Sahaj Yog #15

Krishna Chetana, love is the only element that conquers death. Everything else loses to death.

There is no opposition between life and death. The real opposition is between love and death. How could life and death be opposed? The culmination of life is always in death. Death is the fruit of life, its outcome. Life is the journey; death is the destination. How can they be in conflict? Inevitably, every life dissolves into death. Therefore death is the supreme peak of life; it cannot be life’s enemy.

With what then is death at odds? With love. Love is the only element before which death is defeated, to which death surrenders. Understand this. That is why, in one whose heart is filled with love, fear dissolves—because all fear is the fear of death. And in the life of one who is fearful, the seed of love cannot sprout. The fearful person will hoard wealth, chase position and prestige—but will shy away from love. The lover will pour everything into love, will lay everything at love’s feet—position, prestige, wealth, and if needed, even life.

Only love knows that even life can be surrendered. For love knows there is life beyond life; that even when this life is dropped, the eternal life still remains.

But very few come to know love—just as very few come to know meditation. Those who have known meditation have known the Divine—in solitude, in aloneness. Those who have known love have known the Divine—in relationship, in togetherness.

Love is to be absorbed into another in such a way that not a trace of twoness remains—no division, no curtain, no veil. When two people lay their souls utterly bare before each other—in truth, in authenticity; just as they are, they stand before each other—then in that unparalleled moment, the Divine happens. This is one method for the Divine to happen.

The second method is this: if love is not possible, if it feels difficult to reveal yourself completely before anyone—if modesty, hesitation, some inner conflict, some doubt persists; if even your openness would carry a touch of performance, a hint of hypocrisy—then the other path is meditation: fall silent, become still, and dive into your aloneness.

In both, the same event occurs. When two are in love, the ego dissolves; when one is in meditation, the ego dissolves. Both love and meditation are arts of dissolving the ego. Some will dissolve through love; some will dissolve through meditation. For a man it is easier to dissolve through meditation; for a woman it is easier to dissolve through love. For a man, at most ten percent of life can become love; ninety percent does not easily become love. For a woman, ninety percent of life can easily become love—there is difficulty only in the remaining ten percent.

The inner constitutions of woman and man are different. Therefore those who have known the Divine—if they were men, they knew through meditation; if they were women, they knew through love. But do not cling rigidly to the man–woman divide. There are many men with hearts capable of loving like women, and many women with minds capable of thinking like men. Then the difference shifts accordingly.

Meera knew—through love, through devotion. Lalla knew—through meditation. Lalla is a woman and Meera is a woman; yet Lalla is a woman in the manner of Mahavira—almost a new advent of Mahavira. In the history of humanity’s ascetic path, Lalla is the only woman who remained naked. Meera knew through love—dissolved in Krishna.

So it is with men as well: Buddha knew through meditation; Chaitanya through love. Buddha became more and more, utterly alone in meditation. Chaitanya became intoxicated in dance, in Krishna’s love—so utterly immersed that nothing of the male was left in Chaitanya. Thus, though Chaitanya is a man and Meera a woman, both are travelers of the same path. And though Lalla is a woman and Mahavira a man, both are travelers of the same path. So I am not speaking of a physical difference between man and woman; I am speaking of the difference in your inner arrangement.

Whoever can know through love needs no meditation. Only those who cannot know through love need meditation. And let me tell you, meditation is secondary—number two. It is a bit dry—without love’s greenery, without love’s flowers, without love’s waterfalls.

When I initiated Chetana into sannyas, I named her “Krishna Chetana”; I gave her husband the name “Krishna Chaitanya.” The names carried a hint, a pointer—that both were to drown in love. And they understood. Both were to become so immersed in each other’s love that two would not remain—only one. In that context Chetana has asked: you said, “Before you I have brought together two such pairs; you are the third.”

There are many “pairs” in the world—mostly in name only. Once in a while there is a true pair. To be husband and wife is easy; to be a pair is difficult. Do you understand the meaning of “pair”?—those who are truly joined. Not by legal arrangement, not by social rule—but joined at the innermost core. Two bodies, but one life-breath. Such pairs are rare. Such pairs make their love itself the path to the Divine. In the lives of such pairs, the eternity of love descends. Then love is not ephemeral—here today, gone tomorrow; here now, gone the next moment. Then love does not come in passing seasons. Love becomes a steadiness. In Chetana there is such steadiness. That is why I said it.
And you asked, Chetana, “But Osho, I have no worthiness at all...” That is your worthiness. The lover never believes he has any worthiness; that is precisely his quality. The lover is humble. The lover is egoless. The lover cannot proclaim, “I am a lover.” The knower can proclaim; the lover cannot. The lover says, “I am not.” In that very not-being lies all his worthiness. The lover is empty, a vacant vessel. Into that empty vessel, slowly, slowly, the nectar of the divine drips and fills.
You asked, “I have no worthiness at all—then how did you choose me?” Precisely for that! If there were worthiness, I would not say such a thing. There is no worthiness, not even the feeling of worthiness. That is why, Chetana, she has come so quickly, so effortlessly, very close to me; it is not even that she has made some special effort. As if the effort of many lifetimes is behind it—its fruition has come. When she comes near me, she cannot speak a word, except tears. When she comes close she is thrilled; every hair on her body begins to dance. She loses her senses. Of the wine I was speaking—no sooner do I call her than she can no longer remain in control. An ecstasy from the other shore seizes her. These are the signs of the lover, the signs of the intoxicated one.

From her heart I have always heard such a call:
Come, sit awhile today in the dense bower of this mango grove,
in my mango grove today!
Even the scorching noon is shy to enter here,
the blazing noon is abashed!
The hot wind roars and roars,
fire rains upon the earth,
moments, instants are burning—come spend a few purposeless moments here;
come, sit awhile today in the dense bower of this mango grove!
This mango grove is utterly lonely,
boundless silence has spread here,
only the cuckoo sings, tuning her voice to the fifth;
graceful one, at this hour come with the stately gait of an elephant into the grove today!
See, the mangoes are swelling with sweetness,
a shiver has arisen in the heart,
an inner tickle says to you: Come, O lord of nectar!
Come simply, modestly smiling, into my mango grove today!

She has never said such things. Such things are not said. Such things reveal themselves unspoken. Such invitations are not given in words. They are given in wordlessness, sent on blank pages. If you write them, they are spoiled. If you write, they become small; if you speak, they become cheap. Only silence can carry so vast an invitation.

Chetana speaks nothing, says nothing; yet her heart says everything. Her unspeaking speaks all.

