Ram Duware Jo Mare #2

Meera! If you want to know the divine, to attain it, you must sustain a very paradoxical kind of awareness. Paradoxical because from one side it is awareness, and from the other it is a kind of unawareness too—an ecstasy, a divine drunkenness that is not stupor but awakening; in which within, a lamp of meditation is lit, a flame of alertness burns. Love knows this art of paradox. Love is the key that opens the lock on that door. Love knows how to sway and yet remain centered within. Love knows how to close the eyes and still come to vision. Love knows how to move not even an inch, and yet complete a journey of a thousand miles.
Reason will not grasp it. For thought it is inaccessible. But for love it is natural and easy.
What is needed is an awareness colored by ecstasy; and an ecstasy with the manner of awareness. Until the two meet, something remains incomplete, something keeps missing. Many have been there who cultivated awareness but were deprived of ecstasy. In their awareness there was a desert; no garden bloomed. There was peace, a silence, but stamped with the cremation ground—no melody of life, no color of life. No spring—only fall; no month of blossoming—only emptiness, void, vacancy—no fullness. Many, abandoning love and the path of love, have engaged themselves solely in mastering awareness. Even if awareness is mastered, it will not be whole. No dance will come into that awareness; no songs will be born; flowers will not bloom. And what is a lake in which no lotus blossoms! And what is that awareness from which no fragrance rises—of dance, of song, of celebration!
Then there are others who cultivated unawareness—masti, intoxicated abandon—but forgot awareness. In their lives masti did arrive, dance too, but their feet were staggering. Their masti is like that of a drunkard; like a swooning person. Yes, there is a little color and form of life there, but no imprint of the supreme life. Their intoxication is another name for unconsciousness, a kind of derangement. Such masti does not give birth to buddhahood. With such masti you fall; you do not rise. Such masti cannot give you wings; wings lie beyond its capacity.
Very few have been there who mastered both masti and awareness together.
I want my sannyasin to be among those few. Let one hand master masti, the other hand master awareness. Let the two meet within you. Become the confluence. Then something unprecedented will happen within you—the mystery of mysteries. You will be able to sing, and your songs will not be of swoon. You will be able to dance, yet your feet will not falter. There will be awareness within, but not the silence of a cremation ground—rather the music of a garden, blossoming flowers, the songs of birds, the peacock’s dance, the rain-bird’s call, and the cuckoo’s coo-coo. Where these two meet, wholeness manifests, totality manifests. That is why I do not tell you to renounce the world; I tell you to absorb it. I do not want to make you a runaway, an escapist; I want to make you a victor. Go beyond life, yes—but do not run from life! If you understand this unique mathematics, you will understand the original foundation of sannyas.
You have written:
“When I saw you, my breath simply stopped…”
It should stop. The mind itself stops. One who has seen and recognized the true Master has found a window to the divine. The true Master is nothing but a window—a lattice, a frame. Do not cling to the window and stop there. Do not begin worshiping the window frame. One who gets entangled in the frame will be deprived of the sky. The window is only a passage. Look through it into the sky. The infinite sky and its infinite stars are yours. The window is only an opportunity. And when your eyes rise to the sky, your breaths will stop. They stop because the heart is struck dumb—stunned! The heart stands still, wonderstruck, drenched in rasa. You won’t even remember to breathe. This depth is deeper than dreamless sleep, because even in deep sleep the breath does not stop. Dreams stop, but the breath continues.
In the East we have discovered four states. One is what we ordinarily call waking. It is the lowest state. Above it is dream. You will be surprised: higher than your so-called waking is the state of dream. For in waking you are dishonest, deceitful, hypocritical. You try in every way to show what you are not and to hide what you are. And not only from others—you hide from yourself as well. The deception goes so deep that—of all—finally you yourself are deceived. You spread a web so wide that others may or may not get caught, but you certainly do. Like a spider that gets caught in its own web; you cannot find a way out. Your waking awareness is full of fraud.
Modern psychology now accepts this supreme discovery of the East. That is why, if you go to a psychologist, he will ask little about your waking; he will ask about your dreams. Because dreams are at least natural. In dreams, at least, you cannot be dishonest. In dreams, at least, you are not a hypocrite. In waking, perhaps you fasted; but in dreams you enjoyed every kind of food. What you repressed while awake emerges in dreams. In waking you may be a renunciate, but in dreams you build palaces of gold and live in them. Your dreams seem closer to your inner being—more explicit indicators of your actual state. Therefore the psychologist gives no value to your waking—he considers it babble. He reflects on your dreams; he interprets your dreams.
The sages of the East have known for thousands of years that man is a deceiver, but in dreams he has no control. In dreams the reality is revealed. In dreams everything is shown as it is.
Above dream is the state of deep sleep—sushupti. When dreams cease, only a profound slumber remains. You are not even aware of yourself; you do not know whether you are or are not… In deep sleep, someone could kill you and you would not know. That is why when the surgeon operates on you, he first takes you into deep sleep—anesthesia, chloroform. He gives you a drug to render you unconscious, so that your bones can be cut, your hand or leg can be cut, and you will not know. You could even be killed and not know. Your state becomes that deep. Yet still the breath does not stop. The breath continues.
The breath stops only in the fourth state.
Above deep sleep we discovered yet another state—one only we discovered. If we have given anything to this world, any gift to the evolution of human consciousness, it is these few “small” discoveries. They look small, but those who understand will say we have given the greatest treasure to human consciousness. We simply called that fourth state “the fourth”—turiya. We gave it no qualifier, because it is beyond the other three. Yes, in turiya the breath comes to a standstill. Thus, as you go deeper in meditation, you will be amazed—at times it will seem the breath has stopped. Do not panic! You will not die because of it. The breath of this body stops only when a subtler breath has descended into you—when a subtler current of life begins to flow in you, when the divine starts entering you. Otherwise, this breath will keep moving.
If in meditation the breath stops, do not be afraid. Many friends come to me very frightened: “What is happening? Whenever we go deep in meditation, suddenly it feels as if the breath has stopped. We get scared and come back. We start breathing fast, fearing death.” They miss a great opportunity. For the breath to stop in meditation—there is no greater blessing. When breath stops in meditation it means only this: that this small device is no longer needed for life. Life has joined the Great Life. It has connected with the nectar. It has become united with the divine.
