Rahiman Dhaga Prem Ka #2

Radhika Prasad! How can anyone drown in maya? How can one drown in what is false? Can you drown in what is not? Even if you want to, you cannot. How can you drown in a river that doesn’t exist, get caught in a net that isn’t there?

This word “maya” has deluded you greatly. Not maya, the word “maya” has deluded you. It has sat on your tongue. Your whole religion has come to rest on this one word—“one must escape maya.” You don’t even think: if the world is false, what is there to escape from? And if the world is false, how can you be true? If everything is false, only you are true? For others, you too are the world. For them you too are false. And if the world is false, how can the creator of the world be true? He would be the great falsehood. Falsehood can be born only of falsehood.

Therefore I do not say the world is false. I say: the world is very true. The world is the body of the Divine—God’s embodiment. Not maya. His form, his expression. In the urge to escape the world you become a runaway. And where will you run to? Wherever you go, the world is. You yourself are the world. So at least you will be wherever you go. Something will be there. If there is no house, there will be an ashram, a hut, a cave. If there is no family, there will be monks and nuns. If there are no friends and loved ones, there will be disciples. Where will you run?

Therefore I say: Wake up!

This world is true. If anything is untrue, it is your mind. Mind is maya, not the world. The mind weaves webs of imagination. The screen of the world is true; the mind paints large pictures upon it—imaginary, false; like seeing a snake in a rope. The snake is false, but the rope is not. For centuries the illusionists have given this example—that the world is like seeing a snake in a rope. But someone should ask them: granted the snake is false, but what about the rope? The rope is. And what fault is it of the snake? The snake isn’t even there. You saw it; it is the mistake of your vision. And you are blaming the rope? Spreading your delusion upon the world?

My emphasis, therefore, is not on escape but on awakening. Wake up! Do not run from the rope. Light a lamp. If there is a lack of light, bring light, so that the rope can be seen as rope. The day you see—“it is a rope”—do you think the snake died? That the snake went away somewhere? The snake was never there. Do you think when you were seeing the snake the rope had disappeared and become a snake? Do you think because you saw it the snake could have bitten you?

Now if someone says, “I know the rope is a snake, but save me from this snake!”—what would that mean? It simply means he still sees a snake; he is merely parroting that the snake is unreal. Otherwise the very talk of saving would not arise.

For those who believe the world is maya, the very question of sannyas cannot arise! What is there to renounce? That which is not? For renunciation, something must be. Then there is neither indulgence nor renunciation. Then wherever you are, as you are, it is fine. Nothing remains to be done.

Therefore I do not tell my sannyasin to renounce. I do not say indulge; I do not say renounce. I say: live awake. The world is true. The world is God manifesting in countless forms. In the trees, it is his green. In the flowers, his red. In the sunrays, he pours like gold. Within you he resides as consciousness. In your body he has become solidity. Your outer is he, your inner is he. Your center is he, your circumference is he.

But yes, between the center and the circumference you have the capacity to erect imaginations. You are capable of seeing a snake in a rope. You can also do the reverse: you can see a rope in a snake—though no scripture uses that example. It happens too: you can see a rope in a snake. After all, Tulsidas did! He climbed a dangling snake thinking it was a rope, to go meet his wife. His eyes were filled with the desire, the lust to meet her. He must have lost awareness, been unconscious. He saw one thing for another. He grabbed a snake and climbed, taking it to be a rope.

This is the capacity of your mind. It is this mind that has to be erased, wiped clean. Animals have no mind; they are below man. Man has mind—the very word “manushya” comes from “man” (mind). This is man’s only distinction, that he has a mind. And the day the mind disappears, that day you are divine. Below mind is the world of animals; above mind is the world of the Buddhas; and in between stands man—like Trishanku, suspended.

So do not ask, Radhika Prasad, “Save me from drowning in it!” I do not even see how you could drown. Ages have passed, births upon births—how many have not passed?—and where has this ocean of becoming, of which you speak, ever drowned you? You remain untouched. Who has drowned? No one has. At most a delusion of drowning can happen to you. And for delusion one can always find arguments. Whoever wants to cling to a delusion can find any argument.

Mulla Nasruddin once fell into the delusion that he had died. He had swallowed poison. And in India where can you get pure poison! He took poison and still didn’t die. Whether or not there is maya in this world, in India there is certainly a lot of maya! Here it’s all maya. People used to mix water in milk; now in Kaliyug they mix a little milk into water. Who knows what they mix into poison! Even poison cannot be had pure. He took poison and slept. In the morning he got up and told his wife, “Don’t make breakfast for me, I’m dead.” His wife said, “Are you in your senses? Are you awake or dreaming?” “Hey,” he said, “are you in your senses? If I’m not dead, those five rupees are wasted. I’ve taken five rupees’ worth of poison—I’m dead.”

At first she thought he was joking, but when he wouldn’t agree, wouldn’t eat, wouldn’t bathe—“Why bathe? If I’m dead, who is to bathe?”—he lay on the bed, wouldn’t get up. The family panicked: something has gone wrong in the head. They took him to a psychologist. The psychologist tried to explain, “You are alive, hale and hearty. Get up from the chair, walk.” He got up and walked. “See, you’re walking!” He said, “Ghosts walk too. Don’t you see my feet have turned completely backward, like ghosts?”

The psychologist thought, “This man won’t accept like this. He’ll argue and argue. If a living man has the delusion he is dead, he will surely offer arguments.” He said, “Tell me one thing: do you accept that a dead man cannot bleed?” “I accept that,” said Nasruddin. “A corpse never bleeds.” The psychologist picked up a knife, gave him a small cut on the hand; a stream of blood spurted out. “Now what do you say, sir?” Nasruddin burst out laughing: “This just proves that even a dead man can bleed. That belief was wrong—revise the theory. Those people who believed it without experimentation—some fool never tried cutting with a knife!—even dead men can bleed: now it is proved.”

