”

Here, no questions are being “settled.” If settling were the aim, I could settle them all in five minutes—finish everything in a day. What settling is there to do? This is my whim. This is my fun, my joy. For as long as I am in the mood, I take up a question. Do not advise me. In my life I have never taken anyone’s advice. Only fools give unsolicited advice. Those with even a little understanding do not give it. Who are you to tell me how long I should take to deal with a question? Only so that time may be saved to answer your nonsensical questions?

No standard—my whim. Whatever question appeals to me, feels endearing, delightful—I answer that. It’s not that only serious, metaphysical questions are taken up here. This is a tavern, a winehouse. Whatever makes one rejoice...!

In the morning I look through your questions; the ones that catch my eye, that feel dear—done. There is no criterion. There is no scale on which I sit and weigh them. Just ten minutes before coming in I glance over your questions; whichever ones fall in with my mood... The whole thing is playfulness. This is a world of madmen.

Some of you, with pundit-like, pedantic tendencies, have wandered in here. You’re the wrong people—or think of it this way: this is the wrong place for you. You are good people, fine people; it’s just the wrong place you’ve come to. And the sooner you run away, the better; because you seem like incurable patients.

I didn’t answer your question the very first day... This question now comes from the one whose question I didn’t answer. And I didn’t answer it simply to spare you needless embarrassment. But you are hell-bent on getting yourself embarrassed—your whim.

I am already giving the answer, but your coming to Poona is not successful, has not been, and cannot be. You came in vain. And don’t, even by mistake, come again.
“This very question was the special reason for bringing me to Poona.”
Now listen to his question—
“Under free sexual relations, can there also be sexual relations between father and daughter, and mother and son? If not, then why not?”

A mother–son relationship or a father–daughter relationship is unscientific. Children born of it will be deformed, crippled, impaired, dull. This has nothing to do with religion. People have known this truth for centuries; science has only recently established it scientifically. A brother–sister relationship is also unscientific. This is not about morality—it's a simple fact that the sperm and ovum of close relatives are so similar that there is no tension, no pull between them. The person born will be a dud—without inner tension, without energy. The more distant the kinship, the more likely the child will be beautiful, healthy, strong, intelligent. That is why care has been taken that brother and sister do not marry; distant relations were sought, with no common gotra and no shared lineage for three, four, five generations. The farther the distance between the mother’s ovum and the father’s sperm, the greater the individuality that emerges from that very distance.

If you want to generate electricity, it arises only between two opposite poles—negative and positive. Try to produce electricity between two of the same kind—positive–positive, negative–negative—and you will fail. You need the distance, the difference, of positive and negative. A personality has that much electricity, that much charge, to the extent there is distance.

Therefore I am in favor of Indians not marrying Indians; marry Japanese, Chinese, Tibetans, Iranians, Germans—but not Indians. If distance is the point, then the farther the better.

And this is now scientifically established. We experiment with animals and birds, but human beings lag behind because they are shackled by tradition. If we want a good breed of cows, we import semen from outside—bring English bull semen for Indian cows. And no one pauses to think what you are doing to “Mother Cow”! Mother Cow and an English father—doesn’t it shame you? Don’t you feel any modesty? Yet such pairings produce healthier calves and better breeds.

That is why animal breeds are improving—especially in the West, where it's astonishing. Cows giving sixty liters of milk were never seen before. The basic reason is simply this: keep mixing more distant strains each time. The next generation becomes healthier and healthier. Among dogs, the revolution is such that dogs like these never existed before. In Russia there’s been a revolution in fruits as well, because the same experiments are done with plants: their fruits are larger, juicier, more nutritious. The whole trick is one—maximize distance.

Primitive societies grasped this straightforward truth. But Swami Shantanand Saraswati still hasn’t! And he believes he is very modern, a great opponent of tradition! That is why brother–sister marriage was prohibited and should remain so. In fact, marriages between cousins should also be prohibited. They happen among Muslims—this is not right, it’s unscientific. They happen in South India—also not right, unscientific. And a mother–son or father–daughter marriage is sheer folly—utterly unscientific. The relationship is so close that the children born will be absolute blockheads. If what you want are “dung-Ganeshes,” that’s another matter—useful for worship and rituals. Seat them there; every year you won’t need to make new idols—bring your Ganesh from home, each house has its own. Sit them down, do your worship. Even if you push them, they’ll say nothing—quietly sink away: “What to do now!”

But why is this question disturbing you so much? There must be some personal matter you haven’t the courage to say out loud—yet you talk as if you’re very brave, as if you’re challenging me. You came to Poona to ask this question! You seem such a pure religious man—fit to be counted among rishis and sages.

If you had thought a little, you would have realized that if I haven’t answered, even though you keep asking daily, there must be a reason. I refrained so you wouldn’t defame yourself, nor your mother; so your daughter wouldn’t be shamed. Something is amiss. And you want my endorsement. Perhaps you even took sannyas for this.

Your sannyas is hollow and false. You came here to take my sannyas in the hope that since I grant all kinds of freedom, I would grant this freedom too.

