Ramnam Janyo Nahin #10

Purushottam Mahanti, man is not complex; he is certainly mysterious. If he were complex, knowing him would not be so difficult. However complex a thing is, complexity can be unraveled. Complexity is a puzzle that lies within the scope of the intellect, not beyond it. Whatever was complex, man has solved, or if not yet, he will. What was unknown yesterday is known today; what is unknown today will be known tomorrow.

Science recognizes only two categories: the known and the unknown. There is no qualitative difference between them—only a difference of time. The unknown is that which is capable of becoming known: a little more effort, a little more search, a little more research, a little more reasoning, a little more science. But mystery is qualitatively different, not merely quantitatively. Mystery does not mean the unknown; mystery means the unknowable—what cannot be known at all, what lies beyond the limits of the intellect; what can be lived, but not known. Knowing implies you can cast it into words, weigh it on the scales of logic, have the intellect measure it. Mystery means the immeasurable: there is no way to know or weigh it—and yet it is; it is infinite, boundless. The more you know, the more you find knowing is impossible. The more you recognize, the more you find infinitely more remains, always remains.

Socrates’ saying is delightful: “I could know only one thing—that I know nothing.” The Upanishads say: He who knows, knows not. He who knows not, he knows. They also say: The ignorant wander in darkness; the knowledgeable wander in a greater darkness. This is a fiery, revolutionary statement. Even a spark of it falling within you will set your life’s forest aflame. All the rubbish will burn, and only what is pure gold will remain.

You ask: “Is man so complex and mysterious that no one can know him?”

You are taking complexity and mystery as synonyms. They are not. Complexity is merely a challenge to the intellect. Mystery is far deeper. The intellect is superficial. To know mystery, the usual way of knowing will not do; there you have to become ignorant like Socrates.

Jesus said: Only those who are as innocent as children shall enter the kingdom of my Father. There, the scholar has no standing. There is no entry for the knower; only the innocent, the simple-hearted—so simple, like a blank sheet of paper. When you become like a blank page, then there is acquaintance, recognition, flavor, the flow of rasa; then life becomes a festival.

And the sutra of the Shatapatha Brahmana says it rightly: “Ko veda manushyasya?” Who knows man? Which Veda knows man? Which knowledge knows man? Which doctrine knows man? Which religion can claim to know man? And why choose man? Because man is the pinnacle of life’s mystery. In truth, all life is mysterious. In truth, even a rose cannot be fully known.

The great English poet Tennyson said… One morning, while strolling, he noticed in a stone wall a little plant of grass that had sprouted in the rains, and a tiny flower had bloomed on it. The fresh morning breeze, the newborn rays of the rising sun, the song of birds, and the secret of this grass that had broken stone and arisen—not only arisen, but blossomed. Tennyson stopped and said: If only I could know this little flower completely—from root to peak—I would know the whole existence. Nothing more would remain to be known.

Even a small blade of grass cannot be fully known—something always eludes. What eludes is the secret. What eludes is the mystery. What falls into your grasp is worth two pennies. What does not fall into your grasp—that is life.

If a grass-flower is so mysterious, what to say of a rose! Then the lotus blossoming in a lake will be even more difficult to understand. And this thousand-petaled lotus of consciousness, this sahasrara hidden within man, this flower of human consciousness—on this earth, in this whole existence, it is unique, unparalleled. If the flowers of matter cannot be fully known, how will you ever know the flower of consciousness?

“Ko veda manushyasya?”
Who knows man? Which Veda knows? Which scripture knows? Which book has opened the secret of man?

All scriptures, all books, all sages, all enlightened ones have only pointed toward the mystery of man. They have said: Be silent, and perhaps you will recognize something; do not seek—be still—and perhaps a glimpse will be granted. Do not use the mind, for the mind has limits, and this consciousness is limitless. If you use a limited instrument, you will be in great trouble; the instrument itself will become the obstacle.

To recognize man, you must go deeper than mind. Man is not the body, not the mind; behind both is hidden consciousness, the witness. What is beyond mind cannot be known in the language of knowing; it can be drunk in the language of love.

And the process of going beyond mind is called meditation. Therefore, one who is to enter meditation must consign all scriptures to the fire. That alone is a true sacrifice. That alone is the hawan worthy of a religious seeker. Reduce all words to ash—however beautiful, however dear the ones who spoke them, it makes no difference. Words can go only as far as the mind; they cannot run beyond. Where the wordless begins, there begins man’s real essence. Where thoughts drop and the dimension of no-thought opens, there, for the first time, you enter human consciousness. Wherever mind is, there you are not. Wherever no-mind arrives, there you are.

Then, by its very nature, this mystery cannot be lived by anyone else for you. Each person must know his own mystery for himself. Therefore the Shatapatha Brahmana is right to ask:
“Ko veda manushyasya? Who knows man?”
No one but you can know you. And even you will know only when you transcend body and mind. Climb these two stairways and enter the temple. No one but you can know you. And even your knowing cannot be called knowing—it can only be called living. Knowing always implies a distance: that which is known is one thing; the knower is another. Knowing requires duality; without duality, knowing cannot happen. There the object is the known; the subject is the knower; and the relationship between them is what we call knowledge. But in knowing oneself, there can be no duality. There, the knower and the known are one. Therefore, the language of knowing will not work; the language of living will. There, living is knowing; living is recognition.