You can believe whatever you want. It is all a matter of belief. Therefore the change has to be in belief. You don’t have to change places; the change is of the inner state. But people keep changing places. Someone goes to the Himalayas, someone to Kashi, someone to Kaaba. They change locations, change circumstances. Leave the house, leave the marketplace—where will you go? Wherever you go, your mind will go with you: the same mind that was in the marketplace. So wherever you live, there the marketplace will recreate itself. Wherever you sit, the same sequence will begin again, the same turmoil. You will not be able to escape.

Those Urvashis and Menakas that descend to entice your sages do not come from any sky. Those sages left their household Menakas behind. But they cannot leave the mind. If the mind is not left behind, how will Menaka be left? Now they sit under a tree in the Himalayas and Menaka dances all around them. Has Menaka nothing better to do than to dance around ascetics smeared in ash, frightening to look at with matted locks? And is this any torment? This is more like a reward! No, it is not Menaka—it is the mind.

Psychologists say: whatever you crave, if you are kept from that thing for three weeks, you will begin to imagine it—within just three weeks. And gradually the imagination will become so intense that you will start seeing it. It won’t be there, but you will see it. A hungry man does not see the moon in the sky; he sees flatbreads floating. For a hungry man what moon? A lover sees the face of his beloved. Ask Majnun—he will say he sees Laila. Ask Shirin—she will say she sees Farhad. Ask a miser—he will say he sees a silver platter. People will see different things; the poor moon has no blame. The moon has nothing to do with it. Whatever you want to see is what you will see.

You see reflections of your own mind.

You do not have to leave the world, Radhika Prasad. You have to leave nothing. You have to awaken from the mind. Mind is sleep; meditation is awakening.

Your gaze is counterfeit, the coin is from the mint! This coin was forged by nature from the clay of earth. This coin was shaped by man in his own tradition. On this coin are stamped the marks by destiny’s own hands; this coin has been in circulation through the valley of birth and death! Strike it and it sings songs of joy and of mourning. To find fault in this coin is mere fancifulness! The coin is soundly minted!

The goods you bring are adulterated; this customer is very true! At sweet words this customer melts like sugar candy. For a little affection he gives away his all. The deceit you see is all your own— this customer has a kinship with truth from birth to birth! Bring forth the compassion within you and test it upon him! This customer’s hand is open, this customer’s heart is full! This customer is very true!

You are newly arrived— but this bazaar is ancient! Gold and silver, diamonds and pearls—how many were cheated here. Those who hoarded all their lives went away empty-handed! This is a strange market of joy and sorrow—here fame and infamy are sold; the drinkers are always old, the givers forever new! You are tangled up in yourself— open your eyes and see! He who can give of himself the most is just that much wise! This bazaar is ancient!

However clever you try to be, the world is guileless and simple! Crying one moment, laughing the next—this world is natural and plain. Here existence is curiosity, life is a wonder! Truth is a dream, the dream is truth—what difference lies between the two? On a few counted beliefs rests the bustle of this world. Whatever comes you will have to take— willingly or unwillingly! This haggling is futile, and the abuse is futile! The world is guileless. Your gaze is counterfeit; the coin is soundly minted.

The fault is in your seeing, in your vision. What is needed is a transformation of vision. And as soon as vision changes, the world changes. The world remains as it is, but when your vision changes, it begins to appear as it is. Right now it appears as you want it to. Your imagination overlays it. And you fall into forgetting very easily.

Do you watch people in a cinema hall? They know very well the screen is empty. When they came they saw it was a blank white screen. There was nothing on it, plain. Then the film runs, a play of light and shadow. Colored images descend. And see how people are enchanted! They cry, they laugh, they panic, they are anxious, they suffer—and they know well, yet they forget. For two or three hours they forget everything. As soon as the lights come on, they remember: “Ah, there was nothing.” Yet again and again they go sit there and again and again forget. Handkerchiefs get wet. If it is a tragedy, tears roll from their eyes. If a happy scene comes, fountains of laughter burst forth. Whether they arrived crying, whether there was mourning at home—they forget it all.

Man is very skilled at forgetting himself.

Radhika Prasad, maya has no fault. You say, “This world is all false.” This world is not false at all. If anything is false, it is the stamp of dreams and fantasies you have imposed upon it. You want this world to be as it pleases you. It does not become so, and that pains you. Or sometimes, by coincidence, it does—by accident. Then you feel happiness. What is your happiness, what your sorrow? Your sorrow is that the world does not turn out the way you want. The world is vast; you are small; your reach is small; your hands are short. The world is immense. You want it dyed in your color. That cannot happen.

But sometimes, by chance—the cat’s luck and the hanging pot breaks. By chance only; it doesn’t break for the cat’s sake. No pot says, “A cat is passing, let me break.” The pot had to break anyway, whether the cat passed or not. It just so happened the cat was passing when it broke. The cat will think, “My prayers have been heard, my prayers have been fulfilled. There is a God, for sure! I did the chanting, the Satyanarayan story, recited the Japji—see, it worked! The pot broke. Keep praying, keep calling—your call will be heard! There may be delay but no denial! Today see—the proof has come!”

Sometimes by coincidence the world falls in line with you, and you feel happy. But mostly it does not. Ninety-nine out of a hundred times it does not. Pots do not break every day whenever a cat passes. It happens rarely. So pleasure is rare, fleeting; and suffering is much. Troubled by this suffering, you say, “Save me from the world, save me from drowning.”

But how can I save you? You will have to be careful. You fall, and I save you? And you are falling into things that are your weavings of imagination! If they were real, someone might save you. From the meshes of your imagination only you can save yourself; no one else can—because the meshes are of imagination, of which you are the maker. If you wish, you can draw them back. Like a spider spins a web from within itself, so you spin the webs of imagination from within. And they exist only for you.

