Rahiman Dhaga Prem Ka #7

Krishnatirth, you silly fellow! And what do you think I’m doing? I pour it every day—morning and evening. What Gurdjieff poured was gross; what I pour is subtle. And the intoxication of the subtle goes far deeper. The gross can only reach the gross.

Grape wine cannot go beyond the body. But there are other wines that go beyond the body. Those I am giving you: there is the wine of music, the wine of silence, the wine of meditation. And the supreme one, the Vedas called soma. Centuries have passed—countless people have been searching for soma. Scientists have tirelessly investigated in the ravines and mountains of the Himalayas: from which plant was soma produced? To this day no one has discovered how soma was made, what soma was.

They will not discover it either—because soma is not something gross. Soma was obtained in the presence of the seers, by becoming attuned to their silence, to their meditation. It does not come from any plant, any fruit, any flower. It comes from the fragrance that rises from those whose lotus of consciousness has blossomed, from the light that radiates from them.

Soma is also the name of the moon. Ordinarily a person belongs to the sun; ordinarily all are of the solar lineage—except the awakened ones. To be of the solar lineage means that inside you the energy is feverish, agitated. When someone pacifies this feverish solar energy within, when kama transforms into Rama, then you become of the lunar lineage. Then you turn from the sun toward the moon; your journey moonward begins. And a unique, unsurpassed moment comes in life—a moment of mystery, of incomparable experience—when you yourself become the moon.

This is said symbolically in Buddha’s life. Gautam Buddha was born on a full-moon night. He attained buddhahood on a full-moon night—of the very same month, the very same full moon. And his mahaparinirvana, his leaving the body, was also on a full-moon night—again, that same month’s full moon. As if birth, life, and death all converged at a single point—all meeting on the full moon; as if the moon came to fullness. Those who drank sitting near Buddha knew what soma is. Only those who gathered the capacity to drink the fragrance rising from his lotus, the rays spreading from his moon, would know it.

And you ask, Krishnatirth, “Why don’t you do the same?”
I am doing exactly that. Gurdjieff had to work with the gross, because although his vision of life was Eastern, he was proclaiming it in the West. The West is utterly material; in its view nothing exists beyond the body—only the body is all. As a result of three hundred years of scientific thinking, man has lost faith in himself, in his own interior; a dreadful storm of doubt has arisen, shaking life from its roots. To work in the West Gurdjieff had to use physical wine. But he used it only for newcomers, for those just arrived. For those who stayed with him a while, who could remain and be ripened in his essence, it was not so. For them, gradually, the process of the subtle nectars would begin. He too gave soma—but soma can be given only when the vessel is ready. Soma can be given only to disciples.

The West has an unfortunate lack: there is no tradition of guru and shishya. There is a tradition of teacher and student, but not of master and disciple. The exchange between teacher and student is of knowledge, of information, scriptural—intellectual, not of the heart. The exchange between disciple and master is not intellectual; it is of the heart—and ultimately, of the spirit.

The kind of work Gurdjieff had to do, Buddha did not have to do, Krishna did not have to do, Kabir did not have to do. They were different; and the receptivity around them was different. Centuries had created an atmosphere, a psychic sky. That is why I decided not to go to the West. Let those who wish come from the West to me; I will not go. In this country, though the Vedas are lost, the Upanishads are lost—lost in the clamor of pundits; the priests have destroyed everything—still, with just a little search the hidden sources can be rediscovered; with just a little digging the springs can be found again. I am digging those very springs. Whoever is willing to be a disciple will drink from those springs—and, drinking, will attain the nectar.

Shukla! There is no name more beautiful than soma-ras. I am giving you soma-ras. And when I said a few days ago that Sheela is my Madhubala, many people went to her asking, “Where is the madhushala—the wine-house? If there is a madhubala, there must also be a madhushala.” Sheela too asked me, “Now what should I say?”
Answer—point toward me! I am the madhushala. What I am giving you to drink—if only you could drink it, even a single sip—you would become someone else; a revolution would happen in your life.

But, Krishnatirth, by now even the eyes of Indians have grown gross. Perhaps India’s vision is now the coarsest; in the way India has become material, perhaps no one else has. Spirituality remains only in name. Spiritual talk goes on; the grip is of the material. So you can ask, “Why don’t you do it this way?”
I am doing exactly that.

I am asked, “Jesus gave wine to his disciples!”
Certainly he did. There was no other way. The Jews among whom Jesus was working could not have understood soma-ras. The Jews are an extremely material-minded people. So wherever people are, from there the true master must begin the journey. I must take your hand exactly where you are. If you have fallen into a pit, I too must lower my hand into your pit. If you are lying in the mud, it may even become necessary for me to step two steps into the mud.

Jesus not only gave his disciples wine; he himself drank with them. That was stepping two steps into the mud. But when Jesus stepped into the mud with them, friendship was born; an inner connection came to be. When they found Jesus so near, then they could trust Jesus; then they could place their hand in his. Jesus felt like their own—no stranger, not distant; not one only talking of the sky, but earthly, just like us.

Jesus enjoyed eating and drinking, and drinking wine. Nights would go late with the disciples, the feast continuing. Of Buddha we cannot even imagine such a thing. There was no need. It was a different kind of feast. There was no need to offer such gross nourishment. There, disciples were already present.

Jesus had first to transform students into disciples. Jesus had to begin from the lower class. Jesus’ work is more difficult than Buddha’s work. Jesus’ majesty is significant for this reason too. He pulled people out of the mud. And his compassion is great: if people were in the mud he went into the mud; he took their hand in his hand. And when people saw that he was standing with them in the mud, they gained enough trust to go with Jesus, to come out of the mud. One day Jesus led them out of the mud as well. It was necessary.

There is a famous story about a Zen fakir who went to prison many times in his life. A person of Buddha’s stature, one who had attained supreme knowledge—and he would go to jail again and again! And for small reasons—stealing someone’s knife, picking someone’s pocket. His disciples would say, “Master, what are you doing! Why do you do this? It is a puzzle to us.”

