Ramnam Janyo Nahin #8

Pradeep Bharati, hatred can have no connection with the divine. Where there is hatred, there is no divinity.

There is a sweet incident in the life of Rabia al-Adawiyya. A fakir, Hasan, was her guest and one morning he was reading Rabia’s Qur’an. He was shocked to see that certain verses had been cut out. No Muslim can even imagine such a thing—editing or trimming the Qur’an is inconceivable, because it is the ultimate message of God; no “corrections” can ever be made.

Hasan was startled. He thought perhaps Rabia didn’t know that in her copy some ignorant person, some infidel, some sinner had cut out a few lines. He told her so. Rabia said, “No infidel, no sinner—those lines I myself have cut out.”

Hasan was even more shaken. “That seems even more impossible! Rabia, you, who have attained to knowing—would commit such a sacrilege as cutting out lines from the Qur’an? You must be joking with me.”

Rabia said, “No. Since I came to know the Truth, since the recognition of God dawned, my life has become entirely love. So I was compelled to cut these lines, because they say—‘Hate Satan.’ And now hatred has become impossible for me. Even if Satan himself were to stand before me, I could only love. Nothing remains in me but love. Now it is no longer a question of whether Satan is in front of me or God is in front of me; the question is that within me there is no way to hate. There isn’t even a seed of hatred left—no hidden corner of darkness anywhere. Even if I wanted to hate, it would be impossible. Love is now unavoidable. I will love Satan just as much as I love God—there is no other way. Now should I listen to the Qur’an or to my experience? I was compelled to cut out those lines. And remember, this copy of the Qur’an is mine; it must accord with my realization. My realization is of love, and that language is of hatred—‘Hate Satan.’

“But to hate, you must preserve hatred within. To ‘give’ hatred, you must keep hatred stored inside. And remember, hatred and love cannot coexist within. As long as hatred is there, love is not—no matter what color or form you give to hatred. And when love comes, it comes like light. With the coming of light, there is no darkness. If there is darkness, then light has not arrived. If you wish, you can call the darkness ‘light’—that is up to you.”

I cannot support this sutra. This sutra of the Gopatha Brahmana is fundamentally wrong.

It says: “The gods love the indirect and hate the direct.” The language of hatred is not the language of the divine. If “gods” also hate, what kind of gods are they? If the divine too hates, then what is the difference between ordinary humans who hate and those who have realized divinity? Hatred is beneath humanity—it is a mark of animality. And divinity is the transcendence of man; it is the manifestation of the hidden God within man.

And then, understand also what the difference is between the indirect and the direct.

What is indirect can become direct; and what is direct was once indirect. Hold a seed in your hand. The flowers are now invisible—indirect, hidden, latent. The seed is direct. Sow the seed in the earth—the seed will disappear. What was direct will be lost, dissolved; and the flowers will manifest. A plant will sprout, buds will come, flowers will bloom. What was indirect has become direct. Then the flowers too will dissolve into seeds; the flowers will fall, the seeds will remain. What had become direct becomes indirect again.

The direct and the indirect are two sides of the same coin. Buddhahood is indirect within you; it is direct in the Buddha. Will the gods then hate the Buddha and love you? To love the indirect and hate the direct—what kind of arithmetic is this?

But this has nothing to do with divinity; the Gopatha Brahmana is speaking the language of the priest. The priest certainly teaches hatred of the direct. The world is the direct, and God the indirect. For centuries the foundation of the priest’s life—and of his exploitation—has been to make you hate what is right before your eyes, and to make you fold your hands to what you cannot see. If you look closely, this is the formula of the priest’s trade. For the direct, no priest is needed—no mediator at all. For the indirect, for what you cannot see, naturally you will have to take the support of someone who claims that he can see. You will have to accept a mediator, a broker in the middle.

And it is precisely this brokerage that has destroyed the name of religion and all its potential. This brokerage has sunk the boat of religion. These brokers teach you to hate this shore of the river and to love the far shore. And that far shore you cannot see. Naturally, the priests hand you maps of that other shore.

They don’t see it either; they have no idea. But in the name of what is not visible, you can exploit. About what cannot be seen, you can say anything—and it must be believed. If you don’t believe, fear will be created: you will fall into hell, you will burn in hellfire. If you do believe, then temptations and rewards will be offered: the bliss of heaven, pleasures untold. Between fear and greed, man has been crushed.

In the domain of the direct, who will listen to the priest? Science investigates the direct, and for the direct the scientist is authoritative. But in the world of the indirect, frauds and the dishonest can do a thriving business.

This sutra tells you nothing about the gods; it proclaims the very foundation-stone of the priest.

“Parokshapriya iva hi deva bhavanti—The gods love the indirect. Pratyaksha-dvishah—and they hate the direct.”