O my charming Gopal, make your anklets tinkle a little,
let the jhun-jhun, khun-khun, tun-tun-dhun rain down their melodies here;
let anklets and little bells resound, let the women of Braj overflow with joy—
I am at your feet; tinkle a little, sway through the courtyard of my home.
My ears are thirsty, my heart is restless to hear the music of your anklets;
ah, stubborn one, pause a moment—today ease a little of the heart’s pain.
In each single jingle, many, many longings are entangled;
what do you know, cruel one, what new pains have awakened!
The last poor shred of modesty has flowed away in streams of tears;
peering and peering, the path keeps watch in hard, moment-to-moment waiting.
At the hut’s doorway I have sat, ears strained for so long—
pitiless one, now at least come, in the shade of this thick cuckoo-song.

Silently, Chetana keeps moving closer. Many other friends too are moving closer, silently. No proclamation, no beating of drums. Let it happen so that no one even knows, not even the sound of footsteps is heard. This is the mark of the vessel. Only the unworthy talk of worthiness. Those afflicted with an inferiority complex are the ones who talk of worthiness. In those who have no inferiority complex—and where love is, where meditation is, what inferiority could remain?—they do not talk of love, they do not talk of meditation. They do not speak of worthiness, they do not speak of qualifications. But their eyes, their tears, say everything—everything that cannot be said.

I have spoken of Chetana knowingly. Among my sannyasins here there are three pairs, in my reckoning—who, if they dissolve into each other, will find the divine. Chetana and Chaitanya are one such pair.

Man is body, mind, soul—and the Divine too! When I say, “Live life in all its dimensions,” I mean: live as body, as mind, as soul, and as the Divine—live in your totality. Let there be no denial, no repudiation. Do not come to think that your God is opposed to your body. If the Divine were the opposite of the body, why would the Divine dwell in the body? If it were the opposite, there would have been no need to descend into flesh. It has descended; there must be a reason. It has descended; there is a mystery in it. Such a long journey—from the invisible to the visible—could not have been for nothing.

So when I say, “Live in all dimensions,” I am saying: do not abandon any limb of life, do not leave anything out, do not break anything off. Do not set one aspect against another. The many limbs of your life are flowers strung on a single garland, threaded on the same string. Your whole life should become a music in which all your instruments—of body, mind, soul, and the Divine—blend and dissolve into one tone. You have to become an orchestra.

Music can be solo too. One man plays only the flute—a solo flautist. But then someone plays the flute with the tabla; the flavor deepens, because the tabla brings its own gesture and mood. Then the instruments increase. Have you seen an orchestra? Scores of instruments play together, and amidst them an invisible harmony holds everything together. The greater the musician, the more instruments he can include—because the vaster his music becomes, the more multi-dimensional it is.

Until now religion has been one-dimensional. Choose one direction and renounce all the rest for its sake. So religious people were produced—but not creative beings. Religious people there were, but they were incomplete, maimed, crippled. Someone had only eyes but no ears; someone had legs but no hands; someone had a tongue but no hands—cripples.

I want to give birth on this earth to a religious person whose eyes are there, whose ears are there, whose hands and feet are there—one who is whole, all-round. But you can be all-round only if you leave nothing out of life; when you include the whole of life; when you become so skillful that even while embracing all of life you are not bound by life.

The body is the temple of the Divine. You have been taught till now that the body is the enemy of God—melt the body, burn it, fast, lash it, keep it in the sun, make it sleep on thorns.

I say: embrace the body. The body is your good fortune; it is the Divine’s gift, prasad. Yes, if you wish, the body can become a gambling den; if you wish, it can become a temple. The house is a house—within it you may gamble, or within it you may worship and pray. But do not become the enemy of the house—just because some people gamble in a house, will you set the house on fire? That would be the gamblers’ mistake, not the house’s. The same house can be made a home of worship; within it the Divine can be installed; from it incense can rise, lamps can be lit; the veena can be played there. It is the same house. A house does not become a gambling den merely because someone gambles there, nor sinful because someone sins, nor evil because someone does evil. The house is neutral; it becomes whatever you make of it. The body is your servant.

I want a religion in which the body is welcomed, embraced, celebrated; a religion that makes the body its wall and foundation; that enjoys the body’s health; that does not deny the body’s delights.

The delights of the body are dear. But you have been told: practice tastelessness. I say to you: cultivate taste. Cultivate such refined taste that even in food you come to taste only the Divine. For all is the Divine—even what you eat is That. Practicing tastelessness means: do not taste your food. But that is not acceptance of the Divine; it is a rejection, a disrespect. “Annam Brahma”—food is Brahman. Taste Brahman in food too. Then the mysteries of the body will enrich you.

So too there are the mysteries of the mind. You listen to music—that is the mind’s dimension. You hum a song—that is the mind’s dimension. The sun rises and you behold its beauty—that is the mind’s dimension. You see a beautiful statue or a painting and are overwhelmed—that is the mind’s dimension. You see a beautiful woman or a handsome man and for a moment you stop short, wonderstruck—that is the mind’s dimension. Do not deny it, for even in that woman the Divine has offered a glimpse.

In the morning sun it is the same One who rises; in the flower the same One blossoms; the radiance on a beautiful face is His; in beautiful eyes it is He who peeks out.

There is a religion that says: if your eye beholds a beautiful woman, pluck your eye out. People say Surdas gouged out his own eyes for this reason. I do not believe it; the story must be false. Surdas’ poetry tells me he is a connoisseur of beauty; there is such relish in his verse that I cannot accept the tale. History may insist, people may say what they will; for me the inner evidence is decisive: Surdas could not pluck out his eyes on seeing a woman. Yes, this I will say: on seeing any woman, Surdas would be reminded of Krishna—this is true. Whether there is an outer proof or not, I do not rely on history; my grounds are inner. I know from within that Surdas cannot tear out his eyes; if he did, he would become worth two pennies—he would lose all value. Surdas has value precisely when, even in the most beautiful woman, he glimpses the same Divine, is overwhelmed, is filled with joy. In the tinkle of a beautiful woman’s anklets, he hears the jingle of Krishna’s own anklets; it is His ghungroo that rings.

In every flute you should come to hear His note. Then you have assimilated the mind’s dimension too.

Then the soul has two dimensions—love and meditation. If you can, absorb both together. If you cannot, absorb one; the other will follow like a shadow. Whoever has loved will become meditative, and whoever has meditated will be filled with love.

But your so-called monks, if they meditate, love is not visible in their lives. This is the proof that their meditation is false. What kind of tree is it on which no flowers bloom? What kind of night is it that is not studded with stars? What kind of veena is it in which no note awakens? What kind of meditation is it from which no stream of love flows? What kind of Himalaya is it from which the Ganges does not descend? It will be false, cinematic. They have sat by force, imposing meditation upon themselves. The inner current has not yet risen; the inner Ganga has not yet come down. Otherwise it would flow as love.

Buddha has said: where there is meditation, there will inevitably be compassion. If there is no compassion, know that there is no meditation. Compassion is the touchstone—Buddha’s word for love.

