Sahaj Yog #18

Viyogi! First drop this illusion that any country is a land of rishis and sages. Neither do rishis belong to any country, nor does any country belong to rishis. Those who go beyond country and time—only they are rishis. A rishi cannot be Indian; and if he is, know that he is not a rishi. A rishi does not even identify with his own body—how will he identify with a nation? One who knows himself to be other than the body—the soil so near—will certainly know himself to be other than the soil of the earth as well.

No rishi is Indian, no rishi is Iranian, no rishi is Arab. A rishi is born in the state of witnessing. At the summit of witnessing, all identifications fall away—of body, caste, class, color, mind. There remains only the shimmering flame of consciousness. Does consciousness have a country, a mine or thine? Consciousness is all-pervading.

Let me repeat: rishis and sages do not belong to any country, nor is there any country of rishis and sages. Break this delusion, because it feeds nothing but the ego. The feeling that “this is the land of rishis” nourishes your ego. It gives you the illusion that you are superior to others. And the illusion of being superior to others is irreligious—it is sin. This illusion has tortured humanity for centuries. Whoever believed that religion is his ancestral property became a source of injury to others. Whoever had the notion, the identity, that “my book is the true book, my country the true country”—such a one found license to oppress others, even “for their own good.” He burned mosques, broke temples, torched churches, razed gurdwaras. Whoever fell into the illusion “religion is with us” naturally concluded that others have no religion—so they must be given religion. And if they won’t take it directly, then it must be forced on them. If they won’t accept with understanding, then give it on the edge of the sword; but give religion we must. Even if their lives are lost in the giving, so be it—whether they want it or not...

The ego is very subtle and looks for very skillful paths. To hide itself, the ego clothes itself in such garments that you cannot recognize it. The ego is a great impersonator! And the finest garments the ego has found to hide itself in are religious garments—Hindu, Christian, Muslim, Jain, Buddhist. Hide yourself... It is very easy to hide in religious garb. If the devil had to hide anywhere, he would find no better places than temples and mosques, gurdwaras and churches. Because there no one will even suspect him. The devil cannot hide in the marketplace, for there everyone is full of doubt, everyone walks alert. The devil hides behind the priest. The devil hides behind the Vedas. It is said the devil too quotes the scriptures. Scriptures are a very convenient arrangement.

I have heard: A man attained to knowing. The devil’s disciples were thrown into a panic. For whenever someone attains to knowing, it strikes at the devil’s business. The disciples ran to their master and said, “Do something—quickly do something. A man has become enlightened. Do you see him there on the earth, sitting under that tree, how luminous, how radiant! He will ruin our entire trade.”

The devil said, “Don’t worry. So long as there are priests and pundits, we need have no concern. Just wait. We need not interfere at all. Very soon the scholars and priests will gather around him. Soon a temple will be built. Soon a scripture will be composed. Soon a religion will be born. The priests and pundits are with us. So do not fret about the odd one or two who become buddhas. To cover their light, the pundits and priests are enough.”

You say: It is unbelievable that in this land of rishis and sages someone like you should be so mistreated! But this is how it has always been; there is nothing new in it. Do you think the people who gave Socrates hemlock were bad people? They were the very people you call good. They were not murderers; they were respected householders. No criminals. They knew the scriptures, they followed rules and norms. It was they who were troubled by Socrates. Why would criminals be troubled? Why would a prostitute, a thief, a gambler, a drunkard be troubled by Socrates? Socrates spoke of truth; therefore only those who were doing the business of untruth in the name of truth would be troubled.

Those who crucified Jesus were good people—so-called good people, respected, honored, leading figures of society. Judges, priests, men of learning together gave Socrates hemlock.

Who killed Jesus? Those among the Jews most learned in scripture—the rabbis, the religious leaders, the rishis and sages of the Jews—they crucified him.

And who cut off Mansur’s hands and feet? The irreligious? You would be mistaken. The religious! Those who thought they knew what religion is. Those who recited the Quran, who invoked Muhammad at every turn—they did it. They killed a second man like Muhammad, Mansur, in Muhammad’s very name! They tormented another messiah like Muhammad—invoking Muhammad’s name—Muhammad must have wept bitterly, wherever he was, when Mansur was cut to pieces, his hands and feet severed, his eyes gouged out. If there was anyone in this world after Muhammad with a capacity like Muhammad’s, it was Mansur. But who killed him? Those deluded that they were Muhammad’s partisans.

Rishis and munis—your so-called pundits and priests... they have a vast net! So believe it or not, this is what has always happened with buddhas and mahaviras; it will happen again. Man simply does not change! Up to now there hasn’t been much mistreatment—wait and watch what all happens...

In the new issue of Current, some offspring of the rishis and sages, some worshipper and guardian of Indian culture, has appealed to the government that I be expelled from the country forthwith. Not only that—it did not satisfy him. The heart of Indian culture was not filled by that alone. The progeny of rishis and sages was not content with merely expelling me—they also suggested that my tongue be cut out so I cannot speak anywhere, and my hands be cut off so I cannot write! Ah, blessed land, Bharat! Ah, sacred land, Bharat! Where even gods long to be born... They must long to be born only if they are to have their tongues cut and their hands and feet chopped off! And these are the guardians of culture!

Marvel rather at whether man will ever change! Do not marvel that this land of rishis and sages mistreats you. Marvel at whether man will ever change! This is exactly what you did with Mansur—cut out his tongue, severed his hands, gouged out his eyes.