When the child is in the mother’s womb, he does not breathe on his own; the mother breathes. From her breath he receives life-giving air. That is why, when the child is born from the womb, he is not born breathing. The physician’s very first task is to somehow compel the child to breathe. He catches the child by the feet and hangs him upside down. There is a reason: for nine months, in the womb, the child did not breathe—the mother breathed. And when the mother breathed, the child was part of her; there was no need for separate breathing. During those nine months his entire breathing apparatus was inactive; the breathing passage remained closed. It may be clogged with some obstruction or mucus. So the physician hangs him upside down so that any mucus in the passage drains out… At first, mucus comes out of the child’s nose; the airway clears. If the child does not cry within two or three minutes, there is anxiety that he is not alive.
Crying is the child’s first experiment in breathing. By crying he declares, “Now I am separate.” And separateness is itself the declaration of our sorrow; all our life’s pain is in separateness.
The stories say only one man was born laughing—Zarathustra. He was born laughing. In the entire history of the human race, one person! It must be significant. He must have been born laughing because he was born knowing the divine; the mother was not his life—God was. But I do not take this as historical fact. It cannot be literal. It is only a symbol about Zarathustra—that he was born knowing God. To say this, they said he was born laughing. We are born crying and die crying. If we are born crying but could die laughing—that would already be much. Zarathustra was born laughing and died laughing. It is the image of the supreme life: life as sheer celebration.
In the mother’s womb the child does not breathe. Two or three minutes after birth he breathes. In the same way, when the state of meditation comes, you are entering the womb of the divine; then the breath stops. If the mother was enough to breathe for you, do you think the divine is not enough? He is more than enough. The drop has merged into the ocean; what worry has it now? Entering God, your breath stops because His breath begins to flow within you. In the presence of the true Master this can happen sometimes, because meditation gets attuned. Where else will meditation be tuned if not by the Master? Where else will you find harmony and rhythm if not near the Master? A duet arises—a jugalbandi. The Master begins to breathe within you. Therefore, Meera, it is possible.
You say:
“When I saw you, my breath simply stopped…”
In meditation the breath can stop, whatever the cause of meditation—a rose blossom looked at with total attention, the sunrise watched as it rises, a bird flying across the sky—then too the breath will stop. Whenever there is meditation, breath will stop. This experience led to one very unfortunate side-effect: some began to think that if the breath is stopped, meditation will happen. So yogis started trying to hold the breath—that is downright foolishness! From meditation the breath certainly stops; but by stopping the breath, no meditation happens. If you hold the breath, only the breath will be held—nothing else. You will writhe within—and nothing will happen.
Remember this always: never try to walk backwards. When you walk, your shadow follows you; do not try to follow your shadow. Otherwise you will be in great difficulty, greatly lost. Breath stops in the wake of meditation. It does not have to be done; it happens on its own. Everyone has had such glimpses at some moment. Have you never seen the sky filled with stars and, for a moment, become awestruck? What does “awestruck” mean? Speech stops, is blocked; you are left dumbfounded. What does “dumbfounded” mean? As if you were robbed; as if nothing remained; as if you were erased, lost.
You go to watch a film. Have you noticed why your eyes get tired afterwards? Not because of the film. Scientists say the film itself does not tire the eyes. Whether you watch a film or something else, seeing is seeing. Whether you watch real people walking on the street or shadows moving on the screen—the strain on seeing is the same. When real people don’t tire your eyes, how will pictures tire them? The cause is something else: when you watch a film, your blinking stops; that is why the eyes tire. You get so engrossed that the eyes do not blink. You forget that eyes must blink. And if the eyes do not blink, they will tire—because blinking gives the eyes rest; brief intervals of repose. Blinking keeps the eyes fresh—dust is wiped; the eyes remain moist, not dry. Sit three hours in a cinema and do not blink—the eyes will dry; dust will collect; fatigue comes from that.
If blinking can stop while watching a film, will it not stop while gazing at the stars? A beautiful evening, the setting sun, clouds filled with color, the rainy season, the rainbow spanning the sky—and will the eyes keep blinking? Will the breath keep moving? All this stops on its own. And whenever it happens, only then do you get a glimpse of bliss—because for a little while all the inner businesses fall silent, even the business of breath. As if you no longer are; as if you have stepped into another world.
If such a happening does not occur in the presence of the true Master, he is not your Master—perhaps someone else’s, for whom such a thing happens. If you ask me how to recognize the true Master, then among many recognitions one basic sign is this: sitting near whom your breath stops. Then know the window is near. Do not run away. Feel the window; remain there.
You say—
“When I saw you, my breath simply stopped…
My Master! These eyes would not lower.”
The lids will not drop, the eyes will not blink; everything is left struck dumb, everything becomes still. This is the very meaning of satsang, Meera: where everything becomes still; where the disciple is so absorbed that his separateness does not remain; where the Master becomes your eyes, the heartbeat of your heart, the very support of your life-breath.
“My Master! These eyes would not lower.
The moment I came to my senses, where did you hide?
You were just here, you were just here.”
But the moment “senses” return, this is lost. “Senses returned” means the ego has come back. That is all your “awareness” means right now. Awareness returned—meaning you came back. Awareness returned—meaning you shook yourself and said, “Hey, where had I gotten lost? What was I absorbed in? What happened to me? How was I left so stunned, so still? Why did the breath stop? Why didn’t the eyes blink?” For you, awareness has only one meaning: your return, your coming back again. This is not real awareness; this is the ego’s awareness. Therefore, instantly the connection breaks—with the Master, with beauty, with truth, with bliss, with the divine. Instantly the bridge that was forming snaps; the threads of love—those two-and-a-half letters—snap at once. They are very fine, very delicate. You have returned to your ego. The breath starts again; the eyes blink again; the same sorrow, the same pain, the same anxiety, the same anguish. All the confusion starts again—thoughts begin to run, emotions to rise; the mind becomes wavy again; the lake that a moment ago had become still and silent—again the storm rises, the gale returns. Therefore the connection slips. That glimpse you had for a moment is lost; you won’t even know where it went. Later you may even feel: perhaps it was an illusion! Perhaps the mind was deceived! But the truth is: that was the truth; now the mind is being deceived.
Gradually, Meera, it will happen again and again. And as it happens again and again, it will abide longer. As it happens again and again, its depth will increase. As this depth of experience grows, a moment comes when you become utterly dissolved, surrendered—so lost that even footprints cannot be found. Buddha has said: the knower disappears like birds flying in the sky—their feet leave no prints. Thus does the wise one vanish. Buddha has said: like someone writing letters on water—no sooner written than gone. Thus does the wise one disappear. But this disappearing is the process of attaining. This erasure is the stairway to being. This becoming a zero is the door to fullness.

