Ramnam Janyo Nahin #9

Vasant Lahiri, discipline itself has become obsolete. The very language of discipline has turned stale. Discipline means: someone else shows you the way, someone else holds your hand, someone else takes your responsibility onto his shoulders. And that is precisely why only one among millions has awakened. The moment someone else takes your responsibility, the need to wake up disappears.

If you keep holding a small child out of fear that he might fall and hurt himself, that child will remain crippled. To learn to walk, falling is necessary. To learn, trial and error is necessary. There is no mistake in mistakes. Trial and error is the only path to learning.

Discipline does not let you make mistakes. It forcibly prevents you from erring—by force. Deep down you do feel the urge to try, to blunder, to learn. But imposed discipline, with its fear and its promises, becomes chains on your feet. It builds a prison around you.

Every person’s birthright is to become enlightened. Why then has only one in a million awakened? We must look into this deeply. Only one in a million awakens because only one in a million gathers enough courage to break the fetters of discipline and risk living a free life. It is the gamble of a gambler. It is the readiness to err. It is a declaration: even if I make mistakes, I will make my own, not borrowed ones.

Only the one who accepts responsibility for himself can awaken. And discipline becomes the obstacle to that very acceptance.

So, Vasant Lahiri, I cannot give you any discipline. We have had more than enough discipline; and what has been the result? A gardener plants millions of saplings and once in a long while a single flower blooms somewhere—what kind of gardener’s glory is that? What kind of garden is that? The reverse alone would be forgivable: that perhaps one plant remains without a flower, while flowers weigh down all the rest; that fragrance pours from all, and if a single flower remains without fragrance, it is pardonable.

The way humanity has lived so far is not pardonable. And your so‑called wise men share responsibility for it—because they prescribed discipline. The irony is, they themselves found truth only after abandoning all discipline.

Gautam Buddha became Buddha because he did not accept Hindu discipline. He was born in a Hindu home; ordinarily he should have obeyed the priests and pundits, lived according to the Manusmriti, studied the Vedas, chanted mantras, performed havan and yajna, and stayed within the lines laid down. Then he would never have become a Buddha; he would have remained a buddhu—a fool—like others. He dropped discipline. He refused the rules and codes imposed by society. He said, “I will know truth myself. Why through a medium? And truth known through a medium cannot be truth; it will be stale, borrowed.”

Someone else tastes sweetness and informs you about it—will you receive the sweetness? You will not have the experience. You will only be left with a word—“sweetness.” But what sweetness is there in the word “sweet”? Words are empty; they carry no taste, no juice, no joy, no celebration. And yet you go on carrying these pretty, poetic words.

And the way one person has known truth, no other person will ever know it that way. Because each person is unique. How then is discipline possible? The way Buddha knew—over the last twenty‑five centuries millions have tried to live exactly like that. How many became buddhas? Method is not the point. Borrowed methods only produce imitators; at best, skillful actors.

Look at Buddhist monks—skillful actors. They wear robes exactly like Buddha’s; they expose the very shoulder he left bare; they drape the cloth on the same side; they sit and rise as he did. But can truth be known this way? What has truth to do with which shoulder is covered and which is bare? They eat what Buddha ate, at the time he ate, carry the same kind of begging bowl. But all this copying, this pageantry, this drama—what use is it? It creates delusion.

A Jain monk rises, sits, walks exactly as Mahavira did. Then why is no Mahavira born? By now there should have been thousands. Seeing their endless lines, you are driven to doubt whether Mahavira ever happened at all. Their lives lend no strength to his; instead, they make his life look legendary. For the ray is not visible in them. When no one finds that ray following Mahavira’s words, the doubt is natural, even logical: who knows whether he attained or not?

Discipline is borrowed. And then you speak of “the asleep.” Vasant Lahiri, your question suggests you don’t count yourself among them; the poor sleepers—let them have discipline!

Who has kept these people asleep? What sustains their sleep? Life itself is enough to awaken, but discipline’s poison won’t let awakening happen.

Jesus awakened, though born in a Jewish home, because he did not accept Jewish discipline. Mohammed awakened because he refused his ancestral tradition. So far, only those have awakened who have rejected tradition, who have freed themselves from it, who have sung their own unpremeditated song, who have proclaimed their own rhythm. Waking is inherently an individual event.

You worry about the sleepers. You don’t even ask why they sleep! They sleep because they are Hindus, Muslims, Christians, Jews, Jains, Buddhists. What they need is rebellion, revolution—not discipline; they need revolt.

Even if you give them discipline, they will understand it in the language of their sleep. They will translate it to fit their slumber.

Mahavira was naked. The sleepers saw his nakedness and in their sleepy world concluded that nakedness grants truth. But nakedness has nothing to do with truth. All animals are naked. All children are born naked. Then all children should already have truth.

Mahavira did not attain truth by becoming naked. He attained truth—and nakedness followed like a shadow. It was simply the proclamation of his innocence; he became as guileless as a child. There was nothing left to hide; even clothes appeared superfluous.

Clothes are a device to hide. They cover you. To be naked would frighten you, because your clothes hide many things that would be exposed the moment you are bare.

Covered, you walk down the street with your wife and see a beautiful woman. Because of your clothes, your wife doesn’t notice what is happening within you. Walk stark naked beside her, and your body itself will give the news; right there on the street she will beat you black and blue—and the crowd will happily join in. And you will not be able to deny, because your body will be bearing witness to what is going on inside.

Clothes conceal your hypocrisy. They are a great support to it.

When Mahavira had nothing left to conceal, when his life became as simple as a child’s, clothes fell of themselves. This was an inner event: truth first, realization first, samadhi first; the garments fell later. But samadhi is invisible; what is visible is the falling of clothes. The sleepers reversed the mathematics: “By dropping clothes, by being naked, one attains truth.” They inverted the logic. And these sleepers are the ones who make disciplines.