And if someone says, “I have attained love,” and yet there is no concentration of meditation in his life, no absorption, no stillness, no silence of meditation—understand that he has not yet found love. Under the name of love he must have worshiped lust; under the name of love he must have installed desire in his temple. He has not known love yet; he has been deceived by the counterfeit of love, caught in love’s delusion. For when love’s Divine descends, meditation’s peace comes with it—inevitably and inescapably.

When love comes, meditation accompanies it like a shadow; when meditation comes, love follows like a shadow. They are two sides of the same coin. If you bring one side home, do you think the other will not come along? It comes hidden behind it—it must. The two sides can only exist together; there is no way to separate them. This is the soul’s dimension.

Then there is the dimension of the Divine. The dimension of the Divine means: “I” am not. Up to the soul, a little sense of “I,” a little I-ness remains—pure I-ness, very beautiful, very peaceful, full of delight. The poison of ego is gone—like a snake whose poisonous fangs have been pulled, though the snake is still there. Or as a rope that has burned, but its twist remains. The twist is of no use now—only ash; touch it and it will crumble. Yet even in burnt rope the kink remains.

The Divine’s dimension is: where the “I” dissolves utterly; where the drop falls into the ocean. Up to the soul, the drop is purified, perfectly pure. Only when it is pure can it fall into the Divine. But only when it falls into the Divine does the drop become the ocean; the small becomes the vast.

These are the four dimensions. Some people have stopped at the body. We call them atheists, materialists. Have compassion for them. They came to the temple and sat on the steps; they built their house on the steps. They thought they had arrived at the temple. Do not be angry with them; have compassion. Perhaps they had never even seen steps before! Even the portico is so lovely that they thought they had reached home. They sat down and began to live there. The whole building stood ahead, but they never even lifted their eyes toward it. They are little children who got lost in their toys. A truly religious person is not against such people. A truly mature person is not against children’s toys. If someone is against children’s toys, know that he is not mature.

Mulla Nasruddin said to his psychiatrist, “There’s something wrong with my child. You’ll have to fix him—please do something.”

The doctor asked, “What’s wrong? What’s the trouble?”

Mulla said, “He carries his doll around all day long.”

The psychologist said, “He’s a child; there’s nothing wrong with that, no disease. He’ll grow up; let him play.”

Mulla said, “That’s fine—but then I don’t get a chance to take the doll. If he holds it all day, when will I get it?”

His objection itself shows that Mulla is not yet grown up!

If a religious person becomes the enemy of atheists, understand that he is not religious. He too is tangled in the portico and the steps; he has not gone within. The quarrel is still at the entrance. A truly religious person will feel compassion for the one stuck on the steps. He will ponder: what can I do, by what means can I call him inside?

Atheists come to me and say, “We are atheists. Will you give us sannyas?”

I tell them: I will give it to you first—before the theists. But they say, “We are atheists; can an atheist become a sannyasin?” I say: sannyas is such a great thing that it can also absorb atheists. Don’t worry.

You don’t say to a physician, “I am ill—can the ill also be treated? Can medicine be given to the sick?” And if a doctor were to tell you, “First get well, then I will give you medicine,” what would you think of such a doctor?

I embrace the atheist instantly. I have been waiting for the moment he agrees, so I can invite him into the house.

Some people are entangled at the level of the body. They have made taste itself the goal of life, or money, or power—sex and indulgence the beginning and the end. Opposite them are your so-called religious people who keep fighting them—not only outwardly, but inwardly too. If those people are intoxicated with food, these cultivate tastelessness. But whether you are mad after food or mad against food, there is no difference between you; you are cousins, birds of a feather, two coins from the same purse.

One man is crazed after a woman; another runs away from women and heads for the Himalayas. They are in the same boat; both are fixated on woman—or on man.

Then there are those who get stuck in the mind. They climb a little higher than the steps, reach the threshold, but get entangled there. For them the juices of the mind are everything—poetry, music, literature, art—and they get lost there. They went a little way, but not far enough.

Then some get stuck in the soul. They say: there is no God beyond; there is nothing further—everything has been attained. A sense of their own being has dawned—the drop has become pure—and they say, “What more is needed?” They have gone far inside, but not all the way. For the drop still has one more step to take; the drop must become the ocean.

When I say, “Live in all dimensions,” I mean: let the portico be yours, the threshold be yours, the inner rooms be yours, and the inmost sanctum of your home—the garbha-griha where the Divine abides—be yours too.

Live in all forms. Only remember one thing: by every form let the Divine be realized. Keep joining everything to the center; then there is no hindrance.

O friend! If you wish to seek “Josh,”
You’ll find him in the last watch of night
within the circle of the gnostics.
And in the morning, as the beholder of nature’s splendor,
you’ll find him by the gardens’ edge, in the courtyards of the wild.
At noon, bewildered by secrets and meanings,
you’ll find him in the city of arts, in the alleys of the literati.
At dusk, that God-intoxicated reveler of the tavern—
you’ll find him at the house of the merciful wine-seller.
And at night, in the intimacies of tresses and cheeks,
you’ll find him in feasts of joy, in the lanes of the beautiful.
And if there is some tyranny somewhere, that helpless servant—
you’ll find him, like the dead, in a desolate house.
O friend! If you wish to seek “Josh”...

The poet is saying: if you want to find me…

O friend! If you wish to seek “Josh,”
you’ll find him in the last watch of night among the mystics’ circle.
And in the morning,
as the lover of nature’s spectacle,
you’ll find him by the gardens or in the wilderness—
for he is a lover of nature; he will be found either in gardens or in forests.

And in the morning, as the seer of nature’s vision,
you’ll find him near the meadows, in the courtyards of the wild.

And by day, lost in secrets and meanings,
you’ll find him in the city of arts and the lanes of men of letters—
immersed in scriptures, in the depths of words, in poetry and its felt meanings,
in the tussles of language, in the thinkings of philosophy.

And by day, you’ll find him where the assemblies of the learned are,
where thoughtful people sit and rise,
where the heights of reasoning, reflection, and contemplation are touched—
seek him in the lanes of the literati.

And in the evening, he is a God-intoxicated drunkard.
If you seek him at dusk, you will find that reveler in only one place:
in the house of the compassionate wine-seller,
in some tavern.

And at night he is a lover of beauty. If it is night—
seek him where festivals of joy are happening,
where beautiful women dance, where beauty is being celebrated—
you will find him there,
in the intimacies of tresses and cheeks,
in gatherings of delight, in the streets of the fair ones.

And if you get word that someone is in distress, oppressed, in pain—
and if there is coercion somewhere, some helpless one—
you will find him, filled with compassion,
in some abandoned house, like one among the dead.