Krishnananda! The world is a mirror. Whatever you see in it is your own face. The world is an echo. Whatever you hear in it is your own voice. We find in the world exactly what we are—just as we are.

A drunkard comes to a strange village; the first thing he asks for is the liquor shop. In five or ten days you will find he knows every drunk in the village—friends with them, as if no one else lived there. A gambler arrives—he finds the gambling den and befriends the gamblers, as if drawn by a magnet. In that same village there may be a satsang, a gathering of seekers, but the gambler won’t even know it exists. He’ll pass by and not catch the slightest whisper. And if a sannyasin arrives in that very village, he won’t even notice there’s a liquor shop or that gamblers live there.

The Zen master Rinzai sat wrapped in a blanket, gazing at the full moon. It was no ordinary night—extraordinary. More so because it was the very full-moon night of Vaishakh on which Buddha attained enlightenment. On this full moon Buddha was born. On such a night the moon descended into his life, light poured in. And on such a full moon Buddha entered Mahaparinirvana—left the body. Rinzai sits in the cold night, blanket around him, looking at the moon, ecstatic, absorbed—his breath would have almost stopped; his eyes, fixed on the moon. The moon reminded him intensely of Buddha. Just then a thief slipped into his hut. Rinzai saw him, went to him, caught him, and said, Brother, forgive me! The thief was terrified; he was the one who should be asking forgiveness, and tried to run away. Rinzai said, Wait—don’t go like this! If you leave empty-handed, I’ll be sad for life. Take this blanket! I have nothing else. He gave the thief his blanket. Rinzai was naked under it—there was nothing else. The thief hesitated—how could he take the blanket of such a loving fakir and leave him naked in the cold? He refused, but Rinzai insisted: I won’t accept no. I’ll be very unhappy. And what manners are these? You have bestowed such fortune on me—until today no thief ever came to my hut; thieves go to the rich. You have made me a rich man. Thieves go to kings and emperors; tonight you let me taste being a king. What you have given me is so much—this blanket is nothing. It feels today that I am somebody—thieves have begun to visit me too! Take it. And next time, be considerate: is this any way? Any etiquette? If you’d let me know two or four days in advance I would have arranged something. When you come again, just drop a postcard a few days ahead. I would prepare something for you. You’ve come so far in this cold night; I can give only one blanket; there are tears in my eyes—please don’t refuse!

What can you do with such a man? Yes or no—either way the thief was dumbfounded. He’d seen many people, stolen in many homes, been caught many times—but never met a man like this. He ran off with the blanket. As he stepped out Rinzai called after him, Wait! At least say thank you—learn some manners. Remember at least that much! And close the door. When you came it was closed—you opened it to enter; now close it again and, with a thank you, be on your way. When Rinzai called, the thief’s heart skipped a beat—what might this strange man do next? He quickly said thank you, shut the door, and left.

Later he was caught in court for another theft, and that blanket was also seized. It was famous across Japan—everyone knew it was Rinzai’s blanket. Rinzai was so renowned that emperors came to his feet. The magistrate had seen Rinzai in that blanket himself. He said, This blanket is Rinzai’s. And I’ve noticed he’s been wearing only a loincloth lately—now I know where his blanket went. So, you didn’t even spare that fakir! I might forgive your other thefts, but not this one—this is too much. You even robbed Rinzai! The thief pleaded, Sir, listen—this theft I did not commit; he forced me to take the blanket. He wouldn’t believe me. I took it to save my life. And what can I say? Even now, when I remember his ringing voice saying, Stop! my chest trembles. And then he said, Close the door! What a man! What a voice! I’ve seen many men—but this one is truly a man. But I didn’t steal. The ruler said, If Rinzai says you didn’t steal, we’ll free you—of this and all your thefts. His testimony is enough.