But all his life he laughed it off. Only at the time of death did he reveal the secret. He said, “These little thefts I committed so that I would be sent to jail. For who will bring out those who are inside the prison? To bring them out, I had to go in. These were methods of getting inside. Steal a little, the magistrate must send you to jail.”

And he would confess the theft, so punishment had to be given. And if someone keeps committing theft again and again, punishments increase—even if the theft is small, still the punishment increases. And he did this all his life. But the people who were with him in prison—there was revolution in their lives. When they came out of prison, they never went back in.

Gurdjieff too had to do something like what Jesus did, like what that Zen fakir did. I do not need to. Those who are coming to me now are among the finest on this earth. Now religion can attract only the finest. Those who are coming to me are the salt of the earth. They can be given soma-ras straight. There are only small things in their lives that need changing, not very big things. I am engaged in their transformation; they will change; they are changing. Small obstacles are falling away. Students are being transformed into disciples. This transformation I have named sannyas. Sannyas is your preparation to drink soma-ras.

People ask me, “Without becoming a sannyasin, will we not receive your blessing?”
My blessing will be there, but it will not reach you. You will not be able to bear it. You will not be able to drink it. I will fill your goblet, but you will not be able to lift it to your lips. You will not even see it—touching it to your lips is far away. There will be no difference in my blessing. Whether you are a sannyasin or not—what difference does it make to me? But it will make a difference to you. The sannyasin will be ready to receive my blessing, eager, facing toward it. He sits with the doors of his heart thrown open. He has sent the invitation. He has written the letter. His love-filled invitation has reached me. He has sent word that he is waiting with a royal welcome.

But the one who is not a sannyasin is closed. He comes to listen like a student—perhaps he will get to learn something. Here there is nothing to learn. Here there is to forget. Here there is to be erased. Here there is to be lost. Therefore whatever I am giving you is wine—wine in the sense in which the Vedas speak of soma-ras.

Yog Pritam has written me these two songs. The first:

At your holy feet devotion has blossomed;
Because you are, this life feels like life.
Your storm has swept away all the dust;
In your rain, life stands drenched.
When you merely smile, thousands of flowers bloom here;
Because you are, this life has turned green again.
Since you came, such intoxication has dissolved into the breeze;
Because you are, this life feels drunk with ecstasy.
What songs you have sung—the lamps of the heart have flared;
Today again this life feels brimming with nectar.
Having met you, every joy of ours is fulfilled;
This life again seems a shower of springtimes.

Drink—and you too will feel it. Drink, drink to your heart’s content. Do not be deprived of this good fortune.

Yog Pritam’s second song:

Some melody is singing from the heart;
With its notes he is showering the nectar of love.
Ah, in every word an ecstasy is mixed;
He is descending into hearts.

The mode is new, ever-new the songs;
All seem to hum along with him.
All have become carefree madmen;
He is making us drink in such a way.

His temperament is so colorful;
His gestures are so beautiful,
That we have begun to fly in the sky—
The heart is soaked with bliss.

So playful is his style of expression;
So feeling-laden is his lilt.
I don’t know where I have been lost;
Now only he appears before my eyes.

Drink—drink to your heart’s content. Do not be miserly in this. People have become misers even in drinking! They are stingy even in receiving! They hesitate to take! They stand at a distance. Even if the Ganga were to come to their door, perhaps they would remain thirsty. At how many doors have I not knocked! But one in a hundred opens; ninety-nine bolt their doors from within even more tightly, lest I break in. Yes, as long as it was not a matter of drowning, they would listen to me. When it came to drowning, they ran away. And without drowning you will not attain anything. This path is for the madly devoted.

Ranjan! Now it’s too late. Cuckoo you already are. Now there is no way back. I kick away the ladder; there is nowhere left to return to.

In English the word “cuckoo” is used for the bird and also for crackpots, for the mad. It’s a lovely thing. The cuckoo is indeed mad—otherwise would it sing such intoxicated songs? In this insipid world, this desert-like world, how could it shower such nectar? Mad it is. In this pointless din, such a honeyed voice!

Surely the cuckoo’s songs are of the same kind as Meera’s, Chaitanya’s, Kabir’s. But all of them are mad.

In Hindi the word for the cuckoo, koyal, does not mean “mad.” That is a shortcoming of our language. English got it right.

In Switzerland the sannyasins held a competition. A Swiss competition—so it was about clocks. People made all kinds of clocks; different sannyasins brought different clocks. Three prizes were announced: first, second, and third. The third prize went to a big clock from which, every hour, a cuckoo would come out and say, “Bhagwan! Bhagwan!” The second prize went to the one in which, every half hour, two cuckoos would come out and say, “Bhagwan! Bhagwan!”—and both cuckoos in ochre robes, wearing malas. And the first prize went to the clock from which, every hour, Bhagwan would come out and say, “Cuckoo! Cuckoo!”

Ranjan, you are cuckoo already. Now nothing remains to be done. What has happened has happened. Forget what is past; take care of what lies ahead. Now the matter is settled—now sing. Now let the cuckoo’s notes arise. Cry too, laugh too. In ecstasy everything will happen—there will be tears, and there will be songs.

Surendra Saraswati! Auspicious, and beautiful. Do not get into analyzing what happened. Some things are better left unanalyzed, better not made into intellectual issues. The moment you intellectualize them, whatever is precious in them is lost; whatever is mysterious evaporates.

Even by mistake, do not turn certain things into subjects for the intellect. Of course the intellect itches. Whenever something unique happens—unknown, unprecedented, unfamiliar—the intellect will ask, will raise questions: What happened? Why did it happen? And until it gets an answer it will keep nagging. Like when a tooth falls out, the tongue goes again and again to that gap. While the tooth was there, the tongue never went; now that it’s gone, the tongue goes there twenty-four hours a day. Though you know it’s gone and there’s no point going there! But the tongue is a bit crazy; it keeps returning to the empty space.