When the world accidentally suits you, you are thrilled. Mostly it will not. Understand this truth. And there are so many people in this world: how can it suit everyone? Everyone’s desires differ. One prays, “God, let it rain today, I have sown seeds.” Another prays, “Don’t send rain today, I need sun; I’ve dyed clothes and am drying them.” Now what is God to do? Fifty-fifty? Rain on some and not on others, so both get upset?

Existence remains indifferent. Existence does not listen to your entreaties—it cannot.

A cat was sitting on a tree branch, swaying, in a great devotional mood. A dog passing below saw the cat—his mouth watered—but she was up on the branch, beyond his reach. And she was swaying as if on a journey to heaven, eyes closed, tears of ecstasy flowing. The dog stood awhile hoping she might sway too much and fall. But she did not sway that much; she held the branch tight. Finally the dog said, “What’s the matter? What’s giving you such bliss?” The cat opened her eyes: “You spoiled it all! I was dreaming that from the sky it was raining mice—a torrential downpour! Mice upon mice were falling!” The dog said, “Fool, do you know scripture? It is clearly written that sometimes miracles happen, and when they do, bones rain from the sky, not mice. There is no mention of mice in the scriptures. Idiot! You don’t know a nickel’s worth of Sanskrit, and you go dreaming!” In the dogs’ scriptures, naturally, mice cannot rain. In the cats’ scriptures, only mice would rain. What will cats do with bones raining! And in human scriptures neither mice nor bones will rain; in human scriptures diamonds and jewels will rain, gold and silver. So many imaginations fill the world. As many consciousnesses, so many minds, so many expansions of maya. The world is a blank screen. This screen cannot drown you. Yes, dive as much as you like in your imagination—enjoy your dips. Yet you will not drown—remember that. No one has ever drowned.

I won’t get into this mess either. Even if I see you “drowning,” I will sit on the bank. I will not run to save you—because I know there is no river; you are only in fancy. So it is your fun. Shout “Save me! Save me!” as much as you like; some fool may run—I will not. The very talk of saving is futile. Save from what?

You need awareness. There is no river drowning you. People say, “We are drowning in the ocean of becoming.” People thrust all their faults outward, while all the faults are within. Where is this ocean of becoming? Where is maya? But it gives relief to say, “What can we do? Such is the net of maya. We are helpless, overpowered. God made such a maya—the great deceiver!”

You blame maya! Where is maya? Have you ever met maya? Has anyone? But your mahatmas too abuse maya. Everyone needs some pretext on which to hang their abuses. Worry instead about what your entanglement is. As long as you beg from the world you will be entangled. Do not beg. Hence the wise have said: be free of thirst—of craving, of desire. Not free of maya, free of craving. Not free of the world, free of standing before the world as a beggar, begging bowl in hand. Be free of this mendicancy. Be content with what is. Drop the demand for “more and more.” Drop the running for more. Then who can drown you? Instantly you will find that the ocean you feared is nowhere; it was a mirage. You certainly saw it—just as in the dark of night people see ghosts. If there is panic, fear, they will appear. Everything depends on your fear.

A famous Japanese story: A man’s wife died. Wives, to begin with, do not die easily; usually they kill their husbands and then die. Women live longer—keep that in mind—on average five years longer. Men are under the illusion that they are strong; nothing particularly strong. Women are stronger. Their capacity to endure is far greater than men’s. Women fall ill less; men more. Women pass through every illness; men are broken by any illness. All over the world women live five years longer than men—on average. And men have another ego: they don’t marry women of the same age. A youth of twenty-five wants a girl of twenty. That’s another five years difference. So these brothers will die ten years earlier. Hence you see many widows in the world, not so many widowers. But sometimes miracles happen—the woman died. As she was dying she said to her husband, “Listen, no philandering will be tolerated.” “What do you mean?” said the husband. In his heart he was happy that this trouble was ending. Two days earlier a doctor had told him, “I’m very sorry, but your wife won’t last more than two days.” He had said to the doctor, “Don’t be sorry. If I’ve borne thirty years, two more days are fine. What’s there to be sad about? Thirty years have passed, two more days will do.”

The wife said, “I am near death; know this: I will become a ghost and I will haunt you. And remember—do not, even by mistake, get involved with any other woman, or I will torment you; I will come every night.” The husband was very frightened, but what could he do! The wife died. That first night he came home terrified, muttering charms. And right on the dot, at midnight, there was a knock at the door. He opened it—she was standing there. He broke into a sweat, his legs trembled, he almost fell. She said, “So you’ve already started your antics. You’ve come home drunk, and I told you a thousand times to stop drinking. When I was alive I had to sit and see with inner sight where you were, what you were doing; now that won’t do. Now wherever you go, I can see, I can come. You’re coming from the tavern. You drank this much. And you were staring at that woman!” Everything was exactly true: he had drunk that much, and on coming out had stared at a beautiful woman. “Be careful,” she said. “Today is the first day—I forgive you. From tomorrow, mind yourself.”

The man’s life became impossible. She had been better alive; he could find excuses: “There is extra work at the office.” Everyone has extra work at the office; people work all day? More work comes out—overtime! Phone from the office: “I can’t come today, much work.” They escape from home as much as possible. They wander the world, come home only when all the hotels, all bars, all restaurants have closed and there is nowhere left to go—then they come home, because home is always open, wife waiting. Now he was in great trouble. No excuse would work. Whatever excuse he brought, she would say, “Trying to fool me? I was there. You went to the office? You lie. You didn’t go to the office at all today. I know exactly where you were.” The man became skin and bones. Better when she was alive. He had thought he’d be happy if she died; it became a great misery. Someone suggested: “There is a fakir in the village—go to him; perhaps he can do something.” He went, told the whole story. The fakir said, “Do one thing. Open your palm.” The fakir took a handful of rice lying nearby, put it in his palm. “Close your fist now. Don’t open it. Go home. When she comes, say: If you are real, then tell me the exact number of rice grains in my fist.” He said, “She will tell me. She counts every little thing—where I go, whom I talk to, what I say. She will also say, ‘Ah, you went to that fakir! He cannot touch a hair of mine.’” The fakir said, “Let her say whatever she wants; but until she counts the rice grains, don’t yield. Come tell me tomorrow what happened.”