Rinzai was called.
He said, No, this man is not a thief. First, he is very simple-hearted. He came to my house without sending word—see his simplicity! Second, he’s very courteous. When I said, Wait—close the door, he did; he is obedient. When I said, Say thank you, he said it without the slightest hesitation; he is full of trust. He didn’t steal. I gave him the blanket and he kept refusing; he tried a thousand times to run away. He is a gentleman. Seeing me poor and naked, he felt great compassion; his heart is kind. He cannot be a thief.

When Rinzai said this, the magistrate released him. Rinzai walked out; the man followed. Rinzai asked, What’s your intention? I have nothing left. The thief said, I’m not coming to take now—I’m giving myself. I will not leave your feet. Seeing you, I’ve seen the dignity of humanity. In you, I’ve come to trust the Divine. Rinzai didn’t see a thief in him, didn’t see a cheat; and then the thief could see the Divine in Rinzai.

You say, Krishnananda, Why do I see only evil in the world?
Probe within—search your own bundle; something is amiss there. The greatest mistake is the ego. Because of ego, people see evil in others. Ego is delighted when it sees others’ faults: I am superior, I am beautiful, I am virtuous, I am holy; who is as humble as I am, as meritorious? Who is as charitable? Ego lives off others. Make others’ lines short and your own seems long. The only way to make others small is to see their faults—only faults.

Tell an egoist that someone plays the flute beautifully and he’ll retort at once: What flute! He’s a thief, a cheat, a robber—what flute will he play? I know him well. But say to someone like Rinzai, That man is a thief, and he will answer, Impossible—I’ve heard his flute. One who plays so sweetly—how can he be a thief? Impossible! If I saw him with my own eyes, I’d conclude my eyes are in error, that somewhere I am mistaken—but one who plays with such mastery, will he steal? Impossible! One who has received music—what other wealth would he crave?

Some go to a rosebush and count the thorns. Others ignore the thorns and count the flowers. And if even a single flower appears, all the thorns are rendered meaningless. One flower is enough to make all thorns irrelevant. But those who count thorns will naturally have their hands pricked. Counting thorns, thorns will pierce you; you’ll be bloodied. With hands bleeding, aching—who can then see the flower? And the thorn-counters’ logic will be: Where there are so many thorns, any flower must be an illusion, not reality.

There are only two kinds of people in the world: those who count thorns—then they never see the flowers; and even if they glimpse one, they call it an illusion; and those who count flowers—then thorns are no longer thorns; they become the guards and protectors of the flowers. For the same life-sap runs in thorn and flower. Friendship with flowers dissolves enmity with thorns too.

Search out your ego. Its shadow is what you are seeing all around.

In the rains, a jar in the courtyard filled with water. Mulla Nasruddin’s son, Fazlu, was peering into the jar when an orange slipped from his hand and fell in. He began to cry. He saw his own reflection in the water.
Why are you crying, son? Nasruddin asked. Fazlu said, That boy hiding in the pot snatched my orange.
Wait, I’m coming. Nasruddin looked in, saw the reflection of his beard and moustache. Angry, he shouted, Hey you! At your age you make jokes with children? Aren’t you ashamed!

In this world we see only our reflections. We hear only our echoes. If you hurl abuses, you will not hear songs. Sing—and there will be a shower of songs upon you. Throw stones—and stones will return to you. This world returns to you, a thousandfold, exactly what you give it. This is the fundamental formula of karma: what you do comes back to you, multiplied a thousand times—good returns as good, evil as evil. If you see only evil in people, surely some strand in you is provoking, awakening the sleeping evil in others.

Don’t worry whether others are good or bad—care only for where you are, what you are, who you are. What have you to do with others? Today you are; tomorrow you won’t be. The world was moving before you; it will keep moving after. No one has assigned you the duty to reform others, to make people good. Why be anxious—who is good, who is bad? What is it to you?

Buddha said some people are as crazy as the man who sat every morning in front of his house counting all the cows and buffaloes of the village as they went to graze across the river, and again in the evening counted them as they returned—to check if as many came back as went out. Buddha asked him, How many cattle do you have? He said, Not a single one. Buddha said, Then what will you gain counting others’ cows and buffaloes? Before you, they came and went; after you, they will come and go. Will you waste time counting others’ herds—squander life? And time is so precious!

But that’s what we keep doing. Who is bad? How many of his deeds are bad? And the good—never found. Because you can’t find him. The same ego is the reason. Whenever you meet a truly good person, your ego is hurt: Is someone better than me? Higher than me? Impossible! So you must hunt for faults in the good man to drag him down below your level. Refine your intelligence. Refine your life-energy. Purify it.

The village yokel, Mr. Bhondumal, went to the city for a visit. He saw a crowd and two men pulling on a thick rope, each side straining hard. It was a tug-of-war. For a while he watched, then couldn’t resist shouting, Brothers, why are you sweating like this? I thought only villagers were uneducated and crude— but you’ve surpassed all limits! Hey, educated clodhoppers, don’t you have the sense to cut the rope with a knife? It won’t break like that!
Bhondumal will see in a Bhondumal way. His mind will go only as far as it can. And a Bhondumal sits hidden inside everyone. These Bhondumals create so much mischief in the world—your inner Bhondumal quarrels with another’s. They’re busy cutting each other’s cards, seeing faults in each other. What do you care? Polish yourself! A few days only—a little time—refine yourself!

