Ramnam Janyo Nahin #2

The truth is: thought is never new. The very nature of thought does not allow it to be new. Originality and thought are opposite dimensions. Thought is always stale, because words are stale, language is stale.

Experience is original. The realization of life’s truth is original. But the moment you dress life’s truth in the garb of language, the moment you express it, its originality becomes veiled.

So those who say I have no new idea may think they are criticizing me, but in fact, unknowingly, they are proclaiming my truth.

I have never said that thought is original. I have never said, “This thought is mine.” How can the “I” be original? The “I” is borrowed. Even the sense of “mine” is borrowed. But behind this I and mine there is something—consciousness, the witness. To awaken in that consciousness, to dissolve in it, to be filled by it—that is original; it is never stale, never borrowed. But there the I has no boundary, there the I has no reach. So what is original belongs to existence; what is borrowed belongs to the ego.

Now I too have a compulsion. And not only I—everyone who has known has had the same compulsion. One must speak in language, because those to whom one must speak have no capacity to understand silence. What has been known has been known in silence, and those to whom it is to be said know nothing of silence. So language must be used. And the moment language is used, the freshness of the experience is gone, the life of the experience departs. With language comes the death of the experience. Experience is fresh, alive—like the freshness of morning dew, like a newly blossomed flower—but it remains experience only so long as it is experience. Once you dress it in the garments of language, the essence begins to be lost.

Then there are further hurdles. When I say something, you will not hear exactly what I have said; you will hear what you are able to hear. You have fixed beliefs, your own prejudices. You will listen from behind those screens. You will not really listen—you will keep translating, coloring it your way, giving it your own twist. I may be the one speaking, but you will be the ones hearing—and you will enter into everything I have said. By the time it reaches you, it will no longer be mine; it will have become yours. And if you then pass it on to someone else, truth will be left leagues behind.

First thing: silence is original. Understand the word “original.” It means that which has sprung from the root, that which has come from the primal origin, the ultimate source.

But language is not original; words are not original. Words come from tradition. They arrive after a journey of centuries, with who knows how much dust from the road upon them. Yet those very words must be used—this is a compulsion, a necessary evil.

Whoever listens to J. Krishnamurti will naturally find a hint of J. Krishnamurti in my ideas. But it did not occur to this questioner to ask whether there is a hint of Buddha in J. Krishnamurti’s ideas—or of Lao Tzu? Whether there is a shadow of the Upanishads in J. Krishnamurti’s thought? No, that question never arose. He has his own bias. For him, J. Krishnamurti is original. But in me he starts seeing reflections of J. Krishnamurti. The urge to impose one’s own bias is very deep.

I do not claim that my ideas are original. J. Krishnamurti claims his ideas are original. And that claim is wrong; because there is not a single thought of J. Krishnamurti that is not present in the Upanishads, not present in the words of Buddha, and which Lao Tzu has not said with even greater profundity. In J. Krishnamurti’s ideas there is a simple re-utterance of the Zen masters. But all his life J. Krishnamurti tried to prove that his ideas are original. Not only that—just to establish the originality of his ideas he even says, “I am fortunate that I have not read the Upanishads, have not read Buddha’s words, have not read any scriptures.”

This is flatly untrue. Because all those scriptures were taught to J. Krishnamurti. Not only taught—theosophists like Annie Besant, Leadbeater and others labored for some twenty years over J. Krishnamurti so that he might become the owner of whatever highest thoughts have occurred in existence up to now. But a claim that “my ideas are original” can only be established if you first deny that you even know what is in the Upanishads.

I do not say my ideas are original; therefore it is impossible to criticize me on that score. My view is that ideas are never original—no one’s. Experience is original. And experience is of the one truth—so what will you do?

This happened in a small school. Two little boys, twin brothers. The teacher had assigned an essay on “The Dog.” All the children brought their essays. Those two boys also brought theirs. The teacher was astonished, because their essays were word for word identical—there wasn’t the slightest difference. So the teacher asked, “This is surprising—you both have written exactly the same essay, not a single difference of even a vowel.”

The two boys said, “What can we do? At home both of us have only one dog; we are describing the same dog. On top of that, we are twins, so our way of seeing and thinking is the same. It’s not our fault.”