But why would the gods hate the direct? The direct, too, is the manifestation of God. The direct is the form taken by the formless; the qualityless has assumed qualities. Why would they hate? Why would they be against it?

Yet religions have been teaching you: renounce the world. The world is direct; give it up and seek the indirect. In this way you have been made to wander in darkness; what was already in your hands has been snatched away, and you have been handed things you can neither see nor recognize.

They tell you: the world is maya, illusion; Brahman alone is truth. What is present is dismissed as illusion; and what you have no inkling of is “proved” to be the truth. The priests—pandits, imams, popes—have taken full advantage of these arguments. Naturally, those who did not even know the map of the earth handed you maps of heaven. There can be no debate about those maps, no basis for dispute, no method of testing, no touchstone.

So the Jains draw one map of heaven, the Hindus another, the Muslims a third, the Christians a fourth. There are some three hundred religions on earth, and their three thousand sects—and each has its own maps. Every one claims its maps are correct; and none can be proven wrong. The indirect cannot be disproved.

Concerning the direct, the priest is in difficulty; hence he avoids the direct—even though the direct is the very staircase to God. Understand the direct, and you will discover the indirect hidden within it.

And remember this too: when you know the indirect, it also has become direct. Then the sutra becomes even harder to accept. For those who have realized God, God has become direct. Will the gods then hate God too? For the one who has known the Self, the Self has become direct—before his very eyes.

Kabir says: “It is not a matter of hearsay; it is seeing with one’s own eyes.”

But if it is a matter of seeing, it has become direct. Whatever is known will then become a cause for hatred in the eyes of these “gods.” What a strange thing! It would mean the gods love ignorance and hate knowledge. They support stupidity and are opposed to Buddhahood.

No—I cannot agree with this sutra. I prefer the verse of the Samaveda: “Devasya pashya kavyam—Behold the Divine’s poem.” Look at nature, the manifest poetry of God.

This nature is God’s visible poem. Here the formless has become form; what was hidden has become manifest; the song that lay deep in the heart has gushed forth like a spring. These moon and stars, this sun, these flowers, these infinite gestures of life, this vast celebration—this is God’s expression, God’s poetry. It is his song. Should we hate it? Immerse yourself in love with it! Embrace it! Dance with it! Relate to it with love!

If you can love flowers, if you can fall in love with the moon and the stars, then God is not far. When you fall in love with the music rising from the veena, how far away is the musician? Those notes of the veena will become the path to the musician. When you are lost in dance, is the dancer far? He is hidden in the dance itself.

That is why we have called God Nataraja, the Lord of Dance—a very beautiful symbol; none could be more beautiful. There is a deep secret behind calling God the dancer. We might also call him a painter or a poet, as the Samaveda calls him a poet and nature his poem. He has sung this song—God is the singer. He has filled all these colors—on every flower, in the rainbows, on butterflies’ wings—he is the painter.

But there is a fundamental difference between a painter, poet, sculptor, and a dancer. When the sculpture is complete, sculptor and sculpture become two. When the song is finished, singer and song are two. When the poem is created, the poet may die, but the poem remains—Kalidasa is long gone, yet his poetry lives; the poet and his poem become two; the painter and his painting become two. Only with the dancer is it so that his dance never separates from him. Dancer and dance are inseparably, indivisibly one. They cannot be sundered; they are nondual. And the dancer attains his perfection only when he is so utterly lost in his dance that he disappears—only the dance remains; the dancer is absorbed.

There was a great Western dancer—perhaps the greatest—Nijinsky. An extraordinary event occurred again and again in his life—one might call it supernatural. In dance, sometimes he would leap in a way impossible according to the law of gravity—such height! And with such ease! To the onlookers it seemed gravity had no effect on him. And when he descended, he returned to the earth so slowly as had never been seen—whenever you throw anything up, the earth pulls it down with force; it obstructs the ascent, sets a limit; you can leap only so high. Nijinsky’s leaps surpassed those limits. But even more wondrous was how he returned—like a bird’s feather, gently rocking down through the air, as if there were no hurry, as if gravity had no purpose, as if Nijinsky were descending by his own whim, in his own style!

People often asked him, “How do you do it?”

Nijinsky said, “Don’t ask—many times I’ve tried, and whenever I’ve tried, I’ve failed without exception. Whenever I have tried to do it, my dance itself has gone wrong. It just happens sometimes—and only when I completely forget myself as the doer. When only the dance remains and Nijinsky is no more—then sometimes it happens. If I want it, I cannot do it. It isn’t in the power of my wanting. It’s a wonder not only to you—I too am astonished. When it happens—when the leap occurs and I see myself returning so slowly—I myself can’t believe what is happening.”