Krishnananda, drop this habit! Lest your time be wasted. And whenever this habit arises—and it will, again and again; it’s old, from many lives—and everyone has it, not just you; it’s a long-accumulated conditioning—we rush to judgment. We see one small act of a person and conclude about the whole person. Have you ever considered: if you found a torn page of a novel, half-erased lines, wind-blown—you read it; what will you understand? Neither the lines nor the page is complete—and even if the page were complete, still it would be only a page. There’s so much before and after you don’t know. On the basis of half-broken lines and a torn page, can you judge the whole novel? Yet that’s exactly what we do with people.

A person is a vast event, a long journey of many lives behind. You see one small act—less than a single line, and even that line is incomplete, because you don’t see the intention; you only see the act. And the real thing is the intention. What he does is less important than why he does it. Yet you judge the whole man. His entire past is gathered in him—and not only his past; his whole future too is contained in him.

Gautam Buddha told of a past life: many, many lives ago I went to see an enlightened one—Dipankara Buddha. I bowed at his feet. I had scarcely risen when, to my amazement, before I could do anything, Dipankara bent and touched my feet. I said, What are you doing? It is right that I touch your feet—I am ignorant, asleep, unconscious; but you are awakened; you are a Buddha. You touch my feet? Dipankara said, You see only your past; I see your future. Today or tomorrow you will be a Buddha. Sooner or later, everyone will. Your past is not all you are—your future too is you. I see your wholeness. I know that after so many lives your lotus will bloom, your thousand-petaled lotus will open; you will enter the great samadhi. I bow to that event!

You can’t see the flowers in front of you; seers see flowers that haven’t yet blossomed—not even buds; not even buds, still seeds. When the eye is deep, you can see the flower even in the seed. And the blind do not see a flower even in the flower.

So do not be hasty in judgment. What’s the rush? This man is bad, that man good—you decide so quickly! Pause, be patient. A human being is a complex, vast phenomenon.

A grocer stuttered badly. Nasruddin went to buy jaggery. He bought a kilo. Asked the price, the shopkeeper said, Th…th…th…thr…three ru…pees. Nasruddin paid and left.
A few days later he returned for jaggery. This time the shopkeeper’s younger brother was there; he said, Three rupees fifty. Nasruddin protested, Outrageous! Just three or four days ago I bought it for three rupees. Ask your elder brother if you don’t believe me. The younger one said, I believe you completely, sir. Actually, my elder brother stutters—before he could say fifty paise, you paid three rupees and left!
Wait a little! Let a person finish speaking!

In life, all single acts are incomplete. You don’t judge by isolated acts, but by the distillation—the fragrance—of a life. Not by a single flower, but by the essence. In even the best life, you may find a bad act.

Just yesterday I told you: Baba Malukdas used to steal from his own home and give to sadhus and saints. Now, stealing isn’t a good act. If you take only the theft, someone will say, Theft is bad—isn’t it? You will naturally say, Bad. Then he says, Baba Malukdas stole—what kind of saint is that? You will reply, If he stole, that’s not right. But the point is out of context. He stole to distribute to those who needed it more. Take the whole intention into account; the meaning changes. Meanings change with context, with background. Look at the entire life-context of a person!

Lao Tzu once served as a judge for a few days. On the very first day a case came that upset everything. A thief was caught, the money recovered; he confessed—how could he deny in front of Lao Tzu? Lao Tzu simply said, Brother, if you stole, say so; if not, say so. I will accept what you say. The moneylender who’d been robbed protested, What is this? Is this how judgments are made? Lao Tzu said, You keep quiet. I have trust in man; I can’t lose faith over small matters. And you are the biggest cheat in the village; don’t speak. Hearing this, the thief couldn’t deny; he lowered his head: I’m sorry; I stole. I accept my guilt. Lao Tzu said, Good—six months’ sentence for you, and six months for the moneylender. The moneylender cried, Are you in your senses? I am robbed and I get punished too! Lao Tzu said, You’ve amassed so much wealth—what else would happen but theft? This man is guilty number two; you’re guilty number one. You hoarded so much that nothing is left in the village; what option is there but theft? You’ve stripped the village of dignity. You’ve forced everyone toward theft. Punishment to both—you are both responsible. You compelled people to steal; he succumbed—though I also live in this village and I haven’t been compelled, though you try to compel me as well. Both are responsible, so both will be punished.
Word reached the emperor. He was astonished; such a judgment had never been seen or heard. He summoned Lao Tzu: If judgments are like this, we’ll be in trouble. Lao Tzu said, Then grant me leave. I can only dispense justice. The emperor dismissed him—afraid: if the moneylender is a thief, then sooner or later, what about me? If the treasury is robbed tomorrow, this man is dangerous!

When you take life in its background, meanings change. You tear things from context. Someone has done something bad; you don’t know his whole life. If you’d had his life—his parents, his school, his teachers, his village, his companions—you might have done the same. The unconscious person is a victim of circumstance.

So don’t fall into this useless preoccupation, Krishnananda. Time is short. In this little time, polish your stone into a diamond. Pour all your energy into that. Be free of thought and move into meditation. Transform love into devotion. Make the body a base—so you can leap into the Divine. Why spend these precious moments worrying about others? Drop the habit. It’s old; it will take time to fall away. But with awareness, certainly it will. What habit cannot be dropped? We hold them, so they hold us. No habit holds you—yet we complain, How can I drop it? The habit has gripped me. What will a habit grip!

