Rahiman Dhaga Prem Ka #10

Siyaram Sharan! This is not a question for which someone else can give you the answer. Not that answers haven’t been given—countless answers have been offered and can be offered—but they will be futile, irrelevant. This is the one solitary question so precious that only if you discover its answer yourself will you be able to trust it. The Upanishads have answers, the Vedas have answers, the Quran, the Gita, the Bible—history is filled with answers, and yet they are others’ answers.

You ask: “Who am I?” Whom are you asking? This is a question to be asked of oneself. This question is a mantra. With this question you must dive within. Until you quiet your consciousness so deeply that it becomes a mirror, you will not see your own reflection. And no matter how many answers are given, they will be borrowed. Someone may say you are the soul—what will that change? You will hear it; will you truly understand? Someone may say you are the Divine; what then? It has been said many times. You have heard it many times. But life remains exactly where it is.

This is not a theoretical question. It is existential. It is less a question and more the fundamental issue of your life. You don’t need an answer; you need a resolution—and the resolution, apart from samadhi, is nowhere else. That is precisely why it’s called samadhi—because it contains the solution. I say: turn it into meditation. Don’t ask me; ask yourself. Ask every day. As much time as you can find, as much energy as you can gather, pour into this inquiry. More meaningful than chanting “Ram-Ram” is to let this question resound in your depths—Who am I?

And don’t be satisfied too quickly with any answer. The mind is crafty, clever, cunning. It will say, “What’s the problem? Krishna has clearly said who you are. The Upanishads say who you are. What could be clearer? Aham Brahmasmi—I am Brahman!” The seers who knew, who saw, proclaimed it. “Why bother further? You too repeat it—Aham Brahmasmi!”

And that is what people are doing—repeating. But the answer that is not yours is worth two pennies. However precious it may seem, it has no breath in it, no heartbeat.

Mansur al-Hallaj declared, “Ana’l-Haqq—I am the Truth!” But is that answer of any use to you? It was of use to Mansur—he spoke from realization. You will only echo it.

Remember, the fundamental problems of life cannot be resolved with stale solutions; they require solutions as fundamental as the problems themselves. Do not ask me. Ask yourself.

And you ask, where did I come from? You came from nowhere and you are going nowhere. You have always been here. Talk of coming and going, of transmigration, is only a dream. In this existence nothing comes and nothing goes. Scientists say that if we tried to annihilate even a grain of sand, we would not succeed. Not even a drop of water can be destroyed. It remains. If you destroy it in one form, it remains in another—if not as water, then as vapor; if not as vapor, then as ice; if not as ice, then as oxygen and hydrogen. But it remains. Existence cannot be made non-existence. What is, is; there is no way to make it not be. And what is not, is not; there is no way to make it be.

Existence neither increases nor decreases; it simply is, as it is—unchanged by even a grain’s worth. Yet changes appear to be many, though all are changes of combination—this to that, here to there. Like rearranging your living room: you move a picture from one wall to another; shift the sofa from the left corner to the right; alter the flower arrangement; what was Indian you style Japanese—differences that are not really differences, only new combinations. Everything is old. Everything remains as it is.

Remember this: you have neither come from anywhere nor are you going anywhere.

In the last moments of Ramana Maharshi’s life, someone said, “You are leaving us, you are abandoning us, making us orphans.” Ramana opened his eyes and said, “Are you mad? Where would I go even if I went? Where is there to go? I am here and I will remain here—if not in the body, then outside it; if not inside the house, then outside. Here or there, but where to go? Where is the place to go? I have not come, nor will I go.”

The wise have called this freedom from coming and going—this very realization that nothing comes and nothing goes. But in dreams we travel incessantly. At night you sleep, and in dreams where all you come and go! If in the morning you start asking, “I was in Tibet last night—how did I get there? I took no train, no plane. How did I return?”—the person you ask will laugh and say, “You’ve gone crazy! You neither went nor came. You were dreaming.”

One dreams of being a body, another of being rich, another of being a renunciate, another of being sinful, another of being virtuous—only dreams. The day you awaken in meditation, you will see: you neither went nor came; all journeys were fabrications of the mind. That is why no vehicles were needed, no arrangements to depart or return.

And you ask: “What is my destiny?” Existence has no destiny. That is why in this land we have called creation a lila, a divine play. Lila means “that which has no purpose or predetermined end.” Like playing a game—cards, dice, chess—what destiny does a game have? It has no ulterior purpose. Nothing is to be gained or attained by it. It is delight, play. People build sandcastles on a riverbank; card houses; a breeze comes and all falls.

Only in this country has the word lila been used for existence. No other religion in the world had the courage to call existence a play. All have called it “creation,” and God the Creator. Call it “creation” and gravity descends—some grand design, a maker with intentions, desires, aims—a purpose behind it, some hidden meaning.

Would God have any craving that He should make existence for some purpose? Is He lacking something? Purpose exists where there is lack. God is overflowing, brimming. This is not “creation” in the sense that He wants to gain something by making it. It is lila in the sense that energy is so abundant—what else to do? It dances, sings, hums, creates flowers, paints butterflies’ wings, arches rainbows. All play, all lila. No purpose, no goal. The language of goals is the language of the ego. Without a goal, without purpose, you feel the ground slipping from beneath your feet—so at once you ask, “Then why do this? Why do that?”

An art connoisseur asked Pablo Picasso, “This painting you have just completed—what is its meaning? Its purpose? What are you trying finally to say with it?”

Picasso looked at him as if he had asked a mad question, took his hand, and led him into the garden. Roses were blooming on a bush. Picasso said, “These are roses—what is their purpose? What is their meaning? And if roses can be without purpose and meaning, why must my paintings have meaning? There is joy, not intention. I felt delight. As I laid on the colors with my brush, I grew ecstatic. That is all.”