I am not saying that Krishnamurti stole ideas from the Upanishads—that would be wrong. But the truth the seers of the Upanishads realized is one. Then whether Buddha knows it, Zarathustra knows it, Nanak knows it, Kabir knows it, Krishnamurti knows it, or you know it—no essential difference will arise. There can be small differences of expression, but fundamentally there cannot be a difference.

Truth is one. And the method of knowing truth is also one—the dissolution of the ego, freedom from the mind. Where the mind is no more, truth is revealed.

Understand it this way: if a blind man’s eyes are opened, will he have an experience of light different from those whose eyes were opened before him and who experienced the same light? Will you say that what this once-blind man says about light is borrowed, that he is repeating others?

But light is one, and the way the eye sees is one. Whenever a blind man gains sight, what will he do—he will see the same colors, the same light, the same moon, the same stars, the same sun. The manner of his telling may vary a little. But style of telling does not create an essential difference.

Krishnamurti’s claim that ideas are original is wrong. Experience is original. What I am saying, I say from my own experience. It is another matter that others have had this experience too. I am not claiming that this experience has happened only to me, for the first time. It happened to the seers of the Upanishads, Krishna knew it, Mahavira recognized it, Buddha was immersed in it, Meera danced in it, sang it, hummed it.

Therefore those who think they are criticizing me are mistaken; they are proclaiming my truth. Yes, had I said my ideas are original, the criticism would be meaningful. But this criticism is foolish. I myself say that ideas cannot be original—there is no question of mine and yours.

The second thing you asked is that they say your philosophy of life is not new either.

Talking of the “new”—I have no philosophy of life at all. I consider life sufficient. A philosophy of life becomes an obstacle to living, not a help.

What does a philosophy of life mean? That we have adopted some stance toward life, some style of seeing; that we have made a frame. Now we will live and see life only by forcing it into this frame. We have fixed a doorway over life—and for us the frame is so precious that whether life remains or goes, the frame must be saved.

I have no philosophy of life. I say life is sufficient; there is no need of any philosophy. Philosophy itself is the obstacle. If you walk about carrying the Jain philosophy of life you will not be able to become acquainted with life. Or if you go about carrying the Hindu philosophy of life, that will become the obstacle—it will blind your eyes. Because without recognizing life, without bringing your own music into tune with life, from traditions, from scriptures, from customs, from others—who are as blind as you—you have collected some junk. Now on the basis of that junk you have set out in search of life.

Only one who is without thought knows life; and a philosophy of life will be thought. Who recognizes life? One who approaches life innocent. And a philosophy of life can never be innocent. Suppose someone’s philosophy of life is atheism—he has already decided that God does not exist. Whether God exists or not is another matter. He has not known, not searched, not recognized—yet has decided that God is not. How did he decide? Astonishing! He must have argued it out, heard other people, then believed God is not. Now what investigation can such a person do? If he investigates at all, his investigation will circle round and prove only his belief.

A man went mad. His madness was strange. He was very ill and the doctors had said there was no hope of survival. The family gathered, friends and neighbors arrived. Here the clock’s tick-tock, there the man ebbing away. The doctors even gave the time: at exactly six o’clock he would die. He knew it too. He kept his eyes fixed on the clock. At exactly six he closed his eyes. He didn’t die. But a life-philosophy—a firm belief. A little doubt did arise; he must have moved a bit, half-opened his eyes and seen that the clock is visible, people are visible.

But you know wives. The wife was sitting right there; she said, “Close your eyes! Hey—having died, you’re opening your eyes? Have you no shame? And when the doctor has said it, and the greatest doctor has said it, and a thousand rupees fees have been paid—would he say something false? You are dead.” And is there any husband who does not obey his wife? The poor fellow accepted it. The poor man died.

But is death like that? He lay there with his eyes closed. He lay like that all night. But the people of the neighborhood refused to cremate him; they said, “We won’t burn him—this man is alive.” The wife too was forced to agree; the doctor had to be called. But by then it was late. The man spent the whole night living in this “philosophy of life” that “I have died, I am dead.” In the morning the doctor said, “Brother, the arithmetic didn’t add up, the diagnosis was off—call it a miracle, call it God’s grace—you have been saved.”

He said, “Now it is too late. I am dead. With whom are you talking?”

The doctor said, “You are alive.”

The man said, “You are deluded. It’s possible I have become a ghost, a spirit. I used to have doubts before, but now I am fully convinced that I am dead.”