And your life has been blocked from every side. Life has been condemned, and scriptures have been praised. Carry words on your head and be crushed under the weight of your own self-condemnation and guilt—that is what has been taught for centuries. But that is not the way to become acquainted with oneself; it is the method of remaining unfamiliar with oneself.

The powers-that-be want exactly that—that you do not know yourself, do not recognize yourself, do not live yourself, so that you can be enslaved. And slavery has many names: slavery in the name of religions, of nations, of ideologies. There are so many ways and forms of bondage. The chains are so beautifully gilded in gold and silver that they look like ornaments. People have forgotten that even if the chain is plated with gold, even if the shackles are studded with jewels, they are still shackles; handcuffs are handcuffs. And a prison, even if built of marble, remains a prison. It is not the open sky. In it there is neither moon nor sun nor stars, nor the possibility of flying in the vastness.

You are all caged. A bird flying in the open sky—that is another matter. The same bird locked in a cage—that is another matter entirely. In the open, there is the magic of its wings, its freedom, its liberation; the whole sky is its own—the moon and stars its own, the sun its own, the trees and flowers its own; the joy of crossing clouds, the play of making distant stars its target; and out of this play arises song—spreading wings, an open throat.

Lock that same bird in a golden cage, give it every facility, free it from worry about food, yet it is not the same bird you saw weighing the winds. It is not the bird that crossed the clouds, not the bird that greeted the morning sun with song, not the bird that returned at dusk to its nest in delight. The bustle is not the same. The bird has died; it only seems to live.

So it is: Hindus, Muslims, Christians, Jains—these are caged people. None of them can know human consciousness. They all have doctrines. And one who clings to doctrines—how will he go beyond mind? His doctrines will stall him. They will pull at his feet, cut his wings. He will be busy proving his doctrines, eager not for truth but for one thing: that his doctrine be proved true.

The search for truth is possible only by dropping doctrines. If your eyes are covered with doctrines, how will you see truth? People are stuffed with doctrines; their eyes have been blinded by them. They can see only what their doctrines permit them to see.

Whether religious or political, authorities do not want you to know truth. The one who knows truth cannot be enslaved. He cannot be bound within these petty, trivial limits. He will be neither Indian nor Chinese nor Japanese; neither black nor white. One who has known truth is, in fact, neither woman nor man. He is pure consciousness. There, categories do not work; division is not possible.

Division is the formula of the power-holder: divide and rule. The priest does it; the politician does it. Divide—let people remain divided, let them go on fighting; that is the strength of the rulers. And let people remain blind—only then do leaders have value, only then are “gurus” needed. If your eyes open, things become difficult. Once your eyes open, you need no leader. You are your own seer, your own light. Your inner flame is lit.

Do not think man is complex. Man is very simple—and precisely because he is simple, he is mysterious. Complexity is easy to understand because it can be divided, cut, analyzed. Simplicity cannot be known because it cannot be analyzed.

Consider: Ask a scientist, “What is water?” He will answer: the combination of hydrogen and oxygen—H2O. Two parts hydrogen, one part oxygen—out of these three parts water arises. Ask him, “What is hydrogen?” and he can answer: how many electrons, how many neutrons and protons compose it. But ask, “What are electrons, protons, neutrons?” Now the difficulty begins—because they cannot be subdivided. The electron cannot be divided; it is indivisible, simple; there is no duality, no dilemma; it is one. What answer can you give? The electron is the electron. There, the scientist has no answer. There all answers fall.

If this happens in the world of matter, imagine how infinitely more so in the world of consciousness. Consciousness is utterly simple, utterly indivisible. It may be that one day even the electron is divided; then there will be an answer, but only in the sense that the question will be pushed further back—to whatever composes the electron. The matter both resolves and does not resolve. Science keeps pushing questions back, but eventually it has to stop somewhere. That “somewhere” is consciousness.

Consciousness can neither be divided, nor seen through the telescope or microscope, nor weighed on scientific scales. Therefore science simply denies that consciousness exists—just to avoid the hassle. If consciousness exists, science would have to answer—and it has no answer. And no one is ready to admit ignorance; ego does not allow it. Thus the convenient move is to declare: what cannot be solved does not exist.

But in meditation, consciousness is encountered. You cannot deny it. Invariably, whenever anyone has leapt beyond mind and given birth to meditation, he has known consciousness. Regarding this one truth, no enlightened one differs from another. This is the one element on which all enlightened ones agree.

But it must be known by oneself, for oneself. The mystery is within you. You have to dive to that depth where you come into tuning with it, where music begins to play, where the clap of one hand resounds, where nonduality is realized.

The Shatapatha Brahmana is right: “Ko veda manushyasya? Who has known man?”
No one else has ever known. And as long as man is “man”… Consider the word “manushya”—it is bound up with mind; the one with mind is “man.” Therefore, as long as man is man, he will not know. You must go a little beyond man. Go beyond mind and you go beyond man. That is the realm of godliness.