No difference between means and end—the means are the end. What Picasso is saying is the very meaning of lila. This entire existence is a great play of energy. Don’t ask what your destiny is. Destiny belongs to machines. When you make a machine it has a destiny—you made it for a purpose, for production, a factory. A human being has no purpose, no destiny. A human being is God’s joy.

Wherever there is life, there is no destiny. To become free of destiny, of the lens of purpose—that is liberation, nirvana. Ask, “Who am I?”—yes; ask it of yourself. But do not fall into the trouble of “What am I for?”—you will never get an answer to that. You will surely get an answer to “Who am I?”—the same answer that has always been found. But it must arise from within you. You will discover that you are consciousness, the seer, the witness, sat-chit-ananda—being, awareness, bliss. And this treasure is overflowing within you. Do not spread your begging bowl elsewhere.

O lowing rivers, heedless— where are you rushing away? The flute’s call resounds within you! O clusters of foam, with tails of waves held high, racing rivers, look also to this bank and that— where flowered shores and fields of golden grain lie. With your gurgling, laughing song, telling your own tale of longing, your love-story— do not simply hurry past! The ocean is not your only truth; it is but the motionless stillness, like a source to the moving stream. Your truth is within you! Infinity of mere magnitude is not Infinity— the Infinity of quality shines in every drop! O lowing rivers, heedless— where are you rushing away? The flute’s call resounds within you!

There is nowhere else to go. Your truth is within you. And truth is not hidden only in the ocean; it is hidden drop by drop. Know the secret of a single drop and the secret of all oceans is revealed. Dive into the mystery of one drop and all mysteries are known. In each and every particle God is as fully present as in the totality, for the Whole cannot have parts—the Whole is indivisible. God is within you as fully as in the vast cosmos, because the Whole admits no fragments. Do not imagine that within you is a tiny piece of the Whole and other pieces are within others, and their sum total is God. God is not an aggregate. This little arithmetic does not work there. There, even mathematics changes, logic changes, our ordinary language changes. Part and Whole are not lesser and greater—they are equal, the same.

Your question is beautiful, but make it your meditation. In the beginning, ask “Who am I?” in words—you must start with words, because it is in the jungle of words that you are lost. Where you are lost, from there the first step must be taken. Then, as the question grows clearer, drop the words—let only a question-mark remain within. Sit in silence; let only the question-mark remain—Who am I?—but no words. And then, gradually, even the question-mark drops; only the feeling remains.

Sheikh Farid was a madcap Sufi. He was going to bathe in the river when a man asked, “Baba Farid, I too want to realize God. What is the path?”

Farid looked him up and down, as if weighing him on a scale, and said, “Truly—you want to know God?” The man grew a little afraid. He had asked casually, an intellectual itch—“I ran into a saint, let me ask while I’m at it; no harm done!” Farid said, “Truly—you want to know God?” The man was scared, but now he was caught, and said, “Yes, yes!” Farid said, “Then follow me. Such questions can be asked only after a bath. First we’ll bathe in the river; then I’ll answer. And if a moment arrives, I’ll answer during the bath itself.”

The man felt uneasy: “If a moment arrives, he’ll answer during the bath—what does that mean?” But he thought, “These fakirs speak in riddles; they have their own dialect. What harm can there be? He only asked me to bathe—no great hardship. I was going to bathe anyway; I’ll bathe here.”

He went with Farid. They undressed and entered the river. As soon as the man ducked under, Farid climbed atop him and held him down, pressing his neck so he couldn’t come up. The man began to thrash, like a fish flung onto burning sand—hands and feet flailing. But Farid was strong; still, when it’s life and death, hidden strength surges. The man, though thin and scholarly as inquirers often are, gathered all his might and with one wrench threw Farid aside and burst to the surface. Farid asked, “Did you understand something?”

The man said, “Understand? You were about to kill me! Is this how one realizes God? Are you a man or a murderer? I had heard you were an accomplished fakir—but you seem mad. You were choking me!”

Farid said, “We’ll talk about that later. First, before you forget—human memory is very weak—tell me: while I held you under, how many thoughts were in your mind?”

“How many thoughts! Only one: how to get out.”

“How long did even that one thought remain?”

“Not long. As you kept me down, even that thought vanished. Then only a raw feeling remained. There were no words—just ‘how…!’ Even saying it now I must put it in words, but at that time there were no words. Just one breath of air—somehow! Then I don’t know whether even feeling remained. I don’t know what happened after. Some unknown energy seized me. Otherwise, how could I have thrown off a sturdy madcap like you? It wasn’t in me. Some unknown source burst open within—call it God’s grace! It was a mistake to ask you; I’ll never ask again. I’ll warn the village: don’t ask this man about God. And if he says ‘let’s go to the river,’ don’t go with him—today I survived; others may not.”

Farid said, “The day you desire God in the same way—first thought, then sheer feeling, and then not even feeling—only a surge of energy—on that day you will attain God.

“This is my answer,” said Farid. “Now go. Curiosity will not do; you need burning yearning.”

That is what I am telling you. First ask “Who am I?” in words; then let only the feeling of the question remain; then let even the feeling go—leaving a state empty of feeling and empty of words. Call it meditation or prayer—as you like. From there the answer will arise. And then you will understand.

Kasturi dwells in the navel! The musk is within you, and you run through the forests. You go mad—Where to find it? How to find it? Whatever is worth attaining, whatever is meaningful, is within you.

O lowing rivers, heedless— where are you rushing away? The flute’s call resounds within you!

Anand Maitreya! The difference between respect and reverence is immense—like earth and sky. Respect is formal; reverence is informal. Respect is learned; reverence is spontaneous.

You were told: respect the priest, respect the pundit, respect the elders; respect your mother and father; respect your teachers. This was fed into you from the time you had no awareness—along with your mother’s milk. So you “respect.”