Now a problem arose—how to convince him he is alive. The wife said to the doctor, “You created this mess; now you resolve it. Take whatever fee you want, but change his philosophy of life.” He wouldn’t get up. Breakfast was ready—he wouldn’t get up. It was time to go to the office—he wouldn’t get up. To tell the truth, he began to enjoy it immensely: “This is wonderful! No office, no worry, no concern, just lying on the bed. This is better than life itself. We used to pine for a day’s leave, and here a holiday from all anxieties has arrived.”

But the wife and children were distressed, the relatives distressed; they pressed the doctor to do something. The doctor persuaded him in every possible way, but the man would not agree. Finally the doctor said, “Do one thing.” Four men somehow lifted him, supported him, and the doctor said, “Let me ask you one thing. When a man dies, if you cut his hand or make a little mark with a knife, does blood come out or not?”

The man said, “How can blood come from a dead man? Blood turns to water.”

The doctor said, “Fine then. Come now before the mirror.” They dragged him to the mirror. He would not come. He said, “How can I come? Have you ever heard of a dead man looking into a mirror? Is there any mention of it anywhere?” But once they grabbed him, being a corpse he couldn’t resist; he had to come. The doctor picked up a knife and made a tiny cut on his hand—blood began to flow. “See,” he said, “look in the mirror, look at your hand, the blood is dripping. Now what do you say?”

The man said, “It proves that the belief was wrong—that dead men don’t bleed. They do! This proves that a man dies, but the blood does not.”

Once your belief becomes strong, once you clutch it tight, you start forcing everything into that frame.

I do not teach a philosophy of life. Life is sufficient. What need of philosophy? Philosophy means imposing the mind upon life. Philosophy means assumptions, viewpoints, doctrines, scriptures; not seeing life in its nakedness, but decorating it, giving it your own style; seeing it as you want to see it.

I am neither an atheist nor a theist, neither religious nor irreligious; neither Hindu, nor Muslim, nor Jain, nor Christian, nor Parsi—because all these are obstacles in knowing life. And here I am not teaching any philosophy of life. Here I am only giving you the understanding to drop all philosophies of life, so that you can find life, so that pure life in its utmost purity can envelop you.

That life itself is truth. Philosophies of life are all lies, mere human imaginings, fabrications. Life is truth. Life was when we were not. Life will be when we are no more. But philosophies of life are made and unmade. Understand it this way: if there had been no Buddha there would have been no Buddhist philosophy of life. Life would have been, but not Buddhist philosophy. If there had been no Mahavira there would have been no Jain philosophy of life. If there had been no Jesus there would have been no Christian philosophy of life. But life would have been.

Many philosophies of life have existed in the world and have disappeared. Today not even a single follower remains—no, not one. Once there was Mithra’s philosophy of life in Europe. He was the supreme god and millions were his devotees, but today not one. That story is lost. Many philosophies were made and unmade. Philosophies are lines drawn on water, webs of words, palaces of theories erected by clever and crafty men. But there is no difference between palaces of theory and palaces of playing cards. One small gust of wind and all is scattered.

I teach life, not a philosophy of life. And it is precisely this that is the cause of so much opposition to me. If only I too explained some philosophy of life, there would be no obstacle. At least the adherents of that philosophy would be with me. If I spoke of the Hindu philosophy of life, the Hindu ego would be gratified, satisfied, nourished. Hindus would proclaim me a great man, an avatar, a saint, a rishi-muni. But because I do not support any Hindu philosophy of life—Hindus are offended. Jains offended, Buddhists offended, Christians offended.

What is the reason for this displeasure? All these people angry at once! Not only the theists, the atheists too! The Indian Communist Party also passes resolutions against me. What could be the reason? The reason is very plain. I want you to be free from the nets of all philosophies of life, so that life can strike a melody upon your heart; so that life can tie bells on your feet; so that life as it is, in its spontaneity, in its wholeness, may envelop you and stir you.

But all these believers in philosophies of life are afraid of life. They fear their beliefs may break. And their fear is in one sense correct. If you live life in its spontaneity, thousands of your beliefs will break. Because to live life in its spontaneity means you will be freed from thousands of stupidities. What stupidities there are!