An event occurred. An extraordinary event occurred. Now the intellect is uneasy. It does not want anything to happen that lies beyond its capacity. It wants to bring everything within its compass; and if it can’t, it wants to deny it: No, it didn’t happen. If you consult the intellect, it will say, Nothing happened—you fainted. That is what it wants to say. And if, after asking and asking, you find no answer—and no answer can be found; these are not matters of answers—these are domains where a state of answerlessness is created; everything goes silent, nothing is found though you search, all becomes untraceable—then, when it finds nothing, the intellect concludes: Nothing happened; obviously you blacked out, you were unconscious. Better see a doctor. Or better stop meditating—this is dangerous. Today the glasses broke, the mala broke—tomorrow an eye might be damaged, or a bone! Better to put a stop to it right here. Or else find out why it happened.

So the intellect is making you restless, Surendra Saraswati. My advice is: tell the intellect there is much that is beyond you—much. Like love! Not understanding, intellect calls love blind, calls it madness. Like beauty! Not understanding, it calls it imagination. And this is beyond love and beauty. This is the first glimpse of samadhi. The first descent of the void. Body-consciousness fell away. For that one hour you were not an inhabitant of earth; you entered another realm, another dimension. Do not be afraid. Slowly, after it has happened a few times, you will be amazed: the happening will go on happening, and gradually awareness will remain. The first time it happens, how could awareness have stayed steady? It was all so new—the path so new—ecstasy must have covered you utterly.

Now do just this: when it happens again, take care to keep a little quiet watchfulness within—a single ray of awareness. It will remain. After two or three times, you will feel assured; your rhythm will settle. You will become familiar with this path; it will become known. Then, slowly, certain things will begin to be seen. As if the body is forgotten; as if there is no body. The mind drops far, far behind. For a little while noise is heard, but as if receding, farther and farther away—like a drum that is moving off into the distance. And then a moment comes when it is as if there is no mind. Neither body nor mind—only a stillness remains. A unique state of emptiness in which there is no ripple of thought, no imagination, no desire. This is your nature. This is your true face.

So first you will experience the dropping of the body; then, slowly, the dropping of the mind. Then the third experience—of your very essence. And then the doors of the mystery will open. Those who have known that mystery gave it, for convenience, a name: Satchidananda—Sat, Chit and Ananda. Being, consciousness, and bliss will be your direct experience.

What is in that state is the only truth; all else is a dream. What is in that state is the only consciousness; all else is stupor. What is in that moment is the only bliss; all your so-called happinesses are merely sorrow by other names—cosmetic on misery; presenting pain in pretty colors and styles. As if someone had painted thorns. As when catching a fish, dough is smeared on the hook; the fish swallows the dough and is caught on the hook. So it is: on the hooks of misery there is the dough of pleasures; the fish keep swallowing and keep getting caught.

You are all caught like this, and writhing.

But don’t get into analysis. Care about awareness, not about thought. Thought is small; it will not reach there. Awareness will. There is no event outside awareness. There are many outside thought.

On steep, uneven, narrow
rocky paths,
walking is very hard—the shins get bruised;
and the chest starts working like a bellows.
Outside there is the illumined sun, the moon, the stars;
within we are defeated by our own darkness!

However heavy the mind,
however wet the eyes,
how many delusions
stab like thorns in the life-breath!
But we have to walk, keep on walking—
on those endless, goalless, unknown paths
that fade into the distant, misty horizon!
Walking is very hard,
yet we walk
on steep, uneven, narrow
rocky paths!

Often we laugh all this off—
not out of sarcasm; we’re just used to laughing!
Laughter bursts forth at the eyes, upon the lips;
who knows why we have such hatred for letting ourselves weep!
But this much is true—
to become is to be effaced;
a flower’s blooming
is its withering too.
Days vanish, and nights vanish;
spring burns away, the monsoons melt and run off.
Breaths go on; time keeps moving,
and the talks of joy and sorrow keep on and on!
Yet we abide,
and by us the world abides,
upon these few, countable paths that form and fall away!
Walking is very hard,
yet we walk
on steep, uneven, narrow
rocky paths!

We too feel we are somewhat wayward,
our faith loosened, our voice subdued;
else what collides with us at every step
is only the boundary of our own dreams.
Only he is disoriented
who knows directions;
only he fears falling
whose flight is high!
In the unknown world every particle is unknown;
every moment of life is a tangled tale.
In this finite cosmos, whose existence stands apart?
To lose oneself is to find oneself.
We keep flying!
We keep falling—
upon blossoming joys,
upon stifled sighs!
Walking is very hard,
yet we walk
on steep, uneven, narrow
rocky paths!

Let one thing be remembered—
to lose oneself is to find oneself.

The path is difficult, narrow, rocky, arduous, mountainous. And the higher you climb, the greater the fear of falling—the fear keeps growing. For only those who climb high can fall. Those who live on flat plains—where is the question of falling?

No one is ever corrupted by indulgence; that is why there is no phrase like “indulgence-corrupted.” One can be yoga-corrupted. Only a yogi can be corrupted—because he flies high; his wings can be clipped, his wings can be singed. He who longs to go beyond the sun may one day be burned.

But without that much courage, no one can know truth. Truth is not for cowards. And the wonder of wonders is that our temples, mosques, gurudwaras are full of cowards. Those who kneel and pray are a fraternity of the fearful; they are frightened, hence they talk of God. Their God is only an extension of fear. God—an extension of fear? Impossible! God is the experience of courage—of audacity.

Good that it happened, Surendra Saraswati—let it happen again and again. Don’t panic. If the glasses broke, let them break; get a new pair. And from now on, take off your glasses before you meditate! I keep saying every day: take off all your spectacles—yet you go on meditating wearing them! You are to look within—what need is there for glasses?