Indian friends come to me bringing their small children. They themselves bend to touch my feet—and then they grab their little children by the neck and push them down too. I say to them: What are you doing? The child is resisting in every possible way—what does he have to do with me? But his father is holding his neck! The child can neither run nor remain upright; he must bow. By forcing him to bow again and again you will train him into it. Then he will bow anywhere; it will become a habit. That is what we call respect. Wherever he sees power, authority, rank or reputation, he will bow. But his innermost being is not bowing. It didn’t bow the first day either. This is only by force of habit.

You go to a temple; there is an image of Ram, or of Buddha, or of Krishna—and at once you bow! But have you noticed something? A Jain goes into a Krishna temple and no feeling of bowing arises within him at all; it simply doesn’t. A Hindu stands before Mahavira’s image and no impulse to bow arises in his mind. A Hindu bows before Krishna’s image—he cannot refrain, even if he wants to; it’s sunk near the unconscious. It is a kind of hypnosis—mass hypnosis. That is what we call respect. Society lives on such hollow things.

We condition our children like this—we bind them in samskaras, in conditioning. We make them Hindu, Muslim, Jain.

I was born in a Jain home, and from childhood I was told that except for Jain masters, all others are false masters; except for Jain scriptures, all other scriptures are false; apart from Jain temples and Jain tirthas there are no holy places at all.

Hindus are told the same; Muslims are told the same. If a Muslim’s foot touches the Gita, he feels no fear—rather he feels a secret pleasure: good, a little extra merit! If a Hindu’s foot touches it, he will at once prostrate full-length, knock his head on the ground, beg forgiveness, get flustered, break into a sweat. It’s the same book. But the Muslim’s hypnosis is different; the Hindu’s hypnosis is different. Each has been given a different conditioning.

Do you ever feel the urge to bow when you pass a mosque? It never even occurs to you that a mosque might be a place to bow. But try walking past Hanumanji’s wayside shrine with your hands in your pockets! You will have to turn back. Ten or fifteen steps later you’ll begin to feel anxious: what if he got annoyed? What does it cost me—let me go back and salute! It’s Hanumanji—if he gets angry, creates trouble, brings some misfortune! You will come back.

I used to take a morning walk every day with a friend. If any temple appeared, any Hindu temple—of Ram, Krishna, Hanuman, Shiva—he had to bow there. Just taking a walk became difficult. In those lanes and squares, there are temples everywhere! At every spot he would stop to bow. I had to stop with him. I told him: Decide one of two things—either stop this hocus‑pocus if you want to walk with me, or stop walking with me if you must do this hocus‑pocus. What is this chaos! Better sit at home once and remember them all in one go. The Hindus were clever—they wrote the Vishnu Sahasranama, a thousand names of God, all included. Read the Vishnu Sahasranama once every morning, bow to everyone, be done with it. Then why keep bowing place after place—how many places will you go on bowing!

He said: I myself feel awkward, but it’s a habit. My father taught me; it was his habit too.

I said: Drop it now. Your father has gone; why carry his habit?

He said: All right, I’ll try from tomorrow.

Next day we went. We came to the first little Hanuman shrine, and I saw his legs wobbling. I said: Steady! Careful! This is the time to be careful.

He said: I am being careful.

But I saw panic on his face. After ten or fifteen steps he said to me: Forgive me, I can’t go further. I have to bow. Otherwise my whole day will be spoiled. I’m tormented by the thought: you’re walking on without saluting Hanumanji today! He went back, bowed, and only then did his mind feel at peace. That is respect: you don’t want to do it, yet you have to.

This is not reverence. Reverence is a far different matter. Reverence means: spontaneous, not taught by anyone. When you bow before someone because your heart longs to bow, that is reverence. When you bow because you were taught to bow, that is respect. Respect is formal—cheap, a social arrangement. Reverence is revolution at the very roots of life. When the flower of reverence blossoms, your whole life is filled with fragrance. Respect is like plastic flowers. They look like flowers; from a distance you may even be deceived. They can even be made more beautiful than real flowers sometimes. And plastic flowers have qualities that real flowers do not have. Plastic lasts—lasts and lasts—can last for centuries. In truth, scientists are troubled by how much plastic we use; it gathers in the soil. Plastic doesn’t die; plastic has attained immortality. Amritasya putrah—the “sons of the immortal” praised in the Vedas—was not said about man; it was said about plastic! There is no way to kill plastic. It is accumulating in the earth, in oceans, in rivers; it’s dangerous because it will destroy the fertility of the soil.

Everything in nature decays and returns to nature. When a person dies, the water returns to water—human beings are eighty percent water. Think of yourself as mostly water; eighty percent is no small matter. The water goes back to water. What earth there is returns to earth. Breath returns to the air. Small elements—aluminum, other metals, a little iron in the bones—all return. Within a hundred and fifty years, everything goes back to its source; the recycling is complete. From that, new life may arise again. In nature, what is born does not get stuck or halt the flow. Plastic is a dangerous thing man has made; it just does not die. It will lie there for centuries, a blockage, creating obstacles wherever it gathers.

So plastic has one virtue: its flowers don’t wither at dusk; they fear neither sun nor water. Nothing can harm them. No water, no manure required. They have no roots; they are rootless, sky-vines.

I used to see Mulla Nasruddin every day, watering a flowerpot on his window sill. Flowers were blooming in the pot. One day I was passing and noticed that while he was “pouring water,” nothing came out of the spout; the lota was empty. I asked: Nasruddin, there’s no water in the lota—what are you pouring?

He said: Who’s pouring water! Are these flowers real? They’re plastic. But I’m fooling the neighborhood. If I don’t “water” them, people guess they’re plastic; so every morning and evening I tip the empty lota. The neighbors remain convinced the flowers must be real—otherwise why would anyone water them?