In my village there was a great pundit. His house was a hub for sadhus and saints. He was a friend of my father’s, so at times I used to go there. Especially when sadhus were there, I would certainly go. They would get nervous as soon as they saw me. He would send word ahead: “Sadhus are at home—please don’t come today.” I asked him, “Why do sadhus get nervous with me?” He said, “You ask questions that put them in a fix.” I said, “But if they have no answers, they should drop those ideas.”

This very talk was going on when Karpatri Maharaj came out from inside—he was staying there. He sat down, yawned, and at the very moment he yawned he snapped his fingers twice. I asked, “Now shall I say something or not? Why snap the fingers? A yawn I can understand—fine. A sadhu is a sadhu; he must have risen at brahmamuhurt, so sleep will come. Whoever rises at brahmamuhurt will be sleepy. Till here it is understandable. He must have done bhajan-kirtan late into the night, study, reflection, contemplation, nididhyasan. What all a sadhu has to do! A short night, and what a sadhu doesn’t have to do! But why the finger-snapping?” And I said, “I am not asking you”—I said to the pundit. “I am asking him: why do you snap your fingers?”

He said, “There is a secret. When a man yawns his mouth opens. If you don’t snap your fingers, ghosts and spirits enter within.”

These fools! This country is filled with such fools.

One Buddhist scripture says: when a Buddhist monk goes to defecate he should make no sound—no sound of any sort. Why? Because by making a sound, the hungry ghosts and spirits present there—hungry ghosts and spirits drink feces and urine.

I was astonished. I used to think Morarji Desai had great originality. This is a two-thousand-year-old text! Meaning “Malji-bhai” and “Mootarji-bhai” Desais used to exist even earlier. Now they have died, become ghosts and spirits, but habits do not leave.

Still, I thought, fine—let them eat feces and drink urine; what do you lose? But the question is, if they begin to like your feces and urine, they will follow you. They will contrive things so that you have to defecate many times a day. Naturally they will produce dysentery, diarrhea, cholera. To avoid this the Buddhist monk should not make the slightest sound, so that the hungry ghosts and spirits remain calm—they should not even know what is happening. Quietly do your work and slip away at once.

If you believe such foolish things, fear will naturally be created. Then you will live according to them. These are your philosophies of life. Whether your doctrines are about God or about ghosts, there isn’t much difference. You are building houses in the air.

I give you no doctrines. I want to take all doctrines away from you, to grind all doctrines into chutney.

Life is enough. Life suffices. Life is supremely beautiful. Life is supreme divinity. You do not need your doctrines. Therefore I have no philosophy of life at all.

Satya Vedant, you asked: they also criticize that on the one hand you do not accept the religions propounded by scriptures like the Gita, the Bible, the Quran, yet on the other hand why do you steal their ideas?

I have never stolen anything from anyone. I have no need to steal. I have my own experience. It is another matter that my experience sometimes coincides with the Quran. Neither did Mohammed steal my ideas, nor did I steal Mohammed’s. But experiences can coincide. What can I do about it! Whoever tastes the ocean finds it salty. I too tasted it and found it salty; if the Quran also says it is salty, what can I do? Should I declare it sweet just so no one thinks I have stolen the Quran’s idea?

Where my experience coincides—whether with Krishna, with Mohammed, with Mahavira, with Kabir, with Nanak—there it coincides. There is no remedy for that. And where it does not coincide, I never try to force a fit. Where it does not coincide, I declare plainly that here my experience does not agree.

And my responsibility is to my experience. I have nothing to take or give with any Quran. I have no use for any Gita. Where my experience does not coincide, there I am forthright. There I say clearly that I cannot agree. That is exactly why there is so much displeasure toward me. Their desire is that I should either agree one hundred percent or zero percent. But I cannot do that. It would be an injustice to truth, because that is not how it is. Even in the Vedas, although ninety-nine percent is rubbish, still one percent are diamonds.

My difficulty is that the Arya Samaji wants me either to say one hundred percent is diamonds or to declare one hundred percent is trash. But I cannot agree to either. Ninety-nine percent is trash. Dayanand tries to prove even that ninety-nine percent trash to be diamonds. That is a forced attempt—hammering and pounding, turning meanings upside down, by any means making something mean something else, on the basis of twisted arguments, trying to show that everything is beautiful.

But in my view this is injustice to truth. What is trash is trash—whether in the Vedas or anywhere. It is good to state clearly that it is trash—good also so that the one percent diamonds do not get lost in the trash. That one percent of diamonds is worthy of preservation. Those diamonds are wondrous. But unless we can set fire to the ninety-nine percent trash, the burden of the trash is such that the diamonds will get lost in it.