Mulla Nasruddin got up one night and jabbed his wife—“Quick, bring my glasses!” She didn’t know what was going on—a thief in the house? She ran and brought the glasses. Mulla quickly put them on and lay flat on his back, eyes closed. The wife said, “What’s the matter? What’s going on? Are you in your senses? Why call for glasses in the middle of the night?” “Shut up,” he said, “don’t mess it up! I’m seeing a very beautiful dream. It was looking a little hazy, so I thought I’d call for my glasses.” But then even the haziness didn’t appear; he squinted hard, changed sides, and began to get angry with his wife: “Wretch, you messed it up! If only you had kept quiet! You spoiled everything.”

The wife is not at fault. No one is at fault. In this world we keep throwing blame on others. Do dreams need spectacles? The blind too see to their heart’s content. There isn’t even any need of eyes—let alone spectacles. Put the glasses aside. Take off the mala too. In truth, if possible, bolt the doors and meditate absolutely naked. Remove even the clothes. Let no obstacle remain—because all these are obstacles.

And there are people with belt and trousers pulled tight, trying to meditate! The life-breath can hardly move; the belly is squeezed! Some fools even wear a tie while meditating! As if even before God it won’t look proper to go without a tie—what will he think, “A respectable gentleman, and coming here without a tie!”?

Whatever else Dr. Raghuvira did—he gave wrong, twisted translations for many things—yet for “tie” he nailed it perfectly: “neck-hanging.” None of his other versions really fit—“railway” was fine as it was, but he coined “lohapath-gamini”—“the iron-path-goer”! But for “tie,” his “neck-hanging” is superb. “Tie” means merely a knot; but “neck-knot”—a hanging! Who knows why?

In the West, where people live in the cold, to wrap the neck makes sense—so the wind doesn’t get in. But here in the East, where we are drenched in sweat, dying of heat, raising a hue and cry—and we wear a noose round the neck! In this hot country people wear socks all day, and shoes—never take them off.

During meditation, take everything off. Remove all the hangings. No need for socks, no need for pants—no need for anything. And when you are stark naked, please also take off the mala, or it will look very odd—standing naked and wearing a rosary! Someone might even see you—for people are such that if you lock your door, they get curious: What’s going on? Someone may peep through the keyhole; they will be less bothered by your nakedness than by the mala! Take everything off.

And prepare yourself so that this event happens again and again. Do not get into intellectual analysis; keep only awareness. Next time, when you fall, keep just a little awareness. Once it won’t hold; twice it won’t hold; slowly it will—certainly it will. And when awareness is steadied, you will pass through wondrous experiences. The body falls—you do not. The mind falls—you do not. And only when body and mind have fallen is it known who I am.

Anant! One can only give what one has. I give songs—there is nothing special about that. The heart is brimming with songs. It’s a compulsion, a helplessness. Songs will have to be given. When a flower blooms, its fragrance must spread. When a lamp is lit, rays must burst forth. When the sun rises, morning must happen. And when morning comes, birds will sing, flowers will bloom, freshness will flow in the breeze. All this happens—it’s not that the sun is doing it.

How have you all gathered around me with such extraordinary love? You glimpsed a sun; some song resounded within you; some fragrance began to rise inside; a ray touched you; some nectar came to your throat; you tasted something—and you came, drawn. My compulsion is that I will give what I have.

And what are others to do? They have only insults. Don’t be angry at their abuses; feel compassion for them. What else can they do? From the same words songs are woven, from the same words insults are made. The words are the same. Within them there is so much gloom, so much pain, so many wounds. Their lives are so full of frustration and despair that only abuses naturally rise from there. Inside them, abuses are just as natural.

In my village there lived a gentleman right across from me. Every other day he would end up quarreling with someone over something or other. I watched this for years. Slowly I understood that quarreling was an inevitability for him; he simply could not avoid it. A fight kept simmering inside; he was only searching for an excuse. Any excuse, any small thing—enough for him—something no one else would consider a cause for a fight! And one more amusement I noticed: he didn’t even consider it a fight. One day a policeman intervened. He and his coworker—he was a goldsmith—were talking. The talk heated up, they grabbed each other’s hair, shoving, punching, a crowd gathered.

Crowds are always eager to watch such things. If you can get a show for free, who will go to the circus? Who will go to the cinema? People drop a thousand errands, forget everything. However urgent it may be—your wife is sick, you set out to fetch the doctor—you forget. You went to buy vegetables—you forget. Guests may be sitting at home, but no one misses such a chance. In a small village these little dramas are the entertainment; there’s nothing else—no television, no big hotels with cabarets, no wrestling matches, no Muhammad Ali—nothing. So when small things like this happen, the whole neighborhood gathers. The lane is narrow, just wide enough for two bullock carts to get stuck; traffic stops, the tonga drivers are shouting they’ll miss their train, people won’t clear the way, and in the middle of the road the two are beating each other, clutching hair.

The policeman came between them and said, “Why are you fighting?”
I was watching from my doorway. The gentleman said, “Who is fighting? This is a conversation.” Then I understood—this is ‘conversation’! “Ask him,” he said to his coworker. He too said, “Yes, it’s just a conversation. Such conversations keep happening—what’s the fight in this!”

One day in a bus Mulla Nasruddin got into a slanging match with someone and then into fisticuffs. People tried to separate them and said, “Don’t fight like this. At least don’t use such filthy language. At least don’t hurl those obscene mother-sister abuses. Can’t you see there are ladies in the bus!”
Nasruddin said, “Let the ladies get off—this fight is very important. To hell with these women! They don’t let you live peacefully at home, and they don’t let you do anything in peace outside either.”
They were doing this ‘work’ peacefully—this business of coming to blows, these mother-sister obscenities flying!

People have their own understandings.

You ask: “When will people understand you? You offer songs, and people hurl insults in return!”
Anant, this is what they have always done. If they didn’t return abuse, I would be startled: what’s happened? What’s the matter? Did they not hear my songs? Did my songs not touch them, please them? Am I speaking to the deaf? Why didn’t the abuses come? They should!