Fake flowers have this virtue—they last; they’re very permanent. Not like love—more like marriage. Once stuck, stuck! It follows you birth after birth. That is why all civilizations have been afraid of love—because love is a real flower: it blooms in the morning and withers by evening. You’ve usually heard the opposite—that if love is real, it never dies. You are mistaken. It is real things that die; the fake things don’t die. If love is real, it will die—just as it was born, it will die. And the quicker it was born, the quicker it will die.

The flower that blooms in the morning will shed its petals by evening. Don’t conclude that the flower was fake. The flower was real. If you didn’t pick it in the market, if you bought a plastic flower, why would it die? It won’t shed in the evening. So the “sensible” have eliminated love and put marriage in its place. Marriage is a plastic flower—it doesn’t die, because first of all it is never born. Parents arrange it; priests and pundits arrange it; the birth charts are matched; that’s how it is decided. The two people getting married aren’t even asked; they are not stakeholders. They don’t come into it at all. Others decide—and for other reasons: money, rank, status, lineage, respectable conduct, morality—any number of reasons, but love is never a criterion. All civilizations fear love—because love is unpredictable.

In the West today, marriage is dying for one basic reason: the West has again begun to value love. Give value to love and marriage will die. In America today, for every two marriages there is one divorce. And as for those who don’t divorce, don’t assume they are living happily. Don’t fall into that illusion. They are a bit old-fashioned; they are afraid; they cannot muster the courage. They think: let it pass; life is short, it went on like this till now, it will go on somehow.

If you could look inside people, you’d be very surprised. But this is formality.

As there is a difference between love and marriage, so there is a difference between reverence and respect. Respect is like marriage—socially produced, part of the social order. Reverence is love fully grown—love at its peak. When you fall into such heartful love for someone that you are compelled to bow and to surrender—that is reverence.

I was a university teacher for a few years. In Delhi, an education minister convened a small meeting of teachers from various universities, because the deteriorating relationship between students and teachers was becoming a daily problem. By some mistake they invited me too—and then regretted it. Before me, all the teachers who spoke had one refrain: the scriptures say the teacher should be respected. This is our Indian tradition, our culture—and it is being destroyed.

When I spoke I said: As I understand the scriptures, they say: the one before whom you have to bow—that one is the teacher. I cannot accept the interpretation that “the guru should be respected.” Rather: the one before whom you cannot help but be respectful—that is the guru. That is the definition of guru. The one before whom you simply have to bow—even if you don’t want to, even if you go with denial and negation, filled with no, and yet a yes arises—then know you have come to a guru.

Not all teachers are gurus. So why should there be respect for those who are not gurus? They are employees; they receive a salary—end of the matter. You take a salary and teach; students pay fees and learn. Why demand more? Why this egoistic expectation that we should also get respect? If you want respect, become worthy of respect. But there is no concern about that.

I said: So many teachers have spoken; not one has bothered to wonder if respect is not given because the teacher is no longer respectable.

Gautam Buddha had five disciples while he was practicing harsh austerities. Then he felt there was no essence in austerity; he was drying up his body in vain—sheer pessimism, self-violence. So he left austerity. Those five disciples had followed him precisely because he was so skilled in self-torture, unmatched in tormenting himself; he invented new ways to torment himself. That impressed them. When they saw he had become “corrupt”—that Gautam had abandoned austerity—they left him.

Then Buddha attained supreme enlightenment. He said: First I must find those five who left me. Whatever they did, they stayed with me for years. They left me; I did not leave them. It is not right to impose such a great punishment for their misunderstanding. So he began to seek them—and thus came to Sarnath, because wherever he inquired, he heard they had moved on, and on, until he learned they were staying at Sarnath. He came in the morning—such a morning it must have been. The five sat beneath a tree and saw Buddha approaching. They said: That degenerate Gautam is coming. We will not rise to salute him. He has become corrupt; why respect him? We’ll keep our backs turned to him. If he comes and sits down, let him sit; we will not even say, “Come, be seated.” Why should we? At least we are still on our path; he has strayed from it.

They agreed. But as Buddha drew nearer, difficulty arose. One stood and fell at his feet. Another rose and fell too. Then all five rose and fell at Buddha’s feet. Buddha said: Friends, one should not abandon one’s resolve so quickly. Had you not decided—I could tell from your manner—that you would not honor me? You had your backs to me. Then why did you fall at my feet?

They said: We ourselves don’t know. But with you came a breeze, a flow of fragrance! With you came an energy, a climate. You came like spring—and the flowers bloomed by themselves. What could we do?

This is what I call reverence: the flowers bloom by themselves.

Respect, Anand Maitreya, is formal—cheap, of no value. Value belongs to reverence. In the dictionary the two may be given as synonyms; in the lexicon of life they are opposites. Reverence has life in it; respect is a corpse. Respect is traditional; reverence is personal. Respect is collective; reverence is private, intimate. Reverence is your decision; respect is other people’s decision. And one who lives by others’ decisions—can he be called a man at all? He is a sheep! Respect is conditional—whatever the condition may be: age, for example—someone is older, so he should be respected. What has age to do with respect? Nothing. There are many old people full of childishness. One does not become mature merely by growing old. If only maturity were so cheap—that you go gray and become mature! Most people bleach their hair in the sun. Life-experience is one thing; age is another. Animals also grow old. Age will pass—it’s a matter of the clock and the calendar, not of the soul. Even if you lie there doing nothing, age will increase. Go on committing every kind of stupidity—age will still increase. Age has no link with awareness.

Mulla Nasruddin turned one hundred. Journalists came—because someone reaching a hundred is a curiosity. They took photos and asked: Nasruddin, what is the secret of your long life?