In the twentieth century, in a democratic country—which is under the delusion that it is the world’s largest democracy—people give such advice openly in newspapers, and it is printed! And no one is troubled, no one is restless! “His tongue should be cut out, his hands chopped off. And even then he must not be allowed to remain in the country. Perhaps he may signal with his eyes and corrupt people or incite them.” And you call such people the progeny of rishis and sages! ...The owls died, leaving their brood behind. You take these sons of owls to be the offspring of rishis and sages? If only it were that easy to be heirs to the rishis!

But remember, among your so-called rishis and sages not all are rishis and sages. A rishi is a rare being. To be a rishi requires a heart in which God’s poetry begins to blossom. Rishi means poet—not an ordinary poet, an extraordinary one. The ordinary poet gets an occasional glimpse of beauty; the rishi is bathed in an unbroken stream of beauty, twenty-four hours a day. The poet glimpses from afar the snow-clad peaks; the rishi dwells there. For the poet, moments of poetry come and go; the rishi lives poetry.

What is poetry? Where the ego has dissolved, where a person has become nothing but a hollow bamboo... and the divine begins to flow through that bamboo, the bamboo becomes a flute! Rishi means the one through whom God speaks.

Pundits are not rishis. Those through whom the Upanishads have flowed are rishis. Those who write commentaries and explanations on the Upanishads are not rishis. Those from whom the Vedas were born are rishis—but do not mistake your Dvivedis, Trivedis, and Chaturvedis for rishis.

Who is a muni? One who has dropped his hold on words, on scripture, on doctrine. A suchness of silence has descended, a profound quiet; an emptiness has spread within him so that only the resonance of the void remains... If such a one speaks, his voice issues from the void. It is not his own voice; it is a voice from the sky—revelation, proclamation, impersonal, not of man... Now and then a Buddha, a Mahavira...

But you pelted Buddha with stones. You hurled abuses at him. You hounded Mahavira from one village to the next. Mahavira is a muni. He remained silent for twelve years. In his silence you tormented him perhaps as no one else has been tormented. He could not speak—and people hammered nails into his ears to make him speak! He was driven from village to village because he was naked. Mahavira was so innocent he let his clothes fall away—and with the clothes, all your hollow “civilization” fell away. When clothes fall, your civilization collapses.

Your civilization is stuck to clothing. This is my experience too. The moment the clothes drop, you become something else entirely. The moment clothes drop, the whole machinery of your so-called hypocrisy breaks down. You re-enter the world of animals and trees. You become innocent again—like Adam returning to God’s garden!

That is why in the group therapies in this ashram there is an emphasis on nakedness. As soon as clothing drops, astonishing results are seen. Modesty goes, inhibition goes... and all your concepts of hiding and protecting yourself, all the coverings you had wrapped around for security—they drop too.

Clothes are symbols. There are clothes beneath clothes; they all must be stripped away. Man has become like an onion... layer upon layer, garment upon garment, mask upon mask. You have to go on uncovering. You have to go on peeling the onion... And when you peel an onion, tears fall from the eyes—there is pain too. And you have to keep peeling until only emptiness remains in your hand. That very emptiness is silence.

Mahavira was such a muni. He dropped all clothes, all conditionings, all civilization. Because what he had not found among men, he found among trees and animals—by living as they live. Trees, animals, birds are still limbs of nature. A muni is one who again becomes a limb of nature—yes, with one difference: animals are limbs of nature in unconsciousness; the muni becomes a limb of nature consciously.

Understand: language itself has put you in turmoil. Only by dropping language will you go beyond turmoil. Who created your differences and divisions? Someone says, “I am Muslim,” someone says, “I am Hindu”—the moment it is said, division is there. If both sit in silence, how can there be division? If both sit silently, how will you know who is Hindu, who is Muslim, who is Sikh? One says, “I accept the Veda,” another says, “I accept the Dhammapada,” another says, “I accept the Gita”—division begins. One says, “I believe in God like this,” another says, “I believe in God like that”—divisions begin. All divisions are of language. If language drops, non-division arises.

Muni means one who has let language drop. And you take your so-called linguists to be munis, wise men, pundits, men of insight. Because of these very troublemakers the black shadow of a curse hangs over this world.

Now look: the gentleman who has given this suggestion—with great religious feeling, with great religious fervor—that my tongue and my hands should be cut off. There is a great religious intoxication in this—he has been seized by it! And it did not even occur to him what he was saying! Are these the signs of a religious person—that tongues be cut out, hands chopped off? If this tongue belongs to anyone, it belongs to God. If these hands belong to anyone, they belong to God. Whosever tongue you cut, you cut the tongue of God. Whosever hands you sever, you sever His very hands. You did not kill Mansur—you struck down “His” voice. You did not crucify Jesus—you crucified His very form, His very descent. You did not give Socrates poison—the poison still rests in God’s throat. His throat is blue for this very reason. He became Neelkanth! All your poison reaches His throat. Whomever you make drink it—every throat is His.

Yet it is not that in the noisy horde of the false, hollow protectors of this pundit culture there are no true people. There are true people too, dear souls too—those with a touch of the muni’s hue! Those with a glimmer of the rishi’s aura! It is not a night of total darkness; a few stars do twinkle here. Therefore there is a little hope. Therefore one need not be utterly despairing about man.