So I agree only as far as that, with anyone. I have no difficulty. I walk with Jesus, with Mohammed, with Bahauddin, with Lao Tzu—but only up to the point where my experience and their experience are in tune. Ultimately my experience alone is decisive for me.

And this is what I say to you: walk with me only so long as your experience is in accord with mine. The moment you find that your experience does not match mine, you are free; you are your own master; then you have to find your own path. I do not want to make you slaves. I do not want to impose myself upon you. Company and companionship only so far as my experience and your experience are bound in one dance.

But when you find that your experience now takes a different path, then I will tell you: leave me, and go with your own experience. Because ultimately you have to live in your own nature. Ultimately it is your own nature that must be proclaimed. Ultimately, the divinity seated within you must blossom. You have no obligation to me. It was a good fortune to walk a little way together, to sing a little way together; for a while there was harmony between my flute and your drum. Fine—blessed be that much! For that, gratitude. But the moment you find that your rhythm now seeks its own expression, that your rhythm wants to appear in its own intimacy, then go with your own rhythm. Because your rhythm—the rhythm of your innermost being—is the direct link between you and the divine. As long as I can remind you of the divine within you, fine; but where I begin to become a hindrance, leave me.

Those who say that I do not accept the religions propounded by the Gita, the Bible, the Quran...

The Quran is a great book. It contains thousands of statements. It also contains such senseless statements as that a man should have four wives. How can I agree? Mohammed had nine marriages. I cannot agree. But the Quran also says such things as “God is light.” How can I deny that? God is light. This is my experience too. But God’s being light and Mohammed’s nine marriages, and granting Muslims the permission for four—between these I see no harmony. God may be light, but what has that to do with nine wives? What arithmetic is this?

And this is absurd; it is injustice to women. In the world the numbers of women and men are roughly equal. Therefore if every man starts marrying four women, three men will remain without wives. And these three will cause mischief—adultery will happen, wrongdoing will happen, prostitution will spread. And if one man takes possession of nine wives, then it will be a great difficulty. Among ten men one will have wives—the remaining nine will be vagabonds! Because wife means home; that is why she is called gharwali, “the home-one.” Have you ever heard a husband say, “These are the gharwale, the home-folk”? If there is a wife there is a home; if there is no wife there is no home. If one man takes possession of nine wives, the rest become vagabonds.

Krishna went to the extreme—sixteen thousand wives! That would be a calculation to ruin the whole world. I cannot agree with this. But with many of Krishna’s sutras I agree—they are lovely. Where Krishna says, “Better to die in one’s own dharma; another’s dharma is fraught with fear”—I agree. Swadharme nidhanam shreyah, paradharmo bhayavahah. How can I deny it?

But keep in mind, swadharma does not mean Hindu dharma or Muslim dharma or Christian dharma. Swadharma means: that which is your own innermost law, your own nature. Live only in that. Only living in that will you be able to attain the truth. If you deny your ownness, your privacy, and drape yourself with someone else, your life will be filled with fear. Your life will be less life and more death.

I agree with this, but I want to carry it to its full logical completion: do not drape even Krishna upon yourself, because that too will be paradharma—another’s law. If you do not know how to play the flute and you stand to play it, strike a dancing pose, wear yellow silks, tie bells around your waist, fix a peacock feather in your crown—you will only look a fool, nothing else. If a rasa-lila is going on, fine; if you are acting in a play, fine; but do not do this in life.

I cannot agree with Krishna’s sixteen thousand wives. And among those wives many were other men’s wives—brought by force, by war, stolen, by dishonesty, by cunning, by every means. This is inhuman.

My judgment is not by looking at persons; my judgment is by looking at truth. There is much in Krishna’s life with which I cannot agree. In Krishna’s life there is dishonesty, chicanery, politics—with which I cannot agree. Yes, with the astonishing truths Krishna has spoken I have no disagreement. How could I disagree?

Krishna says the soul is immortal. Nainam chhindanti shastrani—no weapon can cut it. Nainam dahati pavakah—fire cannot burn it. With this I agree, a hundred percent.

But Krishna’s dishonesties and deceptions! Krishna had given his word that in the war he would not lift a weapon—and he did! He could not even keep his given word. There is not even a binding to a vow.