He said: Secret? I never drank alcohol, never smoked, never gambled, never kept bad company. In bed by eight and up before dawn. A five-mile walk every morning. Daily recitation of the Quran. I lived a religious life. That’s why I have this long span.

Just then, in the next room, there was a loud crash—as if something fell. They were startled: What happened?

Mulla said: Don’t worry; that’s my father. Looks like he’s grabbed the maid again.

They asked: Your father! How old is he?

He said: About one hundred and twenty.

And he still grabs the maid?

Oh, don’t ask about him! When he drinks, he loses all sense—who’s the maid, who’s who.

They said: It’s a miracle your father is one hundred twenty, and you one hundred!

He said: That’s nothing. My grandfather is alive too.

Where is he? the reporters asked. We’d like to meet him. How old is he?

About one hundred forty.

They asked: And where is he?

He said: He’s gone to a wedding.

Whose wedding?

His own.

He’s getting married at this age?

He’s not getting married—he’s having to! The woman became pregnant.

What will age do? The foolish only become more foolish as they age. Donkeys don’t become horses by growing old—not even mules; they become grand donkeys.

Respect is conditional. There are conditions. Age is one; wealth is another. Whoever has money gets respect—until the money is gone; then the respect is gone. Knowledge too—scriptural knowledge. A pundit with the Upanishads by heart...

A gentleman came from Ujjain and told me: I saw an amazing thing. A mahatma has come to the Kumbh Mela. He does a headstand and recites the Ramayana for two hours every day.

As big fools as you can find in this country you’ll hardly find anywhere else. Blessed is the land of Bharat! For a fool, reciting the Ramayana while standing on his head appears very important. And here comes another fool bringing the news—“How wonderful!” He says that’s where the biggest crowds gather. When he recites the Ramayana upside down, the crowd melts with devotion. What is there to melt over? If the man wants to do it, let him.

Go to the Kumbh and you will meet such people. Someone has been standing with one arm raised for nine years. Ask him why—he says he’s taken a twelve-year vow to keep his arm up. A whole fraternity of crazies! Someone else is always standing—hasn’t sat for years; he’s vowed to stand. There is no radiance on his face, no aura of buddhahood. But he’s standing—enough for us.

For what odd reasons we give respect! And whoever holds a post, we respect him: someone becomes prime minister—instant respect; president—instant respect. Mother Teresa receives the Nobel Prize—instant respect. She was the same before the Nobel too. No Indian university had thought to give her a D.Litt. Now there’s a stampede—every university must confer a D.Litt. Bharat Ratna! She becomes Bharat Ratna after the Nobel. Any little condition, and our fixed notions are thrown into a frenzy.

Reverence is unconditional—like love. If someone asks you why you fell in love, you won’t be able to answer. If you can answer, it’s not love; it’s something else. If you say, “Her father is highly reputed,” or “She has a lot of money,” or “She is an only child—I felt pity and thought to redeem her,” or “Her father is rich; let no scoundrel ruin her, so I decided to protect her”—if you can give reasons, it’s not love. If you are dumbstruck and say, “I can’t say why—there is no answer to why; it just happened—unconditional,” that is love. The reasons you sometimes offer—“she is very beautiful”—are not true reasons. You think you fell in love because she is beautiful; the truth is: you fell in love, therefore she appears beautiful to you. Others don’t find her beautiful.

Laila was beautiful to no one but Majnun. So the idea that beauty causes love is false; love causes the sense of beauty. Then you look for pretexts, because the mind wants a rationale—“Why did I fall in love?” Reverence is exactly like that. Reverence is a kind of divine madness. There is no argument for it. When people ask you about the person toward whom your reverence flows, you will be dumbstruck, speechless. You won’t be able to give a satisfying answer. That’s why lovers and devotees are thought mad: they cannot give any coarse answer that fits others’ logic.

My sannyasins experience this daily. People ask them: What happened to you? You were sensible—what suddenly got into you? We never imagined this would happen to you.

And they cannot answer; there is no way to answer. It’s a matter of taste.

Reverence is an experience—ineffable. Respect is stale; reverence is fresh—fresh like the morning dew. Respect is tied to the past; reverence is a present-moment experience. Respect is a coin that comes from other people’s hands, bearing the imprint of countless hands, passed down generation to generation. Others will laugh at it, because it’s not their tradition.

For example, if someone with a Hindu topknot (choti/shikha) is seen, others laugh, but the Hindu does not; to the Hindu, the topknot is very becoming. He feels great respect for it. He’s been taught: this has always been so in the land of rishis; there’s a mystery in it. And what “mysteries” people will invent!

A certain mahatma was giving a discourse; I was on the dais. He was saying such outrageous things that when I spoke, I could not refrain from pointing them out—and chaos ensued. The mahatma went berserk. It doesn’t take long for mahatmas to go berserk, because the calm, harmony and equanimity they show are superficial, hollow.

He was explaining that the topknot is very scientific. Just as tall buildings have lightning rods so that lightning goes straight into the ground and the building isn’t destroyed—Hindus discovered this science long ago, he said; they kept the topknot standing up.

What an absurd thing to say! Then lightning should never strike Hindus at all. It should strike others. And Hindu sannyasins—who are completely shaven—lightning should strike them daily. There’s no place for a topknot. Hindu sannyasins should be killed whenever and wherever—lightning should seek them out.

He himself was shaven-headed. I asked: This is delightful! A shaven-headed monk preaching the importance of the topknot. Where is his topknot? What became of his science?

He offered further absurdities: Why do Hindus wear wooden clogs (khadaun)? Because they press a nerve of the big toe; when that nerve is pressed, celibacy is maintained.