There is a moment in dance when the dancer is utterly absorbed—and only then does dance reach its peak. Dancer and dance are a nondual state. That is why we have called God Nataraja. Yet in different dimensions we can give him different names.

The Samaveda is right: “Devasya pashya kavyam.” This nature is his poem.

If it is his poem, will the gods hate this visible nature? And if a man hates paintings, can he love the painter who made them? If you despise the dance, you have declared your condemnation of the dancer.

Therefore I say: all those who have preached renouncing and hating the world are anti-God. They may have worshipped God, performed rituals and sacrifices, chanted mantras, recited the Vedas all their lives—but they were anti-God. They denied God’s visible poem; how could they accept the unseen Poet? Honoring the poem is precisely honoring the poet. You shower abuses on the poem and claim to honor the poet—what logic is this? What kind of arithmetic?

Keep in mind this song of Yog Preetam—
In his gathering I fill the goblet of ecstasy;
I drink and I serve his wine.
Since he has plucked the strings of my heart,
I do only the work of singing his melodies.
If his image dwells in anyone’s heart,
I make my own station at his feet.
Whoever comes to hold this madman’s hand,
I take it, and kiss it.
If anywhere his light appears in the eyes,
I spend my whole life in that vision.
If I find someone soaked in his nectar, intoxicated,
I dedicate my very life to him.
The one who dances and sings—that man is God’s own;
I give myself for him, I salute him.
In his gathering I fill the goblet of ecstasy;
I drink and I serve his wine.

The direct and the indirect—what is before you and what is hidden—are two facets of one truth. Love the direct, because it will become the steps to the temple of the indirect. Love the direct with all your heart, because in every stone he is hidden; in every ripple of water, the ocean. In every particle of this existence, God.

There is a delightful sutra in the Aitareya Brahmana: “Yah sarvah kritsno manyate, gayati vaiva, gite va ramate.” When one discovers oneself as whole, songs burst forth; one becomes a celebration suffused with music.

“When one discovers oneself as whole...”

But how does one discover wholeness? The journey must begin with the direct. For now, you know yourself as body. If you have gone further, you have a little acquaintance with mind. A little further, perhaps a glimpse of the heart. These are direct. The body is very direct; the mind less so; the heart subtler still. Beyond these three is hidden the indirect—the fourth, turiya. But the journey must begin from the body. You can start only from where you are, not from where you are not.

You are in the body. Begin from the body. Make the body your boat. Do not hate the body—else you will not build the boat; and if the body does not cooperate, you cannot go within. The body is neutral, a witness. For the outer journey it is the vehicle; for the inner journey it is also the vehicle.

The body does not tell you where to go. The body says, “Wherever you wish to go, I am ready.” The body is not your enemy; it is forever your friend.

But the so-called gurus teach you the opposite—the body is the enemy. If you swallow that, your life will become difficult. Then you will start fighting the body; you will bang your head against the very staircase you must climb. You won’t destroy the stairs; you will only break your head. You will begin to rot the body, to torment it.

You should have used the body. The body is a gift of God—a rare, wondrous, unique gift! We should be grateful to God. He has given you an extraordinary body that serves you for seventy, eighty, ninety, a hundred years—in every way it serves. If you want to go to a brothel, it takes you there—that is your choice; you are responsible. If you wish to go to a temple, it takes you there. The same feet that carry you to the prostitute also carry you to the temple. The same body that can lead you into sin becomes the foundation of virtue. The same body that can drive you in the race for wealth is equally a companion on the path of meditation. It is all a matter of your decision. The body is always willing; it is eager to serve you. If you choose the wrong place, that is not the body’s doing.

But people have the habit of dumping responsibility on others.

A man was on trial for murder. He had taken an axe and cut off another man’s head. The magistrate sentenced him to life in prison. The man protested, “This is unjust! My right hand picked up the axe and cut off that man’s head. For the guilt of the hand, you are sentencing my whole body—my whole self—to life imprisonment? What sort of justice is this!”

The magistrate felt playful. “Very well,” he said. “We sentence your right hand to life imprisonment.”

He thought that if the right hand were in jail, the whole body would be there with it—where else could it go? But there was a slip. When the magistrate said this, the man detached his right hand and placed it on the table—his right hand was artificial.

Man has many tricks. He always wants to put the blame elsewhere and save himself.

You know the story of Surdas: when his eyes were enchanted by a beautiful woman, he gouged them out. But is it the eyes that become infatuated? It is the mind that is infatuated; it is you who are ensnared. What fault is it of the eyes? Yet man wants to put the fault on something else and absolve himself.

The eyes are ready to see whatever you show them—sunset or sunrise, naked pictures or the sacred—whatever you wish. The eyes have no fault.