Life should be lived in all its dimensions. This whole existence is yours—its beauty yours, its taste yours, its wine yours. Declare your lordship. That is why I call my sannyasins “Swami”—declare your proprietorship. This whole existence is yours. I don’t know why the ancients called a renunciate “Swami”—they meant something else; I mean something else. I mean: you are the master of this whole existence. It is all yours. These moons and stars revolve for you; these trees are green for you; these flowers bloom for you; these people are for you. This entire existence is for you. Do not cultivate enmity with it and withdraw. Plunge into it, dive deep into it, dissolve into it—and then a richness will arise in your life. That richness is what I call “religion.”

Religion is not meekness, not lowness. Religion is supreme splendor. It is the experience of the Divine. Religion makes a person rich—and then such a miracle is seen that even when a beggar like Buddha walks the road, emperors feel ashamed. Religion enriches a person so much that even if a beggar has the taste of religion, emperors look like two-bit men. And you may heap up the world’s wealth, countless coins—but if you have not tasted all the dimensions of life, if you have not lived life in its totality, if you have not embraced it in its fullness, it is possible you may have all the riches, yet beggary will be in your eyes. You may sit upon the throne, but you will remain a beggar. Kingship belongs only to those who attune their sargam to this existence; whose rhythm is joined to the rhythm of existence; whose dance becomes one with the dance of existence—those who become part of this vast Rasa-leela.

Go little by little, even one step at a time. By single steps, journeys of a thousand miles are completed.

My vision may seem a little difficult for you to understand, because you have lived in negations upon negations upon negations. “No” has become your note, and I am teaching you how to say “Yes.”

If you cannot give love, then at least give me love’s trust.
As a song of worship,
my life-breaths are burning.
These sobbing songs of mine
are like an evening arati.
You are compassionate—I know—
but let me feel it at least once.
If you cannot give love, then at least give me love’s trust.

The lamp is already spent—
tell me, how can the wick still burn?
How long can this heart hold
this inheritance of pain? Tell me.
You give only sorrow—
at least once, give me a little joy.
If you cannot give love, then at least give me love’s trust.

I am not immortal—and yet
my feeling is immortal.
What glows like gold in the fire
is my lovely longing.
Hiding separation in my breaths,
give me one breath of union.
If you cannot give love, then at least give me love’s trust.

I may be a beggar,
yet I have not held out my bowl.
You, the deathless great giver—
have you ever taken heed of me?
This heart-forest is like a void—
give it a spring once at least.
If you cannot give love, then at least give me love’s trust.

If you live life in its totality, that itself becomes your prayer, your worship—and then you will not have to say: If you cannot give love, then at least give me love’s trust. Love will shower—from all four directions, from above and below, from here and there, from outside and within. A flood of love will come. You will not need to ask for trust; love itself will arrive. Experience will arrive. I call that person religious who lives life unconditionally in its wholeness—who rejects nothing, cuts off nothing.

He says: As the Divine has made it, so I will live it wholly, for to cut anything away would be an insult to the Divine, a disrespect. The name of this feeling is theism.

Hypocrisy is utterly weak; there isn’t a trace of strength in it. And there is no attraction in hypocrisy—there is great repulsion in it. But hypocrisy does not walk on its own feet; in fact, it has no feet of its own. Hypocrisy moves under the cover of ideals. Wherever ideals are handed out, hypocrisy will inevitably arise. Hypocrisy is the shadow of ideals; as in the blazing noon, if you walk, your shadow appears. Whoever moves through life with ideals will leave behind the shadow of hypocrisy.

And yes, this is hard to grasp, because we assume ideals and hypocrisy are opposites. They are not opposites; they are companions. Inevitably companions. Create any ideal and, instantly, hypocrisy is born.

What is needed is a religion that is not idealistic but realistic. That is exactly what I am telling you—a realistic religion. Then hypocrisy cannot arise.

Suppose someone tells you, “Don’t take taste in food.” That is an ideal. Such a rule existed in Mahatma Gandhi’s ashram—“aswad-vrata,” a vow of non-taste: do not take taste in food. If you taste, you have fallen from the ideal. Now, what is a person to do who does taste? And taste will come, because your tongue has receptors for taste. Sweet will taste sweet, bitter will taste bitter. Your tongue is alive. Yes, sometimes after a long fever taste does not come, because the tongue becomes dull, its sensitivity is blunted. Do you want everyone’s tongue to become as it is after a long fever? Are you a friend of life or its enemy? Do you worship death or are you a lover of life?

But then a great difficulty arises. If you were in Gandhi’s ashram, you had only two options. One was to somehow destroy the sensitivity of your life. For what applies to the tongue applies to the eyes, to the ears, to all the senses. The very meaning of vows is: slowly, slowly, kill all the senses. What would you do? One way is to destroy the tongue’s sensitivity. Gandhi had devices for that. He would tell everyone to eat neem chutney along with the meal. Now, who makes chutney of neem? And if you eat neem chutney, the taste of the food will certainly die.

A thinker named Louis Fischer has written that he went to visit Gandhi’s ashram—Louis Fischer was one of Gandhi’s admirers. Gandhi seated him beside himself for the meal; neem chutney was a special item. Food was served. The person serving did not serve the neem chutney—thinking, “He’s a newcomer, a guest; giving him neem chutney… he’s not an inmate, he is an honored visitor.” But Gandhi noticed the chutney had not been served and said, “Ah! Give him neem chutney.” So the chutney was brought. Louis Fischer thought it must be a delicacy. Poor fellow, what did he know! He tasted it—poison, pure poison! He was stunned. Gandhi explained, “It is part of the vow of non-taste; it kills the tongue’s taste.”

Louis Fischer thought—being a Western man, moving by calculation—he thought mathematically: “This is a nuisance. The whole meal will be ruined if I have to eat bread and vegetables with this chutney.” He thought the easier way—being a scientific mind—would be to swallow the chutney in one gulp at the start, rinse the mouth with water, and then enjoy the meal. So quickly, somehow bracing himself—saying Ram-Ram—he gulped down the whole clump. But Gandhi was not one to let it pass. He said, “Bring some more. See, I told you! How much he liked the chutney! Bring more chutney!”

And more chutney was served. Now the trick of gulping wouldn’t work. Louis Fischer writes that the entire meal was ruined. But taste did not arise.

One way, then, is this—pathological. And I ask: is the taste of the chutney not a taste? Nobody asked this. Louis Fischer didn’t ask it either. I must ask: is sweetness the only taste? Is bitterness not a taste? If the taste of neem is felt, how is the vow of non-taste accomplished? Yes, the taste of neem—the poison—overpowered and killed other tastes. But how was the vow of non-taste fulfilled? What was fulfilled was the “vow of the taste of neem.” But it is still a vow of taste. It only shows that you are a lover of neem. No detachment has happened; only an attachment to neem has been created.