He went home; the wife-ghost was there. “So you went to that fakir?” she said. “What does he know! What’s his worth! He was wearing such-and-such clothes, sitting in such-and-such a house. There was rice next to him. He put a handful in your palm and told you to ask me to count. Tell me, is any of this untrue?” He panicked: “Even the fakir will have no power over her; she knows everything.” But he thought, “Let me try the last trick.” He said, “Yes, all that is correct. But how many grains of rice are there—count them!” As soon as he said this, the woman vanished. She could not count the rice. He searched everywhere, shouting, “Where are you? Tell me the count of the rice!” But there was no reply, no trace. Next morning he went to the fakir: “You have worked a miracle! What power in this rice! Should I keep it in my hand forever? I held it all night; I even tied it in a cloth—there is some magic in it.” The fakir said, “There is no magic. She can say only what you know. What you do not know, she cannot. There is no wife, no ghost—only your mind. You knew you had gone to the fakir, how he sat, that he gave you rice. You yourself do not know the number. If you had known it, she too would have known. She is not. She is only an extension of your mind. There is no charm in the rice. Now don’t get attached to the rice. Bring it back; put it where you took it from. If you come to know the count, that woman will again torment you—she too will know. That woman is nothing, only the embodiment of your own mind.”

Just so, Radhika Prasad, it is all the play of your own mind, no other play. It is all your own game, no one else’s. It is not freedom from maya that is needed, but freedom from mind. And to be free you need go nowhere—you need to awaken in meditation. I cannot save you. And you should drop the hope that anyone can save you. It is in this very hope that you keep wandering, that someone will save you, some savior will come. It is because of this hope that you are not saving yourself. This hope must break. There is no savior; each person is his own savior.

Buddha said: Appo deepo bhava—be a light unto yourself. No other can be your lamp. If you have eyes you will see; if you have ears you will hear. So too within—only if you have meditation will it happen. Neither Jesus can save you, nor Krishna, nor Buddha, nor Mahavira. But we are so dishonest that we save ourselves by their names—“They will save us”—and people sit waiting: Krishna will incarnate and save everyone. “When righteousness declines…!” And now righteousness has declined enough—what is left to decline? “I come age after age!” He must be arriving; now there is no delay—he will come soon and save us.

You create the trouble and Krishna will bear the result! He will save you! And if he could have saved, would he not have saved the first time he came? What could he save then? Whom did he save? What did he save? Whom did Jesus save? Whom did Mahavira save? Whom did Buddha save? But we are dishonest: we want to shift even this onto others—that someone else should save us. Why should someone else save you? Why this dependence on others?

I do not want to let you depend on me. I do not want to take your responsibility. I can give you indications—how you can save yourself I can point out. But I cannot save you. Saving, you will have to do yourself. You entangled yourself; you must untangle yourself. You fell into the pit; you must climb out. If you do not wish to climb, there is a clever trick: “A savior will come and save me.” No savior will come, no one will save you. You will lie in the pit—as you have for ages.

Christians are now looking down the road, waiting for Jesus to come and redeem all mankind. He could not do it before—how will he do it now? Had it been possible he would have done it then. How many did he redeem? Yes, he gave pointers; those who understood redeemed themselves. He gave indications. But the stupid waited: “You make the medicine, you pound it, prepare the syrup, and you drink it—and we will be cured!” No physician can save you by drinking the medicine himself; he will die himself that way. You yourself will have to drink the medicine. I can give you the path, but the walking is yours.

Virchand! Now it’s far too late. What will you do now? You are a brave man—now march ahead! Keep ascending! Why stop now? When the destination is just two steps away, you’re losing heart? Will you bring disgrace to the name of the brave? Brave men do not look back. Don’t even count.

You have done quite a job. Everywhere it is written: “Two or three, enough!” But you didn’t stop. Do you read the posters and advertisements or not? Perhaps “two or three, enough” didn’t impact you because it doesn’t rhyme. You thought, “Ten—and then!” “Two or three, enough”—an unrhymed couplet. “Ten—and then”—that rhymes. You seem to be a poet. And now you’ve become alert!

But don’t do that. This is, after all, India’s pride. In this sacred land even the gods long to be born. You have given birth to ten gods already, and other gods must still be yearning—what about them? Spare a thought for the gods! Have some compassion on them too!

I once spoke at a religious conference where Karpatri Maharaj also spoke. He was urging people against family planning: never do it, he said, because who knows which soul is eager to be born—and you might block the way! Which god is keen to be born through you—who can say! Rabindranath—he gave this example—was not his father’s first child; he was born after many children. If his father had said “two or three, enough” earlier, the world would have been deprived of Rabindranath.

He was making quite a telling point! Who knows—your eleventh son might be Rabindranath, Shakespeare, or Kalidasa. This is the play of the unknown. It is God’s leela! Who are you to interfere? Let His will be done! That is what surrender means. Why are you inserting your own will? God will never forgive you if you put such stumbling blocks in His way. If it is His will that there be children, there will be children; if not, there won’t be. There are those who aren’t to be given children—they die praying, worshipping, going to temples, sitting by tombs, offering oblations, making vows... Those who aren’t to be given, aren’t given. You are being given; He is pleased with you. It is the merit of past lives. The goddesses and gods are coming—let them come!

I’ve heard that when the American astronauts first landed on the moon, they were astonished. Just as they were planting their flag, fifteen or twenty children came running up, their mother behind them, and their father behind her, forming a crowd. The astronauts were dumbfounded. They thought they were the first to come to the moon—yet people were already there! They saw they were Indians. They asked, “How did you come?”