I want you to understand this again and again, because for centuries you have been conditioned wrongly—“torment the body; the body is the cause of sin.” The body is not the cause of sin at all. The body can become a staircase. Learn a little artistry—learn the science of living.

In the same way the mind can be used; so can the heart. These are your three steps by which you can reach the fourth, the indirect. These three are direct. The body is visible to you and to others. The mind will be visible only to you—but it is still direct. If you close your eyes and watch the processes of the mind, you can see them—the endless stream of thoughts, lust, ideas, memories, imagination, likes, dislikes, religion, irreligion—all goes on. You can see it. You can be a witness. The moment you become a witness, the mind is direct—before your very eyes.

This witnessing we have called the third eye. The third eye is not actually an organ of the body; it is a symbol—the inner capacity to see. Sharpen this third eye a little more and you can see your feelings. Feelings are subtler than thoughts. The waves of thought are coarse compared to the finer waves arising in the heart. But once you learn the art of seeing, the process of witnessing, you can see even your subtlest ripples. Then they too become direct.

And the moment these three become direct, the fourth revolution happens—you see your very self. There, the seer and the seen are not two; the witness and the witnessed are one. That is the realization of God. And for the one who attains it—“Yah sarvah kritsno manyate, gayati vaiva, gite va ramate”—songs burst from him.

Your saints appear so dry, so dead, that it is hard to believe they have known themselves. For the one who has known himself, songs must gush forth; his life must become a celebration. Anklets will ring on his feet; a flute will come to his lips; there will be essence in his every word; in his rising and sitting, in his seeing, in his walking, in his speaking, even in his silence—music. His whole life, all the colors of life, will be graced by a miraculous aura.

The so-called sadhus and sannyasins who seem so arid—that itself is proof that the springs of song have not burst in them; celebration has not arrived. They are hankering after a heaven to happen after death. In truth, heaven happens now, here. Heaven is not some geography after death; it is a state of experience when your very life-force breaks into dance. “Yah sarvah kritsno manyate, gayati vaiva, gite va ramate.” Not only do fountains of song arise—life itself becomes musical, a festival.

This is the very process of sannyas I am explaining to you: to make the direct into celebration, and to realize the indirect. But to realize the indirect means precisely that it should also become direct—nothing left unseen. Everything revealed before your eyes; the whole secret laid bare and lived; the mystery recognized, re-cognized.

Therefore I cannot in any way agree with the sutra of the Gopatha Brahmana. It is fundamentally wrong.

Pandit Gyan Shankar Jha, at the end of his question he’s added a postscript: “Last month my brother, Pandit Lajja Shankar Jha, came here and spoke of your logical, reasoned wisdom.”

Tell Pandit Lajja Shankar Jha when he gets home that he did not understand me. What have my words to do with logic? If he left thinking my words are logical, he came for nothing and went for nothing. He could have carried away diamonds and jewels; he took pebbles and stones instead.

However logical my words may sound, logic is not my aim. Logic is a play for me. And some children come here; for children one has to provide toys. No one is more childish than pundits. Give them a rattle and they go away rattling it, entertained.

Here the talk is of the mysterious, not of logic.

Pandit Gyan Shankar Jha, your question is certainly worth considering. First, I cannot call Manu a maharshi. No one has harmed this country more than Manu has. The Manusmriti lies on India’s chest like a terrible boulder. The Manusmriti is India’s leprosy, oozing a foul stench. For five thousand years it has tormented India. Even today Harijans are burned alive; even today their women are raped. Behind it all stands this accursed Manu. I can never call Manu a maharshi.

You say in my ashram people from many countries and many castes are dyed in one color and engaged in various tasks.

Manu could not have tolerated this. By Manu’s reckoning it is corruption. People of many castes and many colors—here they have forgotten their caste and even their color. For Manu varna was paramount. The literal meaning of varna is color.

When the Aryans came to India, they were fair. Those who lived here were dark. The people of South India even today are descendants of the original inhabitants. The Aryans called these dark people anarya—non-Aryan. Arya means noble; anarya means ignoble. They believed themselves to be on the side of the gods, and these dark southerners they called rakshasas—demons. That is an old trick: if you want to vilify someone, call him a demon.

If you look closely, in many ways Ravana appears more virtuous than Rama. He did not rape Sita. He kept her as an honored guest, in a beautiful garden with proper care. He could have raped her; he did not. He was no demon. Yet our Aryan gods are adept at rape, and they are not called demons! Rishis go for a Ganga bath at brahmamuhurta and the gods come and rape their wives. These are our “gods”!