There are such people. A gentleman came—he had taken sannyas because he was in love with his sister. After both took sannyas, they said, “Now we can tell you: she is my sister, everyone is against us, so we came to your refuge and took sannyas.”

I said, “What was the need to take sannyas for that? Now sannyas is merely a covering to protect you. You’ll go around advertising that I support you. My enemies harm me less than people like you do. You are the real source of trouble.”

That man wanted my blessing so brother and sister could marry. I said, “That is wrong. Whether you take sannyas or not, it is wrong. And the reason you took sannyas is absolutely wrong—you want to hide your sin behind the cloak of sannyas.”

People think I will agree to anything. Don’t be under that illusion. Yes, I am in favor of freedom. People also misunderstand when I speak of free love. Free love does not mean what you have in your mind. Some Indians come here thinking there is a facility for “free sex”—grab any woman and no one will object. You are mistaken. The sannyasinis here will thrash you in a way you will never forget. They are not the sort of Indian women who pull a veil over their face and quietly walk away—“Who wants a quarrel? Who wants a hassle? What will people say?” They will give you a proper beating. That is not the meaning of free love.

I receive complaints daily from Western sannyasinis: “What kind of men are these Indians! If nothing else, they elbow us; if they get a chance, they give us a shove.”

I tell them, “Have some compassion: they are the offspring of rishis and sages. And what can they do? The rishis and sages have all gone to America—Maharshi Mahesh Yogi, America; Muni Chitrabhanu, America; Yogi Bhajan, America! All the rishis and sages have gone to America, leaving their progeny here. The owls died, leaving their brood behind.”

And why did these rishis go to America? What could they do! They sat here for years waiting: “Let Menaka come, let Urvashi come.” No one came. It seems Indra must have changed the rules. Neither Urvashi nor Menaka shows up! They sit chanting on their beads, and in between they open their eyes and look—neither Urvashi nor Menaka! What’s the matter? Then suddenly it dawns on them: “Where will Urvashi–Menaka be here? Hollywood! Hollywood—the holy wood! Let’s go to that sacred place!” So they went to live in Hollywood, and their offspring are here. This is the result of centuries of repression.

By free love I do not mean you can shove any woman, grab any woman’s hand, or carry off any woman. Free love means: with the one you love and who loves you. It is not one-sided. The one who loves you, the one you love—love should be decisive; everything else is secondary. Love should be the cause of your union; other considerations are hollow.

But love and all that don’t even arise for you. You have forgotten love—you remember only shoving and jostling. And you don’t even know how to do that properly—go learn boxing, learn to fight, go fight Muhammad Ali! Forget Muhammad Ali—even if you boxed with Tun Tun, you’d be defeated, laid out flat! But in a crowd you manage to shove a woman… Have a little sense, a little human dignity! At least have some regard for your own self-respect! But inside you, snakes and scorpions are crawling.

Now you say, “I came to Poona to get the answer to this question. If I get an answer, I will feel I have succeeded.”

I have given you the answer—but don’t think you have succeeded, because I’ve answered in a way that will put you in greater difficulty. You must have come expecting me to say, “Yes, my son—blessings! Be happy! Do whatever you like; everything is fine.”

Such foolishness will never have my support. There is no question of mother–son relations at all. These disturbances arise from your sick and repressed desires. Otherwise, who would even think of love between mother and son? What mother would want sexual relations with her son? What son would want sexual relations with his mother? What father would want sexual relations with his daughter? When all doors are shut and your life has no outlet anywhere, then such wrong moves begin because they seem convenient. A daughter is helpless, dependent on her father; you can oppress her. If you harass someone else’s daughter, you’ll land in trouble.

Mulla Nasruddin was telling his son, “Why, Fazlu, aren’t you ashamed? Do you have any sense at all, teasing other people’s mothers and sisters?”

Fazlu said, “No sense? I have sense—that’s exactly why I tease other people’s mothers and sisters. If I had no sense, would I tease my own?”

What you’re asking is sheer mindlessness. My opposition is not religious, not traditional, not cultural—only scientific. If you’re curious, try to understand the science of genetics; the books are available. Science has made great discoveries. Its straightforward principle is: the more distant the male and female germ cells, the better for the child—the healthier, more beautiful, longer-lived, more talented the child. The closer they are, the more feeble and frail the child will be.

India’s feebleness has this as one of its causes. Here, communities live in narrow circles and keep marrying within them—small ponds where people go on producing children. That produces poor outcomes. You will try to avoid it a little—but how much can you avoid! Whoever you marry, three, four, five generations back there will have been brother–sister ties. In a small society you can at best avoid three, four, five generations—no more. The smaller the society, the harder it becomes. Be free! Let a Brahmin marry a Jain; let a Jain marry a Dalit; let a Dalit marry a Muslim; let a Muslim marry a Christian. Break all these boundaries!

And you speak not of breaking boundaries but of an even more “convenient” path. What an idea, Swami Shantanand Saraswati! Why go far—keep it all in the family! Keep the family’s wealth within the house: marry your daughter, marry your mother! You came to Poona to ask such a foolish question? And if you don’t get an answer you become very agitated? Now I’ve answered—are you satisfied? Has your life become fulfilled? Off you go, brother!

That’s all for today.