They said, “We have been coming for picnics since the time of the rishis and sages! Moon travel is nothing new. Our scriptures mention it and describe it.”

The astronauts couldn’t believe it. “How did you get here? Where are your means? Where are your rockets? What craft do you have to travel to the moon?”

“Oh,” they said, “what craft! Don’t get lost in useless talk. We believe in swadeshi (homegrown) methods. We just stand on each other’s shoulders. Not just the moon, we can reach the stars! We come here often.”

Now are you hell-bent on ruining India’s reputation? No, no—don’t do that. Look at Dhritarashtra: he was blind, yet had a hundred sons! That’s called a blind man seeing far in the dark! You, Virchand, have eyes—will you be outdone by Dhritarashtra? This is not how one loses. You must outdo Dhritarashtra. If the sighted start losing to the blind, what will become of the world! And they say Dhritarashtra’s wife also tied a band over her eyes on seeing her husband blind. For if the husband is blind, how can the wife see? The wife is the husband’s shadow; she has no separate personality, no soul. So she covered her eyes. She was a chaste, virtuous wife.

Now just see: the husband was blind, and the wife had her eyes bound—and still they found each other and managed to have a hundred children! They must have been groping around for where the other was. And in the jostling of a hundred children, searching must have been quite a task.

You, with eyes, have given up so soon! This is not the Indian tradition. Will you destroy the tradition? Your forefathers didn’t do this; will you? “The Raghu lineage’s rule has always continued!” It just goes on. Look into the Puranas—how many sons people had! They were heroic men. And your name is Virchand, and you are stopping at just ten!

Drop despair! Abandon dejection! Raise the flag high again. Keep our flag flying high! Is this any way to lower the flag! And if you don’t produce more children, think also of the harm you’ll do. If you don’t produce children, what will become of the social workers? What of the orphanages? How will Mother Teresa get a Nobel Prize? Oh, Virchand, everything depends on great men like you. The Nobel Prize should really go to you; it is going to Mother Teresa. She didn’t produce a single child. She runs an orphanage on other people’s children—borrowed children! Nobel Prize! Bharat Ratna! The Bharat Ratna should be yours. And will you snatch away the opportunity for service? If you keep producing children, the country will remain poor and miserable—and thus people get the opportunity to serve. There will be land-gift movements, Sarvodaya. Otherwise how would Vinoba Bhave be a saint? Will you snatch away the saintliness of saints? Will Nobel laureates not get their prizes? What dangerous ideas you have got into!

And if I advise you otherwise, I get abused for having destroyed India’s glory—shattered India’s image! Without the opportunity to serve, how will people go to heaven and enjoy the fruits there? You must provide the opportunity for service; let people attain heaven, let them enjoy their fruits. So many Christian missionaries would suddenly be idle, jobless. What will they do? For whom will they open hospitals? For whom will they open schools? For whom will they open orphanages? And if you stop producing children, then who will fill the old-age homes? Who will fill the widow homes? Keep producing children: you’ll die sooner; your wife will become a widow; the widow homes will run. If you live, you’ll grow old before your time; the old-age homes will run. And the children—well, they will keep the orphanages running. In this way social service proceeds; Sarvodaya happens, Antyodaya happens—what not! No, do not get entangled in such dangerous ideas.

I have heard— At an exhibition, a clown stood outside a tent shouting— “Come, see a twenty-foot-long snake for only one anna.” Just then a gentleman arrived, half ripe, half raw, with twenty children in tow. The clown cried— “Why stand outside? Come in and see the twenty-foot snake! A she-donkey sings English songs. Tickets only one anna.” The gentleman said— “But I have twenty children with me.” The clown said— “Yes, very good. Are they all yours?” The gentleman roared— “If not mine, are they your father’s?” The clown laughed and said— “Alright, come in, come in, line up the children and take them inside.” As soon as the gentleman went in, the clown began to dance and sing, shouting at the top of his voice— “Come, come, for only two annas enjoy the show— see a twenty-foot-long snake, and along with it see the father of twenty children.”

At least set a target of twenty, Virchand. Now that you’ve made such a big mistake, a little more won’t hurt. Having fallen so far, a little further.

We have no understanding of what we are doing or why. We live mechanically, like animals. Just as animals procreate—out of a natural compulsion—so man keeps producing children. And now that there is no such natural compulsion, now that it lies in your hands, you invent new excuses: What will happen to those souls? As if you’ve taken a contract for all the souls in the world! You can’t even take care of your own soul, and you worry about all the souls—what will happen to them? Will there be violence if children are not born?

People ask me: won’t it be violence?

Violence will occur in that the more children you leave behind, the more violence there will be on this earth. The situation of upheaval will intensify: pandemics will spread, wars will occur, earthquakes will come; for nature has no other means left to restore balance. Poverty will remain. People will live half-dead lives. Life will have no meaning left. It already hasn’t.

But the mahatmas are pleased; they say, “We’ve always said life is suffering.” Ah, it’s all maya! See for yourself by your own experience! This appeals to Indians. The reason it appeals is because life here truly is so full of suffering that the mahatmas must be right—life is suffering.

Life is not suffering because life is suffering; life has become suffering because we are not alert, not aware. Otherwise life can be full of joy, a celebration. It should be! A little intelligence, a little thought is needed. What are homes now? Pigeonholes! Filled with little ones. No rest, no peace. You can’t provide them food, clothes, or education. Their minds remain underdeveloped; their bodies remain underdeveloped.

But you keep searching for excuses. And our forefathers didn’t do this. How could they? They didn’t even know. Even if they wanted to, they could not. You know—and if knowing, you still do not act—that is sin.