And the irony is, when the rishi discovers a god has violated his wife—like Ahalya—he punishes not the god but Ahalya: “Become a stone!” What kind of justice is that? Ahalya was innocent. If a god arrives disguised as the husband—and what can’t gods do? Miracles are their trade! He appeared exactly as her husband; he performed the role. The poor wife believed it was her husband and made love to him as such. Where is her fault? To curse that woman to become stone is inhuman. The god was demonic; that rishi was demonic too. No sense of justice at all. And then the further absurdity: she will remain stone until Rama’s feet touch that stone.

Do you see the male chauvinism? One man commits adultery, another man curses, a third man will grant liberation! At least let Sita’s feet do it. But no—these fellows have no use for women. Women have no status, no worth.

Ravana showed Sita greater respect than Rama did. When Rama wins Lanka and returns with Sita, when he meets her after years, his first words—look at Valmiki—are crude: “Woman! Remember, I did not wage this war for you. I fought for the honor of the Raghu line. We are not the kind who fight for women.”

What need was there for such coarseness? But it reveals the mind. Woman has no value. The war was not for Sita, it was for lineage prestige, ego, clan honor.

Sita waited for years—and that was her welcome! And immediately the first demand: trial by fire. No trust at all. And Rama, whom you call omniscient, didn’t know Sita’s heart? He needs a fire-test, and he is “omniscient”! At least know your wife’s heart. He knows everyone’s inner being, is all-knowing, yet must test Sita! The poor woman had to pass through fire.

I don’t believe fire will change its laws. If Sita truly went through fire, she would have been reduced to ash. A certain historian has even asked whether this was the method to get rid of Sita. Then whom did Rama bring back to Ayodhya?

A professor friend of mine—Navalekar—has done very courageous research on Rama. He suspects that if there was truly an agni-pariksha, there are two possibilities, both worth considering: either Shabari was sent through the fire in Sita’s place and she perished, and they brought Sita back; or, the second—which I suggested to him and which seems more likely—Sita burned and they brought Shabari back.

This Shabari depicted in Ram Leelas as an old crone is a fabrication. Navalekar, after much research, has shown she was a young, beautiful woman. Only lovers eat each other’s leftovers; no one else will. Only in love does one commit such foolishness. If any woman gives you pre-chewed berries, you’ll say, “Ugh! Keep your berries!” But when your beloved makes them “leftover,” they become nectar. This insanity is only in love.

So one of the two must have happened, because between two women conflict would arise; one had to be removed. The fire-test did the job.

Second indignity to Sita: to force her through the fire. And even if we accept that somehow Sita was saved or Shabari was burned and Sita brought to Ayodhya, then just a washerman’s remark—and that pregnant woman was abandoned in the forest without even being told! Inhuman! Yet Rama is called maryada purushottama—the epitome of rectitude. Where is the respect for woman? Ravana showed more.

Ravana’s sister Shurpanakha proposed love to Lakshmana—that is everyone’s right. Anyone can propose to anyone. The one addressed can politely say, “Forgive me, I am already married.” But why cut off her nose? That is truly demonic. And Lakshmana acted on Rama’s order. Rama said, “What are you waiting for? Do it, make it clean!”

What was the woman’s crime? Is falling in love a crime? If falling in love is a crime then Rama and Lakshmana both fell for Sita. It is described with relish: in Janaka’s garden, Sita plucking flowers with her friends, and Rama’s saliva started to drip! Lakshmana’s too—but since the elder brother’s was already dripping, the younger had to control himself. And at the bow-breaking, Lakshmana kept jumping up, tying his loincloth, “I will break it now!” Rama held him back, “Wait, be calm.”

Falling in love is not unnatural. If a woman proposed, one could politely decline. Cutting off her nose is beyond comprehension, unseemly.

The Aryans branded the dark people as anarya, as demons, and tried every way to annihilate them.

What is Manu’s varna system? A web of exploitation. Where is the “scientific” in it? He placed the priest at the top—naturally, Manu himself was a priest. Brahmin at the top; second, the kshatriya—the political class with the sword in hand. The priest and the political have an old collusion: a division of labor. “In the material realm you rule,” says the priest to the king, “you suck people’s blood here; in the inner realm we will suck it. In this world you exploit in the name of this world, we in the name of the other. Openly you; invisibly we.” This is the pact. Third, the vaishyas, because they have wealth—a power of its own.

And those with neither wealth nor the sword nor the pride of scholarship were all thrown into the shudras. Untouchable, to be kept at the end—the antyaja. Antyaja means: they must live outside the village, at the end; not even within the village. And the irony: they will serve you, carry your filth, drag away your dead animals, haul your excreta and urine—yet no thanks; only contempt.

You call this varna system scientific, Pandit Gyan Shankar Jha? And you think I am creating something similar here?