Someone asked the Sufi, Farid, How can I drop my bad habits? They’ve bound me. Farid listened, didn’t answer; he stood up, went to a nearby pillar, clutched it and began shouting, Save me! Free me! The seeker was stunned—he’d come with a spiritual question; this man seems mad! Right before his eyes he clutched the pillar and cried, Free me! The man said, I thought you were wise—you seem deranged. Farid said, That can wait—first free me! He said, There’s no need to free you; it’s you who are holding the pillar; the pillar isn’t holding you. Farid said, Then you are intelligent. Why come to ask me? Your habits don’t hold you; you hold your habits. Get on the path! If you have the sense to tell me the pillar isn’t holding me, who is holding you? You must have some vested interest in your habit—see it.

You want to see faults in others so you can make them small, so you can appear great. This has been the strategy of the so-called religious to this day. Go to a “saint” and he looks at you as though you were a worm of hell. Your saints, priests, pundits teach you that. What a strange world—you honor them, touch their feet, and they describe you as hell’s vermin. They give such colorful depictions of hell—flames and cauldrons always boiling. There’s oil shortage in the world; in hell the cauldrons are still on the fire! You’ll be boiled and fried. Man turned into a fritter! They’ve invented one torture after another.

I heard of a Delhi politician who died. He thought he’d go to heaven—everyone in Delhi thinks so. And we, out of politeness, call every dead man “the late,” as if he’s gone to heaven. Have you ever heard anyone called “the infernal so-and-so”? Whoever dies becomes “heavenly.” Then why was hell made? Is God a fool?
The politician too thought, Like the rest, I’ll be heavenly—and I’m a big leader. But he went to hell. He saw the signboard—Hell—and his heart sank. The devil opened the door and yanked him in. The leader pleaded, flattered— the devil said, You are a Gandhian, wear khadi, spin the wheel; I’ll have a little mercy. I can at least let you choose among three sections of hell. I’ll show you all three. In the first, the old cauldrons boiled and people were being fried like pakoras. The leader said, No, no— I never liked pakoras anyway.
He was taken to the second. Giant worms bored through people—holes here, holes there—people perforated. The leader said, No—worms and insects? I’m used to Delhi; I sleep under a mosquito net, spray Flit; I can’t bear this.
He was taken to the third. Conditions were bad there too, but better than the other two. Excrement and urine filled the place; people stood in it up to their necks, some sipping tea, some coffee, some Coca-Cola. And refreshments were being served. The stench was awful, but the leader was a great leader and had a habit—he drank his own urine. He said, This will do. One step more—my own or another’s, what’s the difference? And at least here you get what you want. Even in Delhi we don’t get Coca-Cola! Here it still flows! He chose it. There was no fourth section anyway. As he stepped in, stood in the stench and said, A Coca-Cola, please—the bell rang loudly and the devil shouted, Break’s over! Tea-time is finished—everyone stand on your head.
Hell is hell.

That’s why leaders practice headstands—shirshasana—so if such a situation arises, they can stand on their heads and regulate their breath with pranayama.

What inventions in hell! And who invented them? Your so-called saints. To tell you what your fate will be. And they have arranged heaven for themselves: rivers of wine flow there—why drink in cups? There’s prohibition here; these saints support prohibition; yet in paradise, streams of liquor—bathe in them, dive in them.
Here they say, Woman is the gateway to hell; there they have stocked apsaras—celestial maidens. Are apsaras men? Then heaven also has a gate to hell—be careful! And what apsaras—bodies of gold, no sweat, and all stopped forever at sixteen.
Two women went to a fair. There was a gambling booth: choose a number and spin the wheel; if it lands on your number, you win ten times your stake. One woman was eager to bet; the other was hesitant. The first said, Why so unsure? What’s five or ten rupees? Win tenfold—or lose, so be it. The second said, I’m not afraid of gambling; I’m torn about which number. The first said, If you listen to me, I always choose my age; it’s never failed me. The second said, Fine—and put fifty rupees on twenty-three. The wheel spun and stopped at thirty-six. She cried, Oh God! How did the wheel know? She was thirty-six after all!
Here women keep deceiving for a long time—stretch it as long as they can. But the apsaras are frozen at sixteen.
In India, sixteen is considered the year of incomparable beauty—so they froze them there. These sixteen-year-old apsaras, golden bodies, streams of wine. Trees bear not flowers but jewels. And wish-fulfilling trees: sit beneath and any desire is instantly fulfilled. The saints have arranged all this for themselves.

The ego is amazing. Give up a little here to gain a thousandfold there—they muster the courage to renounce only as a bargain for greater gain. This is all business—expansion of greed and desire. It has nothing to do with religion. These heavens and hells are not the visions of the religious but the irreligious. The ego enjoys casting others into hell and sending oneself to heaven. All the time you try to appear superior: by wealth, knowledge, status—or at least by renunciation. Because status is hard; it’s a throat-cutting competition. Only one can be president in a nation of hundreds of millions—and hundreds of millions want to be. Few can be Birlas or Tatas. Knowledge isn’t easy either—work for lifetimes to reach an Einstein. But renunciation is easy.

Its special charm is: even if you have nothing, you can be a renunciate. No competition, no struggle, no qualifications—no one asks if you passed matriculation, or how much you know, what position you gave up, how many elephants and horses, how many jewels. Renunciation looks the simplest. So in this country with its great multitudes of fools, renunciation has been chosen. But renunciation feeds the ego just as much—more.