Mulla Nasruddin and his wife went to the station, leaving on a pilgrimage. There was a weighing machine there—stand on it, put in a ten-paisa coin, a ticket comes out. Mulla quickly stood on it, the ticket came out. Before he could pick it up, the wife snatched it. It read: “You are a great hero. Fear never troubles you. In life you may break, but you do not bend. You have great inner strength. God has bestowed you with the wealth of resolve.”
The wife said, “Huh!” and flipped the ticket over; on the back it said: “One hundred eighty pounds.” The wife said, “And even the weight is wrong. What was said before is certainly wrong—and the weight is wrong too.”

Some people are ready to quarrel over everything. Now the wife could not even tolerate this ticket; she raised objections even here—that both statements are wrong. And what is Mulla to say? If he says anything to his wife, a fight will break out right there. The ten paisa will prove costly, a crowd will gather at the station. That’s why the poor fellow says these women don’t let you live peacefully at home or outside. Your own harass you; others’ harass you. Wherever you look there’s fear—because of women—you can’t even swear. So does a man have any freedom or not? Freedom of speech is written right into the constitution. Whether you sing or swear—that’s freedom, a man’s birthright. There is no need to be angry about it.

What I am saying—if you listen with heart—it is song; if not, it is full of blows. Because I speak against tradition. I speak against hollow scholarship.

Chandulal went to buy a parrot. He got trapped badly. He hadn’t thought a parrot would cost so much. But an auction was happening and the bids kept rising. The bidding ended at three hundred rupees. Chandulal’s chest sank. He had to pay. While paying he asked the auctioneer, “Listen, one more thing—three hundred have been hammered away; what’s done is done; in the heat of the moment I kept bidding, I’m not one to back down even if life is at stake. But does this parrot talk or not?”
He said, “What are you saying! Who was bidding against you? This very parrot! You’d say twenty-five, he’d say thirty. You’d say thirty-five, he’d say forty. Be grateful he only knows how to count up to three hundred—otherwise today you’d have been hanged! He can’t count beyond that. You can teach him.”

I don’t consider pundits any more than parrots. They know only what’s written in the book. And what the hell is written in books! Only what the intellect can grasp. And what can intellect grasp? The real slips through.

I stand opposite to tradition, opposite to scriptures, opposite to conditionings, opposite to your social blind orthodoxies. How can people not be angry? And when they are angry, abuses naturally come. They can’t digest me. To digest me you need a bit of a generous heart, a broad chest.

Chandulal went to a madhouse—to look around. As soon as the inmates saw him, one madman said, “Come! Come! Tell us, how do you like it here?”
Chandulal said, “Don’t ask me anything; seeing me, all of you madmen are so happy—what can I say! Such a welcome I’ve never had anywhere in life. And it’s puzzling, because I’d heard that whoever comes to see the mad, they rush to bite him.”
The madmen burst out laughing. Chandulal said, “Explain—what’s the matter? Why are you laughing?”
One madman said, “Why shouldn’t we be pleased! After all, once in a while we get to see someone just like us—our own kind. The peace our soul felt on seeing you—we recognized at a glance: he’s of our tribe, our own.”

Very few will be able to digest what I say. I belong to no sect—neither Hindu, nor Muslim, nor Jain, nor Christian, nor Buddhist, nor Sikh, nor Parsi—I belong to none. These sects are for madmen. I do not support any kind of madness. I oppose all kinds of madness. That’s the rub.

And what I am saying can only be understood by those who are meditating. This can be understood only by those proficient in the language of meditation. My songs are songs of meditation, flowers of meditation. If you too enter meditation—dance, sing, become intoxicated in meditation—then my words will be instantly clear to you; otherwise the distance of earth and sky will remain.

One day Chandulal said to Mulla Nasruddin, “Brother, sing us a song in the new language you’ve learned.” “You know,” said Nasruddin, “I don’t know singing. Still, if you insist, I’ll sing.”
When the song ended, Chandulal praised him, and others too praised him greatly. But Chandulal wasn’t one to let go easily. With great curiosity he asked, “Brother, will you tell us the meaning of the song?”
Nasruddin said, “It’s better you don’t ask the meaning.”
“No, no—don’t deprive us of the meanings of this plaintive song. Tears came to our eyes. With such feeling you sang that waves rose in our hearts. Tell us the meaning of this lament; if we grasp the meaning, the soul of the song will be ours.”
Nasruddin said, “Even so, I say—don’t ask the meaning.”
Chandulal wouldn’t agree, others too insisted. Nasruddin said, “As you wish. Listen then: I had learned to count from one to a hundred in Chinese.”

The language I speak is the language of meditation. Until you too have even a small taste of meditation, it is very unlikely you can find a rhythm with me. You will feel ill at ease with me, restless, disturbed. My language is for disciples, not for mere students; for sannyasins, not for the ordinary. And that is a big difficulty.

People say, “Let us first understand you—then we’ll take sannyas. Let us first understand—then we’ll meditate. Until we understand, how can we meditate or take sannyas?” And they are right; the logic is sound. Understand my difficulty too: you will understand only when you meditate; my words will go down only when you are sannyasins.

My compulsion, their compulsion. Their position is like someone saying, “Until I learn to swim, I won’t enter the water.” The teacher will say, “You will have to enter the water. Even to learn to swim, you must enter water. Enter the shallows; today I won’t take you to the ocean. Enter slowly; stay near the bank; tie a rope, strap on floats, but enter! I am here—if you start to sink, I’ll save you. Keep near the ghat; shout if needed; there’s a crowd, someone will save you. Don’t go far. But enter you must.”
Yet you say, “No—until I learn to swim, I won’t enter the water.”