Yesterday I received a letter. Yesterday I read that article in Current, and yesterday I received a letter. Balance was restored. My wavering trust in man steadied. In Ajmer is the most revered dargah of India’s Muslims—the dargah of Khwaja Moinuddin Chishti. The head of that Dargah Sharif is S. Ayaz Maharaj. You may be a little surprised—S. Ayaz is a Muslim name—and “Maharaj”! Because Khwaja Moinuddin Chishti’s dargah is equally dear to Hindus and Muslims. It should be so. That is why the head of the dargah is also called “Maharaj.” There Hindus worship, and Muslims worship. I was surprised! Yesterday S. Ayaz Maharaj’s letter came and I was very surprised. In the letter he wrote, “I have heard only one of your discourses on tape—the tenth talk of The Secret of the Secrets—and I have gone mad with love! Will you accept me as your disciple? I cannot bear the delay. I did not even know you existed. Call me. I have no worthiness, but will you accept me as your disciple?” He has repeated it again and again.

S. Ayaz will get into trouble! I have written back that he should come. I am for mad lovers like you. But he will get into trouble! The thousands of Muslims who revere and follow him will be greatly enraged. But the man seems courageous.

There are always a few people—call them rishis, call them munis—who have eyes. Then whether they are among Hindus, Muslims, or Christians makes no difference. Only those who have eyes will be able to recognize me. S. Ayaz could understand—because he has a Sufi heart. And had he not been able to understand me, it would have proved he did not have a Sufi heart. What I am saying is the very essence of the Sufis, the essence of the bhaktas, the quintessence of all the knowers. In it is the note of the Quran, the tone of the Veda, the voice of the Dhammapada, the shadow, the imprint of the Bible.

I am not speaking for any one country, one religion, one caste. This whole earth is my own. This entire expanse is mine. And so should it be for you. Drop this talk that “this is the land of rishis and sages.” Now the whole earth is ours.

And believe this: it is people of this kind who have been destroying religion. It seems unbelievable because our conception of religious people is something else. We do not expect them to talk of cutting tongues and breaking hands. We do not expect murder from them. From them we seek the boon of life. We want them to be not a curse but a blessing, a benediction. But those who are such blessings appear only once in a while—one in a hundred; and the ninety-nine whom you take to be rishis and sages turn against that one.

So learn to discriminate. Among your rishis and sages there is also Durvasa. Among your rishis and sages are hollow men, pretenders—and their crowd is large. For imitation is always easy; to be the real thing is very difficult. For the real, one has to pay a price. For the real, one must pass through discipline. For imitation, you just don a robe and the work is done. Gather some trash from the scriptures, learn a little grandiloquence—that is enough. Become a clever parrot, and it’s all settled. Beware of clever parrots! Whatever scripture they may quote, whatever culture they may claim—beware of parrots. Parrots have mechanized the human race. And we have suffered enough. Now the time has come for man to wake up a little, to be filled a little with awareness.

This world has no need of Hindus, Muslims, or Christians; this world needs only religious people. And a religious person is not sectarian. A religious person is not political. A religious person is not bound by any country or boundary.

Prem Vedant! Only when one pays something does one receive something. Nothing is free. Truth least of all. This time you paid a price. News came from home—“Come at once”—and there was a conflict. The mind must have said: Go; there is the house, the household, the family—some obstacle, some trouble must be there. The mind pulled you to go. It worried—naturally. Yet you stayed. In that “and yet,” the whole secret lies. You let go of something. You dropped worry. You relinquished a clinging, an attachment. To be here this time you paid your first price.

You had come before too, and you had stayed before too—but that coming, that staying was different. This time you stayed in spite of the mind. And the one who stays against the mind enters the soul. This time you renounced the mind; you said to it: Go on, scream and shout—I am not going. You disregarded the mind. In that disregard your threads with the mind snapped. And when threads snap with the mind, they join with the soul. Either remain tied to the mind, or be joined to the soul—there are only these two ways. You cannot be connected to both at once. Either outward-going or inward-turning. This time you let go a little of the outwardness. You staked a little. The mind must have raised a thousand doubts. Countless notions of duty must have arisen: Who knows what calamity it is! The telegram says only “come quickly”—who knows whether the wife is ill or on her deathbed, whether the mother is ill, the father ill, whether there was a theft at home, a robbery, the shop looted, a fire—who knows what! A thousand anxieties must have flared up. You tied all those anxieties in one bundle and set them aside. That alone—only that—is why this time you felt that some notes were sounding on the veena of the mind.

Whoever is ready to pay the price receives—surely receives. Kabir has said: “Kabira stands in the marketplace, torch in hand. Whoever burns his house, come with me.” Something must be burned for something to awaken. If you want to bring forth the new, you must in some measure die to the old. The more you die, the more you are born. If you die completely to the past, your total birth happens—renewal dawns. A new wave rises in you, unfamiliar even to you. A new flame of consciousness is lit within you, of which you had not even a hint in dreams.

But the beginning has happened; it is good that you stayed. Even had you obeyed the telegram and gone, what would you have done? If the house had caught fire, it had caught fire. By the time you arrived, both the house and the fire would likely be finished. What was going to change because you went? Even after reaching, what can one do? If you did not arrive, life did not stop—life keeps flowing. Sometimes it even happens that not going proves beneficial there as well. The wife lies in bed—she waited a day or two thinking, “Now my husband will come, now he will come,” and then she thought, “He is not coming.” Then she got up. She returned to her chores. She forgot the illness. Because without the husband there is no relish in remaining ill; to be ill is enjoyable only when the husband is at home.