It is recorded of Mahavira that he did not speak; he remained silent. Silent, because what to say—and to whom? Whatever is said will be misunderstood. But he did not realize that if you don’t speak, you will still be misunderstood. Speak or be silent—the one bent on misunderstanding will misunderstand. Mahavira said nothing, but a line of pundits gathered around him—his eleven ganadhars, eleven Brahmin scholars. They began to explain: “Mahavira speaks the language of silence; we understand it; we are his messengers.” And these ganadhars laid down the disciplines—yet they were as asleep as those they addressed.

Thus disciplines for sleepers are always decided by other sleepers. Neither do they understand, nor do the others. There is only one way to understand the life of an awakened one: you must awaken too. Asleep, you will understand everything upside down.

A doctor said to a patient’s wife, “I’m sorry, your husband is dead. Nothing more can be done.”
The patient blurted, “But doctor, I’m alive!”
The wife scolded, “Lallu’s father, how many times have I told you not to interrupt? Keep quiet! Do you know more than the doctor?”

Naturally, the doctor is the specialist. And this Lallu’s father is butting in—no shame, no sense of propriety.

People will understand only what they can understand.

At a party a man was blabbering endlessly. Chandulal, a Marwari, was exasperated. He said to his friend Mulla Nasruddin, “Look at this scoundrel! Such drivel! He won’t let anyone else speak.”
Mulla said, “Nothing surprising. It’s a hereditary disease.”
Chandulal asked, “Hereditary? I don’t get it.”
Mulla explained, “Understand! His great‑grandfather was a great scholar. His grandfather was a big politician. His father was a university professor. And his mother is, after all, a woman.”

One day Mulla reached his office early and found his peon kissing the pretty typist. Mulla fumed, “Is this why I hired you? Is this what I pay you for?”
The peon said, “No, sir, no! I do this free of charge.”

A doctor advised a patient to do light work for a while. Then he asked, “By the way, what is your work?”
The patient said, “No point hiding it now: I break into houses. But that’s okay, doctor—I'll manage by picking pockets for a few days.”

Light work indeed—no housebreaking, just pickpocketing!

You can hand out discipline, but who will understand it? By the time it reaches the sleeper, it will have been transformed.

Oscar Wilde’s play flopped on opening night. The next day his friends asked, “How was your play last night?”
Oscar replied, “The play was a resounding success; the audience failed.”

Mulla Nasruddin told me, “Yesterday I was treated very badly at the bar. They shoved me out the back door.”
I asked, “What did you do then?”
He said, “I told them I’m from a respectable family. ‘Don’t behave indecently with me. You’ll regret it. I’ll pay you back.’”
I asked, “And then?”
Mulla said cheerfully, “Then they took me back in, beat me up thoroughly, and threw me out the front door.”

A respectable man! Throwing him out the back door is indecent—so out the front door! But the shoves are the same; the shoves don’t change. You were given disciplines—but you found tricks in every one.

It is well-known in Buddha’s life: he told his monks never to ask for anything while begging—no “I want this.”
Mahavira told his monks and nuns the same: never open your mouth to say “Give me this or that.” So the Jain monk remains silent and gestures with his hand. All the dishes are laid out. The Jain householders say, “Please, be blessed, our good fortune!” And the monk gestures. Naturally, the finger never points toward dry, coarse bread; it points toward rasmalai, chamcham, sandesh, gulab jamun. The finger indicates; the tongue stays shut. The tongue has been forbidden.

And don’t imagine that if Mahavira had forbidden raising the finger too, nothing could be done. The eyes can gesture as well—no need to lift a finger. Fix your gaze on the gulab jamun—matter settled!

Buddha told his monks, “Do not ask for anything, because who knows whether the person has the means to give or not? If you ask and he is compelled to give, the whole thing becomes tasteless, ugly. So accept whatever comes.”

One day a monk was returning with alms in his bowl when a kite flying overhead dropped a piece of meat, which fell into his bowl. Buddha had said, “Whatever falls into your bowl, accept it.” The monk wondered, “This meat has fallen into my bowl; I didn’t ask. Should I accept it?” But Buddha had said nothing about such a situation, so the monk thought it proper to ask. In the sangha he said, “What should I do? According to you, whatever falls into the bowl should be accepted. People know you are against meat-eating, so no one puts meat into our bowls. But this kite has dropped a piece.”

Buddha had said, “Do not refuse what comes,” because human cunning is endless: if refusal is allowed, one will reject all that he doesn’t like, all that is ordinary, and accept all that suits his taste. So: accept whatever comes.

Buddha pondered. He closed his eyes a while, then thought: “A kite is not going to drop meat into someone’s bowl every day. This is exceptional. If I say refuse it, that will hinder the fundamental principle; later people will begin a chain of refusals.” So he said, “Don’t worry. A kite is not going to do this every day. What has fallen into your bowl, accept it. You have not killed, you have not asked. No harm. Even if you accept this small piece of meat, there is no sin.”

But from this small incident the entire Buddhist world became meat‑eating. This is what happens to disciplines given to sleepers. In China, Japan, Korea—where Buddhism spread—every hotel displays a sign, just as in India we write, “Sweets prepared in pure ghee available here.” There they write, “Meat of animals that died naturally available here.” Died naturally!

How do so many animals die naturally every day, enough to feed millions—astonishing! And funnily, in those very countries, who are the slaughterhouses for? If animals are kindly dying on their own to feed Buddhists, who are these vast slaughterhouses serving? Because apart from Buddhists, nobody else lives there! Huge slaughterhouses run daily; animals are killed every day. But there’s no problem in eating meat of animals “that died by themselves,” because Buddha said violence lies in killing—do not kill.