And I say this attachment is somewhat perverse, unnatural—not spontaneous. Saraha and Tilopa would not support it; I don’t either. No one who proposes a simple, natural life would support it. Give neem to a small child and you will know. Offer neem to a little child; he will spit it out immediately. This makes it clear that it is against nature. No one told the child to spit out neem. You can’t blame me for corrupting him. The child didn’t come to hear me; he wasn’t my sannyasin. The child can’t even speak or read yet. Give neem to a wordless child and he will spit it out. So it is against nature. And to bind yourself to what is against nature is repression.

So, one way—one that leads you toward distortion, toward pathology—will sicken you; it will destroy and fragment the ease and naturalness of your life.

Now the second way: go on taking taste, and tell people, “I do not taste at all.” Then hypocrisy arises. What does hypocrisy mean? It means: I accept an ideal; the ideal is not fulfilled; so I make a false claim that it is being fulfilled—“I do not taste at all.”

Hand people false, impossible ideals and they will become hypocrites; then you abuse them, “You hypocrites!” Let life remain simple and natural; then there is no hypocrisy. Children are not hypocrites. What they like, they say plainly, “I like it.” What they don’t like, they say, “I don’t like it.” We become hypocrites as we become “skilled” in the ways of the world.

A very wealthy guest was to visit Mulla Nasruddin’s home. But there was a danger—Mulla’s young son. The rich man who was coming had a very big nose—so big that you could hardly see anything but the nose. Mulla was worried and so was his wife that the boy might blurt out, “Ah! What a big nose!” They were bringing this rich man home to butter him up; there was some work at stake—what if he got offended! And everyone knew that if anyone mentioned his nose, he would be angry, because his nose was very ugly, very misshapen. So for three or four days both parents coached the boy: “Look, be careful. Do everything, but don’t mention the nose. Don’t even look at the nose. Look here and there—but don’t look at the nose.”

The boy, too, was puzzled: “What is there in that nose!” Three days of instruction! Still the parents were afraid, because children are children. No matter how much you try, it is very difficult to make them hypocrites. Both were suspicious and trembling. Finally the rich man arrived. Mulla welcomed him: “Please be seated.” The wife welcomed him. But both were afraid, keeping an eye on the boy—“He must not look at the nose!” And the boy was staring at the nose alone, looking at nothing else. If they hadn’t forbidden him, perhaps he would have looked elsewhere—maybe he would have glanced once or twice at the nose and thought, “Alright, there are all kinds of things in the world.” Children don’t get such special hang-ups. But he fixed his gaze, never even blinked… after all, he had been coached for three days.

Panic grew. The only consolation was that he wasn’t saying anything. But the worry kept rising. The wife was serving food, but her hands trembled, for the boy was staring only at the nose. She couldn’t even say now, “Don’t look at the nose.” She thought, “Let the guest go, then I will thrash him. We instructed this fool for three days, and he sees nothing else; his eyelids won’t even blink. He is throwing the rich man into confusion.”

Mulla too was muttering to himself, but what could he do? The boy sat right there, staring at the nose. At last the wife managed to get everything served; she felt relieved and finally brought tea. She offered the cup to the rich man. But her mind was stuck there. She said, “How much sugar shall I put in your nose?”

Nose everywhere—nothing but nose. What is hidden cannot be hidden. She set out to say, “How much sugar shall I put in your cup?” But the cup was small and the nose was big. In her mind only one word resounded—“nose”—and the boy stared and stared; the whole business went wrong.

Hypocrisy is born when you impose false ideals. The hypocrisy you see in the world is due to your so-called saints and monks.

Anand Maitreya, you ask: “All the wise have strongly opposed hypocrisy…” If the “wise” only opposed hypocrisy, they were not wise; they were merely scholars. The truly wise are those who have opposed both ideals and hypocrisy. They alone know. For only the one who has opposed ideals has truly opposed hypocrisy: no ideals, no hypocrisy. No bamboo, no flute.

That is why I am not giving you any ideals. This is the foundational understanding of the path of spontaneity. Neither Saraha nor Tilopa give you any ideal. They say: let go of what is useless, the empty rituals. We are not giving you any prescriptive ideal saying you should be such and such. Because if you cannot be, then what will you do? And you will not be able to be—it is certain. Why? Where do ideals come from? How are they born? Understand the process.

Mahavira went naked. Now an ideal arises: whoever wants enlightenment must go naked. That was Mahavira’s own whim; it has no necessary link with enlightenment. It is not a cause of enlightenment that by being naked one becomes enlightened. It was Mahavira’s ecstasy.

Jesus attained without becoming naked. Buddha did, Krishna did. Zarathustra did, Lao Tzu did. Muhammad did. People attained to enlightenment—without nudity! So it was Mahavira’s personal mood. It bears no necessary relation to enlightenment.

You made one lamp round, someone else made it triangular. One made a golden lamp, one earthen, one silver. Someone studded his lamp with diamonds; someone gave it this shape, someone that. Do you think the flame has any necessary relation to the shape of the lamp? Will the flame be different in a golden lamp than in an earthen one? Different in a diamond-studded lamp than in an ordinary brass lamp? The flame is one; the lamps differ. And it is good. Mahavira felt a certain joy; he dropped his clothes. But there is no necessity in this for enlightenment.

Yet the tradition following Mahavira began to think: until you become naked you cannot be enlightened.

I know a Jain monk—Ganesh Varni. His whole life he tried to become a muni. In the Digambara Jain order, a muni means nude. Before that there are steps—one is a brahmachari, then a kshullaka, then an ailaka. These are steps—how many garments you have dropped is the measure. Finally only a loincloth remains; then even the loincloth is dropped; only then one is a muni. Ganesh Varni tried all his life to become a muni, but he could not muster the courage to drop the loincloth. There was no need either. Perhaps he was a modest man; to wander naked in the streets… it didn’t suit him. But in his heart the feeling remained: until I become naked, I haven’t attained. Then, as he lay dying, he became unconscious. While slipping into unconsciousness he said, “Quickly take off my loincloth and my shawl. At least let me die as a muni!” In his unconscious state his shawl and loincloth were removed. In his unconscious state he was initiated as a muni—while unconscious.

What game are you playing? By this logic you could initiate anyone in a hospital—give him a whiff of chloroform, and bestow muni-initiation! Do you think such a man will go to liberation when he dies? But this is how complications arise. Once you grab hold of the idea that without nudity there is no liberation, a snag appears. Now everyone must be naked. And hypocrisy creeps in around nudity.

Mahavira was naked; he slept naked—no bedding, no blanket—no question of it. This suited Mahavira; he had no trouble. But a Digambara Jain monk—he feels cold. People differ.

I know a gentleman whom mosquitoes do not bite. His blood has a scent from which even mosquitoes flee far away. We slept in the same room. He said, “What is the need of a mosquito net?” I said, “But there are so many mosquitoes here!” He said, “Let them be—what can mosquitoes do?” I was astonished. By morning I was covered with bites from head to toe. But not one mosquito bit that gentleman. He said, “They never bite me. It must be your fault somehow. Why would mosquitoes bite you otherwise?”