I was once sitting in a house. The couple had gone out, leaving their child to play near me. Playing, he slipped and fell over the side by the wall, four or five feet down. He looked toward me. I sat as I was, as though nothing had happened. He looked. He must have looked for a moment or two. He understood there was no point. He got up, dusted off his clothes, and went back to his play. Half an hour later when his mother and father returned, he burst into tears. I said, “Look, this is not quite right.” He said, “Why not?” I said, “It’s been half an hour since you fell—what is the meaning of crying now?” He said, “But what was the meaning then? You were sitting as if you were a stone statue. You just watched. I, too, was startled. Now my mother has come—should I still not cry?”

Crying is not necessarily connected with the fall. If the mother is present, the child cries more; if she is not, he looks around and understands there is no use. If the husband is at home, the wife’s illness lengthens; if he is not, she gets up—she has to send the children to school, she has to do the work.

Life is very wondrous. Do not think that because you did not go, some harm has been done. In this world there is nothing whose loss is truly a loss. There is nothing so valuable here that could be lost. Yes, had you gone, then certainly there would have been a loss. You would have missed this faint resonance that arose in the veena. And the irony is, you would never even have known that you missed something. One comes to know of missing only when the resonance begins to sound. This is the misfortune in the lives of millions: the veena never vibrates, so they think they are not missing anything—that their lives are going well. They go to the club, watch movies, listen to the radio, watch television; there is a wife, children, wealth—everything is going fine. How would it even occur to them that something is being missed—something supremely valuable? Missing is recognized only when a little taste comes. The one who has heard even a slight resonance will realize, “Ah! Had I gone, who knows what I would have missed!”

Now do not forget this. Human memory is weak; it forgets quickly. That weakness of memory is perilous. Do not forget. This slight sense of tuning you have felt in the veena is not an end—it is a beginning. It is only the first stroke. Much is yet to happen. Many ragas are yet to arise—raga upon raga, maha-ragas without end. The deeper you go, the deeper mystery grows. Mystery never exhausts. That is why we say the Divine is infinite; even after knowing, there remains more to know. However much you know, still something remains to be known. But an auspicious ray has descended upon you.

These jasmine buds have burst, O sweet-lipped one,
as though scattered were your gentle, winsome smile.
Boundless life’s delight-laughter has blossomed;
upon the stalks, the new awakening’s dance has stirred;
in the petals, the frolic of fresh arousal trembles;
in the bees’ soft hum resound ever-new notes,
O my sweet-lipped one.

Rustle, rustle—the honeyed breeze has leapt to dance;
whirr, whirr—the flock of birds has flown in.
A victory-chant of life surges, cleaving the sky;
on the sky-sea rise the ripples of tender crimson rays,
O my sweet-lipped one.

The world is lit with laughter of light; in the inert, a conscious glow;
in each blade of grass, a celestial play; the vast ether is sentient.
Why then is your heart sad? Why, O human, despair?
Even in a rocky heart, a spring is coursing,
O my sweet-lipped one.

Gazing and gazing at the pure, intoxicating smiles of buds—
I am undone! The memory of your smile has come, all a-flutter!
In the lake of the mind your twin lotus-eyes have bloomed;
with fragrance has arrived your body’s perfume, trembling, trembling.
These jasmine buds have burst, O sweet-lipped one,
as though scattered were your gentle, winsome smile—
O my sweet-lipped one.

The first ray has descended. The first glimpse of the Beloved has come. The first sip has gone down your throat. Much is yet to be drunk—oceans are to be drunk. But remember the formula: because you let go of something this time, you received something. Do not forget this arithmetic. The more you let go, the more you receive. The more you stake, the more you receive—just that much you receive. Life is profoundly just.

Very difficult. Because the question is not about getting rid of politicians; the question is about the ending of your ignorance. As long as you are ignorant, someone or other will exploit you. Someone or other will suck you dry—pundits will suck you, priests will suck you, politicians will suck you. Until you are awake, you will be looted. Then what does it matter who looted you? Under which flag you were looted—what difference does it make? Whether you were looted in a temple or in a mosque, by socialists or by communists—what difference does it make? You will be looted. The names of the looters will keep changing, and you will go on being looted.

Politics is a game of lies. Until you begin to recognize truth, you will keep falling into the hands of liars, keep falling, keep falling.

Don’t ask when the country will be freed from political scoundrels and riffraff. That question is meaningless. Ask instead: When will I be so awake that I can recognize a lie as a lie? And unless the whole of humanity recognizes the lie as a lie, there is no way out.

We only keep shifting the load on our shoulders. You’ve seen the cremation ground: people carry a bier. One shoulder gets tired, so they put the bier on the other shoulder. The weight of the bier doesn’t lessen by changing shoulders. The tired shoulder gets a little rest; the fresh shoulder takes over for a while. Then when that shoulder tires, they switch again.

Just so, you remove one politician and seat another; the shoulder gets tired, then you’ll seat a third. This game keeps going... centuries have passed! Somewhere within man there is a lack of a ray, a lack of light. He cannot recognize lies. And what lies are told to you—yet you don’t recognize them! Politicians tell such lies that anyone could see through them—a child could—but still you get deluded. You accept their assurances again. You trust again that Ramrajya has arrived—this time for sure! It never comes.