Here the varna system is being dismantled. Here there is no brahmin, no kshatriya, no vaishya, no shudra. To be human is enough. In truth, here there is neither man nor woman. None of that matters. Everyone has equal respect. And you see a varna system here? This is the limit.

It is like a man blinded in the monsoon who remembers only green, and now, though blind, sees everything as green because that was the last imprint on his mind. You are wearing such spectacles. Your question surprised me.

You say: “In your ashram people of many countries and many castes are dyed in one color.”

By Manu’s reckoning varna applied only to Hindus. That is why Hindus were never willing to incorporate people of other religions. Only Dayanand, copying the Christians, started Arya Samaj’s conversions. Otherwise Hinduism never believed in conversion. For Hindus, it is determined by birth: a Hindu is born a Hindu; no one else can become one. Because then the tangle arises.

Suppose a Muslim becomes a Hindu—what varna will you put him in? Because of the varna system there is great difficulty. If a Muslim becomes Hindu, where will you place him? If a Hindu becomes Christian, no problem; they have no varna—he is simply Christian. If a Hindu becomes Muslim—no varna—simply Muslim. Hindus faced the big question: if a Muslim becomes Hindu, at best they’ll push him into the shudra category. Who will agree to become a shudra? What Muslim? What Christian? Hindus can’t make him a brahmin; there’s no way. Leave aside a Muslim becoming a brahmin— even a kshatriya cannot become a brahmin by desire; nor can a vaishya.

Mahavira attained supreme knowledge, yet Hindus cannot accept him as a brahmin. The Buddha attained supreme knowledge, yet he cannot be called a brahmin. He has known Brahman, yet not a brahmin! Because brahminhood is by birth. Buddha and Mahavira’s revolution was precisely this: they said brahmin is one who knows Brahman; birth has nothing to do with it.

But the entire Hindu arrangement is by birth, not by karma, not by awareness. A man is by birth a brahmin, or kshatriya, or vaishya, or shudra. Hence Hinduism has not consented to conversions—where will you place the convert? Which compartment? By birth he is none.

That is why if Manu Maharaj came here and saw these people, he would go insane. Here there are no Hindus, no Muslims, no Christians, no Jains, no Buddhists; no brahmin, no kshatriya, no shudra. To be human is enough. And still you see a varna system? Incredible!

And here all varnas are present in the literal sense of “color”—there are fair, there are dark, there are Black people, Americans, English, Germans. Not only that, there are yellow people—Japanese, Chinese. All colors have flowed together like rivers into the ocean; and upon merging they take on the ocean’s color. What varna system is this? You astonish me.

You say, “But isn’t this a new kind of varna system…?”

How can you call this varna? This is liberation from varna.

“And a new kind of ashram system…?”

Do you understand what ashram system means? You are a pundit; I can at least expect you know the literal meaning. The Hindu ashram system divides life into four ashrams: up to twenty-five, brahmacharya—gurukul, student life. Up to fifty, grihastha—householder, business according to varna: if shudra, then shudra; if vaishya, then vaishya; if brahmin, then brahmin; if kshatriya, then kshatriya.

In truth, that first brahmacharya ashram was available only to brahmins and kshatriyas, not to all. That is the collusion—of sword and scripture. The kshatriya must be kept under control; otherwise who knows when he’ll draw the sword, and your rituals won’t help. So he must be given privileges.

Up to fifty, householder. Then up to seventy-five, vanaprastha—not going to the forest, just facing toward it. Preparation for twenty-five years—packing and unpacking bags, rehearsing, and passing on all the tricks you learned in life to your children before you go. Make the house solid, not half-baked, before departing.

At fifty your children complete their first ashram; they are about to return from gurukul. You must teach them all the maneuvers of living, the diplomacy. So prepare to go, but don’t yet. For twenty-five years get the children ready. When they are about fifty and their children start returning from gurukul, now you can go. After seventy-five begins sannyas—renunciation. These were the four.

What ashram do you see here? Here you’ll find sannyasins of every age—children, youth, elders; men and women. Note also, that whole varna and ashram system was for males. Women had no brahmacharya in a gurukul. Women had no right to study the Vedas. They were given stories: read the Ramayana; read Baba Tulsidas’s pious orthodoxy; read legends, not the real thing.

And what do they teach? Tulsidas instructs:
“Drum, rustic, Shudra, beast, and woman—these all deserve to be beaten.”

Understand this! If your husband beats you, know he is doing a good deed—he should. Woman is worthy of beating. If he doesn’t beat you, suspect something’s wrong; until he drums on you like a drum, suspect he has found another drum! So if he gives you a thrashing, be happy—he is still tethered to your post. And if he treats you like footwear, count it as good fortune, because your status is like beasts. Drum, rustic, Shudra! All women are Shudras. There is no brahmin, vaishya, kshatriya among women; their sole varna is shudra.