Stop! And still you ask what you should do? As if you still have no awareness! Is there anything left to ask—what should you do? The matter is straightforward. Your own life has made it plain: drop this madness. Is life only for producing children, or is there something else to do? And then those children will produce children, because their father did this, so they’ll do it too. Where will this chain end?

In Buddha’s time this country’s population was twenty million; today it is seven hundred million. And if we add Pakistan—and we should, because that twenty million included it—then the population is over nine hundred million. We are quickly approaching one billion. And still you demand life’s amenities, the eradication of poverty and want. Your job is to create poverty, and someone else’s job is to remove it! How delightful!

Every government of yours will fail—and the cause of failure is you. Yet the accusation is that the government fails. The matter is beyond the government’s power. In this country democracy is bound to fail, because you, with your loincloth tied tight, are determined to defeat it. Democracy cannot win here; its death is assured. The reason is clear: if democracy continues, your mischief continues. This country needs to stop you firmly; you won’t stop on your own. We need to act as one prepares for war—on that scale we must take caution with children. We must not only stop the numbers where they are; we must bring them down.

This country can be happy if its population is around two to two hundred and fifty million. Otherwise it can never be happy. America is so content with two hundred million people—land many times more than yours, population many times less. Russia is happy at two hundred million, with much more land than you. Scientific facilities far more than yours. You have less land, no scientific facilities, and your population keeps growing. Now your condition is such that if you cover your head, your feet are exposed; cover your feet, your head is exposed. The blanket keeps shrinking while you keep growing. And if the blanket can’t cover you, you grow angry, furious. You’re ready to launch a “total revolution”—without thinking what plan those who shout “total revolution” have. Nothing at all!

Jayaprakash Narayan plunged this country into a deeper ditch for three years, handing over the reins to the wrong people—who did nothing in those three years, who could do nothing—proved utterly impotent! Three years slipped away. And in those three years your population swelled. Indira had to lose precisely over the population issue. On population she took strict steps. She should have. She should have taken stricter steps.

But people are so—so dull, so unconscious—that I know people fled their villages to avoid birth control; some haven’t returned yet. Run they did!

Until the work of family planning is handed over to the army, there is no remedy.

You wrested power from Indira for only one reason: she interfered with your inborn freedom, your essential right—your freedom to produce children. Your freedom died. You want only one freedom—the freedom to breed! The only liberty that matters to you is the liberty to multiply! You wish to procreate like insects. She obstructed that, so you removed her from power.

And those you elected went with the natural assurance that they would not be heavy-handed. So in three years the population grew by ten million because they imposed no restraints. The slogan “two or three, enough” vanished. Family planning was pushed aside.

Now power is again in Indira’s hands. Now she faces the obvious question: if she wants to remain in power, she must continue your stupidity. If she obstructs your stupidity, she will lose power. I would advise: whether power remains or goes, your stupidity must be broken. Indira worries that her image in the world will be tarnished—that she is undemocratic. I would say: even if you must bear infamy worldwide, even if the whole world calls you authoritarian, have no worry. For the country, make at least this sacrifice: let your image be tarnished; let the world say it is authoritarianism.

This country is not yet ready for democracy. To be ready for democracy means that each person must have enough understanding to control himself. In France the numbers are falling—that’s a sign of democratic maturity. The numbers are falling, not rising, because each person understands that the fewer the people, the happier the country, the happier we will be, the happier our children will be.

Virchand, stop completely. Put a full stop! And don’t fall for the deception of “we will practice celibacy.” You’ve practiced celibacy enough—this country has been practicing it for three to four thousand years. And what has celibacy yielded? This nonsense won’t do.

Mahatma Gandhi talked of practicing celibacy. He had five children—and then celibacy! Just like you, after ten, you think of celibacy. If everyone thinks of celibacy after producing five or ten, nothing will be solved. And how many can truly practice celibacy? We must be practical. Forced celibacy has dangerous consequences.

Mahatma Gandhi was hounded by sexual dreams until his dying day. In his very last days he even slept in the same bed with a naked woman. He said he was conducting Tantric experiments. This was covered up. His disciples themselves concealed it. They did not want it known, lest it become public and Gandhi’s “mahatmahood” be questioned. So keep it under wraps. But this proves that a lifelong, forced celibacy did not work. If it didn’t work for Gandhi, how will it work for you!

So I’m not saying this country’s problem will be solved by celibacy. Celibacy is a wondrous thing—but it happens through meditation. When someone reaches a very deep meditation, celibacy happens. Understand the meaning of brahmacharya: it means living like Brahman—divine conduct. It is not merely being free of sexual desire; its meaning is vast. It means becoming like Rama. Freedom from sex is only a small part of it. It arises when you know Brahman—before that, no.

For now, science has provided the means—use them. And don’t go on repeating worn-out platitudes. Priests keep repeating those. And this country is so obtuse that their words appeal. When Karpatri was lecturing, people were nodding, applauding: “Yes, it’s true—the gods want to take birth. Who knows which brilliant child might be born; it’s not right to prevent it.”

I went to Bastar. In the village where I stayed, the people asked my opinion. A dam was built there, generating power. The people of Bastar were unwilling to accept the dam, because the holy men had spread the rumor that the power had been extracted from this water; since electricity has been taken out, the energy has gone. Now the water is utterly useless. Pffft! There’s nothing left in it.

This appealed to the villagers: “Yes, it’s true. If the energy is gone—energy means electricity—then the power is gone. It’s like churning ghee out of milk and then drinking the buttermilk, thinking it will make us strong. Nothing will happen. Maybe we’ll get dysentery.” So they stopped irrigating the fields with that water: “What will we do with this water? Our wheat will be ruined! This water has become impotent!”

In such an obtuse country it is very difficult. Democracy was not yet suitable here. Those who tried to give this country democracy—Pandit Jawaharlal Nehru and his colleagues—did not consider whether the country was ready. They imitated the West: impose democracy from above. But things cannot be imposed from above. In the West democracy developed gradually; for us it was hung from above.