From politicians, Ramrajya is not going to come at all! The truth is that even in Rama’s reign where was Ramrajya? So how will it come now? Ramrajya never was. The shudras were as oppressed in Rama’s reign as they are oppressed today. Molten lead was poured into a shudra’s ears because he had heard the words of the Veda. This is Ramrajya! What kind of Ramrajya is that? The discrimination between shudra and brahmin—and that is called Ramrajya! The discrimination between woman and man was so great that it defies calculation. When Rama brought Sita back from Ravana, she was made to undergo the fire-ordeal. He himself should also have done so. Because Sita had been alone, and Rama had also been alone. And there are historians who suspect that Rama had love for Shabari. I don’t know; I am not giving testimony as to whether it was so or not. I have nothing to do with it—neither with Shabari nor with Rama. But there are historians—I have read books—who suspect it.

But the discrimination between woman and man remains. The woman had to undergo the fire-ordeal. The man... the man is forever pure! The husband is God! Why should he be tested? That is dishonesty. Either Sita should not have been tested, or if she was, both should have passed through the fire. And even then, what happened with the test? Back in Ayodhya, rumors must have spread—that she stayed so long in Ravana’s place, who knows what the relationship was, what it was like! People are always people; they live on rumors! Rumors are their only wealth.

The story says it was at a washerman’s remark—but I cannot believe that; many washermen must have been saying it. Because I know washermen. One washerman can say it only when many washermen are saying it. It must have been in the air; the whole town must have been buzzing with it. In Ayodhya there must have been this whispering: what is the matter—after staying so long in Ravana’s house Sita has been brought back! It doesn’t fit that Rama abandoned Sita because of what one washerman said. That would be most undemocratic—that ninety-nine percent were in favor and one percent was not, and for that one percent the view of the ninety-nine percent was killed. That would not be Ramrajya. That would become the rule of a minority.

And then, when the fire-ordeal had already been taken, to abandon Sita in the forest—Sita who was pregnant—that is grossly unjust! Then what was the point of the test? What did the test mean? And if it was so that people were condemning too much, he should himself have gone into the forest with Sita. That would have made some sense. He saved the kingdom, kept the post, and abandoned the wife? What value does a woman have—people have always considered her a shoe!

No, even then what Ramrajya could there have been! Ramrajya has never been. Ramrajya will come when there is light within you; when there is the illumination of meditation within you. When many people live meditatively, then it becomes possible.

Politics runs on lies.

Dhabboo-ji asked a leader: “Tell a lie—without thinking.” The leader said: “I don’t lie.” Dhabboo-ji said: “Bravo! You didn’t take a moment to think.”

If leaders don’t lie, what will they speak!

On hearing that her husband, who is a politician, had invited his friends for dinner that day... the leader at once got up and hid all the house umbrellas and hats in the storeroom. His wife asked, a bit surprised, “Are you afraid the guests will steal umbrellas and hats?” “That’s not it,” said the leader, scratching his head. “I’m afraid they might recognize their own things.”

A politician’s life runs on lying and stealing. At most you can make a swap—one thief for another. And the thieves are the same. The thieving is the same. Stamp it however you like.

You see, the same sort of thieves ride the chest of this country. They go from this party to that party; from that party to this party; the same thieves!

Mulla Nasruddin went to the chemist’s shop and said to the shopkeeper, “Remember, yesterday I took from you a medicine to remove ink stains?” The shopkeeper said, “Yes. What is it, Nasruddin—another bottle?” Mulla said, “No. Now give me a medicine to remove the stain of that medicine.”

One political party causes damage. Then, to fix it, you bring another; it causes even more damage. Then bring a third... This has continued. Exploitation has continued on the chest of man. And it will continue. The fault is yours. Wake up. The fault is not the politician’s. The politician is only an opportunist. He only takes advantage of the opportunity. He sees that you are willing to become steps, so he makes you into steps and climbs. He has to reach the chair. As long as you honor the chair, some people will keep turning you into steps to reach it. Stop honoring the chair. What need is there? If the prime minister comes to the village, why does the whole village need to gather there like fools? Let him come, let him go; you drop the concern. Then the value that has accumulated around the chair will fall.

Devalue the chair. Bring the chair down. Lower it so much that there is no fun left in sitting on it. As long as there is fun in sitting on the chair, you go to worship; you go carrying garlands. And the irony is, those very leaders—when they were not in office—if they came to your village you had no concern. The moment they reach office, you go mad, as though some divine power has descended into them! If you give so much reverence to the chair, then millions will crave to reach it. And when millions crave, there will be conflict; there will be ambition; there will be throat-cutting competition. Then the one most cunning will reach.

In politics the one who wins is the biggest thief, the most dishonest. And he must be so skilled that he keeps doing dishonesty and yet keeps raising the flag of honesty; he remains a saint outwardly and keeps all the mischief going inside. What is the basis behind all this? Why do you give so much value to the chair?

Lower the value of position. Everything’s price is rising; at least don’t let the price of one thing rise: the chair. Depreciate its value. As the rupee’s worth keeps falling, in the same way keep lowering the value of the chair. Let a time come when whoever you seat on the chair simply sits there; no one brings garlands, no one creates a din, no one shouts slogans. Then you will find a different kind of people will be interested in politics—those who want to serve. Otherwise only thieves and hoodlums and scoundrels will be eager—those who want to be in power.