He told the monk: “You did not kill; the kite did not kill either—what would a kite kill? It must have picked up a piece from an already dead animal. Now that it is dead, where is the sin in eating the meat? Sin is in killing, in taking life. No life is being taken. Accept the piece.”

Buddha hoped the exception would remain an exception. But between Buddha’s intention and the understanding of buddhus—the fools—there is a world of difference. The exception became the rule. Today Buddhist monks eat meat with ease—no difficulty at all.

Yes, you can give a discipline, Vasant Lahiri, but who will translate it? In your very sleep you will translate it to suit yourself. You will use every discipline to support your sleep.

You say the buddhas of the past gave disciplines for the asleep.
If they did, they erred. They should not have. Their mistake is evident. The whole world looks disciplined—and the whole world is hypocritical.

Jesus gave his disciples a rule: if someone slaps you on one cheek, turn the other.
A lovely discipline! A beautiful aphorism!
A Christian fakir gave a sermon in church on this very saying—very profound. An atheist in the audience thought, “Why not test it?” As soon as the sermon ended, he went up and slapped the fakir. The fakir instantly offered the other cheek. The man was surprised, but being a confirmed atheist, if the fakir stuck to his Christianity, he stuck to his atheism. He slapped the other cheek even harder. The moment he did, the fakir pounced on him and thrashed him so soundly his ribs cracked. The man cried, “What are you doing? What did you just preach?” The fakir first beat him thoroughly. When he had broken his bones and the man still asked, “Tell me at least—what about your sermon?” the fakir said, “I followed it exactly. Jesus said: if anyone strikes your one cheek, offer the other. He didn’t say anything about a third cheek. There is no third cheek. His rule was up to two; beyond that I am free. Up to two I obeyed; after that, he said nothing. Beyond that, each person is independent.”

It is recorded in Jesus’ life that a man asked, “You say forgive—even the enemy. How many times?”
Jesus said, “Forgive seven times.”
The man said, “All right!”
The way he said “All right” made Jesus feel he would take revenge for all seven at the eighth. As the saying goes: a hundred cuts from the goldsmith, one blow from the blacksmith. The goldsmith taps and taps, fine work; the blacksmith needs only one hammer blow.
So Jesus said, “No, not seven—seventy‑seven times.”
The man said, “No problem. Seventy‑seven will do.”

Strange man! He will even forgive seventy‑seven times. But a limit will still come—the seventy‑eighth will come, sooner or later. At last the real man will show himself. Where will he go?

If this “real man” is asleep, give him any rule you like—he will mold it to his sleep. Those rules will not help break his sleep; they will reinforce it. That’s why I am not giving any discipline.

You say: “In the past the buddhas gave disciplines for the asleep, which are now outdated. What discipline will you give them?”
I consider discipline itself outdated. Discipline as such is out of date. We have seen enough of what it produces—no more.

I say only one thing: Wake up. Let your whole life be governed by a single formula—wakefulness. Then a discipline will arise in your life, but it will arise from within; it will not be my gift. And when discipline arises spontaneously from within, its beauty is different, its fragrance different, its joy different. It does not create slavery; it creates freedom. It does not shackle you in chains; it does not put you in a prison.

And these are all prisons now—Hindu, Muslim, Christian, Jain, Buddhist, Parsi, Sikh. Nanak never intended this. Kabir never intended this. Buddha did not intend it. Jesus did not intend it. Mohammed did not intend it. Zarathustra did not intend it. But intentions are not the issue. Your intentions may be good—but will the asleep understand them? By the time your message reaches them, it is completely distorted. They will draw meanings and devise tricks you could not even imagine. Arrange what you will…

Buddhist scriptures lay down thirty‑three thousand rules—thirty‑three thousand! Hard even to remember. A rule for every little thing—and lest you slip out through some loophole, they have left none. And yet people still slip through. They still find ways.

I was once a guest in a Jain home. It was Paryushan. The Jain scriptures say: during Paryushan—their sacred period of vows, rules, practices—don’t eat green vegetables. According to the Jain vision, plants are living beings—which modern science now confirms. Jagadish Chandra Bose’s discoveries gave scientific support to it. And in the last fifty or sixty years the research has gone even further.

Scientists now say plants have sensitivities beyond what you can imagine. They say that when you approach a plant with an axe—before you even start cutting, merely entering the garden with the axe—the plant trembles; even your thought affects it. Instruments now exist to measure this sensitivity, just as a cardiogram measures your heartbeat—devices that are attached to a tree and begin to record a graph of the tree’s feeling-state: whether it is joyful, sad, troubled, anxious, afraid, elated—each has a distinct graph. Before the woodcutter entered with an axe, a harmonious, musical graph was being drawn. The moment he enters, the graph of the very tree he intends to cut changes; the other trees’ graphs remain as before.

This means even thought is transmitted; the tree recognizes thought. The man has not announced his intention; he may not have told anyone; he is thinking only in his mind, “I’ll cut that tree,” and that very tree becomes fearful; its graph wavers.

Trees are alive—and exquisitely sensitive. They know who loves them and who hates them; who is an enemy and who is a friend. They blossom on seeing the gardener. They rejoice to see a poet. They begin to dance on seeing a painter, sway and revel—as if intoxicated with wine!

Mahavira said: wherever possible, do not hurt plants. Hence Jains gave up agriculture, because to farm you must cut plants, harvest crops. Inevitably they became businessmen, because of this rule. Mahavira could not have foreseen this result. They could not be warriors.