I went close and smelled his body and said, “I understand. Your body emits a kind of odor that mosquitoes probably don’t like.” After all, mosquito repellents are also based on odors. Studying people like him, whose blood has a certain smell, such ointments are made—you apply them and mosquitoes don’t come; they stay away from that specific scent.

It may be that mosquitoes did not bite Mahavira, so he lived naked at ease. But for the one whom mosquitoes bite, remaining naked will be trouble. Then he will have to resort to mischief. He will hide a mosquito net somewhere, and when everyone leaves, close the door and sleep under the net. Now that is hypocrisy. Mahavira’s body may have been such that he didn’t need clothing, didn’t need a blanket at night. Everyone’s body is different.

But now the Digambara monk is in trouble—what to do? He devises tricks. He cannot be covered with cloth, so the room where he stays is sealed tight—doors and windows all shut so that no air can enter. Then the floor is covered with straw and grass to retain warmth. And when the monk lies down, they heap straw over him so he lies buried in grass. If you ask the Jain monk, “This is no way—so much trouble: close doors and windows, spread piles of grass, then heap it over you—far better to lay a blanket and cover with a blanket; easier, simpler, less hassle”—but he cannot do that. He says, “What have I to do with the grass? I found grass spread there, so I lay down. I didn’t spread it.” Now do you see how hypocrisy is created! “I didn’t spread it!” He won’t spread it himself—so no fault is his. “And when I lay down, people put grass over me—what can I do! I didn’t put it.” This is called hypocrisy.

A gentleman came to see me—a Hindu sannyasi. In Bombay. He came to understand meditation. I said, “A camp is on right now. Come in the morning; do the meditations properly for two-four days, then ask your questions.”

He said, “That is a bit difficult. I may not be able to come.” I asked, “What is the reason?” He said, “The reason is, I do not keep money with me. I have renounced money. I do not touch it with my hand.”

I said, “I don’t understand—what has not touching money got to do with coming to meditate in the morning?”

He said, “You don’t see the point. I’m staying in Ghatkopar. To come from there I’ll need a taxi.”

I asked, “Then how did you come here today?” He said, “This friend with me—he cannot come tomorrow; he has work—he keeps the money. He pays and receives. I don’t touch money.”

I asked, “Where does he get the money?” He said, “The offerings people give me—he keeps that.”

“Offerings are given to you, and another man keeps them! He spends for you. And since he cannot come tomorrow—you cannot come to meditate! What hypocrisy are you running! One man could do the work; you have engaged two! Money is offered to you; nobody offers it to him. He is only an agent. He merely holds your money!”

I asked, “Doesn’t he cheat you—inflate the figures?” He said, “No, I keep the accounts. I can keep accounts. I am not blind.”

You keep the accounts; you do not keep the money—what game is this! And he was thinking he had accomplished some great renunciation. What game is this! How will you make an ideal? You make it by looking at someone else. The moment you do, the trouble begins. No two persons in this world are alike—therefore ideals breed hypocrisy. Individuals are different. If you make Krishna your ideal, you’ll be in trouble—you are not Krishna. If you make Mahavira your ideal, you’ll be in trouble—you are not Mahavira. Mahavira himself did not live by someone else’s ideal; had he tried, he too would have become a hypocrite. He lived out of his spontaneity; hence there was no hypocrisy. Understand this deeply.

Whoever lives spontaneously, with no ideal; who lives from his own nature—not according to some concept; who does not construct a code of conduct but lives from his inner being—there is no hypocrisy in such a life. There cannot be. He simply does what is natural; the question of hypocrisy does not arise. But those who imitate others all become hypocrites.

That is why there is so much hypocrisy in the world: because everyone is imitating—someone Mahavira, someone Buddha, someone Krishna. All of them are bound to become hypocrites.

Therefore I tell my sannyasins: I am not your ideal. Do not try to live in my way. I do not want to be imposed upon you—otherwise you will land in trouble; you will become hypocrites. The way I live is natural to me. I am not living by taking anyone as an ideal.

This is precisely the problem this country has with me: that I am not living by someone’s example; I am living in my own way. The country is upset; they ask, “Ramakrishna Paramhansa lived like this—why are you living like that?” Ramakrishna lived from his own nature; I am living from mine. Neither does Ramakrishna need to live according to me, nor do I need to live according to Ramakrishna.

They ask, “Buddha lived like this; why are you living differently?” As if Buddha had taken a contract that henceforth everyone must live in his way! Then life would become very dull and very hypocritical. Buddha is very lovely, but his very loveliness is that he cannot be reduplicated. No one can be his carbon copy, and whoever tries will be ugly. Carbon copies are always ugly. Be original.

Where will you learn ideals from? Always from the other. And whatever is learned from the other will create hypocrisy. You will not be able to fulfill it, because it will not fit you; you are not like that. You are simply “you.” There has never been anyone like you, nor will there ever be. You have only to live your own nature. Then there will be no hypocrisy.

So you ask, Maitreya, that all the wise have opposed hypocrisy… But if the wise have only opposed hypocrisy, they are not wise. The real wise will oppose hypocrisy later; first they will oppose ideals. Because once the ideal is cut away, the root of hypocrisy is cut. This is what Saraha and Tilopa are saying.

That is why the very names of Saraha and Tilopa have been erased from this land. Because they taught no ideals; they taught freedom. They awakened the within; they did not hand you behavior. They did not give you a “character”; they gave you awareness. They gave you so much awareness that you could live by yourself, and so much strength that even if a thousand obstacles stand in your way, you live in your own way. If you must break, then break—but do not bend; live in your way. If you must perish, perish—but remain yourself as you perish. Do not lose your uniqueness at any price. Make no bargain, no compromise.

That is why Saraha and Tilopa are forgotten; Tulsidas is remembered—memorized—because with him there is talk of ideals and condemnation of hypocrisy. And the irony is that ideals themselves give birth to hypocrisy.

As long as there are ideals in the world, there will be hypocrisy. If you want a non-hypocritical world, bow to the ideals and bid them farewell; then you will see—no hypocrisy. You have never noticed this small, clear, mathematical, scientific fact. You go on imposing ideals.

Every father imposes ideals on his children; every society imposes ideals on its children; every old generation imposes its ideals on the new. And then, when the ideal is not followed, only two options remain: either the person becomes a criminal or he becomes a hypocrite. If he does not follow the ideal, he becomes a hypocrite—he only pretends. And if he is honest, he becomes a criminal. You leave people no alternative; you have set up the gallows—either criminal or hypocrite.

What kind of religion is this! What kind of thinking is this! You have left people only two roads. So some become criminals; some become hypocrites. Both are bad.