Chairs are biting the season,
yet everyone salutes them.
Chairs have become a disease today—
how innocent, how ill-bred are people,
who smile even as they are struck.
All day gets spent in state affairs,
they heave sighs in their own doorways.
Chairs are biting the season,
yet everyone salutes them.
One cannot do without chairs,
and chairs don’t have a long life either.
Chairs are civilization’s temptation,
chairs are a truth bigger than death.
Chairs don’t think on their own—
the thinking is done by those who step down,
or by those who fear the chairs.
Chairs are biting the season,
yet everyone salutes them.

Stop saluting chairs. Chair-worship has gone on long enough. The less you worship the chair, the more the wrong people will stop heading toward it. You have given the chair too much attraction.

But in the newspapers the politician is discussed from the first page to the last. In the village he is discussed, in the hotels he is discussed, on the chaupals he is discussed. Wherever you look there is talk of politics. You’re not even up in the morning before you run toward the newspaper. Even tea can wait—you drink the newspaper first. The moment you get a little free time, you sit by the radio, your ears tuned to Delhi.

This is my effort. If I ever speak against politics, the reason is not that I have any interest in politics. The only reason is that I want the prestige of the politician to end in your mind. If the prestige ends, the prestige-hungry will stop going that way on their own. Whatever you give value to, people begin moving in that direction.

You have seen, in olden times we gave value to sannyasins, so there was a longing in every person’s heart that someday or other one must become a sannyasin. One must. If not today, then tomorrow; if not tomorrow, then the day after; but one day that fortunate hour would surely come when I too would renounce. People dreamed of becoming sannyasins! Little children dreamed of becoming sannyasins. Sannyas had value, because even emperors touched the feet of sannyasins. So there was a certain aura around renunciation.

Now not only the children, the old also think how to become film leaders—actors. If they cannot become leaders, then at least become actors. There are only two things for people—either leader or actor. Children rush straight toward Bombay or toward Delhi. There seems to be no attraction toward anything else. Nobody is concerned that there are other things in life—only actor or politician. Because both are getting lots of respect, lots of honor, lots of praise, garlands.

Wherever the ego is gratified, people begin to run.

Change this value. If you must give honor, give it to those things toward which, if people run, the beauty of life will increase. Give honor to the musician, that practitioner who practices eight hours a day and only after years becomes skillful. Honor him. Honor the sculptor who breaks stone and breathes life into it, so that one day the stone begins to speak, becomes alive. Honor the poet whose songs bring some news of the sky. Honor the rishi who, diving into meditation for years, one day reveals his inner void.

If you must give honor, give it to such things which, if they grow in people’s lives, the world becomes beautiful, enchanting; this earth becomes heaven. But you give honor to the wrong people. You honor politicians, or you honor actors. Yet even then I tell you: if you must choose honor between these two, give it to the actor, do not give it to the politician. The actor, at least, applies himself in the world of art. His art is not very precious—superficial, hollow. Because it is art to satisfy the third-rate crowd. There is no aristocracy in his art. Nor can there be, because it is a marketplace art. Otherwise, where would his film run—who would see it?

If you make a film of people meditating, who will watch? There must be racket, then people will watch—because they are rowdy. All around there are people of that sort. The more racket in the film, the more people will watch. It is superficial. But at least it is art. And one thing is certain: at least it does not cause much harm. The politician certainly causes harm, because the fundamental basis of politics is dishonesty, fraud, trickery.

What sky is this
on every side the moon and stars
seem dimmed,
saying they are burning.

Every flower is saying
the gardener is not right,
and the thorns are saying
the fragrance is gone.

What garden is this—
colors scattered everywhere,
yet the steps are walking against the wind.

Every sunshine warms the shade,
after committing sin
violence wants to build by destroying.

What kind of house is this—
all four corners desolate,
the wall is old,
the curtains are being changed.

The decanter is changed,
the same two tastes, the same intoxication;
tears belong to some laughter,
bound in an embrace.

What kind of appeasement is this—
the cremation ground sprinkles gulal,
some meaningless slogans
are coming out of mouths.

First the heart was wounded,
now the intellect is wounded;
now the bangles ache,
then the anklet ached.

What heat is this—
frightened imaginings,
these blood-seeds in the eyes
are sprouting day and night.

A sorrow-dream is going on and has been going on for centuries. This sorrow-dream has to be broken. Give human ambition some heights. Give the longing to attain God, not the longing to attain position. Give the search for meditation, not the search for wealth. Do not tempt people to conquer others; give birth to the idea of conquering oneself.

Politics means: How do I conquer others? Religion means: How do I conquer myself? Therefore religion and politics are deeply opposed. If religion spreads, politics will shrink on its own; and if religion does not spread, politics will go on spreading. Man will seek victory—this urge to conquer is in his very life-breath. If he does not conquer himself, he will conquer others.

Blessed are those who conquer themselves, because only by conquering oneself does the door of God’s temple open; eternal life becomes available. And unfortunate are those who keep busy conquering others, for they never truly conquer others, and in the effort to conquer others they lose themselves as well.

You understand—that’s enough. Don’t worry about “people.” And who are “people” anyway? Some will understand, some won’t. Those who understand will benefit; those who don’t, that is their choice. Don’t bother about them—lest in worrying about them you miss understanding yourself.

Every person is free. I have laid the matter open; whoever wishes to take it, take it; whoever doesn’t, they are free as well. Truth is not to be forced upon anyone.