Mahavira himself was a kshatriya. All twenty‑four Jain tirthankaras were kshatriyas. So those who first gathered around them were mostly kshatriyas—it was the kshatriyas’ revolt against Brahmin oppression. But they could no longer wield a sword—sword means violence. So the kshatriya path was closed. They could not farm—violence. They had rebelled against the Brahmins, so they could not perform yajna and rituals—that was precisely their rebellion. No one wanted to be a shudra. They could not be chamars, whose work is leather—dragging dead animals, cutting flesh, stripping hides—impossible. And who wishes to be a sweeper? One option remained—business. So Jains became businessmen.

Granted, they stopped cutting trees and stopped killing people. But they began to suck people’s blood through subtler means—interest and compound interest. Crude violence ceased—that was the outcome of discipline—but subtle violence began. Jains amassed more wealth than anyone in this country.

I was a guest in a Jain home during Paryushan. I saw bananas on their plates. I asked, “What is this? Bananas during Paryushan?”
They said, “But this isn’t green vegetable; the banana is yellow.”

See the sleeper’s tricks! By “green” Mahavira meant what has been freshly plucked from the plant. By “not‑green” he meant what has ripened and fallen of itself. What falls of itself when ripe is acceptable. But they took “green” to mean the color! This is how a sleeper devises his tricks.

No matter how many rules you make, it changes nothing. Understand: the sleeper sets an alarm to get up at three, Brahma‑muhurta. When the alarm rings, he dreams he has gone to the temple—a religious dream—and the temple bells are ringing. The alarm is ringing; he dreams: temple bells! How lovely! He listens, moved. Now the alarm won’t ring forever; it stops. The sleeper has transformed the alarm into temple bells. When the bells go silent, the sweetness of that imagined bell‑sound lulls him into deeper sleep. The alarm becomes a lullaby. He pulls the blanket up, turns over, and sleeps soundly—delighted: “Ah, what a beautiful religious dream! I saw the temple, I saw Krishna playing the flute; Meera was dancing! What anklets!” In sleep, man transforms everything.

That is why I am not eager to give discipline. I am eager only to wake you up. Meditation is a process of awakening; it is not a discipline. Samadhi is another name for awakenedness—complete wakefulness. From that high peak of samadhi, surely, a thousand streams flow—but they are yours. And when a discipline is your very own, hypocrisy does not enter your life. How could it? Hypocrisy arises when another gives you rules—he will give them according to himself. You are not like him; you are only like yourself. There has never been anyone exactly like you.

Wear someone else’s shoes and you will be in trouble: too loose, hard to walk; too tight, they squeeze the life out of you. And borrowed shoes—the other man’s feet have molded them; your feet are different. They will hurt.

Wear someone else’s clothes and there’s a hassle: too tight, it feels like a noose; too loose, you feel like a beggar. It is unlikely they will fit you exactly. And even if they did, they are borrowed—soiled, torn, threadbare.

You would not wear another’s shoes. You would not even wear another’s clothes. If you claim such freedom for the body, will you give no value to the soul—less than to the body? Concerning the soul, you are willing to wear others’ shoes and others’ clothes! Recognize the majesty of the soul.

The total result of borrowed discipline is hypocrisy. You live by someone else’s rules on the surface; inside, your real nature is the opposite. It will be the opposite; it can never be truly in accord. Between the two, conflict is born.

Now Ashutosh Sadachari has landed in trouble—and the rosary-wearing baba has left him hanging. He kept warning him again and again: never think of another woman.

First, the very idea of calling a woman “another’s” or “one’s own” is sheer foolishness. Is a woman an object to be owned or disowned? That language fits things, not people. Don’t turn women into objects. But this is exactly the tradition of these rosary-wearing babas: they have always called woman property.

This stupidity continues. Even today, when a father marries off his daughter he performs kanyadaan—“donating” the daughter. He never does putradaan—there is no “donating” of sons. How could a son be donated! The daughter is “donated.” Donation! People feel no hesitation, no shame, no sense of impropriety. They are shackled by old conditioning. They imagine they are doing something marvelous—performing kanyadaan. But the very word assumes a woman is property. And then: “Do not think of another’s woman.”

Why was Kanthiwale Baba so obsessed with warning you? He must himself have been thinking of “other” women. Otherwise, what was it to him? Repeating it again and again means the itch was his. If not, one reminder would have sufficed.

And not only that—he told you to regard even your wife as your mother. Then what will you take your mother to be? That creates a real mess.

Mulla Nasruddin’s wife had died. He was more angry than sad. I asked him, “Your wife is gone—sadness I understand; but why anger?”

He said, “I’m angry because all these neighbors are scoundrels. When my mother died, all the old ladies came saying, ‘Son, don’t worry—we are here. Think of us as your mother.’ When my sister died, all the women came, ‘Brother, don’t worry—we are here, we’ll tie you rakhi.’ Now my wife has died and not a single woman comes saying, ‘Brother, don’t worry—we are here!’ If that doesn’t make you angry, what will?”

What madness is this: “Regard your wife as your mother.” And what should your wife regard you as—her father? What a bizarre relationship that would be!

These rosary-wearers have trapped you, and saddled you with a lifelong vow of celibacy. They died—and they killed you too.

And don’t be under the illusion that Kanthiwale Baba has gone to heaven. Such people can’t get to heaven. They’ll be somewhere else, still looping the same noose around other people’s necks, still preaching, “Don’t look at another’s woman.” They’ll stay in that same racket. Heaven isn’t found that way. They created a hell for you; they must have lived in hell themselves.

In truth, disciplines imposed by others turn out to be disastrous.

Brahmacharya is the fragrance of samadhi. Understand the word itself: it means “conduct like the Brahman,” a godlike way of being. Can you swear an oath to live like Brahman? How can there be brahmacharya without the experience of the Brahman? It’s a lovely word, but the wicked have corrupted it. The finest words get deformed in the hands of the wrong people.