So before me the question always is: how far can one support a person, how far can one support a scripture? That far I certainly give support. Where my truth and that scripture’s truth are the same, there I agree; but where anything goes against my truth, my responsibility is to my truth, not to anyone else’s truth.

And this is my teaching to my sannyasins: do not make me an exception either. There is no need for you to agree with me a hundred percent. As far as your experience, your meditation, your samadhi can find harmony with me—only that far, not beyond.

There is no question of theft. But to those, Satya Vedant, who talk like this, ask them: in Krishna’s Gita there are many statements that are from the Upanishads. Did Krishna steal? In Krishna’s Gita there are many statements that are from the Vedas. Did Krishna steal? In Buddha’s words there are many statements that are from the Upanishads. Did Buddha steal? In Jesus’ words there are many statements that are precisely translations of Buddha’s sayings. Jesus did not even know Buddha’s language, and Buddha’s scriptures were probably unfamiliar; Jesus was not even educated. Did Jesus steal? What Kabir and Nanak say is exactly what has been said for centuries. Are they all thieves? If theft is to be determined in this way, we will be in great difficulty.

But none of them are thieves. All of them recognized their own truth. But because truth is one, there can be small differences—due to the seer’s perspective, the seer’s choice, the seer’s language, the mode of expression. But because truth is one, however much difference there may be, still essentially only the one truth will gleam. Those will be different facets of the same truth. Where there is difference, it is secondary; where there is accord, it is fundamental.

But with people filled with fixed notions there is great trouble.

A friend has arrived—Hansraj Vishnoi. The many questions he has asked will show you how deep Indian foolishness has sunk. It has entered even into the soul.

Hansraj Vishnoi, how did you come to know that God is omnipotent, omniscient, omnipresent? Did you meet him somewhere? Do you even know that God is? Do you have any proof of God’s existence? To this day no one has been able to provide proof. And whatever proofs have been offered can all be dismantled—just a little logic is needed, a little intelligence.

If God is omnipotent, Hansraj Vishnoi, he would have made your stupidity a little less. If not stopping the sun, at least he could have given you some intelligence. There is so much poverty in the world, so much disease; more than half the world is dying of hunger—and you say God is omnipotent! That would mean he wants it to be this way. These beggars on the streets, these infants without milk, the famine, disease, and destitution spread all around—surely all this proves an omnipotent God! Some almighty! Why are crippled children born? Why are blind children born? Why are children born mentally impaired? Is your omnipotent God not even capable of handling that much?

What basis do you have to declare God is omnipotent? And you speak as though the matter were fully settled, beyond any doubt—no ifs or buts, a clean proclamation: God is omnipotent, omniscient, omnipresent!

If God is omniscient, this world should be of another order. It doesn’t look like a world made by an all-knower. Why would an omniscient one create cancer? Does he not have even that much sense? Why would he create tuberculosis? The omniscient should have at least some intelligence—one who knows everything and from whom nothing is hidden! Then this hell you find all around you—whose handiwork is it? And you say God is omnipresent.

Hansraj Vishnoi has come from Haryana—Mandi Dabwali, Haryana. Meaning: he is in Haryana too, in Mandi Dabwali too! Then why have you come here? You could have met him there. If he is omnipresent, the discussion can happen wherever you wish.

But we latch onto such notions—without thinking, without inquiring, without seeking. And then we begin imposing them on others.

Let me tell you plainly: I am not omnipotent. You are saying, “Can you stop the sun for a few moments?” I cannot even stop this electric fan.

You ask, can I make any change in creation? Do you intend to have some alteration made? This earth, this nature—made by the omnipotent; this nature—made by the omniscient; by the omnipresent—now whatever I do will only spoil it. There can be no improvement in it. How could anyone be more omniscient than the omniscient?

And you say God has never died, does not die, cannot die. First question: did he ever live? If he lived, he would die. When he never lived, how will he die? When was he born? One should always begin at the beginning. If born, then he dies; without birth there is no death. So one thing is certain: he was not born, he did not live—so how on earth will he die! Even if he wanted to die he could not. To die, one must first be. First you will have to prove that he is, that he was born—how was he born, of whom was he born, who are the parents of your God? And then a very long chain begins: then their parents, then their parents...

But people take such foolish talk to be religious thought.