Then go to a hospital and have that nerve pressed properly once and for all. If it’s only the big-toe nerve, press it—what need is there for vasectomy? If it’s just a matter of the toe nerve, press it. Why clatter around with wooden clogs! And you’ll take the clogs off sometime—what will happen to the nerve then? At night you’ll sleep—you’ll take the clogs off. And children are mostly conceived at night, not by day.

So I said: According to this mahatma, you should sleep wearing clogs. And suppose the husband has pressed his nerve—what about the wife? Is she sleeping in clogs too? The clogs will fly in the night; skulls will split open. How long and where will you carry clogs?

He flew into a rage that I was attacking religion. There was no attack on religion—only on foolish talk. But Hindus were delighted; they applauded—because their topknot was being defended.

When our stupidities are defended, we feel pleased; our ego is gratified—“Ah, we are not ordinary; we are very scientific; our customs contain deep secrets and hidden mysteries!”

Respect is borrowed, stale, hollow, imitative, a copy of others. Reverence is self-experienced. Respect destroys intelligence; it is intelligence’s enemy. Intelligence rusts in respect. In reverence, intelligence is burnished; it gets an edge, a gleam like a sharpened sword.

Choose reverence—and beware of respect. Beware of all counterfeit flowers. If you want fragrance to ever fill your life, it is necessary to be alert to the fake flowers.

Uday Singh! Brother, the job is a bit difficult. We will try; success or failure is in God’s hands! Because one doesn’t land in politics without a reason.

What does politics mean? Politics means: the ambition to have ownership, lordship over others. And religion is exactly the opposite of politics. Religion means: the ambition to have ownership, mastery over oneself. These two directions are different.

You are saying, “I am going east; will you help me go west?” I will try, but if you are fixated on going east, taking you west will become very difficult.

You will have to leave politics—which is hard. Because the taste of politics is like liquor; once it catches, it won’t let go. It becomes very difficult. It returns again and again by a thousand excuses. Even if you enter religion, there too you will play some political tricks. It will come in through the back door. After all, there is plenty of politics in religion as well. Shankaracharyas have cases running in the courts.

A case has been going on for years in the Allahabad High Court; two Shankaracharyas are claiming the same seat. Now this is politics. Even Shankaracharyas—and they go to court to lodge claims, and the court will decide who the real Shankaracharya is! And the judges, who don’t know even the ABC of religion, they will decide who is genuine! And two Shankaracharyas stand begging for their verdict. The case has dragged on for years. The seat has been sealed by the police. Because until a decision comes, there’s trouble. More than once there have been baton-charges. Both have their devotees.

The previous Shankaracharya, who left this mess behind, made wills in favor of both. First he willed it to one. Then, at the time of death, the other must have flattered him more. The first became complacent—“What more is there to do? The will is in my name.” The second man must have done a lot of sycophancy. So as he was dying, he made a will in the second’s name as well. Now the will is in both names. How can the court decide who is the real Shankaracharya?

How many temples, how many mosques, how many gurdwaras are there where there is nothing but politics! In the name of religion, politics is running.

So even if you come into religion, nothing is certain that you will be free of politics. To be free of politics requires great alertness. The tricks you have learned, the stratagems you have mastered—avoiding them is very difficult.

Mulla Nasruddin is a leader, a great leader. His son said to him, “Father, teach me a bit of politics too, little by little. Seeing the garlands around your neck, the receptions and honors, I also feel like walking this path someday.”

Nasruddin said, “Then here is the first lesson. Climb this ladder.”

The son said, “What will happen by climbing a ladder?”

Nasruddin said, “Just climb!”

The boy climbed the ladder. Nasruddin said, “Now jump. I’m standing here to catch you.”

The boy hesitated—what if he fell, what if the catch missed? Nasruddin said, “Arre, when I’m standing here to catch you, why are you afraid? Gather courage! What politics will you do if you have no courage? This is a field where one has to leap into danger. It is to jump into a blazing fire. Here there is no fire, nothing. And I’m here to catch you.”

When the father gave him so much assurance, the boy jumped. As he jumped, Nasruddin stepped aside. He crashed to the ground. Both his knees were broken. He began to cry. “What is this?”

Nasruddin said, “This is the first lesson. In politics never trust even your own father. Do not trust at all. This is the first lesson of politics!”

And the first lesson of religion is: faith. The first lesson of politics is: doubt. Even doubt those who are your own, because they are the ones who will cut you down, they are the ones who will cut your throat. Those who are not your own are so far away they won’t get the chance.

And politics requires no great intelligence. Remember, doubt requires no great intelligence. Faith requires a very sharp intelligence. To rule over others doesn’t require much acumen or talent, because others are sitting ready to be slaves. For centuries they have been made slaves. They are waiting for someone to come and enslave them. If no one enslaves them, they grow restless. They need someone’s slogan to shout—someone’s “Long live!” They want someone who will make them chant, cry victory, and then their hearts feel at peace. Until someone sits on their chest, they feel life is useless.

For centuries slavery has been taught; so people are ready to be slaves.

But mastery of oneself is difficult. It needs great talent—razor-sharp talent! Mastery of oneself means: freedom from one’s unconscious, freedom from one’s darkness, freedom from one’s ego.

Politics feeds the ego, and religion is freedom from the ego. Politics nourishes the ego. And who doesn’t want the ego to be fed? Everyone does!

A mouse, one chilly morning, was standing beside an elephant, basking in the sun. The elephant too was at leisure. Morning time, winter season, soft sunshine. He looked around—no one was in sight. Then he heard a slight squeak. He bent down and saw a mouse sitting there. He had never seen such a tiny creature—his eye hadn’t even gone there. He said, “Arre, such a tiny creature! You are this small?”

The mouse puffed out his chest and said, “You’re mistaken. I’m no small fry. I’ve just been a bit unwell for two or three months.”