One is the rose that grows from the rosebush; the other is the plastic flower you hang. Our democracy is a plastic flower. This country must decide. If you want democracy, the country will die, be ruined. For at least twenty years—this last portion of the coming century—we need a liberal, compassionate authoritarianism—one that firmly breaks and changes the country’s deep-rooted notions. Only then can the possibility of democracy arise—not before.

I would tell Indira: let there be infamy in the world; don’t worry. Sacrifice everything for twenty years. Sacrifice even democracy! Sacrifice this hollow freedom as well. For twenty years this country needs discipline—such discipline that each person becomes capable of thinking for himself, considering, deciding, and living by his decision. If this doesn’t happen, the country will not survive; its future is very dark.

Light! The fifth K is not very difficult; had you asked any Punjabi, you would have known. The fifth K means the kachha. Kachha—what Bajrangbali had been wearing since ancient times. Loincloth, underpants. These five things turn a person from Punjabi into Sikh, make him a Sardar—the five Ks. They are remarkable things—kanga, kesh, kirpan, kara, and kachha. Of these, the most remarkable is the kachha.

I have heard this about Sardar Baldev Singh, who was in Pandit Jawaharlal Nehru’s cabinet. Many stories circulated about him—one about his kachha as well. There was a function where Sardar Baldev Singh was to preside and Jawaharlal Nehru was to inaugurate. Nehru said to him, “Sardarji, do me a favor! You don’t believe in bathing. Your kachha smells so bad that we have somehow gotten used to it and manage to tolerate it; but there will be many new people at the function—why trouble them? Everyone’s attention will go to your kachha.”

He didn’t believe in bathing, because bathing rubs the body away. And once the body wears down, a man becomes thin and weak. So Baldev Singh said, “All right, I’ll go and change my kachha right now.”

He arrived at the gathering. Nehru noticed the smell was even stronger. He whispered in Baldev Singh’s ear, “I told you to change your kachha—it seems you didn’t, because the smell is even worse.”

Baldev Singh quickly pulled a kachha out of his pocket and showed it: “Just so you would believe me, I brought the old kachha along—see!” Now of course the smell would be stronger—he had it in his pocket, and then he pulled it out and showed it publicly, so the odor must have spread everywhere. Nehru must have knocked his forehead in exasperation.

But who knows—having a Sardar in the cabinet seems necessary! Absolutely necessary. Old kings and emperors did the same. There were no Sardars then, but there were people like Sardars. Along with their nine jewels, every king would keep one accomplished fool in the court—for balance. Because if all are clever, cleverness goes to excess. So on the other side of the scales they would seat a fool; that alone would keep the nine jewels on track—one fool is enough. Nine jewels on one side and one fool on the other. And sometimes the fool would say something truly to the point. The nine jewels are shrewd; they will say what the king likes to hear, whether it is beneficial or harmful. They tend to be flatterers and sycophants. The fool will tell the plain truth—absolutely plain truth. He doesn’t even know he is telling the truth; whether it goes against the king or what—he has no idea. And often such fools saved kings from great trouble. It was the custom—in the whole world, not only in India—to keep a grand fool in the royal court. Because the sensible ones become skilled at lying; they become toadies.

Perhaps Pandit Jawaharlal Nehru too kept Sardar Baldev Singh for balance.

But remember, a Sardar sits hidden within everyone. If anything is lacking, it’s only the five Ks. Is that any special lack? Until you are alert, you are a fool. The earth is full of fools. Some Sardars are manifest, some unmanifest; some overt, some covert; some have made the announcement, others haven’t. But truly, the whole world is in the same state—there is no difference. So don’t laugh. Don’t think I’m saying something against Sardars. Think of Sardars as just one species among fools. All humanity is foolish. As long as there is stupor, there is stupidity.

Chandulal, Dhabbuji, and Mulla Nasruddin went out for a stroll. Moonlit night. They were high—had taken bhang. They saw a donkey coming toward them. The three bet on who could make the donkey shake its head “no.” The donkey came near; each tried his own trick. Chandulal and Dhabbuji failed. But as soon as Mulla said something into the donkey’s ear, it started shaking its head vigorously—“No! No!” Chandulal and Dhabbuji were astonished. They asked, “Mulla, what did you say that made the donkey instantly start shaking its head and saying ‘no, no’?”

Mulla said, “First you two tell me what you said.”

Chandulal said, “I tried a very old trick, but I failed. I asked him, ‘Brother, shall we get you married?’ Now what donkey wouldn’t shake his head no! Even a donkey among donkeys would say no. But that wretch started smiling! He was delighted—as if he were already on his way to become the groom!”

Dhabbuji said, “I speak from experience with my kids—the hardest thing is to send them to school in the morning. One hides in the toilet, another won’t come out of the bathroom, one won’t get out of bed claiming a fever, someone’s stomach hurts, someone’s head hurts. So I asked the donkey, ‘Brother, want to get admitted to school?’ I thought he’d surely shake his head no—no matter how much of a donkey he is, who wants to go to school! Even donkeys among donkeys don’t want to go to school. At the mere mention of school, goosebumps break out. But the donkey remained utterly calm, unshaken, perfectly equanimous. Neither yes nor no—like holding evenness in success and failure, pleasure and pain! Whether it’s school or a tavern—he kept equanimity. Now you tell us, what did you say?”

Mulla Nasruddin said, “I asked, ‘Brother, want to become a Sardarji?’ And he immediately started shaking his head—no!”

But as I see it, as long as there is stupor within you, there is stupidity. Unless the lamp of meditation is lit, you are all Sardars. Only when the lamp of meditation is lit does a little intelligence begin to spread in your life. A little light is needed—absolutely needed! And no one but you can kindle this light. Don’t just sit laughing at others. You hear stories about Sardars and laugh—thinking they are about others. You hear stories about Marwaris and laugh—thinking they are about Marwaris. When it’s about a Marwari, the Sardar laughs; when it’s about a Sardar, the Marwari laughs.