And you are asking me this—but did you ask it of Krishna? Of Rama? Of Buddha? Of Mahavira? You call Krishna God—did Krishna die or not? You call Buddha God—did Buddha die or not? You call Rama God—did Rama die or not? Do you want a separate rule in my case? I too will die. And I see nothing wrong in dying. One must savor death as well. Living and dying are two sides of the same coin.

But here is the real fun: the way the mind of this country functions is very double. If it is about Rama, then Rama is God, and no one asks how he died. And Krishna is God—how did he die! Buddha God, Mahavira God—have you ever had a shortage of gods here! All of them died. Is even one of them still alive? If one is, bring him here.

And you ask why there is so much security here. No security arrangement can prevent my death. My death will happen. Security will be there, and death will happen. Security is for another reason. Even if I wish to die, I want to die in my own way—not at the hands of some fool. I have my way of living; I will have my way of dying too. I live in my own joy; I will die in my own joy.

Krishna died when a man shot an arrow into his foot. Krishna was sleeping under a tree, resting, and a hunter mistakenly shot him—thus he died. Buddha died from poisoned food. A man served him a meal, and the food was poisoned. Mahavira died of dysentery. It had to be so; whoever fasts too much—this is the consequence; the stomach will be upset.

Grant me at least this much right: to die in my own way.

And you ask: if I am God, why the need for security? Then why does Lord Rama walk around with a bow and arrows—do you take him for some Kol-Bhil tribesman? Going to Delhi to take part in Republic Day, that there will be a parade? What was he carrying a bow and arrows for? To drive away mosquitoes? To kill bedbugs?

The questions you ask me—first ask them of your gods. Because first of all, Hansraj Vishnoi, I am not your God. What relation do you have with me—what claim! Ask your gods: why do you roam around with bow and arrow? Are you out of your mind? And the bow and arrow clearly show there are security arrangements. And when Krishna whirled the discus, what was that? If not security, then what? Parashurama spent his whole life with an axe, cutting people down—and still you go on taking him to be a god!

I am not carrying a bow and arrows, nor any axe—so what is the problem if there is a little security here?

But your measures are double. Those of your own who have been imprinting you with conditioning for centuries—you set them aside, you spare them. Your questions arise in relation to me.

I have no problem with security arrangements, because I do not believe there exists the kind of God you imagine. There is godliness; there is no person as God. Godliness is an experience.

And this I know: the soul does not die. But these security arrangements are not meant to save the soul. The body does die. The body is born and the body dies. And any thoughtful person will want to use his body as much as he can. Whatever work I want to do through this body, I want to complete it. There should be full provision to protect this body. There is every reason: those who love it will try to protect it; those who want this body to serve them a little longer will try to protect it. I do not put faith in foolish talk.

Try to understand what I mean by “God.” By God I do not mean that I created this world. I could not have created such a foolish world. I am not willing to take that responsibility; I will not accept that crime.

And the irony is, you ask me! You didn’t ask Krishna, you didn’t ask Rama! That the same Rama who supposedly made the world, who could stop the sun—and yet his wife was carried off by Ravana! What amazing omnipotence, great omniscience, great omnipresence! Couldn’t even save his own wife—what will he save! Omniscient, omnipotent, omnipresent—and off he goes chasing a golden deer! Even the dullest person would suspect there’s no such thing as a golden deer.

But you won’t ask them such questions, because you’ve already accepted them; the question doesn’t even arise.

And then, when Sita was brought back, snatched from Lanka, he put her through a fire-ordeal—and these are the omniscient! If he is omniscient and omnipresent, he should already know that Sita did nothing to warrant an ordeal by fire. What kind of omniscience is this? He doesn’t even know that! He suspects Sita might have been corrupted—an old, reactionary husband’s mind, anxious that Sita’s chastity might have been destroyed.

Sita seems the more intelligent woman. She didn’t say to Rama, “You too come along—let’s both walk through the fire. You’ve also been alone for so long. And not always in the best company; who knows what all went on among those monkeys and bears! When we were married our garments were tied together; come, let’s tie the knot for this too, and pass through together.”

These are the omniscient?

And you say there’s no need for protection. Then what is Krishna doing through the entire Gita? Urging Arjuna to fight! By your measure, Arjuna seems far more wise. He says, “What is the point of killing and being killed? The soul is immortal anyway; why needlessly slay these bodies? I’ll go to the forest. I’ll meditate; I’ll seek samadhi. There is no essence in this.” And the whole arrangement of Krishna’s Gita is precisely to make him fight. “Fight! Take up the Gandiva!”