The mouse—what does the elephant think of himself! “Just a bit unwell for two or three months. My health hasn’t been right. Otherwise I’m not much smaller than an elephant!”

Politics is ego. The smaller the person, the more politics appeals to him—because politics is the one way he can forget his smallness.

Psychologists say that politics is born of the inferiority complex. The man who suffers a sense of inferiority goes into politics. No one but the inferior goes into politics.

So, Uday Singh, the matter is a bit difficult—but we will try.

A politician’s left hand was cut in a machine. He went to the doctor for dressing. The doctor said, “Brother, it was your good fortune that your left hand went in. If your right hand had gone in, you couldn’t have done any work in the world.”

The politician said, “Arre, Doctor-saheb, what good fortune! It was my cleverness. Actually my right hand did go in, but I quickly pulled it back and thrust my left hand under the machine.”

Now who knows how many days you have been in politics, Uday Singh—how many days you have been pulling back the right hand and putting the left hand under the machine, who knows. On that will depend how deep the habits have set, how drunk you are on the intoxication.

Once, Brother Jaggu came riding an elephant to inspect the village. Crowds gathered. The children began making a racket. Brother Jaggu got furious and shouted, “Why, you fools, have you never seen an elephant?”

The children said, “Sir, we’ve seen an elephant. But an elephant on top of an elephant—this we are seeing for the first time.”

After the last election, when Mulla Nasruddin met Shri Raj Narain, he said, “Seeing you, I am suddenly reminded of a great man.”

Raj Narain, pleased, asked, “Nasruddin, even before the election you told me the same thing; now you say it again. Then I had no leisure to ask the meaning, but now tell me truly—on seeing me, which great man comes to your mind?”

Mulla said, “It’s good you didn’t ask then. I couldn’t have told you at that time. But now what is there to fear! Now listen—the plain truth. Whenever I see you, I remember the great scientist, the late Darwin, who said that man is the offspring of the monkey.”

Uday Singh, we will try. Give as much cooperation as you can—though politicians don’t have the habit of cooperating. It’s hard to seat two politicians side by side! Quarreling, brawling, fisticuffs become their nature. Refutation and counter-refutation. Stratagems and tricks. They can’t sit peacefully. Nor can they let anyone else sit peacefully. They keep up the commotion. If your cooperation is there, it may happen—why not!

A saint has written, in praise of the Master, something like: “You melted this hard stone of the land of Punjab so quickly! O True Master, you have performed a marvel. I lay my life at your feet!”

If even the stone of Punjab can melt… only one fear strikes me, Uday Singh, on seeing your name: that you might be in politics and also be a Punjabi. Then there is a bit of danger. Then it is bitter gourd upon neem—doubly bitter. Then it becomes very difficult—beyond control. But I will try in any case.

And when you have prayed, “Won’t you change me too?” you have also thrown a challenge. I will make every effort. Here we are sitting with chisel and hammer in hand.

Chaitanya Kirti! Chaitanya Kirti keeps asking about marriage again and again. Let me also tell you the reason: he has fallen in love with twin sisters. Be careful—remember what Kabir said: Between two millstones, no grain stays whole! And here the millstones themselves are twins! You’ll be ground so fine that no trace will be left.

Muhammad did indeed say you could have four marriages—only so that dispassion might arise as quickly as possible. For Muslims believe in only one lifetime. Hindus decided on just one marriage, because there’s no hurry: births and rebirths go on and on. You’ve done many before, you’ll do many after—no rush here; the wheel of coming and going keeps turning. But Islam recognizes only one life.

So poor Muhammad had to make arrangements to give you such heat that you’d evaporate in a single lifetime. He sat you on four stoves at once! One would have been enough, but put on four, liberation is assured. Meaning, he left you no direction in which to escape—he blocked all four directions. No way out. You’ll have to be free in this very life.

And Muhammad himself took nine wives. People ask me, “Why did Muhammad marry nine times?” And they also ask me, “We’ve heard Muhammad went to heaven with his body.”

Why wouldn’t he! If you have nine marriages, you’ll go with your body too—you won’t even find the time to leave it behind. They say he went to heaven seated on a mare. He could at least have dismounted! But perhaps there was no time. Those nine wives must have been standing around him; nine plus two makes eleven—so they stayed put in heaven. I am quite certain he went to heaven bodily, and still seated on the mare. There’s nothing miraculous about it. What’s the miracle? Try nine marriages and see!

Poor Muhammad had to marry nine times, because when he told his disciples they could marry four, he at least had to set an example. Otherwise the disciples would say, “Bravo, Master! You manage with just one, and you’re making us manage four! No, sir, perform a miracle—show you can go beyond us!” So he married nine times.

Chaitanya Kirti, it’s best you don’t get into this tangle. One is enough. If you have intelligence, one is enough; if you don’t, even four won’t be enough. For fools, nothing is ever enough. No matter how much battering they take, their hope doesn’t die. A fool’s hope doesn’t die.

Buddha said: He alone is wise whose hope has died, who has attained hopelessness. He said a surprising thing—hopelessness! By hopelessness he means: the one who has dropped the hope that any true happiness can be found in this world. But we keep hoping: “Others couldn’t do it; that was their mistake. We will manage.” No, you won’t manage either.

In times of sorrow only a friend comes to a friend’s aid; that’s precisely why every friend goes to his friend’s wedding.

The judge said to the accused: We’re also told that for years you’ve kept your wife cowed and terrified, and in effect made her your slave. The accused stammered: Your Honor, Your Honor, the thing is that... Cutting him short, the judge said: No need to present a defense. Just tell me how you perform this miracle!

What man has ever truly enslaved a woman? Many suffer from the illusion—and women allow that illusion to grow. Outwardly, men may have imposed bondage on women; inwardly, women have imposed bondage on men. If a man has enslaved a woman’s body, the woman has enslaved his soul—by far the costlier deal.