Mulla Nasruddin went to learn swimming. By coincidence—and it often happens with beginners—beginners have a hard time. Have you ever learned to ride a bicycle? You will fall. It’s amazing—others glide along seated—women, children, old men—rolling along on two wheels as if performing a miracle. No one falls. They chat, sing film tunes, go merrily on their way. They don’t follow any rules—left, right, center—cyclists follow no rules; they slip through anywhere.
But when you learn, then you know. You fall. Bones and ribs get bruised. At least your knees will get scraped, clothes will tear. And you’ll be amazed—what’s the matter? Why do others go so smoothly?
And one day you too will go smoothly. You’ll fall a few times. In the beginning falling seems necessary, inevitable. You don’t fall because cycling is some special art—you fall because a person who doesn’t know is frightened. You fall out of fear; no one falls from cycling itself. There’s no great secret to it. If you sit without panic and set off at once…

That’s how I rode a bicycle. The friend who came to teach me said, “Shall I hold it?” I said, “No. If I fall, I’ll keep the responsibility my own. If so many people are managing, I’ll get on and ride.”
He said, “What are you saying! If you get on, you’ll fall very badly.”
I said, “Even if I fall, at least I’ll have the consolation that it was my choice; I fell by my own hand. You will have no blame.”
And he was amazed, because once I sat, I just rode. I did have some trouble getting off; I had to ram the bicycle into a tree. In my village, the bicycles available to learn on had no reliable brakes, no mudguards, no chain-guard—hard enough for seasoned riders, let alone beginners! The gentleman teaching me was dumbfounded. He said, “You’ve done something incredible!”
I said, “What’s incredible? Seeing so many riding, I thought—gather courage. At worst, I’ll fall—what more? So I didn’t ride slowly.”
He said, “That’s what I noticed—you went so fast, as if you’d been riding for lifetimes!”
I said, “I understood something watching people ride.”

I did the same with swimming. In my village there’s a dear man whose very work is to teach the whole village to swim. He loves the river. Perhaps there’s no one in the village whom he hasn’t taught. When my turn came, I must have been seven or eight, and the family allowed it, I went to him. He said, “Fine.” I asked, “Is there any danger if I learn by myself?”
He said, “There is danger—you could go under!”
I said, “Even if you teach me, I could go under. One has to gulp a bit of water.”
I said, “At worst, life can be lost, right?”
He said, “If you agree to that much, it’s your wish.”
I said, “You just sit on the bank and watch. Let me go. If so many are swimming and it doesn’t seem particularly difficult, even fish are swimming without anyone to teach them—then I’m a human being! Seven years old, yes, but a human. These fish aren’t even seven.”
I plunged in. There was a bit of a struggle. Water went into my mouth and nose. I had to flail desperately. It felt like now I’ll drown, now I’ll drown. He said, “Shall I come save you?” I said, “Wait. Let me try to the last breath.” There was no need for him to come—I reached the bank myself. And once I reached the bank, the difficulty ended. He said, “You don’t need to be taught.” In fact, teaching is needed because people are afraid.

This Mulla went to learn and, being afraid, his foot slipped on the steps—moss had grown there. He fell with a splash and immediately ran straight home. The instructor shouted, “Where are you going?”
Mulla said, “We’ll come back once we’ve learned to swim.”
“But where will you learn swimming?” asked the teacher.
“In my room, on a mattress,” he said. “I’ll thrash my arms and legs on it. When I’ve learned, I’ll come.”
Can anyone learn to swim by flailing on a mattress? However much you thrash, if you knew a little, you’ll even forget that.

Meditation is just like that—you know it by doing it. There are things that can only be known by doing; there is no other way. I am not saying that you jump straight into samadhi. That’s why I’ve devised the simplest experiments for you. Go gradually. Take one step at a time. Slowly the fear will drop. Only fear has to drop. You have to go into your own interior—what’s there to fear? You are already there. Needlessly afraid, you keep roaming outside, afraid of your own self.

But a man doesn’t want to admit that he is afraid of himself. People experience a bit of difficulty in learning—it hurts their ego. So they want to learn from books. God knows how many try to meditate by reading books! How many learn asanas and the like in the hope that then they will meditate. Asanas have nothing to do with meditation. They are exterior formalities. Meditation is related to awakening the inner witness.

If you begin to awaken the witness within, you will understand my words; my songs will be understood. And when you listen to my songs, songs will arise within you toward me. They are arising—songs are rising within my sannyasins, every day. But those who are not near me, who have never come here, who have never known, understood, or recognized me—what else will rise in them but abuses?

An incident happened in a village. The blacksmith instructed his new apprentice: “Look, this is hot iron. This is the bellows. And here is the hammer. As soon as I nod my head, aim and bring the hammer down with full force! Understand?”
The obedient apprentice listened carefully, and as soon as the blacksmith nodded, he brought the hammer down on his head. Now the apprentice is the village blacksmith. Where the hammer was to fall, and where he struck!

People are not understanding what I say. I say one thing; they understand another—anything but.

A mummy in a museum—a beautiful casket—was being looked at in great wonder by Mulla Nasruddin and Chandulal. On the casket a plaque read: “B.C. 1187.” Chandulal scratched his head, thought hard, and said, “This is probably the house number where this person lived.”
Mulla said, “Oh, Chandulal, you son of an owl! In those days were there house numbers? There was no municipal committee, no house numbering. I think it’s the number of the motor car under which this poor fellow lost his life.”

People aren’t to blame. They are guessing at what I am saying, and their own notions get mixed into their guesses. So abuses rise in their minds. They feel I am destroying their religion—whereas I may be doing the only thing that could save religion. They have already destroyed it; the work of destruction is theirs, but they mistake that rubble for religion.

I want to bring into the world a new kind of religiosity that pundits and priests cannot destroy. Religions have been destroyed—now religiosity is needed. I have no concern whether you become Christian, Hindu, or Buddhist—that is their only concern. My concern is that you become religious. And to be religious is a far greater thing. What have you to do with being Christian or Buddhist? A religious person will learn meditation, will drown in prayer, will bathe in the beauty of this world, will experience the music of existence, will search here and there—and will find the invisible presence of the divine, and within himself a feeling of grace!

Shraddhanand! An old hippie was getting his hair cut. The barber asked, “Were you ever in the navy?” The hippie asked in surprise, “How did you know? Are you also...!” “No, sir,” the barber said, “I just now found this sailor’s cap tangled in your hair.”