Does Krishna not know the soul is immortal? He does say, “The soul is not slain when the body is slain.” The body dies, the soul does not. But what does he make of that? He makes of it a clever trick. The trick is: kill—carefree, kill their bodies! Because the soul never dies, no harm is done; no violence really occurs.

No one has ever advocated violence the way Krishna did. Adolf Hitler, Genghis Khan, Tamerlane, Nadir Shah—all pale beside him. For if they committed violence, they did not justify it within themselves; they knew it was wrong. Krishna had violence committed and gave it a full philosophical pomp and show. He explained to Arjuna: kill, and without worry! Since the soul doesn’t die, what’s the harm in killing? These are clay pots—break them! The soul will enter other pots.

You have been taking all these people to be “God,” and when I say I am God, you take offense. And you don’t even want to hear what I mean, you don’t want to understand. When I say, “I am God,” I am saying that you are God too. Godliness is our nature. It is another matter whether one recognizes it or not. The one who recognizes is God; the one who does not is also God, only he doesn’t know it. One is asleep, another awake—but in both, the same consciousness dwells.

So when I say, “I am God,” I am not saying I created the world. Nor am I saying, as Krishna says, “Whenever dharma declines I will come and protect it.”

First of all, when he came the first time, what protection did he manage? What protection will he manage now! The truth is, because of Krishna’s presence, as much inhumanity and violence occurred then as did. It would be better he not come again—have mercy! When he came before, dharma was not protected; what will he protect now by coming!

I make no claim to protect dharma, nor do I claim to be any “incarnation.” I don’t care for borrowed talk. Why should I be Vishnu’s incarnation? Vishnu is not my incarnation, nor am I his. I am no one’s incarnation. I have not come to protect anyone. I do not have to protect any religion. I have not come to save you from any sin. I am joyous. I have known myself, and I am joyous. And part of my joy is to acquaint you with my joy. After that, it’s your freedom. You may accept it or not—that is your domain.

And you say I desire worship.

If I desired worship, do you think I would face any difficulty? Every day I could have worship performed. Every day I could have flowers offered. Every day I could have the aarti waved. Where is the obstacle? If stones are having aarti waved to them, what obstacle is there to waving aarti before a living man? That little picture dangling from my mala is only to startle the gullible here in India—nothing else. It’s a joke, nothing more. But you need a little intelligence even to understand a joke.

I tell no one to touch my feet; I tell no one to worship me. Even when I enter, I don’t want anyone to stand up. Perhaps this is the first religious assembly in India where, on the master’s arrival, the disciples remain seated. Have you ever seen an assembly where the master comes and the disciples keep their seats? Perhaps the first in India’s entire history where the master folds his hands and greets you. What worship? Whose worship?

But if you come with fixed notions, there will be trouble. And if you arrive with fixed notions, you will miss what is happening here. A great deal is happening here.

Leave these small things, Hansraj Vishnoi. Try to understand. A temple is not being built here; this is a tavern. Here there is neither a deity nor a devotee.

We may never return to the courtyard of seasons again;
Come, with all our life-breath, let us live this guest-moment.
Who knows—tomorrow may not be!

We may never return to the courtyard of seasons again;
Come, with all our life-breath, let us live this guest-moment.
Let tomorrow fall away with the falling leaves;
Let us drink the spring sunlight, cupped palmful after palmful.
Shedding bark and husk, in the open sky let golden arms unfold;
Let us peel away one hard, blind layer of the inner self.
Let word-sugar dissolve in the goblet of the moment;
Slowly, slowly, let us sip the nectar of silence.
See—above, a few brown autumn leaves lift and hover;
From the neem descend a few dizzy yellow kites.
The Phagun maiden who gazes daily at the peepal from her threshold—
May the soft bud-nails prick her eyes awake.
Forbidden letters have been read, in secret, by virgin buds;
Now all the cold seals of prohibition are broken.
The mango lad has given his heart to the spring wind;
Now the old banyan’s arguments and logic are of no use.
Snow has melted on the peaks; the migrant birds have returned;
The lakes have become like eyes in samadhi—void, still.
Come, with all our life-breath, let us live this Phagun-moment.
Come, with all our life-breath, let us live this Phagun-moment.

That’s all for today.