What a monstrous thing to teach! That is why I call this man wretched. I do not call him a maharshi.

What ashram system do you see here? Here the ashram system is being broken. You were misled by the word “ashram” on the gate. That is for the simple-minded—like putting a bit of dough on the hook to catch fish. Sometimes a fish bites. Your brother, Pandit Lajja Shankar Jha, bit; now Pandit Gyan Shankar Jha has come; your other brothers will also come. “Ashram” is just the bait; once hooked I give the line a playful tug.

This is no ashram. This is a tavern—a madhushala. But this is private business. The madhushala is known only to those who enter. Spectators will think it’s an ashram. They can’t even muster the courage to enter an “ashram.” If I write “Madhushala” on the gate, it will be even harder! But it is a madhushala. Now that you’re here, why hide it? When your third brother comes, brief him well.

Don’t get stuck in words. For me ashram simply means rest. Here people are learning the alchemy of living in restfulness. Here little children are sannyasins. Anyone can be a sannyasin. There is no question of age. Here I am breaking the ashram arrangement. And you think I am restoring it.

You ask: “But isn’t this a new kind of varna, a new kind of ashram system?”

There is no such system here—neither varna nor ashram.

You say: “Maharshi Manu gave a scientific system thousands of years ago…”

What “scientific” nonsense! Nothing more unscientific has happened in India. We are still rotting in it. The sooner we be rid of Manu the better. The Manusmriti should be consigned to the flames. It is an archive of our ancient sins. What it prescribes is not only unscientific; it is inhuman.

Look carefully and you’ll find no social order more inhuman. Adolf Hitler loved the Manusmriti. He declared himself Aryan, considered Germans pure Aryans, and supported the Manusmriti. He too wanted a similar arrangement—because it is a well-planned system of slavery. It leaves no room for freedom; everything is determined by birth. The shudra has no access to education; he can never mistakenly become a brahmin. And even your revered maryada purushottama Rama had molten lead poured into a shudra’s ears because a brahmin reported…

See the hypocrisy we perpetuate! And still Rama is worshiped! Rama-worship includes all this. And Gandhi, a confused man, wanted to bring back Ram-rajya. In Ram-rajya these are essential parts; without them there is no Ram-rajya.

A brahmin came to Rama: “My young son has died. In this age, a young son should not die; the old father should go first.”

Rama asked, “What is the cause?”

He replied, “A shudra has secretly listened to Vedic chanting taught by a brahmin—Shambuka.”

Note the absurdity: between the brahmin whose son died and the place where Shambuka overheard, there were a thousand miles. If in that thousand miles all the young sons had died, one might think. Here one fool’s son dies a thousand miles away, and the blame is placed on a shudra who listened to Vedic mantras!

And Rama, whom you never tire of praising, had molten lead poured into that shudra’s ears.

He would have gone deaf forever—even survival was unlikely. The ear connects to the brain; his brain would be damaged. The ear connects to the eyes; he would have gone blind. The ear connects to the nose. That man likely did not survive. But he had committed a great sin—he had heard the Veda!

Thus you bound the shudra completely in slavery. No way to rise, to be free. You broke his ladders. The same with vaishyas—just a notch above shudras; power belongs to kshatriyas and brahmins. In truth, to brahmins; but they need the kshatriya’s sword, hence he is second. Even the greatest emperor must touch a brahmin’s feet, even if the brahmin is debauched; a virtuous shudra is still unworthy of respect.

The Manusmriti says: if a shudra falls in love with or sleeps with a brahmin woman, the punishment is death. But if a brahmin commits adultery with a shudra woman, the punishment is a fine.

Do you see the difference? A shudra’s life is worth a few coins! A brahmin may marry anyone. A kshatriya may marry anyone except a brahmin woman. A vaishya may marry anyone except brahmin and kshatriya. But a shudra may marry only a shudra. For the shudra you left no path: neither rise through knowledge, nor by marrying into a “higher” family. You cut off all avenues.

This is a system of exploitation. Where is the science? It is a class system—utterly inhuman and violent.

And you say, “The scientific system Maharshi Manu gave, its forms may change but the foundations can never be erased.”

On what basis do you say its foundations can never be erased? In Russia there is no varna system; its basis has long vanished. Except for Hindustan and Hindus, nowhere in the world does varna exist; its basis is gone. Where fragments remain, they are fading as human awareness grows.

And if in this madhushala you see any varna system, the fault is in your eyes. Here highly educated people clean toilets. PhDs and DLitts, once senior professors, do cleaning—shudra work. But they are not shudras. Their respect is the same as anyone’s. Whether one cleans latrines, teaches meditation, leads Sufi dance, or is the chancellor of this university—no difference. There is no hierarchy here, no higher or lower.