It doesn’t take much investigation. Now, for example, Shraddhanand, I looked at you—no shraddha (faith), no anand (bliss)—so I said, all right: Shraddhanand! There are two things you need: shraddha and anand. This is a prescription, brother. It’s not your name; it’s a prescription for the medicine you need—these two things. On your face I saw doubt, your expression funereal, as if you were about to cry any moment, if not already crying—so I quickly said: Shraddhanand! Brother, don’t cry! What’s done is done.

Hearing “Shraddhanand,” you did brighten a little; you felt steadied, heartened. The very word anand cheered you up: “Ah, me too—and bliss! Wonderful!” It is yet to happen; it has not happened yet. And I gave you the name so that whenever I see you and your name, I’ll keep an eye on whether it has happened or not. The day it does, that day I’ll know: now the thing is done.

Gita! There is no power in mantras and the like. The power is in your faith. If your faith is in the Quran, the Quran will seem to have power. If your faith is in the Gita, the Gita will acquire power. Faith in the Gayatri, and the Gayatri will have it; faith in the Namokar, and the Namokar will have it. But remember, the power is in faith. The Namokar in itself has no power. Tell a Hindu to repeat the Namokar—he will repeat it and feel nothing. But when a Jain repeats it, he is moved, becomes ecstatic. It is not the Namokar that is moving him—if that were so, it would move the whole world. It is his own feeling.

Tell an atheist that the Gayatri has great power, and recite it before him—nothing will happen. You can keep playing the pipe; the buffalo will just go on chewing cud! There is no power in the Gayatri. Can there be power in mere words? The power lies in your feeling. Wherever you pour your feeling, power arises there. Pour it into mantras, and it will appear in mantras.

The famous English poet Tennyson has written that, somehow by accident, he stumbled upon this as a child. When he couldn’t fall asleep—what was he to do lying there awake? A small child, alone in a dark room—English parents put their children to sleep in separate rooms—fearful and at a loss, he began repeating his own name: “Tennyson, Tennyson, Tennyson.” It gave him a little courage, a little warmth—as if someone else were calling out, “Tennyson, Tennyson.” Slowly he discovered that after fifteen minutes of “Tennyson, Tennyson,” a deep sleep would come. He had invented it—Transcendental Meditation! Maharishi Mahesh Yogi found out much later; Maharishi Tennyson had discovered it first. His own name! Gradually his practice became so deep that he no longer needed ten or fifteen minutes—just three times, “Tennyson, Tennyson, Tennyson,” and he would sink into deep sleep. Then he learned another secret: sitting on a bus or a train with nothing to do, he would recite “Tennyson” silently; as soon as he did, the mind would grow quiet—as if asleep while awake; the eyes remained open and within there was silence. And all this happened with the word “Tennyson.”

Now “Tennyson” is neither Sanskrit nor Arabic nor a god’s name. In the Vishnu Sahasranama this name does not exist. There are a thousand names of God, but “Tennyson” is not among them. You see what’s missing! In a new edition they should make it one thousand and one and add “Tennyson”—because he used it all his life. For him it became a mantra.

Understand the word mantra. It means: that which engrosses the mind; that which charms the mind, colors the mind, becomes a thread, a formula for the mind. So anything can be a mantra. That is why a mother sings a lullaby to put her little child to sleep; that too is a mantra. It works like a mantra for the child. “Little prince, go to sleep! Little prince, go to sleep! Little prince, go to sleep!” Not a very grand mantra, a very small one. If you recite the Gayatri, the little prince may not sleep at all—he may sit up and ask, “What are you doing?” He won’t understand. Chant the Namokar and he’ll begin to ask upside-down questions: “What does that mean? And that? And what’s the meaning of this?” Pali, Prakrit, Sanskrit, Arabic—if you recite them to the child, he will sit up at once and start a thousand questions. But “Little prince, go to sleep”—that he understands. He understands “little prince,” and he understands “go to sleep.” And if “go to sleep” is repeated—“sleep now, sleep now, sleep now”—sleep begins to come by itself. Even in the very phrase “go to sleep” there is a faint intoxication of sleep. That becomes a mantra.

There is no power in any mantra. That is why a mantra of one religion does not work for another. That is why the people of one religion laugh at the mantras of another, calling them foolish; yet they have great faith in their own, even when they don’t know the meaning. When you understand something and it affects you, of course it can work. But how will you be affected by what you don’t understand?

Almost everywhere the priests have arranged it so that dead languages are not allowed to die; at least in the temples they keep them on life support. The advantage of dead languages is this: since you don’t understand, you think, “It must be something extraordinary!” Open the Vedas and you will be astonished—ninety-nine percent rubbish! Stuff that has no business being in the Vedas; calling it “Veda” is utterly pointless. But who reads them? Who looks? Open the Bible—trash upon trash, things of no need! But which Christian reads the Bible?

A dictionary salesman stood at a door saying, “A new dictionary has come out; every child needs it.” The woman wanted to turn him away. She pointed to a blue, thick book on a table far away and said, “Look, we already have this dictionary.” The salesman smiled: “Madam, go fool someone else! That’s not a dictionary; that’s a Bible.” How did he recognize it from so far? The woman said, “Amazing! From so far—how did you know it was a Bible?” He said, “The caked dust tells me—no one ever turns it, no one touches it, no one even dusts it. A dictionary is flipped every day: today the meaning of this word, tomorrow that—so much dust cannot settle. Go fool someone else.” And it was a Bible.

Dust gathers on the scriptures. But they are written in such languages that they are deemed fit for worship. You offer flowers, smear sandalwood paste, bow your head—and the hassle is over. If only you understood their meanings, perhaps you would hesitate to bow: “To what am I bowing? What’s the point? What’s the meaning?”

When you understand the meaning and it stirs feeling in you, then certainly a mantra gains power. But it is you who invest it with power; you are the one who puts it there. And if you understand this, why put it into a mantra at all? That power is yours. You can use it without any mantra—and that is meditation. To become aware of your energies without a mantra is meditation.