There are five million sadhus in this country. Among them you will hardly find even one whose eyes have a sparkle, whose being has a current of life, whose life has the fragrance of the beyond—an intimation of the Divine. They are fugitives. Someone’s wife died—he became a sannyasin, seeing no point in life. Someone went bankrupt—first thought of suicide, lacked the courage, turned sannyasin—an easy form of suicide. And the great convenience is: a man you wouldn’t hire to scrub pots—if he leaves home—what home, a slum hut perhaps—you will touch his feet, massage them. You will serve the “saint.”

A Jain monk told me, I understand what you say. I want to quit this business of being a monk and live a simple life of meditation. But it’s too late. I said, How can it be too late? Even if evening has come, if you return home, you’re not lost. You’re seventy—yet if awareness dawns, nothing is lost. If this monkhood has yielded nothing, why cling? He said, It’s not a question of attaining; I can’t leave because if I give up the monk’s status—this monkhood costs me little now, after forty years of habit. I eat once a day as allowed, but I eat so much that an ordinary man couldn’t manage in two meals. All comforts are provided. Laymen serve—men and women. I have no skills; if I drop the monk’s role, those who massage my feet won’t even hire me to massage theirs.
I said, It’s arithmetic. I agree—that’s what I’ve seen of many of your monks. If they shed their robes and meet you on the street, you wouldn’t feed them even one meal, wouldn’t gift them a cloth. And now? You carry them in palanquins, take out processions, the whole town comes to receive them. On their faces, no radiance of meditation; in their eyes, no light of discernment; in their life-breath, no fragrance of peace. What do you see? They fulfill your rules. A Digambar Jain monk stands naked—that’s enough! As if nakedness itself were a virtue. Then why don’t you worship tribals in jungles who go naked?

A Digambar monk plucks his hair—kesh-lunch—and thousands gather to watch a “great act”! What great act is hair-plucking? Many madmen pluck their hair. Sometimes your wife, when a bit deranged, pulls hair—her own for now; soon enough she’ll pull yours too; the time is coming! She pulls her own hair. Many are locked in madhouses who pull their hair. Yet you don’t honor them. What honor in hair-plucking? Are these things creative? Do they make the world more beautiful, more true, more joyous? If many pull their hair, will the beauty of the world increase? Will God come nearer? They fulfill your expectations; you become devoted to serving them.

And another delight comes with it: they pluck hair, stand naked—they are great; you are worth two pennies; you’ll go to hell—they to heaven. They speak only of your faults, condemn everything you do. Every act of yours is sin; every act of theirs is virtue. Life is not so simple. It’s subtle, intricate, mysterious. Deeds don’t decide—intentions do, and intentions are inner. One can give charity out of greed—then charity becomes sin. Another gives out of love—then charity is virtue.

But whether it is love within or greed—no one but you can know. One may renounce out of fear, as a coward, filled with dread of life’s struggle. Another renounces after truly seeing, recognizing, testing life—finding nothing there, only junk. He is not fleeing; he simply drops the trash. Both appear renunciates, but their renunciations differ as earth and sky. One fasts because people expect it; they will honor him. So he fasts for respect. Jain monks keep accounts of their fasts—a calendar each year records how many they did; he who did more is more honored.

And what is fasting?
Self-cannibalism, nothing else. And these vegetarians give such value to fasting—without understanding that in fasting a man eats his own flesh, then his own nerves, then dissolves his bones. He shrinks; his weight drops. Where does the weight go?

A Jain monk was talking to me about fasting. I asked, When you fast, how much weight do you lose per day? He said, At first about two pounds, then one and a half, then one. I asked, If you lose two pounds, where did your two pounds of flesh go? He scratched his head—he had never thought. Thinking is not their business. He said, I never considered where it went. I said, You digested it—what’s there to think? It’s pure meat-eating—eating yourself. And you make it a religious act and think you’ll reach heaven!

Some Hindu “saints” live on milk alone. They drink nothing but milk. Once one was brought to me; with great praise it was said, He is a milk-diet saint. I said, Perhaps—but what is there to praise? They said, He takes only milk. I said, That’s his whim; what merit in it? They said, He has no other merit. I said, Calves drink milk too—indeed, the milk is meant for them. They call the cow Mother, but ask the cow if she considers them sons. She cannot—these men are enemies of her calf. The milk meant for the calf, they drink! The calf goes hungry—what is the cow to them? Let a human mother’s milk be given to a calf and see what she says—will she consider the calf her son? She’ll beat it: the milk for my baby is not for the calf. But you keep saying “Mother Cow” because she cannot speak; you profit. Yet you drink the calf’s milk; it is for the calf.
And milk is dangerous. Except for humans, no animal drinks milk after infancy—because milk is for infancy. After that it is not needed—indeed, harmful. Once a child can digest food, why milk? And if you drink cow’s or buffalo’s milk, remember: that milk is made for bulls—to make bulls. If it turns you into a bull, don’t be surprised. If your saints become bulls, don’t be shocked.
They say in Kashi there are only three kinds of people: widows, jesters, and bulls. Count many “saints” among the bulls. Milk-diet saints! And what is milk? Flesh-food—part of the body, like blood. A baby drinks the mother’s milk—her blood decreases.

And those who do such things are “saints.” Those who live on simple bread, dal, vegetables are sinners bound for hell! Our constant urge is to prove ourselves superior by any pretext.

Be free of this urge, Krishnananda. This very urge binds you to misery. When this urge drops, ego dies—and blessed are those whose ego dies. For then all the treasure of the Divine is theirs. His entire kingdom is theirs. The Divine is theirs.