And you still see varna here? Amazing! There is not even a trace of it. No one asks if you are Hindu, Muslim, Christian, Jain, Buddhist; brahmin or shudra. No one asks. Is that a question to ask? It is indecent—an insult.

Pandit Gyan Shankar Jha, try asking someone here whether he is brahmin, kshatriya, vaishya, or shudra—and then see how he treats you. A scuffle might break out. The question itself is inhuman.

But in this country such inhuman questions are common. Asking someone’s caste, varna—bad manners. Yet people here even ask salaries: “What do you get paid?” They even ask, “And, anything under the table…?”

And the fun is, the answerer responds without shame: “Yes, a little under the table too—God’s grace.” No shame in either. “Salary isn’t much, but there’s plenty on top, so we’re happy; the household runs fine.” No embarrassment to either party.

But in this ashram be mindful what you ask. No indecency is tolerated.

On what basis do you say, Pandit Gyan Shankar Jha, that the “scientific system” of Manu—its forms may change, but not its foundations? It has no foundation—baseless, forcibly imposed, artificial. Man is simply man. To divide him is unscientific.

You say: “Varna and ashram have always reappeared in new forms.”

Totally false. Varna and ashram have been departing day by day, not appearing. And now the last hour has come. With my sannyasins, we are performing their final rites.

You say: “In that sense your sannyasins are not new, nor is your ashram system new.”

Only the names are old. If you get trapped by names, that’s another matter; otherwise everything is new. And I chose old names deliberately; I could have chosen new names—no difficulty. I did not; I chose old ones. I could have called sannyasins something else.

After all, Mahavira did not call his sannyasins “sannyasi,” he called them “muni.” Buddha called them “bhikkhu.”

I too could have chosen a new name. Deliberately I did not. Because the old system of sannyas has to be destroyed from within. Rather than attack from outside, it is better to place the bomb inside.

I will create so many sannyasins in this land that your Akhandanands and Pakhandanands will be like a pinch of salt in a pot of dal. People will ask them, “Where is your mala?”

My sannyas is utterly new. The old sannyasin fled life; he did not live it. Sannyas meant renouncing life. My sannyas means: live life in its totality. Why renounce? Why run? Live! And live so totally that in living you attain the divine.

Life is sacred to me. Life is religion. Life is the expression of God. Therefore living it is the only way to find it.

Your sannyasins were all hippies. Understand “hippy”: those who showed their hip—their backs—to society and ran away. My sannyasins are not hippies. Your sannyasins were deserters—cowards, weak, lacking the intelligence and courage to accept life’s challenge—impotent; so they ran.

How can you say my sannyas is old?

Only the name is old—kept so on purpose—to burn the old to the ground. The simplest way to set it afire is this.

At first I tried to fight from outside; until then I had not instituted sannyas. But I saw that to fight from outside is difficult, nearly impossible; the fort is centuries old. Better to enter within.

So I gave sannyas: fine, wear the ochre robe. But do not, even by mistake, live like the old sannyasin. Live in your own way, in your own celebration. But through the ochre and the name of sannyas, entry is gained. Once inside, it is easier to break this decrepit structure.

That is why the entire class of traditional sannyasins is angry with me—of every kind; fear has arisen, panic.

Neither is this any old ashram system, nor is this sannyas old.

Now you ask: “Can you prove Maharshi Manu’s scientific system and the ashram system wrong?”

I do it every day.

Yog Pritam has sent me this song—

Yes, my beloved Lord,
let the raga of such a revolution arise,
let the fire of rebellion glow even more.
In every circumstance we are with you;
we are your hundreds of thousands of extended hands.
Centuries have passed—
no one has ever sung in such a blazing, piercing voice;
decayed traditions kept thriving—
offering up one new spring after another,
but no one ever came as a volcano.
Your advent—
your advent sounding the conch of life!
After a long night of darkness,
this laughing, golden dawn of a new age has come;
the walls of blind gloom are cracking—
your birdsong is a sweet song of liberation.
Yes, my revolutionary God!
Let there be ascents to the high peaks of consciousness;
let there arise every day new campaigns.
In this campaign—
let our ignorance also vanish,
let our ego also burn away;
let the hardness of our minds melt
in the warmth of your divinity,
so that we too can
join our voices properly with yours;
let this life
become a celebration full of music and dance;
let every direction sparkle with the light of new images.
Yes, Lord,
on this earth turned into a cremation ground,
we must plant a new crop of creation;
with new shoots and new flowers
we must fill the earth’s lap;
within the new human being once again
we must awaken the springtime grace.

Enough for today.