Be rid of ideals. Give every child the capacity and the support to be himself. Give so much soul that even if he has to fight the whole world, he fights and stands on his own strength, whatever the price. To live and die in one’s own uniqueness is a thousand times better than the life erected on compromise. Then you will be neither criminal nor hypocrite.

This will make you very uneasy, because you thought that the more ideals spread, the less people would be hypocrites. I say: the more ideals spread, the more people will be hypocrites. Bid farewell to both. At least my sannyasins must bid farewell to both.

Make your own declaration. In that very declaration you begin to come close to God, because it is in your uniqueness that God is hidden.

The fourth question is related to this:

In my view, Murjutra is not a saint at all. Murjutra forces himself upon people—he is violent. You say, “Disciples are such vessels,” and he used to say, “the master’s color should be reflected in them.” Why? Why should the master’s color be reflected in the disciples? The master’s color is the master’s; the disciples’ color should be their own. Why should a rose show up in a jasmine? Why should jasmine show up in champa? Why should anyone show up in anyone? Such insistence is the insistence of the ego.
The ego wants the whole world to become like itself. And whoever is not like me should have no right to live.
Morarji Desai told Swami Krishna Prem and Ma Madhura, “If it were in my hands, I would raze your master’s ashram to the ground.” Why? Whatever does not suit me has no right even to live! This is democracy! And these are the claimants of democracy! “...I would destroy it completely”—this is the desire of the ego, not a virtue.
A true master is one who supports you so that your own color is revealed in you, your own flower blossoms. A true master is one who will not give you his color, even if you beg for it. You will want it, because you always hanker for something cheap. You will want the master to hand over a code of conduct—just give me some five-point program: get up at such-and-such time, wear a braid this long, eat such-and-such food, say this prayer—and everything else will be taken care of. You want something cheap. You don’t want to stake your life.
No true master will let you off so cheaply, and no true master can fulfill your expectations. You want to become a copy of someone. But the true master will awaken you and say that you are yourself. Become yourself! Go toward the divine singing your own song, in your own color, in your own way. Polish your own soul; who knows what will bloom—jasmine, or tuberose, or night queen? Your secret is still hidden. It is not necessary that you are a rose, nor necessary that you are a lotus. What the future will bring cannot be announced; no prophecy can be made.
You are a mystery; your mystery must not be spoiled. And if some master paints you with his own color, how will the color of your soul ever be revealed? The master’s color has been applied—it is like women putting lipstick on their lips; then the natural color of their lips will never show. That the lips should have a rosy hue is understandable—but painted with lipstick! And this falsehood is taken as beauty.
Look at the naivety of women—painting their lips in the market and thinking they are beautiful! It is crude. It is not beauty; it is deadness. And this deadness keeps increasing. Now there are even false eyelashes to stick on; people go out wearing them on their lids. You call this falsehood life! And you carry the same falsehood into the world of religion too.
Mulla Nasruddin got married. Wedding night. Both sat, both anxious. Who should begin? Mulla said, “Forgive me, there is one thing I must tell you now, which I haven’t told you yet—my hair is false. I wear a wig. Better to say it now, how long could this go on! When we were just meeting—on the seashore, in cinema, in hotels—then it was fine to keep the wig on.”
The wife was immediately delighted; she came near and held Mulla’s hand. She said, “You have lifted a burden off me. Then why should I hide anything either!”
Mulla asked, “Meaning?”
The wife said, “My teeth are false. My hair is false. And one leg is false! Now that we’re in love and together, let the truth be told.”
This is how it goes in the outer life. If it goes on outside, let it. But at least don’t let it be so in the inner life. When you sit like Buddha, you’ve put on a wig; when you stand with one leg crossed like Krishna with a flute—you’re fit for a play or a circus, not for life. Life must be true.
I am not willing to accept Murjutra as a saint. Yet many have taken him as one—just as many took Mohandas Gandhi as a mahatma. The two are alike. Their grip is the same. Their line of argument is the same. Murjutra says, “Disciples are vessels...” Vessels! As if disciples have no soul!
“Disciples are such vessels that the master’s color should be reflected in them.” Why? If the master is true, then the disciple’s color will always be the disciple’s. Only false masters paint disciples’ faces. Only false masters turn them into imitations. Only false masters say, “Follow.” True masters say, “Seek your own soul.” True masters give them individuality, not masks.
Murjutra says: Disciples are such vessels in whom the master’s color should be reflected. If, despite the master’s mastery, the expected qualities do not arise in the disciple, then the fault lies with the master.
Who will do the expecting? Each person is so different, and no one has come here to fulfill anyone else’s expectations. Each has to fulfill his own inner being, not someone else’s demands. This is the very misery of our lives: the husband fulfills the wife’s expectations and suffers; the wife fulfills the husband’s and suffers; children fulfill the parents’ and suffer. Everyone is fulfilling someone else’s expectations. When will your own soul be fulfilled? I was a guest in a house. A little boy of the house was sitting with me one morning. I asked him, “What do you plan to become?”
He said, “I’m going mad.”
“Going mad? What happened to you? Madness already!”
“Because,” he said, “my mother wants me to be a musician, my father wants me to be a scientist, my uncle wants me to be an engineer, my aunt wants me to be a doctor. I’m going mad.”
So many expectations—whose will you fulfill? And when all expectations are not fulfilled—and they cannot all be fulfilled—then everyone around you is unhappy with you, everyone is displeased with you.
You know, even after having a son like Buddha, Buddha’s father was not pleased, because his expectation was not met. He expected Buddha to become a world emperor; instead Buddha became a renunciate. Even with a son like Buddha, the father was dissatisfied. Then understand—no one in this world will ever be satisfied. Even Jesus’ father was not satisfied with Jesus, because Jesus’ rebellious words pained him; such a son was not what he had expected.
We are all imposing expectations. At least a master should be one who does not impose expectations. The business of imposing expectations is the very definition of the world. That is the world: the imposition of expectations. A master takes you beyond the world. And there too expectations will be imposed?
“Walk according to me”—who am I? It is my ego that says you should walk according to me. Yes, whatever in me feels dear to you, choose it; what is not dear, drop it. Whatever suits you, receive it; what doesn’t, quietly forget. But in the end you must be yourself.
With a true master, infinite flowers will bloom; each of his disciples will be a unique genius. With false masters there will only be queues of lookalikes—colorless, selfless, without glory, without dignity.
Murjutra says: “If, despite the master’s mastery, the expected qualities do not arise...” A true master doesn’t expect. He gives; he doesn’t demand. He pours out; he doesn’t ask for returns. He has love; he shares it. But because of love he does not bind you—“Now you must do this. Look, I have loved you so much; now you must behave thus!” Whoever speaks this way is neither a true master, nor wise, nor has he known. He is an egotist. He is a politician in disguise. He is looking for followers, not disciples.