For me there is no God as a person; there is godliness. Every human being is a seed of godliness. When humanity is left behind, the flower of godliness blossoms. Each person is a hidden God—does not know, does not recognize—that is another matter. And that is his mystery.

Godliness is the mystery of humanity. Until you become acquainted with godliness, you will not know yourself, will not recognize yourself. Repeat scriptures like parrots—lovely sayings, beautiful words, sweet poetry—everything is there, but it is dead. It becomes alive only when there is your own realization. And that is your birthright.

But you must go within. Going to temples will not do, nor to mosques, churches, or gurudwaras. He abides within you. Be still, close your eyes, dive within. When everything inside comes to a stop—no movement, no wavering, no choice, choicelessness—then, in that very instant, as if the sun has risen, morning happens; and the veena of your being begins to play. Your songs will find voice. Then you will know—but it will be like the sweet jaggery a mute tastes: you will know, but you will not be able to say. You will live it, but you will not be able to express it.

Therefore, a true master cannot give you truth, but the aura of his living, the grace of his presence can certainly stir what sleeps within you. What has not awakened in you for centuries may turn over in its slumber. Your stupor can be shattered by the shock of his wakefulness. And if your unlit lamp comes near his lit lamp… This is the meaning of satsang: the unlit lamp coming close to the lit lamp. This is the relationship of master and disciple. This is love at its peak—the unlit lamp drawing near the lit one. And there is a moment, a place, where the flame leaps in a single instant from the lit lamp into the unlit. And the arithmetic of it is unique: the unlit lamp receives everything, and the lit lamp loses nothing.

There is not the slightest need for fear. Because what is, cannot be destroyed; and what is not, will inevitably pass. Man is the sum of both—the mortal and the immortal. The mortal will go, sooner or later, this way or that. The mortal has to take leave, so there is no reason for fear there. And the immortal is forever; there too there is no reason for fear. Be fearless! Do not cling to what must wither. Do not get too attached to my flower. Recognize my fragrance; that will not fade.

You say: “You are speaking out of such compassion! People of this country don’t understand it, they become angry.”
This is the eternal way. This has always been people’s manner.

Neither their ways are new, nor my love is new.
Neither their defeat is new, nor my victory is new.

It has always been so. They are helpless, and I am helpless. I can only say what is; and they can only do what is possible in unconsciousness. They can only be angry. In a stupor, what else can they do? With the understanding they have, where they are, their behavior will be according to that. If only they could understand me, a revolution would happen in their lives. For those who are understanding, a revolution is happening.

But it is not right to hope that everyone will understand. The effort will be that all may understand, and yet it is not right to expect that all will. That too is their freedom. If they do not wish to understand, they have the full right not to. If they do not wish to receive the truth, no compulsion can be used. By their anger, they are only saying exactly that.

Anger indicates two things: first, that they are shaken, disturbed; that on some unconscious level their untruth has begun to be recognized. Otherwise there is no reason for anger to arise. Anger arises when the blows of truth make the card-house of falsehood you have built inside begin to tremble. When the winds of truth are ready to sink your paper boats, then anger arises. In fact, anger is a signal that on some unconscious level truth is being accepted. Otherwise, anger would not arise.

And remember this too: people never forgive compassion. It is hard—to forgive compassion. It is hard because compassion means someone is giving you something and wants nothing from you in return. Keep in mind, in this world giving is not difficult; receiving is very difficult. Because in receiving there is humiliation. In giving there is no obstacle—there is joy, there is delight, there is love.

And there are certain things that increase by being shared. Truth is such a thing; bliss is such a thing; love is such a thing—share them and they grow; withhold them and they stop, they diminish. Be stingy, and your truth will begin to die. As a river stays alive if it keeps flowing, and if it becomes a stagnant pool it begins to rot. Life is flow. Whatever is alive will have flow in it.

So I too am compelled. What has happened within me I am compelled to share. Nothing can be done about it. The song that has happened will be sung. The bliss that has happened will be showered. But try to understand people too. When bliss rains, they fear getting wet—so they open their umbrellas. Give them love, they shut their doors. Because in receiving, the ego is hurt. “I? And receive? Impossible! Am I some beggar?”

And to receive truth hurts even more. For people have already assumed that they know the truth; what more can anyone give them? One thinks he has found it in the Gita, another in the Bible, another in the Koran—whereas it is not found in books at all. In books you may find dried flowers pressed between pages. People even press roses into their Bibles. That is only a memory of a rose, not the rose. Roses will be found blooming on living bushes. But there is a danger in going near a living rose—there are thorns. Those dead rose-flowers you find pressed in books have no thorns. There is no danger in them, no fragrance in them, nothing to be afraid of. They lie pressed in your book.

And what you think you understand from books is your own understanding that you project onto them. Books are dead—what can they do? Whatever meanings you make will be yours.

Mulla Nasruddin was telling a friend, “Whenever I catch a cold I bring home a bottle of whisky, and within an hour—cleared.”
The friend asked, “Amazing, man! Since when does a cold clear in an hour?”
Mulla Nasruddin said, “Not the cold, brother.”