Brahmacharya—simple and clear—means a Brahman-like way of living. But can that come by oath? Without the experience of the divine, how will you live divinely? First comes the experience—the Brahman at the center—and then, as its circumference, brahmacharya flowers.

You cannot vow your way into brahmacharya. The very need to vow means lust is boiling within; that’s why you swear. Why are you taking an oath of celibacy? If desire has truly ended within you, why would you need an oath?

A person who doesn’t drink never takes an oath, “I shall not drink.” It would be absurd. One who doesn’t use tobacco never vows, “I renounce tobacco.” Meaningless. You only swear against that with which you are at war. Desire is surging inside; to suppress it you swear to celibacy. You may press it down, but you won’t be free. No one is ever liberated through suppression.

And Kanthiwale Baba is sitting on your chest, goading you: “Press it down, son—press it down completely! Even take your wife as your mother!”

Fall into such nets and a split will be created in you. The suppressed sexuality will seep into your every fiber, into every pore. Your dreams will be filled with “other” women—the very ones you renounced. In truth, why renounce “other” women? They aren’t yours in the first place. What a joke!

On a full-moon night two opium-eaters lay beneath a tree. One sighed, “Ah! Even if someone asked a crore of rupees, I’d pay it—but I must buy that moon.”

The other said, “Shut up! I’m not selling. Not for one crore, not for ten.”

The moon belongs to no one, yet they are bargaining. And you are “renouncing” other men’s women! Not even to look. This nervousness, this fear—do you call that sadhana?

Ashutosh, if you’ve come here hoping I’ll support that kind of “sadhana,” you’ve come to the wrong place. Yes—if you truly want to enter sadhana, you’ll have to drop these stupidities—whoever gave them to you. This country has no shortage of rosary-wearing babas. Becoming a baba here is the easiest thing. No intelligence required. In fact, the denser the stupidity, the more accomplished a paramahansa you become. If you had a little intelligence you wouldn’t get caught in such traps. These are cheap tricks—taking vows, rules, oaths, and then being bound by them. It only feeds the ego.

And you say, “For me, celibacy alone is the support of life.”

You haven’t known brahmacharya yet—you’ve only sworn an oath. Where have you known it, where have you recognized it? If you had truly known brahmacharya, what deficiency in sadhana remains that you had to come here? If brahmacharya were realized—if the experience of Brahman had descended, if that light had happened—then nothing would be lacking in sadhana at all. Neither would brahmacharya be lacking, nor any sadhana.

So remember first: if you want to enter sadhana with me, you must drop all the nonsense you have learned. I cannot be a collaborator in your “sadhana.” Yes, I can give you the sutras of sadhana. And my sadhana is not difficult. It is extremely simple, straightforward—clear as two and two make four. But it will require courage. Courage to burn the old junk completely. If you want to come to me new—as a blank sheet—then the work can begin.

Therefore I say, Vasant Lahiri, I give no discipline. I only point a little toward the experience of samadhi from which true discipline is born. And even those are only pointers—not rigid, not harsh—flexible. Because rigid pointers also become chains. Flexible enough that each person can find a way that fits his own nature and travel accordingly.

Other than meditation there has never been any path, and there is none. Yes—through the experience of meditation a revolution happens in life. But then you become your own lawgiver. I am not your lawgiver. I am not here to govern you. This very notion of “giving discipline” is, in disguise, a desire to own people. The politician is filled with the urge to rule; the religious leader too is filled with the urge to rule. Both are eager to govern.

I have no desire to rule over you. I simply open my heart before you. If something from it—some incident, some word, some silence, some hint—strikes the strings of your heart and becomes a cause for your sleep to break, then satsang has succeeded. Then you will walk your path, in your own way.

Each of my sannyasins will live in his uniqueness. He is not a carbon copy. I give him freedom, not discipline. I give him the space to sing his own song, not a discipline. Discipline has become time-worn; it has no future.

Madhusudan Mishra, this aphorism is lovely. I agree with it completely: ashanaya vai patmamatiḥ. Hunger, poverty, destitution—these are the roots of sin. And your question is meaningful: when did this aphorism get lost? When and how did people begin to honor poverty?

Behind the loss of this aphorism lies a long conspiracy—a collusion between politicians and priests. The priest’s trade rests on people’s sins. If no one sinned, no ground would remain for the priest. Therefore the priest will not want people in this world to be happy, blissful, prosperous. Because prosperity, joy, and happiness end the very possibility of sin. Only a sinner can be frightened—threatened with hell, tempted with heaven. Only a sinner can be panicked, can be made to feel guilt. In that guilt he touches the feet of these pandit-priests, clutches at their legs: “Save me, deliver me, free me from this sin! What should I do, what should I not do?” To avoid sin he goes to rosary-wearing babas asking for a mantra: “Give me some mantra that becomes my protection, my support. Give me some vow, some rule, some discipline by which I can be saved from sin.”

And the trouble is: as long as he is wretched and poor, he will not be able to avoid sin. He is compelled. Try as he may, he will get entangled in some kind of sin.

There is a delightful account in Lao Tzu’s life. The emperor of China, taking him to be a great wise man, appointed him chief justice. Lao Tzu refused again and again: “You and I won’t fit together.” But the emperor wouldn’t listen—he was stubborn. “Why not?” he said. “Only a wise man like you can render true justice.” Lao Tzu said, “As you wish.”

On the very first day, trouble began. Lao Tzu’s first judgment made the emperor say, “He was right—fitting with him will be difficult.”

A thief was caught red-handed. Lao Tzu heard the whole case. There was direct evidence, and the thief himself confessed, “I am a thief; I committed theft; give whatever punishment you wish. Before you I cannot lie. With someone else it might be different—but how can I lie before a buddha like Lao Tzu? I accept it. Punishment from your hand is my good fortune.”