“And he used to say that if this doesn’t happen, the fault lies with the master.” This too is ego. If you cannot become like me—first of all, the very expectation was wrong—then if you don’t become like me, the fault is the master’s! This is ego taken to its limit! Will you grant the disciple any dignity at all? You wouldn’t give him the dignity of being right; at least give him the dignity of being wrong—won’t you even allow that much freedom? You have taken on the entire contract! You have left nothing to the disciple. As if the disciple has no soul! As if the disciple were a canvas—you painted a picture; if it turned out well, the credit is yours; if it didn’t, the discredit is yours. The disciple is not a canvas. The disciple is a soul. The divine is hidden within him too. What kind of mistreatment is this?
But Murjutra carried on such mistreatment. You may not know much about Murjutra, but know that Mahatma Gandhi’s style was the same. If a disciple made a mistake in his ashram, Gandhi would punish himself. What a trick! And what “mistakes”! Someone drank tea—what a sin! Because no one had the right to drink tea; tea is a sin! Tea and sin... Will you allow a man to live or not? Then living itself becomes a sin. Such expectations—and when such expectations exist, understand that the master must keep watch. He becomes a kind of detective—prowling to find who is doing what, who drank tea, who smoked, which man talked with which woman. He has to keep watch over all this. It turns into a kind of espionage.
This was the business in Gandhi’s ashram. If it was discovered which woman was talking to which man—produce them at once. Who drank tea—bring him here. And he would punish himself: he would fast for three days. This is a very devious way to torture someone. Someone drank tea, you fasted three days; think a little about that person—you are insulting him brutally! You are plunging him into guilt! The whole ashram will look at him: “There he goes; our revered master has been hungry three days because of him. And what did he do—just for a sip of tea he is causing the Mahatma such pain!”
Think of his condition—he becomes the object of blame. All eyes turn to him, all fingers point at him. This is violence. It would have been better if you had slapped him once—at least his dignity would have remained; the matter would have ended. Instead, you slapped yourself; you did not grant him even that much respect! And by slapping yourself you so humiliated him that he will now feel like an insect—“I am such a worm I could not resist the taste of tea, and my master fasts for three days. I am a worm, a sinner; he is a Mahatma!” You turned him into a worm.
These are not the marks of true masters. True masters awaken the divine even in worms. These are the marks of false masters, who belittle your soulful individuality so much—so small, so humiliated, so guilt-ridden—that you turn into insects.
Know him as a true master in whose presence you feel ennobled; in whose presence skies you never knew within you begin to appear. Know him as a true master in whose presence the awareness of your own greatness dawns in you, the remembrance of your boundlessness, the recollection of your divinity.
But such people—Murjutra or Mahatma Gandhi—are not true masters. They are clever politicians. They know how to tighten a man’s neck, how to press him down, how to harass him, and how to drag him along by force.
In Gandhi-ji’s ashram, if a young man and woman fell in love, a great calamity had occurred—as if love were something unnatural! And if he did arrange the marriage, there were conditions before the wedding. First condition: for two years you may not speak to or meet anyone—fulfill this condition, then the marriage will be done, so you can prove your love is real. Now for two years they are thrown into torture—they cannot meet, they cannot speak, they cannot write letters. And now there will be spying, because if in those two years a letter is written, or they meet somewhere, or glance at each other in a meeting, or sit together in satsang, or touch—then the spying will commence. Prove your love for two years. And if they do, Gandhi will get them married; and while blessing the marriage he will also make them vow lifelong celibacy. You will think this is madness. And now, in front of thousands, they are trapped; they came for blessings, and the blessing is: now both of you swear that lifelong, you will observe celibacy. Then why, sir, did you get them married at all? This is even worse. If food is placed before you and you sit fasting, then why place the plate at all?
I was a guest at one of Vinoba’s ashrams. A young woman came to me and said, “I will go mad. Vinoba-ji did get me married, but made us take a vow of lifelong celibacy. Things have become so bad we are going deranged. Better if the marriage had not happened. We cannot even sleep in the same room, because he does not permit it. So my husband sleeps in another room; I sleep in one. And even in this there is danger—the surge of desire may arise! We have vowed lifelong celibacy. What if at night we get up and go to each other’s room...”
I asked, “What have you done then?” She said, “We were told the solution: I lock my door from my side and throw the key into his room. The key remains in his room—he cannot open because the lock is here. The lock is in my room—I cannot open because I have no key.”
Now look—could there be an easier way to torture two people? And those who must make such arrangements—locking the door and throwing the key across—can they sleep at night? I told that young woman, “If Vinoba-ji—a baba—has given you this trouble, I—another baba—now free you from it. Hand me both the lock and the key, and I will teach you to live a lifelong love-filled life. Then, if celibacy blossoms out of that love, let it blossom—good. But what you have is not celibacy; it is derangement.”
There are great difficulties. If the master begins to torture himself, the disciple suffers very much—“Because of me my master tortures himself; now whatever he says, accept it.” Right or wrong—there remains no room to even consider. After all, a disciple loves his master; that is why he has come to him. His very love says, “All right, accept even this much.”
Murjutra says that the master should hold himself guilty; therefore he would punish himself before punishing the disciple. This is a violent tendency. These are not the marks of true masters; these are the marks of the ignorant. He must have been troubled himself; he is troubling others. He has known nothing; he can give no one anything.
You who have come to me—I respect you, therefore I do not give you conduct. In my eyes you have as much worth as the divine itself, not a bit less. Therefore I give you no ideals. And I say to you: you are your own master. If you must err, err; if you must do right, do right. I will neither punish myself because of you nor will I make you suffer. If you err, the error itself will punish you—that is enough. If you err, you will feel pain; that pain itself is enough to awaken you. If even that is not enough, then nothing else can awaken you. And if you do right, there will be joy; that joy is reward enough. If that reward does not fill your heart with happiness and celebration, then no reward in this world can be of any use to you.
I give you complete freedom. My sannyasin is a free person. He has his own privacy. Over his privacy I lay no imposition from my side.
I open my heart before you; whatever feels dear to you, choose it; what doesn’t, don’t. If you don’t choose, you are not offending me. If you do, you are not pleasing me. My joy is in giving it to you. Your joy is to choose from it what serves you.
And then you must walk in your own way, live in your own way. Because you must become that which you were born to become. You will have to answer before the divine whether you became yourself or not. You will have to answer only this: did you authentically come to the flowering of your own soul? Did your flower blossom or not? The divine will not ask whether you imitated someone else. He will ask: if you were jasmine, did you become jasmine? If you were a rose, did you become a rose? If you were a lotus, did you become a lotus?
This alone is my prayer to you: become what you are—jasmine, lotus, rose, ketaki—be that; for only thus can you be offered at the feet of the divine.
That alone is worship. That alone is prayer.
That is all for today.