Do not insist, “I must make them understand.” That very insistence breeds fanaticism, disturbance, crusades to convert—one wants to make a Hindu into a Christian, another an Arya Samaji, and so on. And often the joke is like this...

An Arya Samaji pundit once stayed at my house. His whole life has gone into making others Arya Samajis: if someone becomes Muslim, turn him Arya Samaji; if someone becomes Christian, turn him Arya Samaji. One winter morning we were sitting together in the soft sun. I said, “I’ve known you for years. I want to ask something—answer honestly, swear by this rising sun.”

He said, “What is it?”

I said, “Have you yourself become an Arya Samaji—or not? You’re busy making so many others Arya Samajis—have you yourself become one?”

For a moment he hesitated. I said, “Now don’t say a word—your hesitation has said it all. You couldn’t answer instantly, naturally; your breath stopped for a moment. And what you have not become yourself—how will you make another? Have you understood religion?”

No. He has no concern for that. His concern is that a Hindu should not become a Muslim. I asked him, “If it so happens that by becoming a Muslim he becomes a better human being, what is the objection? And if, being a Muslim, he remains exactly the same as he was as a Hindu—what objection even then? He’s the same person. He used to go to the temple; now he goes to the mosque. Nothing essential has changed. You should only worry if he becomes worse than he was as a Hindu after becoming a Muslim—then, perhaps, a little concern. What has Hindu or Muslim to do with it? The concern should be: has the man become worse?”

I said, “Why do you keep getting into such anxieties?” He had come to that village precisely because a Muslim had married a Hindu girl, and he had come to “rescue” her. “Are you rescuing anyone? If that Hindu woman loves that Muslim, who are you to interfere? If she is happy with him—and I know she is happy, because in that village I was the only one willing to bless them; they came to me for blessings. The Muslims were unhappy too: ‘Don’t get into this mess—we are few; if Hindus get inflamed there might be trouble for nothing.’ The Muslims were not pleased. And of course the Hindus were angry: a Hindu woman has gone—that’s an insult! People think of women as property; if the property goes elsewhere, it’s a loss. If a Hindu brings home a Muslim woman, Hindus feel pleased—the property has come in!

Do you not grant a woman even the dignity of being a human being?...Property! If she goes to a Muslim’s house it’s a huge loss—property has gone! Then she will have children, the Muslim numbers will increase, and numbers create political complications—votes and so on. I told him, ‘I know they are happy—don’t put obstacles in their way. And I know you are not happy. But to forget your own sadness and suffering, you get involved in such meddling. You have set out to “reform” others—you have forgotten that your own house is not yet swept clean.’

So don’t worry whether people will ever understand me or not. You understand—that is enough.

Besides, people are of a thousand kinds, and that diversity is beautiful. If everyone understood me, it would mean everyone is of one kind. That would not be a very beautiful world. Imagine a garden with only roses—however lovely, roses and only roses... No, there should be some juhi, some jasmine, some champa—thousands of flowers.

Mulla Nasruddin said to me, “Yes, when I was coming from Bombay to Poona, the bandits surrounded me. They took all my money, my watch, my gold chain—and vanished.”

I asked, “Nasruddin, but you had a pistol too.”

“Yes, I did—but they never noticed it.”

Even the ones who “understand,” understand in such ways! What will you do? But they, too, are lovable; a few such people are needed.

One day Mulla Nasruddin was riding a bicycle, his small child seated behind him, going to the market to buy vegetables. Every five minutes he’d give the boy a slap. When he did it the fifth time I couldn’t bear it and asked, “Nasruddin, why are you hitting this child for no reason?” He said, “What can I do? The bicycle doesn’t have a bell!”

There are topsy-turvy heads too. A few of those are needed as well—they keep a little laughter and fun alive in life.

A poet was reading his composition. The title was Reality and Illusion. A listener stood up and said, “Please first clarify the difference—what is reality, what is illusion?” The poet said, “Your being here and my reading the poem—that is reality. My believing that you understand or will be able to understand—that is my illusion.”

Not all will understand. So don’t get into that worry.

I once went to Mulla Nasruddin’s house. He showed me around. “This is my music room,” he said. I looked—quite surprised—it was absolutely empty! No veena, no flute, no tabla—nothing, completely bare. I said, “Nasruddin, I don’t see any instruments here—what kind of music room is this?” He said, “What need of instruments? I sit here and listen to the neighbors’ radios. That’s why it’s called the music room.”

Not all will understand. But if a few understand, it is more than enough. If even a few look in the direction I’m pointing, it is enough. Buddha came—how many understood? A few, a counted few. How many understood Mahavira? Muhammad? A handful. The matter is of such height! Not everyone wants even to raise their head toward the sky; their eyes are fixed on the ground. They want to dig for treasures in the earth. So if you say to them, “Lift your eyes a little,” they say, “Don’t waste our time.”

They have time to play cards. They lay out the chessboard; there is time. Say to them, “Meditate,” and immediately the reply comes: “Where is the time?” The same people will tell you, “Brother, time just won’t pass, so we’re playing cards, going to a film, gossiping idly—time won’t pass.” But suggest meditation—and at once: “We have no time!”

There is plenty of time. But to see that meditation has meaning requires a certain height of awareness, a clarity, a ground, a preparation.