A mantra is only a pretext—like looking at your face in a mirror. Your face is not in the mirror; the face is with you. In the mirror there is only an image. And if the mirror is warped, the image will be warped. You’ve seen all kinds of mirrors: in one you look tall, in another thin, in another fat; in one you’re a scrawny wrestler, in another hefty; in one you look so ugly you burst out laughing; in another very beautiful. These are mirrors; they are not you. Mantras are mirrors; they are not you.

Once, sound used to have its effect. In this age mantras and words have no effect. One day Chandulal said to Mulla Nasruddin, “If I utter a word and by its impact you jump up with enthusiasm, then will you admit the power of words?” Mulla asked. “Then I will have to admit the power of words,” Chandulal agreed. “Those who don’t understand the impact of sound are fools—utter donkeys!” said Nasruddin. “Don’t abuse me, or I’ll deal with you,” Chandulal said, standing up. Mulla said, “See the power of words! You rose from your seat. All I said was—‘utter donkey’!”

If you understand, then if someone calls you an “utter donkey,” you will stand up from your seat. Do you think that is the power of words? If you don’t know Hindi and someone calls you a donkey, you won’t be disturbed at all; you’ll keep smiling. You won’t even know there’s an insult happening. Someone may keep abusing you in another language…

I have an Italian sannyasin—Kavya. She was here for two years. “Kavya” in our language is one of the most beautiful words—poetry. When I gave her the name “Kavya,” I did see a little hesitation on her face. I didn’t say anything, she didn’t either; the matter ended there. She never mentioned it during those two years. She went to Italy, and after six months she wrote a letter four days ago: “Now I must say it. I wanted to say it the first day, but you gave the name with such love that I said nothing. I also thought: who will know here? But since I’ve come to Italy, a great trouble has arisen—whoever I tell my name to bursts out laughing. In Italian, ‘Kavya’ means ‘piglet.’ I don’t even leave the house now, because when someone asks my name, I don’t want to say my old name—because that is finished; my new name is ‘Kavya.’ And the moment I tell anyone my new name, they start laughing, ‘This is too much!’ O foolish one, why didn’t you say so? So after two and a half years I’m mustering courage: please change my name.” Here we couldn’t even imagine that “Kavya” and “piglet” could have any connection. If I’d had even the slightest inkling, I would never have given her that name.

If you understand, you are affected; if you don’t understand, how will you be affected? The impact comes from within you. You invest the power. There is no power in mantras and such. There is no power in words. There are some three thousand languages in the world—what power could words have? The rose has three thousand names around the world; but a rose is a rose—call it by this name or that. And God has thousands of names—call by this name or that, nothing changes. But the name you take as God’s name acquires meaning and depth. That depth is yours, that meaning is yours.

Always remember: the power lies in faith. That power is yours. You are an inexhaustible source of energy. Remember your own power!

Chaitanya Kirti! Even Jesus could not have shown that miracle. Lazarus was a simple, straightforward fellow; Jesus raised him. If Lazarus had been Morarji Desai, or Charan Singh, or Jaggu Bhaiya, Jesus would have run from that place so fast he wouldn’t even look back.

And you ask why I beat the dead so much? I do it so that not a shred of life remains anywhere! One has to finish it off completely. Because politicians die with great difficulty. Give them the slightest pretext and they come alive. Offer the tiniest post to someone—just seat the corpse in a chair—and he will at once straighten his sherwani, put on his Gandhi cap, and sit there prim and proper!

When a politician dies, don’t cremate him at once. First ask, “Brother, can you hear? Netaji, can you hear? You have become President!” If he says nothing, then know he is dead. If he sits up, then know he hasn’t died. This is the very mark of a politician. To check whether he has died or not, doctors have no better method—just whisper in his ear, “You’ve become President. Don’t delay now, get up!” His soul will return from wherever it has gone. It can’t have gone far; it will come back: “Ah, late perhaps, but it happened! There may be delay, but there is no denial!”

A made-up joke—not about Changu-Mangu, but about Jaggu Bhaiya.

Ever since Jaggu Bhaiya lost his post, his dog has stopped wagging its tail. It’s a high-bred, intelligent dog. It saw that when even men don’t wag their tails, why should I? Jaggu Bhaiya, inwardly, gets very angry with the dog, but what can he do—these days he can’t get angry at anyone else, poor fellow! Yet he loves the dog very much. It’s an old dog; it has stood by him through thick and thin. Now it doesn’t wag its tail—that’s another matter; but at least it doesn’t bark, doesn’t rush to bite—isn’t that something!

When Jaggu Bhaiya made plans to go to Kashmir in the summer, he thought he’d take his dog along. Before going, he wanted to book a room in a hotel in Srinagar. He wrote to the hotel manager: A dog will be coming with me; will you allow it to stay in the hotel?

The hotel manager replied: Sir, many dogs have stayed in our hotel till today. We have never had any complaint against them, because they neither break the crockery, nor hide broken glasses under the bed, nor steal towels, nor slash pillows with razors, nor abuse the waiters, nor run away without paying the bill. Besides, no one comes to stone the dogs, no one lays siege to them; so our windowpanes don’t get broken, and the hotel doesn’t get a bad name in the newspapers. The point is, you may by all means put up your dog in the hotel; we will have absolutely no objection.
P.S.: If the dog recommends you, we may also be able to arrange accommodation for you in our hotel.

When Jaggu Bhaiya reached Srinagar, the hotel manager, greeting him with a smile and folded hands, said: It’s so good you brought this baby elephant along too! My children were very eager to see this baby elephant.

Jaggu Bhaiya was already upset; now he boiled over: Hey, manager, have you lost your mind, babbling nonsense? Are those eyes of yours or buttonholes? Can’t you see this is an Alsatian dog, not a baby elephant!

The manager said: My mind is fine; it’s your mind that has rusted, Shri Jaggu Bhaiya-ji—that’s why you can’t grasp a plain, straight truth. Why are you getting so angry? I wasn’t asking you that, I was asking the dog.

That’s all for today.