These days there’s far too much talk
of the “common man.”
Whoever you see
is worried only about the “common man.”
Influenced by this, we did some research—
Why, after all,
is a man called the “aam aadmi,” the common man?
What, after all, does he have of “aam” (mango) in him?
We reached this conclusion:
If the common man is unripe,
his chutney turns out well,
a pickle can be made of him;
and if he is ripe,
it’s great fun to suck him.

A leader returned after giving a speech
and snarled at the servant,
“I’ve come back exhausted—
press my feet, Ram Lubhaya.”
Ram Lubhaya said, “Master,
may I tell you something important?
It’s your throat that’s tired from the speech—
if you say so, I’ll press your throat.”

The leader was just about to light the fire at his father’s mouth when he spotted a photographer. Instantly he plastered on a smile. When the photo was developed, it looked as though the leader, looking at his father’s face covered with garlands, was humming—“Today is my father’s wedding!”

People’s understanding—their own habits. Let a photographer appear before a leader and the leader not smile! All thirty-two teeth flash at once. Such is the magic of the camera! Then, even if the father has died, even if he is about to light the pyre—old habits do not drop so easily.

People can only understand what they can understand. Do not be angry with them. Do not be upset by their abuses. It is their helplessness. For centuries they have been taught such lessons; the whole alphabet has been taught backward. And today, when suddenly you speak to them of truth, naturally it seems to them: “What upside-down things you are saying!”

It is as if all people were standing on their heads, and one person stood on his feet and began to say, “Brothers, why are you standing upside down?” Naturally the crowd will say, “You are mad; you are the one upside down. We are all standing straight. Our crowd is proof! So many people can’t be wrong. You, a solitary man, have found the truth?”

Among the blind, the man with eyes is bound to be in trouble. Otherwise, why would Socrates be given poison? And what a strange people: first they give him poison, then they worship him for centuries. While Socrates is alive, they cannot forgive his compassion; and after they poison him to death, they cannot forgive themselves. Then they are seized by guilt. To escape that guilt they begin to honor Socrates. Such an upside-down arithmetic; but it is so ancient it has seeped into the blood, flesh, and marrow.

When Oscar Wilde reached New York, the customs officers asked him, “Do you have any objectionable articles with you?”
Oscar Wilde replied, “Yes—my intellect.”

Intellect is a very objectionable article here. People’s intelligence has been wiped clean, plastered over. So to speak to them of intelligence is to put them in a jam. And what bigger jam is there than that a person has to change his life-beliefs? To change the principles of his life? That the pattern by which he has lived, the trust by which he has lived all his life—should all prove wrong? The ground slips from under his feet.

Therefore, Ageh Bharati, my compulsion is: I will speak. Their compulsion is: they will be annoyed, angry, they will not understand. But just so, between my compulsion and their compulsion, some people will also understand. Some are understanding. In just this way, you have fallen in love with me. In this tug-of-war—I will go on saying my say; they will go on hurling abuses—yet those few who still have a little intelligence left, who have somehow saved a small portion of their intelligence—where the pandits and priests could not reach; the mahants, the heads of monasteries, the “saints” could not reach; the schools, colleges, universities could not reach—those who have preserved a little of their own intelligence will certainly be able to see truth even amidst all this abuse. Even through this smoke they will have no difficulty in seeing a ray of the sun. And if a thousand people abuse and even one understands—that is reward enough. What more is needed?

Deendayal Khatri, Khatri as you are, you’ve taken on khatra—danger. And what is a Khatri worth if he won’t take risks! But do you know, nowhere in the Vedas or the shastras has any of your so-called great men said how Khatris came into being. Shudras were born from the feet; Vaishyas from God’s thighs; Kshatriyas from the chest, from the arms; Brahmins, naturally, from the skull. But Khatris? Is God some Muslim that he created a few people by circumcision!

Now that you’ve chosen danger, what can I do? Still, I’ll tell you the secret of how Khatris were born. You’ll worry, because you’ll say I am again maligning great men. What can I do? I must speak the truth.

One “great man” arose—Parashurama. I don’t call him a great man, though you do. He emptied the earth of Kshatriyas eighteen times. His life’s only trade was cutting off Kshatriya heads. He carried an axe; his name was Rama, but he came to be called Parashurama—Rama with the axe. Wherever he saw a Kshatriya he didn’t delay. He was like a Sardar—“Sat Sri Akal! Waheguru ji ki Fateh, Waheguru ji ka Khalsa!” See a Kshatriya—finish him! Not once or twice—he emptied the earth of Kshatriyas eighteen times.