Why such haste to marry? What’s the hurry? If you feel affinity, love, a harmony with a person—live together. Share life. Test and come to know each other. If, ah, you come to feel you were made for one another—that itself is marriage! If you then want a formal wedding, do it—for society, for culture, for convention. But before that, there should be the felt sense of an inner marriage. Without that, you’ll suffer, and you’ll consign another to suffering.

Why are people so eager to marry? What’s the rush? They find themselves unhappy in their aloneness and think happiness will come from the other. The other thinks the same. Both are unhappy. Two unhappy people together don’t double their happiness; they double their misery—no, not just double, it multiplies. Where can happiness arise from? You’re unhappy; the woman is unhappy. She thinks she’ll become happy by meeting you; you think you’ll become happy by meeting her. Then, when you meet, you discover the truth—but by then it’s too late.

That’s why all the old stories—and the new ones too, films and plays—end with the shehnai, the wedding band playing, the curtain falls. The old tales say: the shehnai played, the band blared, the two were married—and then they lived happily ever after. The rest of the story is understandable, but this last bit—“they lived happily ever after”—that’s the most incomprehensible line of all. Nothing more untrue has ever been said. And it’s just as well they don’t tell the truth that comes after. The stories stop right there—at the shehnai. The film too ends with the music, the band—and then: The End. Because taking it further isn’t without peril. Touching the truths isn’t without danger.

What I’m telling you are plain truths of life. I neither want you to dominate women, nor women to dominate you. Only that love which can give freedom is love. If love brings bondage, it isn’t love. Your so-called marriage brings bondage. And where there’s bondage, there’s rebellion. Where there’s bondage, there’s revenge.

And once you are tied to one, naturally other women start looking beautiful. Because you see other women from the outside; you begin to know your own woman from the inside. From the outside, everyone is beautiful. Drums sound sweeter at a distance. Your own husband, from the inside, seems like—what is he? Nothing at all. A jackal’s pup! Others’ husbands look like—ah, how they puff out their chests and stride like lions! But you don’t know the state of their homes; there too it’s the same. They are jackals’ pups as well. Who doesn’t strut outside? Try strutting at home! There people walk with their tails tucked in.

Chandulal went for a walk with his wife. On the way there was a small pond with ducks swimming. Suddenly Gulabo nudged Chandulal and, rolling her eyes, said: Just look there! See how those ducks are romancing! Chandulal adjusted his glasses, looked closely, and scolded his wife: You’re so old, and still your attention goes to such things. Mother of ten, have some shame! The wife said nothing. When they circled back past the same pond, Gulabo saw the same scene. She couldn’t resist and said: Ah, look, they’re still lost in each other! Chandulal again put on his glasses and said: O fortunate woman, I can see that too. But did you notice something else? It’s a different duck!

Get bound to one, and suddenly the whole world will be full of beautiful women and handsome men. Get bound, and the mirage begins to spread its net. There’s no need to bind yourself, Chaitanya Kirti.

There is no future for marriage; marriage has no future. It’s a rotten institution. Yes, let people live together out of love, and with responsibility. Marriage should only become necessary when they decide to have children; before that, there’s no need to bother about it. And if life’s experience brings you to a place where, by living with a particular woman or man, you’ve become more peaceful, more silent, more joyful and blossoming; if the music of your life has deepened, notes have been added to your scale, some flowers have bloomed, new stars have risen, some lamps have been lit—then fine, take the final decision to live together. But no hurry. Otherwise obstacles will arise.

Then people cry and repent. Yet people are in such a rush to marry—“Let it happen now!” Already Chaitanya Kirti has asked about marriage five or seven times. So I’m getting a bit concerned.

Love is enough. And if love ripens into marriage, marriage too is beautiful. But don’t make the mistake of thinking marriage can ripen into love. For centuries people have lived under that illusion: first marriage, then love will happen. It doesn’t. The math doesn’t add up.

I’m not anti-marriage. I want to give marriage a naturalness, a humanity. Right now marriage is an institution. And who wants to live in an institution? Only the insane want to live in institutions. Is an institution a place to live!

Be a little wary of marriage, Chaitanya Kirti. And with two sisters—twin sisters—don’t get stuck between the two, belonging neither to the house nor the ghat, like a washerman’s donkey! You’ll be thrashed on this side and on that. And don’t go looking for arguments from Muhammad and company. Let Muhammad be Muhammad. What he went through—you have no idea! Such things are never mentioned.

In life, the real things are left out. Life is strange: the fake and the false get written down; the real is left unwritten. What Muhammad went through with nine wives—no one tells you that; it’s written nowhere. Think of Krishna with sixteen thousand wives—just imagine! A perpetual Kumbh Mela. What jostling and shoving there must have been! Krishna said he would return when righteousness declined—he didn’t come. One experience was enough—who would get into that mess again! What if another Kumbh Mela broke out—again the same pushing and pulling! You think Krishna didn’t suffer? Just imagine sixteen thousand women—one pulling at his leg, another his arm, one running off with the peacock plume, another snatching the flute! Only one possibility suggests itself: he was clever—perhaps he kept them fighting among themselves. That’s a different matter. No other defense is visible—maybe he set them to wrestling with each other: “You sort it out among yourselves.” And why did he flee Mathura? And where did he settle—Dwarka—beyond which there was nowhere left to run. He fled so far that those girlfriends called and called, sent letter upon letter, message upon message—but he never came.

Understand the truths of life a little! Don’t get into these tangles. Walk with a little caution. This is a time to walk carefully. And what’s the hurry? When a man goes to the market to buy even a two-rupee pot, he taps and tests it and visits ten shops before buying. But marriage—people say it happens at first sight. Yes, there’s only one advantage to marriage at first sight: it saves time.

That’s all for today.