Lao Tzu said, “You get six months in prison—and the man whose house you robbed also gets six months.”

The man who had been robbed was astonished. He protested, “This is the limit! I have never heard or seen such justice. My house is robbed and I am punished!”

Lao Tzu said, “To tell you the truth, injustice is indeed being done. The injustice is that you should receive more punishment. But I am new here—just beginning the work. Six months is not enough. Count it your good fortune that I am giving you only as much as the thief. Because your sin is greater. You have amassed the wealth of the whole village; you have made the whole village poor. And if people are poor, what will they do but sin? If they don’t steal, what will they do? You are responsible for all the thieves in this village. This man’s fault is not great—that he stole. Your fault is infinitely greater. You have created the very foundation for theft. You are the guru of the thieves.”

That man ran to the emperor. He said, “This is too much! And if he calls me the guru of thieves, then beware yourself—what am I compared to you? If I deserve six months, you deserve six lifetimes.”

The point struck the emperor: this is dangerous. Lao Tzu was dismissed on the spot. Lao Tzu said, “I warned you beforehand—I will do only what is true.”

Religious leaders, pandits, priests will not want sin to be eradicated. For their very existence it is essential that sin continue. And if sin is to continue, poverty must continue. Therefore poverty began to be honored, given respect—as if there were some glory in poverty! As if there were some virtue in it! And the politician also does not want sin and crime to end. Politics will die the very day sin and crime end. Where there is sin, there is politics; where there are crimes, there is politics; where there are wars, there is politics. Where there is violence and suicide, there is politics. Theft and robbery are absolutely necessary.

Therefore neither the politician nor the religious leader is in favor of eradicating poverty. Karl Marx’s statement is absolutely true—that religion has worked almost like opium for the people. By giving opium, religion has kept people asleep—so they cannot rebel, cannot remove their wretchedness, cannot remove their poverty. A thousand tricks have been invented: that God has written poverty in your fate; or that you are reaping the fruit of past lives. Endure it with consolation, patience, contentment, and you will gain great happiness in the next life. Every possible device has been used to keep the poor person poor—and used so cleverly that it doesn’t look like a device at all; you can’t easily catch it.

People like Mahatma Gandhi were against science. And the basic reason was this: science can remove people’s poverty. And if poverty disappears, all “mahatma-hood” disappears. Poverty is the prop of every kind of “mahatma-giri.” Poverty can be removed; there is no obstacle to its removal. But it must not be allowed to be removed; it has to be preserved.

In the life of Ethiopia’s emperor Haile Selassie there is a significant account. In Ethiopia people suffered from terrible diseases. The root cause was that in the rainy season Ethiopians drank water that gathered in roadside pits—dirty water full of every kind of germ.

The U.N. sent a team of doctors to study why Ethiopians were so disease-ridden. They reported to the emperor: “These diseases can be removed easily. People only have to be dissuaded from this centuries-old habit of drinking such water. Better wells must be built, water reservoirs must be created. Change the water system—if they stop drinking from those filthy roadside puddles, the diseases will end. People can be healthy.”

But Haile Selassie said, “You may be right, but I am not willing to do this. As soon as people become healthy, trouble will begin for me. They need neither to be healthy nor educated. As soon as they become educated, as soon as they become healthy, as soon as a little comfort enters their lives—trouble begins, rebellion starts, talk of revolution arises. I will not allow this.”

And he did not allow it. But how long can such a thing be stopped? Eventually, when Ethiopians also began to understand the real cause of their illness, Selassie had to relent.

And what he had feared proved true. As soon as people became healthy and education began to be arranged, as soon as the net of disease broke—there was rebellion. Haile Selassie was deposed. He had been a very strong emperor, but his entire foundation collapsed. He died like a prisoner.

There is a certain truth in Selassie’s view. All these power-holders—whether religious or political—the entire game of their power, the prestige of their egos, depends on people remaining meek, poor, uneducated, so that they accept things as they are. No ray of sunlight should be allowed into their lives.

The Aitareya Brahmana’s aphorism is perfectly right. But neither the politician agrees with it, nor the religious leader.

The chairman of the Mediation and Advisory Committee of the All-India Sadhu Samaj, Shri Gulzarilal Nanda, has said that sadhus should cultivate spiritual qualities in people who are moving toward materialism; they should come out of seclusion and help establish Mahatma Gandhi’s Ramrajya.

Without materialism there can be no prosperity. Without materialism, the Aitareya Brahmana’s aphorism cannot be fulfilled—poverty will remain. What Gulzarilal Nanda is saying—give him a new name: Gulzari Lal Andha, Mr. Blind. These blind people can’t even see that for centuries the same nonsense has been repeated: “We must cultivate spiritual qualities.” People are dying of hunger; there is no bread in their stomachs; and these men want to develop their spiritual qualities! These full-bellied men keep chanting Rama’s name. They think that since their bellies are full, everyone else’s must be too.

In this country ninety percent are hungry; fifty percent are utterly hungry. And you want to cultivate spiritual qualities in them! The possibility that they might turn toward materialism gives Gulzari Lal Andha great pain. And why is he in pain? Because the trade is in danger. You have been cultivating spiritual qualities for ten thousand years—how much more time do you need? Will you let anything else happen besides “cultivating spiritual qualities”? And what spiritual qualities does Gulzari Lal Andha himself have?

It is a grand joke! Politicians in this country are highly skilled in oratory. They want to teach spiritual qualities to the whole nation. But look at their lives—they are sheer goons, nothing else. Because they are in power you cannot call them goons; you have to call them dada—big boss. But the meaning is the same. What spiritual qualities do they have? All kinds of trickery, all kinds of intrigue, all kinds of dishonesty—no one has as much as they do. The entire game of politics is a gambit of dishonesty. This trade belongs to scoundrels. A truthful man cannot survive in it; only a scoundrel can.