So your great man Parashurama finished off the Kshatriyas. But thanks to the compassion of the rishis and munis! You’ll say again I’m denigrating great men—what can I do? Parashurama butchered the men; with the women he felt a little scruple—being a male, to kill women! So the women were spared. And in those days there was a custom: any woman could approach the rishis and munis and request, “Grant us a son.” And that “granting a son” wasn’t by smearing ash and the like—they actually granted it! That was their work. There was a whole arrangement for it in the Vedic age—niyoga. The rishis and munis did what bulls do. When Mother Cow needs a calf, you bring the bull. The bull performs niyoga; Mother Cow becomes pregnant. So the rishis and munis, poor fellows, out of compassion, kept obliging. They are great men, so I’m not slandering them! On one side, one great man kept slaughtering Kshatriyas; on the other, many great men kept performing niyoga. That’s how Khatris were born. God didn’t make them. This was by the grace of great men! So I can understand why my “denouncing great men” troubles you—because these very rishis and munis… Khatris are in fact the offspring of rishis and munis.

You say: “One thing I don’t understand—why do you so often base your points on condemning great men!”

First, is it mandatory that whoever you call a great man I too must call a great man? You have counted all kinds of wretches among great men. Your calling someone a great man puts no limits on me. I see them as they are.

I cannot accept Parashurama as a great man. It would be hard to find a greater murderer. On what basis call him great? Hard to find a more wicked man. He emptied the earth of Kshatriyas eighteen times!

And this villain must have been of the worst sort. His father grew suspicious of his mother—an old occupational disease of fathers—and ordered, “Go cut off your mother’s head!” And Parashurama cut off his mother’s head. Signs of the son show in the cradle. The Kshatriyas should have understood then: save yourselves—this man is dangerous.

You want me to call him a great man! Hindus even regard him as an avatar. Those who regard him as an avatar only reveal the condition of their own intelligence. Think a little: you call such killers avatars! Your calling them avatars tells on your own tendencies. And at the same time you proclaim Hinduism a great religion, that it upholds ahimsa paramo dharma—nonviolence as the supreme religion; that it is generous to all. And Parashurama is your avatar! You are tolerant and generous to all—and Parashurama is your avatar!

Whom you call a great man tells about you.

On my touchstone, whoever is not a great man is not—whether millions have worshipped him makes no difference. I do not malign any great man, but those who do not appear to me great and have become the foundation of your life, who are pouring poison into your life—to free you from that poison I have to strike.

And even the word “denunciation” you have not used rightly, Deendayal Khatri. Criticism is not denigration. Whatever I’m saying is recorded in your scriptures. I am merely criticizing.

Your scriptures say Brahma created the creation. He is the Supreme Father, because he gave birth to the creation—so the creation is his daughter. But Brahma became infatuated with his own daughter. He began to chase her. The father ran after the daughter. The daughter panicked and fled. She ran, and the father ran too. Out of fear the daughter began to hide. She hid by becoming a cow—to hide, she became a cow. But can anyone fool Brahma! Instantly he became a bull. The daughter fled and became a she-elephant; he became an elephant. The daughter fled and became a she-monkey; he became Hanumanji! He just kept after her. Thus the whole creation was born.

Your scriptures say so. I am not maligning. But the filth is such that merely mentioning it is enough; no critique is needed. These are your Brahma! And you worship him! And if this is your creator of the universe, then what will you be? Your foundations themselves are wrong. There is poison in your base.

You say to me: “You are a very amusing man; listening to you is great fun. Never felt that listening to any saint before.”

That is precisely because I am speaking plain truth. If you want all that fun to be finished, there are plenty of saints—go sit in any satsang. To be bored, countless saints are available—sit and yawn, sit and sleep.

My words please you; but you haven’t inquired why. They’re pleasing, full of flavor, because truth is always full of rasa. But truth is also hard—flower-soft for those who understand; rock-hard for those who do not. I am not maligning anyone.

You say: “It would be better if you presented your point constructively.”

I am presenting it constructively. But before building anything, much must be demolished. Try to understand this story.

I have heard: a church had become very old—so decrepit that a gust of wind made it shiver. When lightning cracked in the sky, it seemed the church would fall any moment. The clouds thundered and the church trembled. Seeing its condition, no one came to worship. Leave others aside—even the priest would place two flowers on the steps from outside and return. He too would not go in. Who knows when it would fall!

When they saw that no worshippers came and even the priest would not enter, the trustees were forced to call a meeting. That meeting too was held outside, far from the church, because if the building fell, its effects would reach a long way. In that meeting, four resolutions were passed:
- First: we are compelled to demolish the old church built by our ancestors; building a new church has become necessary.

Such attachment to the old! Such infatuation! But the old is a chain. One who cannot break the old cannot become new.

With great compulsion, with sadness, they passed the first resolution: a new church must be built—we so decide. We’re sorry the old building must be demolished, but we are helpless. O Lord, forgive us.

- Second: although we are demolishing the old church, the new church will be built exactly on the old site and precisely according to the old architecture—exactly the old blueprint. It will be just like the old church.
- Third: no new thing will be used in the new church. Only the old church’s windows, doors, bricks, stones—only they will be used.
- Fourth, passed unanimously: until the new church is built, we will not demolish the old one.

Now tell me, Deendayal Khatri, how will the new church be built? The old must be torn down.

My talk is constructive. But it can be constructive only when first there is readiness for demolition, to raze the old. You want only constructive talk—you want talk of building the new church, with no mention of bringing down the old.