Avinash, out of compassion! There can be no other reason. If someone is about to fall into a pit and you say, “Brother, stop, or you’ll fall,” and he asks, “Why are you people so against others falling into pits?”—what would you say? Only this: out of compassion. I can see the pit; you cannot, and you are falling. Is it a sin to save a blind man from a ditch? And in this world the biggest pit is pedantry. Whoever falls into that pit is deprived of becoming a Buddha.

In this world the highest peak is Buddhahood, and the deepest pit is pedantry.

Panditya means borrowed knowledge. Buddhahood means one’s own knowing. The pandit is the exact opposite of the Buddha. I am not against the pandit as a person; I want people not to fall into the pit. I want people not to live on borrowed knowledge. Not to become parrots. I want them to stop repeating the scriptures and become the scripture. I want them to stop echoing others’ stale words and to express their own experience.

You don’t wear other people’s shoes; you hesitate to wear their used clothes. Yet how cheerfully you wrap yourself in other people’s knowledge! And shoes only go on your feet—what value do they have? But knowledge climbs onto your head.

Mulla Nasruddin said to his servant, “Go inside and bring some vinegar.” An hour passed. Mulla shouted two or three times, “What are you doing? Why don’t you bring the vinegar?” At last the servant came out carrying a shoe. Mulla said, “What have you brought? I asked for vinegar!” He replied, “I couldn’t find anything for the head (sir-ka), so I brought something for the foot (pair-ka).”

But even for your feet you don’t want anything secondhand—and for your head? Everything is borrowed. What do you cram into your skull except rubbish? Until the light of your own life begins to shine there, whatever you stuff in is trash. It is dung—even if it comes from the sacred cow! No dung is holy; dung is dung.

Mulla Nasruddin once went for a job interview. Whatever the officer asked, he said, “I don’t know. I don’t know.” Even simple things—“When did India become independent?”—“I don’t know. I don’t even know if it has become independent.” Finally the officer got angry and said, “Is your head full of dung?” Nasruddin said, “If it’s dung, why are you licking it?”

But in the head there is nothing else either. People lick each other’s heads. Your own tongue can’t reach your own head! Just as, when needed, people scratch each other’s backs, so whenever the need arises they lick each other’s heads.

What is pedantry? The Vedas by heart, the Upanishads memorized, the Gita on your lips, you can recite the Quran, you know the Bible. But will knowing the Bible make you a Christ? Or will memorizing the Gita make you a Krishna? If only it were that cheap! If it were that easy, we would have filled the world with Buddhas long ago. Then we wouldn’t see so many “buddhus”—fools. There would be Buddhas and only Buddhas. As it is, it’s fools upon fools wherever you look. And that is why I am against pedantry: it turns Buddha into “buddhu”—a fool. I want to cut off that long “oo” so that only Buddha remains.

Mulla Nasruddin went touring in England. The distance from the London airport to the hotel was about ten miles. Seeing Nasruddin getting bored, the taxi driver said, “It will take about half an hour to reach your hotel. So you don’t get bored, I’ll ask you a question; it’s a tough one!” Mulla said, “Ask! Nothing is difficult for me.” The driver said, “My parents have only one child, who is neither my brother nor my sister; who is it?” Nasruddin was completely puzzled. He racked his brains but couldn’t figure out how that could be. Either it’s a brother or a sister. Thinking and thinking, time passed and they arrived at the hotel. The driver asked sarcastically, “Well, sir! Didn’t I tell you it’s a tough question? Even the best can’t answer it!” Poor Mulla gave up. The driver said, “It’s simple: I myself am my parents’ only child—but I am neither my own brother nor my own sister.”

When Nasruddin returned to India, his friends threw a party to celebrate his return. At the first opportunity he asked them the same question—he was waiting for it. “Friends, I’ll ask you a question. My parents have a child who is neither my brother nor my sister; who is it?” Hearing the question, one man bit his finger, another rubbed his bald head, a third patted his huge belly. There was no hope from Bhondumal at all. Defeated, they all said, “Mulla, you tell us. Our brains aren’t working. If it’s your parents’ own child, but neither your brother nor your sister, then who could it possibly be?” Puffing out his chest with pride, Nasruddin said, “That London taxi driver!”

Borrowed knowledge can only be like this. It is not your intelligence. It is not your wisdom. It is not your awakening. You can repeat—but repetition cannot bring a revolution to your life. And I want a revolution in your life. I want the seed lying within you to become a tree, to blossom.

Spring has come; in these wondrous moments of spring a flowering can happen within you too. Don’t remain entangled in others’ borrowed words. Drop the anxiety for knowledge; take up the concern for meditation. The one who worries about knowledge becomes a pandit. The one who takes up meditation attains Buddhahood. The one who attains meditation alone is the true knower; the one who remains a pandit is a false knower.

I have no opposition to pandits—I have no opposition to anyone! Although to many what I say may sound like opposition. But it is like this: when a doctor lances your boil and lets the pus out, it hurts. Don’t start quarreling with the doctor. Don’t start wrestling with him—because the poor fellow is only trying to free you from your boil. Even if he cuts you open, it is for your good.

The abuse that is being hurled at me—and will be—is for this reason: people don’t realize that the surgery I am performing is for your good, for your welfare, for your joy.

Buddhas have always been abused, and always will be. It is natural. People don’t even know their condition—what pit they are in, what stupor they sleep in. And in their sleep they dream. Perhaps you are seeing a sweet dream, and I come and shake you and try to wake you. Your getting angry is natural. I accept your anger. But still I will shake you—because I will not rest until you are awake. What I have known on waking, I want you to know too. What I have known on waking, I want to share with you.

That’s all for today.