Yet when they lecture, the public claps. And the public knows them full well; it claps only as long as they are in power. As soon as they are out, no one claps.

Just a few days ago I read a news item: Morarji Desai arrived in Bombay after a tour—no one came to receive him. He must have been in his old habit; it never occurred to him that no one would come, so he had no money for a taxi. He probably had never imagined going by taxi. He had to take one—by borrowing money from someone. Because a taxi driver doesn’t seat ghosts and goblins just like that. A politician who is gone, finished, whose funeral has already taken place—the driver says, “Brother, cash first.” He’ll take the fare last from everyone else; but with these—who knows whether you’ll ever see it later? So the taxi driver took the money in advance.

These politicians want to cultivate spiritual qualities! Do they have any themselves? And the pandits and priests too are busy with the same nonsense: people must not become materialistic. And what this country needs most urgently is to become materialistic.

In my understanding there is no conflict between materialism and spirituality. Materialism is the foundation stone of spirituality. Only then can the Aitareya Brahmana’s aphorism be fulfilled—if materialism becomes the foundation of spirituality. If materialism and spirituality remain in opposition, this aphorism can never be fulfilled.

And that, Madhusudan Mishra, is what created the mischief. The religious leaders kept opposing materialism. And only materialism can fill the belly; spiritualism cannot fill the belly—that is not its capacity. It can lead you into the realm of the soul. But until the belly is full, where is the strength, where the capacity to enter that realm? Your legs will falter on that journey into the infinite. “On an empty stomach, even devotion cannot happen, O Gopala.” Even devotion cannot happen—meeting God is far away; becoming God is far away; the experience of godliness is impossible.

So the pandits, the priests, and the politicians have hatched this conspiracy.

Consider the intelligence of this Mahamandaleshwar. The first thing he says is: “Hinduism is the oldest religion in the world.”

What is so glorious about that? Folly is very old in the world. Ignorance is very old—older even than Hinduism. Sin is very old. People’s slumber is very old. Does the mere fact of being old give something any significance? Is being old sufficient for something to be important? The truth is: the older, the more rotten; the older, the more dead; the older, the more a ruin—decrepit and dilapidated.

And even this claim need not be true, because the Jains claim their religion is the oldest. And there are bases for their claim. The Rig Veda mentions the first Tirthankara of the Jains. It is on the basis of the Rig Veda that Hindus say Hinduism is the oldest, because our Rig Veda is the oldest. But in the Rig Veda there is a very respectful mention of the first Jain Tirthankara, Rishabhadeva. Two things follow from this: that in the time of the Rig Veda Jainism was already established. So Jainism is at least as old as the Rig Veda—that much is certain; it may be a little older. Because, as is people’s habit, they don’t honor a living man. If Rishabhadeva were alive, he would have been abused; respect would not have been possible. Rishabhadeva must have been dead for thousands of years—only then could he be mentioned with reverence in the Rig Veda; otherwise not. For a reverent mention, a gap of time is needed.

It is likely that Jainism is older than Hinduism. The excavations of Harappa and Mohenjo-daro have also established this. Because in Harappa and Mohenjo-daro, statues have been found that are nude. Those nude statues are symbolic; their manner and style are exactly those of the images of Mahavira, of the Jain Tirthankaras. It is possible that Mohenjo-daro and Harappa were pervaded by Jainism. No trace pointing to Hinduism has yet been found in Mohenjo-daro and Harappa. Hinduism is not as old as Mohenjo-daro and Harappa. But symbols of Jainism have been found. The swastika has been found; that is a Jain symbol. And nude statues have been found that match exactly the images of the Jain Tirthankaras.

But what follows from being old? Mohenjo-daro is a good word; it means “mound of the dead.” The older a religion, the more it is a mound of corpses.

Life is always new—new every moment, ever-fresh. As new as the morning dew. As fresh as the first rays of the sun. As youthful as a just-bloomed rose.

Mahamandaleshwar Swami Sumitranand Saraswati, you will not be able to impress me by calling Hinduism old. I see no dignity in the old. The very meaning of “old” is that it is now out of time, its era has passed, its moment is over. You can go on carrying the corpse if you wish, but the corpse is stinking. All your notions are the causes of your slavery, your abjectness, your poverty.

Madhusudan Mishra, it is because of Mahamandaleshwars of this sort that that wondrous aphorism of the Aitareya Brahmana was destroyed.

The Mahamandaleshwar says: “Its stream is uninterrupted and pure like the Ganges.”

Who says the stream of the Ganges is pure? There is no river on this earth more impure than the Ganges. Throw corpses in it, throw half-burnt corpses; the dead float. Scientists have investigated and found the Ganges to be highly polluted. And even otherwise, if what Hindus say has some truth—that bathing in the Ganges washes away sins—perhaps yours get washed away; but what happens to the Ganges? Where do those washed-away sins go? They will keep floating in the Ganges. For centuries Hindus have been washing their sins in the Ganges. Hundreds of millions have washed their sins—what calamity must have befallen the Ganges! Spare a thought for the Ganges too. On what basis do you say “pure like the Ganges”? It is as impure as the Ganges.

And you say: “Hinduism has a broad chest.”

You are mistaken. Hinduism does not have a broad chest at all. Drop this delusion, this ego. Who says you could digest Buddhism? Hindus burned Buddhist monks alive, destroyed Buddhist monasteries, razed Buddhist temples, and then occupied them. Even now, the temple at Bodh Gaya is in the possession of a Hindu Brahmin. The temple belongs to Buddha, but the mahant is a Hindu Brahmin. And how did Buddhism vanish from India if your chest was broad? That astounding sapling of revolution which Buddha planted in this land—how did it disappear? All of Asia became Buddhist; only in India did Buddhism end. Only Hindus remained deprived of Buddhism. A broad chest? Who put this delusion into you? You must be standing before some trick mirror. You know those mirrors in which a man’s chest appears large? It isn’t really, but it looks large.