Your advice is well-intended, but I cannot accept it, because I am not blind. The old church must first be brought down; only then can the new be built. Nor is there any need to reuse the old church’s materials; for if you use only the old and nothing new, the same decrepit church will stand again. If only the old is to be used and nothing new, then why bother? It will shake again; lightning will come and it will tremble again. But such foolishness does happen.

I have heard: in a government office, over a hundred years, files piled up until there were so many it was impossible to find anything. And Indian offices! Even one file is hard to find; there, hundreds of thousands had piled up.

And Indian offices take such relish in piling up files! The higher the stack on a man’s table, the bigger the man. The pile grows, the man disappears—the bigger the man! In the end only files remain; no trace of the man. Many advantages: behind the files he does what he wants—flirts with the typist, drinks tea, stretches his legs and sleeps. Files serve as armor. Whatever goes on behind—take bribes, give bribes—files protect. And the heap of files increases his gravity. He even walks with a strut: “Look at the files! I’m carrying the whole burden. Who says the world rests on a turtle? It rests on me!”

Entering that office had become difficult. Whoever entered found it hard to get out; whoever got out found it hard to get in. Finally it was decided: what is the point of keeping these hundred-year-old files? The head of the office said: burn them. But before burning, take care of one thing—make copies of them all.

See the cleverness, Deendayal Khatri? This is called constructiveness! What a constructive step! What if someday we need them? Then we should copy them all. Burn the old—but make the copies.

I don’t believe in such stupidities.

The ground must be cleared. The old structures must be removed. Only then can the new be created. Demolition is an essential part of creation. Without demolition, no creation ever happens. Those who are afraid of demolition never create. They can indulge as much as they like in talk about creation.

In this country there is endless talk of constructive programs. Only talk. Constructive programs! Thirty-three years since independence—how many plans, how much babble! Only one creation goes on—children are being produced. At independence the population was one figure; now it’s double. Double the problems.

Only one creative work goes on here—a race: “You produced a dozen children? I’ll produce two dozen and show you! I’m a man too!” Here the only mark of manliness is—how many children? The only mark of a woman’s fertility—how many children? Until you can fill an entire truck and take your children on a picnic, what kind of man are you! Otherwise people will suspect you’ve had a vasectomy! And people here are very afraid: once sterilized, a man is finished—what’s left? The real thing is gone; only straw remains. Now there’s only one use for him: stand him in a field, put a Gandhi cap on him, dress him in a kurta and churidar pajama—he’ll scare away birds and crows. What other use is there—he’s had a vasectomy!

I was a professor in Raipur. One evening, out for a walk, I came upon Swami Karpatri Maharaj giving a lecture. I paused to hear a foolish statement or two and then move on. What a coincidence! I had barely stopped when he said—what was he explaining to people?—that water from which electricity has been extracted is useless; don’t drink that water. Its real power is gone—its kundalini is gone! Don’t even irrigate with it, otherwise whatever crop grows will be barren. It may look like wheat, but inside there’ll be nothing.

And the public was nodding: “True indeed—if the electricity has gone, what’s left? Only empty water!”

Now these dolts—no, no, great men! Otherwise Deendayal Khatri will be upset. No, one should never malign! Not even criticize! They are making such astonishing discoveries, outdoing great scientists! Forgive me—I said dolts; that wasn’t right.

If life is to be transformed, demolition must come first. Centuries of rotten garbage must be set on fire. The ground must be cleared. Only then can a new crop be sown.

Garibdas Jholiwale, you’ve pulled off a marvel! Call it a miracle. In this country people don’t open their eyes so easily; ask them to open, and they clamp them even tighter.

You’re right to say, “I keep the scriptures in my jholi.” Everyone is lugging scriptures around. And it’s good you’ve kept them in a bag—escape will be easier! With most people they’ve crawled into the skull. Pulling them out from there is a big trouble. Major surgery is needed. First, no one lets you make a hole in their skull. If somehow a little window is made—that’s what I do, I make a window in a sannyasi’s skull—then through that window the scriptures have to be eased out, slowly, slowly. It’s tough, because inside they’re entangled; they’ve spun a thick web. You are fortunate: your scriptures are in the jholi. The jholi can be done away with in one flick. Perhaps that’s why your eyes opened so quickly. You are blessed.

And you say, “If you will accept this old man...” This longing, this readiness, clearly says you are not old. Someone may be old in body... but this is youth of the heart. This courage, this daring—even in old age! The inner flow of guts, of youth, the risk of embracing the new—this does not testify to old age. To grow old in the body is natural; that’s nothing. But the misfortune of this land is that children are old from birth. And if they aren’t, parents, teachers, priests—everyone conspires to make them old. People expect children to behave like elders. And the child who behaves like an elder is praised as well-mannered.

I never had that fortune. No one ever praised me as a child.

One of my teachers, a Brahmin, used to go house to house tying rakhi in the month of Shravan. He tied rakhi to me too. When he tied it, my father would say, “Touch his feet and offer this rupee.” Once it happened that he came when my father wasn’t home. He tied the rakhi; I sprang up, caught his hand, and made him touch my foot.