But remember, I am speaking only about you, because all kinds of snakes and scorpions are hiding within you. A Marwari sits within you, a Sardar sits within you, a Sindhi sits within you. Who is not sitting within you!

In the West there is a saying that Russians can cheat Italians, hoodwink the French, pick the Englishman’s pocket, trick the Spaniard, strangle the Portuguese—but the only ones who can really give them trouble are the Gypsies. They make even the Russians lose their wits. And if anyone can outplay the Gypsies, it is the Jews—they bring them to their senses too. And if anyone can pick the pocket of the Jews, it is the Greeks. And the saying goes that if anyone can cheat the Greeks, it is only the Devil. That saying is wrong; they have no idea about the Marwaris. A Marwari can outwit anyone. Trickery is his art. He has refined that art for centuries. He has become skilled even at deceiving himself—the rest is easy.

I was a guest at a Marwari friend’s home in Calcutta. I was astonished. I went to bathe in his bathroom—marble bathroom—but there were numbers written all over the marble, calculations everywhere! Two telephones even in the bathroom. I asked him, “What is this? You built a beautiful bathroom but scribbled all over the walls! What have you written?”

He said, “Who keeps ledgers! I’m a speculator; if I keep books, who knows how much tax they’ll levy. So I just make do by writing on the bathroom walls. You must have noticed—that’s why I put telephones in the bathroom. I do all my trading from there. The telephone installed in the office is just for exchanging pleasantries; I don’t do any trading on it. All the trading is from the bathroom.”

Then I said, “That’s why I used to wonder—you go into the bathroom for three or four hours at a stretch! I thought, amazing! A man from Marwar—you bathe for four hours! In Marwar you can hardly get a pot of water. How did you acquire such a habit of bathing?”

“Bathing! Who has the leisure to bathe! If I bathe once or twice a month, that’s plenty. The phone keeps ringing.”

He was quite a philanthropist. He donated a lot—but never paid tax. He gave much to the Congress. And when Pandit Jawaharlal Nehru became prime minister, he told him, “Now, please arrange something about taxes.”

He said, “Don’t even bring up taxes. I can give as much donation as you want. Ask whatever donation you wish—I can give that. As for tax and such, we have no accounts. We don’t do any business.”

His business was the telephone, and his ledgers were on the bathroom wall.

A Marwari perhaps even the devil can’t cheat—he’ll pick even the devil’s pocket! But all these figures are sitting inside you. The Gypsy is within you, the Marwari is within you, and the Sardar is within you. I am not speaking about anyone outside—don’t fall into that misunderstanding. Otherwise people get offended and file lawsuits.

Morarji Desai dragged me into at least one hundred and two cases—not a few. I don’t keep count; I never go to court. I thought there were thirty or thirty-five. One day I said in a talk, “He has filed thirty or thirty-five cases.” Laxmi told me, “You don’t even know the number. They are a full one hundred and two—big and small, direct and indirect.” Now that they have been filed, they’ll drag on for a while. Over the smallest things. If I say something, a Hindu’s religious sentiments are hurt—case filed. Are such touch-me-not sentiments even religious? Or a Muslim’s religious sentiments are hurt because I said, “Nothing will happen by going to the Kaaba”—and bam, religious sentiments are hurt! Then it becomes impossible. Kabir has said the same. And what will you do with Nanak? If Nanak were around, you’d have him jailed, because he lay down with his feet toward the Kaaba. Not only that—when his feet were turned the other way, the Kaaba turned along with them. The Kaaba too is an offender then. It should be hauled into court for hurting religious sentiments—being the Kaaba, it should at least have respected Muslim feelings; turning toward a Hindu’s feet—shame on you! Being the Kaaba and doing such things!

Say something about anyone and religious sentiments are hurt—case filed! Do you even understand the meaning of religious sentiment? And if you get hurt so easily, you are not religious people at all—you are touch-me-not, weak and feeble. Answer! Respond! If your view has been refuted, then speak in support of your view. If nothing comes, you run to court. What can a court do?

I repeat: nothing at all is going to happen by going to the Kaaba. If something were to happen by going to the Kaaba, then so many people go every year—what happens? And nothing happens by going to Kashi either. So many donkeys live in Kashi—what happens? And nothing happens by going to Girnar or Shikharji. Jain pilgrims keep going—and come home just the same. “Escaped with life and counted it a fortune, and came back home a fool.” You get nothing, you gain nothing.

Only by going within will you get something. There is the Kaaba within, there is Kashi within, there is Girnar within, there is Shikharji within, there is Jerusalem within. And when your consciousness awakens in meditation, then the Sardar will dissolve, the Marwari will dissolve, the Gypsy will dissolve. The devil himself will dissolve! Darkness itself will dissolve!

Whatever I am saying is symbolic. So no one should take offense, and no one should suffer needlessly. Make the effort to understand.

But it seems understanding has been lost. We have taken a franchise on stupidity. We cannot understand satire or a joke. We have forgotten how to laugh. And even when we laugh, we laugh at others. Until we learn to laugh at ourselves, know this—we have not learned to laugh.

Whatever I am saying to you is about you—only about you. And when you laugh, remember to laugh at yourself, not at anyone else. If you can laugh at yourself, then know that the beginning of a great event has happened. If you can laugh at yourself, it is the beginning of a great transformation, the first ray of a great revolution has broken through. Morning has come, dawn has arrived, the night has departed! If you can laugh at yourself, it means you have begun to be a witness to yourself. If you can laugh at yourself, it means you have started to separate yourself from your ego—you have begun to know, “This is not me.” That is why you can laugh.

All these satires I sometimes use are about you. Keep this always in mind. Then you will benefit. Whatever I am saying here is not entertainment; it is a dismantling of the mind.

That’s all for today.