What then did your Shankaracharyas do, if your chest was broad? Why didn’t they accept Buddha? Why refute him? The chest is not broad.

And Shankaracharya is an outright thief, because what he says is exactly what Buddha said. By merely changing the words he tries to prove that all this is in the Hindu scriptures. And I am not the only one who says this: Ramanuja said that Shankara is a crypto-Buddhist. Nimbarka also said that Shankara is a crypto-Buddhist, a hidden Buddhist. Yet Shankaracharya sits enthroned as the defender of Hinduism.

Abandon this delusion that your chest is broad. The stories in your own Puranas regarding Buddha say the chest is not broad. Your stories say that when God created heaven and hell, no one on earth committed sin. So hell lay empty. Ultimately the devil of hell and his disciples, sitting idle there—no one coming, no one going—must have been lighting the fires every day, heating the cauldrons, and then putting them out by evening. At last they were tired: what kind of shop is this with no customers? They prayed to God. God said, Don’t worry. Since hell has been made, I will also make arrangements to send people there. I will incarnate as Buddha. After that there will be no obstacle to populating hell. I will appear as Buddha and corrupt people, teach them sin, and send them toward hell.

Was this story crafted by people with a broad chest? Were these Puranas written by people with a broad chest? Since Buddha, hell is crowded; there are lines! If you die today, you won’t get admission today—mind you! You will have to stand in line for many centuries. Ever since then heaven has no crowd at all—it is silent.

Is this the honor you bestowed upon Buddha! And you talk about having a broad chest. But none of your scriptures even mention Mahavira. A person as extraordinary as Mahavira is born, and Hindu scriptures make no mention at all! Such neglect—and your chest is broad!

Drop this delusion. Your chest is not broad—nothing of the sort. No religion’s chest is broad—it cannot be. Because religion draws boundaries. And religion fills one with bias. You too are filled with those very biases.

You say: “Only because of its supreme generosity has Hinduism so easily absorbed even its adversaries—Jainism, Buddhism, and the Charvaka doctrine.”

Not in the least has it absorbed them. Jainism is today still a separate religion. Buddhism is today still a separate religion. What on earth will you absorb of the Buddhas and the Jains! You cannot even absorb your own people—your shudras cannot find a place within you. How will you absorb anyone else?

And you say: “However much you and your sannyasins oppose Hinduism...”

I have no interest in opposing Hinduism per se. I am opposing all religions. Hinduism happens to be included—incidentally. But I am opposing all the assumptions on which the old religions have been built. Those assumptions belong to Hindus, to Buddhists, to Jains, to Christians, to Zoroastrians, to Muslims. I am striking at the foundational stones. I have nothing to do with Hinduism as such. I don’t even consider it that important. I am striking at the root. And this strike will continue.

And you say: “Ultimately your sannyasins too will easily dissolve into the eternal stream of Hinduism.”

Drop this delusion. My sannyasins do not subscribe to any religion. My sannyasins are neither atheists nor theists; neither Hindu nor Muslim nor Christian. My sannyasins are the beginning of a new kind of religiousness. Not the beginning of a religion—the beginning of a new kind of religiousness. Religiousness is quite another matter.

Those whom you call religious people are not religious at all. How can a Hindu be religious? He is bound by an ideology. And ideology is part of the mind. A Muslim is bound by thought; a Jain is bound by thought. It is because of thoughts that these divisions exist. I teach no-thought. One has to descend into the state of no-mind. In that state, where is the Hindu? Where is the Muslim? Where is the Christian? In that state, only a single fragrance remains—that of the divine.

You will not be able to digest my sannyasins. There is no way to digest my sannyasin.

And you say: “Would it not be in the interests of religion and humanity for you and your sannyasins to abandon all opposition and devote yourselves to the service of Hinduism, giving it new life, new dimensions, new expansion?”

What I am doing is in the interest of religion. Opposition to religions is in the interest of religiousness, because religiousness is the soul of religion. What proceeds under the name of religion is only body. One has to go beyond the body, beyond the scripture—only then is truth found. One has to go beyond the mind—only then does one have a vision of the soul. Whoever rises beyond all thoughts alone can recognize godliness.

This is what is in the interest of humanity—what I am doing. And you want me to serve Hinduism. If service to Hinduism were in the interest of humanity, that interest would long ago have been achieved. What else have Mahamandaleshwars like you been doing? For ten thousand years you have been indulging the same nonsense. No interest of humanity has been served, nor has any interest of religion. The time has come to serve religion and humanity. And for that service, whatever has to be refuted, whatever has to be opposed, will be opposed.

I neither regard anything as sacred merely because it is called sacred, nor do I regard anything as valuable because it is ancient. From my experience, from my truth, whatever aligns with it—I certainly support that; as I supported the Aitareya Brahmana. But not because it is a Hindu text. In the Aitareya Brahmana there are also statements I have opposed—not because it is a Hindu text. Neither my opposition nor my support has anything to do with Hindus. It is support for truth—wherever it may be found. My chest is broad; yours is not.

Now you say that we should serve Hinduism, give Hinduism new life...

But what has already died—where will you bring new life from? And even if by injections and devices you somehow keep the lungs pumping, what is the point? Bury what is dead. Ram nam satya hai. You never knew the name of Ram! For Hinduism there is only one thing left now—Ram nam satya hai! Now make its bier. In making its bier, whatever service is needed, I am willing.

That is all for today.