He buzzed like an angry hornet—furious. I said, “What’s the big deal! So many times I’ve touched your feet; you enjoyed it. Let me enjoy it once or twice too. And the coincidence is my father isn’t here today—otherwise he’d be at me to touch your feet. No one will know anyway; it’s just you and me. No need to get angry! If you do, I’ll inform the whole village.”

He said, “All right, you’re right. What’s done is done. No need to tell anyone.”

I said, “And from now on, be careful—don’t tie me a rakhi again. I’ve had my fun now; I won’t give it up.”

He looked at me with fear even in class, keeping an eye on me. I’d answer back with my eyes: “Remember!” Though in time I quietly spread the news around the whole village. He asked me, “How are people finding out?” I said, “Strange! It seems many here can read thoughts. I’m not telling anyone, and you can’t—how are they learning it! When people ask me, I’m obliged to nod for truth’s sake: yes, it happened; such an incident did occur.”

From childhood there is such a push to make children obedient that gradually the poor things become obedient slaves. Their capacity breaks. They grow old—prematurely old.

It is your good fortune, Garibdas, that though old, you could endure my blows; not only endure, you even tried to understand. And you’re ready for sannyas. But you’ll have to keep a few things in mind.

You say, “If you initiate me into sannyas and give me the experience of samadhi, I will throw these scriptures away today.” Samadhi cannot happen on condition. As long as there is a condition, samadhi is impossible. I’m ready to initiate you into sannyas. But before you burn the scriptures, you’ll have to burn the condition. This condition that “you must give me the experience of samadhi.” No one can give samadhi to anyone. I can point, indicate. The doing will be yours. And if a condition is lodged in the mind beforehand, you won’t be able to do it. That very condition becomes the obstacle. Samadhi is an unconditional experience. If the expectation lingers—now samadhi should happen, now it should happen; not yet! Three days, thirteen days, three years—still not!—that’s where the snag appears.

There is an old teaching tale that I love. Narada was going to heaven, humming on his veena. Under a tree he saw an old sannyasi rolling his rosary. Narada stopped. “I’m going to heaven. If you want me to ask God something for you, I will.”

The sannyasi said, “Please ask how much longer till my liberation? It’s been so long. I’d heard, ‘There is delay, not darkness.’ But the delay has become such that it seems darkness indeed. Three births—three births!—I’ve been rolling this mala, repeating the name of Rama. Even patience has its limit. Please ask: how much longer?”

The tone gave it away: the man was still thinking in the language of business. It’s still a transaction—so long spent, so much effort, now the fruit should come. But meditation deepens only when the hankering for fruit is gone. Samadhi flowers only when all desire for outcome has dissolved—when there is no intention to attain anything. This is samadhi’s paradox: when there is no intent to gain, when even the very idea is forgotten, when meditation itself has become joy—an end in itself, no longer a means—then the sky opens, then the rain of nectar falls, then a thousand lamps are lit within, then the inner lotus blooms—not before.

Narada laughed. “I’ll surely ask.”

Under another tree a young sannyasi was dancing. Must have been one of mine. However old the tale, what does it matter—I recognize my sannyasis, ancient or new. He could belong to no one but me. He danced with his single-stringed ektara. Narada stood for a while; he didn’t stop, didn’t drop his tune. Narada asked on his own, “Brother, I’m going to heaven. The old sannyasi beside you asked me something. If you like, I’ll ask on your behalf too.”

The young sannyasi said, “Don’t interrupt. Move on! Don’t talk nonsense. Who cares to go to heaven? Who’s eager to get God? I’m fine here, in delight, in ecstasy. Aren’t you ashamed to ask such silly things? I’ve nothing to ask, nothing to want. I have no desire. I am blissful. What desire can a blissful man have?”

Narada returned. He told the old sannyasi, “I asked. They said at least three more births.”

The old sannyasi flung his mala. “To hell with Vaikuntha! Three births? Then all the effort till now—wasted. I was a fool to sit here clutching this mala. I should have enjoyed the world a bit, had some fun. The whole world is having fun; I alone, like a fool, sit here chanting Rama-Rama. And three more births! No shame, no modesty. Where is justice?”

He fumed so much that Narada feared he’d smash his veena.

Then Narada went to the young sannyasi. “Though you hadn’t asked—and now I’m quite afraid, because I gave the other his answer and he threw his mala and spoke unseemly words, cursing heaven, which doesn’t befit a seeker—still, my mistake: I asked for you too. And what they said—I’m afraid to tell you.”

The young sannyasi kept dancing. “Say it if you want, don’t if you don’t. You do your work; let me do mine. Who cares what you asked or what answer you brought!”

Narada said, “Then I’ll say it. I asked, and they said: the number of leaves on the tree under which that young sannyasi is dancing—that many births it will take.”

The young sannyasi danced faster. His face overflowing with joy. Narada couldn’t believe it. “Why are you so delighted? Did you understand? Are you on opium? Come to your senses! Do you know how many leaves are on this tree? Try counting!”

The youth said, “Only that many leaves? Then it’s done—what delay is there? How many leaves in the world! How many in this forest! Just one tree’s leaves? There are endless trees. So few leaves—why count? Who will waste time! I’ve attained. Don’t you worry. Go on your way; don’t waste our time. I have it. I didn’t even want it. I didn’t even ask. But his grace is boundless.”

And the story says: that very instant the youth was liberated.

Such an unconditional, fruit-desire-free state of consciousness is needed. Then samadhi can happen. Samadhi is no impossibility. Meditation will settle; samadhi will arrive. But no conditions.

My sannyas is unconditional. I don’t ask you about your worthiness or qualification. From my side, it’s unconditional. I’ve never asked anyone, “Are you worthy?” People themselves come to me, timidly: “You are giving me sannyas, but I am not worthy. I drink.”

I say, “Don’t worry. Sannyas is a big thing. It doesn’t get stuck on such trifles. If sannyas has any strength, the drink will fall away. Why set the condition in advance that you must quit drinking? That would be sannyas’s weakness.”

Some say, “You are giving sannyas, but I have the habit of smoking.”

Have you gone crazy? Is smoke some enemy of God? You draw smoke in and out—what obstacle is that? How does it oppose sannyas? Simply understand: you’re practicing a slightly wrong kind of pranayama—what else! It is pranayama, only you don’t like pure air; that’s your joy. You mix a little smoke in it, then do pranayama. Anyway, there’s so much smoke in the air now that even those who don’t smoke are more or less smoking. So many cars, trucks, buses—the streets are full of fumes.

Scientists have found that New York’s streets hold so much smoke, so many toxins, that they are amazed human beings are alive at all. With such a poisonous atmosphere, people should drop dead. But man is a hardy creature; he adapts to anything. That’s his great gift. The animals died. Many species once on earth are gone. Their flaw was they couldn’t adapt to new conditions. When circumstances changed—climate, environment, some catastrophe, earthquake, mountains rose, seas formed—they perished. They couldn’t adjust. Man’s genius is to adjust in every situation, every climate, every environment.

So I tell them: why worry! A bit of smoke in and out—no obstacle. If you want to make it religious, say “Ram” when you breathe it in, and “Ram” when you breathe it out. There—mala and japa both done. But none of this hinders sannyas.

I put no conditions. Let gamblers come, drinkers come—I put no conditions. Nor do I want anyone to put conditions on me.

Garibdas, I am ready to initiate you into sannyas—well aware that scriptures kept in a jholi won’t only be in the jholi; some will have seeped inside too. Bad company leaves a stain. If they lived in your bag so long, some poison will have entered you.

And you are a mahant. Being a mahant is not easy. Many distortions are needed to be a mahant. To be a mahant requires a touch of madness.

But you seem a courageous man. Till now when you asked questions, you always signed “Mahant Garibdas Jholiwale.” Today you dropped “Mahant.” Good omen. Now drop the bargaining too. Samadhi will happen—when it has to happen. What’s the hurry? Why this impatience? Why carry even this desire? Desire it is, after all. And samadhi happens in desirelessness.

You say, “If you give me the experience of samadhi, I will throw away the jholi full of scriptures today.” Throw away the jholi! As for samadhi—we’ll settle that later. First clear this rubbish, prepare the soil; then we’ll sow the seed.

You say, “In your satsang I want to learn the processes of swadhyaya, sannyas, and silence.” All this will happen naturally. For here swadhyaya means what it should mean: the study of oneself. Studying the Gita, the Koran, the Bible is not swadhyaya here. Study yourself.

And that is the process of silence. As you are absorbed in the study of yourself—as you observe, witness—you fall silent on your own.

And the one who attains to silence, who finds the inner void, in his life sannyas flowers. Initiation is only the primary step—the first step, a declaration: “Now I set out to seek myself.” A decision that from now on my life is a quest for the self. But the day, through swadhyaya, one experiences silence within, that day the flower of sannyas opens. Then he lives in the marketplace, yet is silent; in the crowd, yet in solitude. His solitude becomes unbroken. His silence becomes unbroken. No event can shatter his silence; no crowd can steal his solitude. He abides always in the inner emptiness. That is the real temple.

You say, “My prayer is that you do not give me the old name ‘Garibdas Jholiwale.’” Even without your prayer, I could not give you that name. You are not “garib”—not poor. No one is poor. How can one be poor who has God dwelling within? The very word Ishwar comes from aishwarya—splendor, opulence. And within us all, today as possibility, tomorrow as truth. Today the seed, tomorrow spring, and blossoms everywhere. Those who carry godliness within—how can they be poor? I will give you a name that reminds you of godliness. Don’t worry. I choose names lovingly, for names become pointers to your future direction.

You say, “I now want to be free of both poverty and the jholi.” Then you have come to the right place. Here there is no support for poverty, no support for the begging bag. My sannyasis are not mendicants. My sannyasis do not believe in wretchedness.

We are to live godliness. And there is no wealth greater than godliness. Godliness is our empire. Each person is to live as if a sovereign. Let emperors be put to shame—live like that. Outer kingship is no kingship at all; inner kingship is the real sovereignty.

That’s all for today.