What I am saying—how will everyone understand it? This is a graduate-level matter, the ultimate matter. So don’t worry about it, don’t expect it. I would be content if a few understand. If a few lamps are lit, by those lamps other lamps can be lit, and lamps will go on lighting lamps. That is sufficient. Let a chain begin—that is enough. To insist that the whole earth be transformed today, that everyone understand today—such demands are dangerous. Then one gets into haste, and in haste one turns to violence. If you want things quickly, you put a knife to someone’s chest and say, “Do you understand or not?” He will have to say, “Absolutely, I understand.”

There is a story about Mulla Nasruddin. A crack-brained bully, the village tough, sent for him. He said, “My boys say you are very miraculous, very mystical—that you see invisible things, that you have seen God!” And he pulled out a dagger. “Show me something too—or it won’t go well for you today.” Nasruddin looked down at the ground and said, “Look—hell, the netherworld! People being roasted and cut, cauldrons boiling, people thrown into them!” The thug looked down—he saw nothing. Then Nasruddin said, “Now look up—paradise! Springs of wine are flowing, houris are dancing, sages are enjoying themselves. Look up!” The man said, “I don’t see anything—how do you?” Nasruddin said, “Put away your knife—then I won’t see anything either. Because of your knife I’m seeing these things. Put it back inside. I’m not seeing anything myself.”

What fear can’t make one see is very little indeed. Understand: the pundits of your scriptures have invented stories of hell simply as fear—as knives. Through those knives they have tried to make you believe certain things. And the stories of heaven—those are greed, temptation, reward. Through the hope of reward they have tried to make you believe certain things.

I do not threaten you with hell, nor do I lure you with heaven. There is no hell and no heaven. Hell is a state of your consciousness—when you live in unconsciousness. Heaven is a state of your consciousness—when you live aware. Hell and heaven are not geographical locations; they are psychological states.

I give you neither fear nor temptation. What I have known, I lay before you.

Kabir stood in the marketplace, a torch in his hand:
Whoever will set his own house aflame—come with me.

Manorama! Whoever is dyed in my color has entered my tales. Whoever has taken sannyas has become a limb of my life. The day you gathered the courage for sannyas, from that very day you were no more.

Sannyas means the disciple says: I will no longer think of myself as separate; my drop will no longer remain isolated; now I drown. Initiation means the disciple becomes so joined to the master that nothing remains of a separate identity. It has happened—and now its glimmer is appearing as tears. These are tears of bliss. These tears are prayers rising from your heart. Don’t stop them. Let them flow in ecstasy; the more they flow, the better. They are not merely tears; they are the flowers of your heart. Not mere flowers; they are the fragrance of your very life-breath.

And this is exactly what I teach here. I teach crying in ecstasy. I teach laughing in ecstasy. I teach singing, I teach dancing. In short: masti—divine intoxication. I teach you to be drunk with it, because those who are drunk in this way belong to the Divine.

This is not a flower; it is the language of my heart!
In the earth’s heart there is a longing to meet the sky!
An eye-smile turned to words,
The heart’s silence found its voice!
From some unknown corner within
A honeyed mood welled up!

This is not a flower; it is the definition of my unwritten verse!
For a moment the briefness of life was torn open—
A single wave of fragrance, color, and essence!
In the very sequence of withering and falling,
There is a full-blown blossoming for just one fleeting hour!

This is not a flower; it is the hope that deed, word, and mind may bloom!
It is like the open, unblinking, inward, meditative eye!
On the eyelid-petals smiles
A sun-kissed, playful flake of snow!

This is not a flower; it is the immortal thirst of mantra-bewitched eyes!

Do not take these tears to be tears—
They are the definition of my unwritten verse,
The earth’s heart longing to meet the sky,
The hope that deed, word, and mind may bloom,
The immortal thirst of mantra-bewitched eyes!

These are not tears; they are flowers. Not only flowers—they are waves of bliss within you. Your veena has been touched; notes have begun to arise in your veena. Rejoice, celebrate, make it a festival.

And the day you took sannyas, Manorama, that very day you were included in my tale, became a part of my story, a link in my song!

Dharm Vedant! This is it—this is what all the arrangement is about. This field of religion, this Kaaba, is being raised so that once again you remember the Divine, whom you have forgotten for lifetimes; so that once again a blow falls upon your heart; so that the spring within, long dammed up, bursts forth. Many songs will rise, much fragrance will shower, many lamps will be lit. Keep going. The more you sink into meditation—and the more you sink into this nectar I call sannyas—the more incomparable miracles will begin to appear in your life, for the Divine will draw closer and closer; you will begin to hear the sound of His footsteps.

On the horizon of dreams, someone sparkled,
Sun-like, someone smiled.
The spell of the night of grief is broken now—
The gaze of longing arrived; thus someone arrived.

He passed by, waking sleeping memories,
Stirring a ripple in awareness as he passed.
As if renewal of the path and grace were granted;
Someone went by, smiling so close.

Smiles appeared on the lips of buds,
Extinguishing stars began to glimmer again,
In the last watch tonight the heart beat in such a way
As if now the sound of your footsteps had arrived.

The conversation of silence has been for years;
For years, hearing him, I have heard myself.
I am not new to him, nor he to me—
For years our meeting has been in dreams.

That which until now you have met only a little, sometimes in dreams—I want to bring it to meet you with open eyes. The glimpse that, now and then, in some unbidden moments has come to you—seeing the sun rise and a swelling gratitude arose within, and you felt like bowing—bowing on your knees, laying your head upon the earth; or when, seeing the sky filled with stars, a tickle ran through your heart and there was a slight intuition of mystery; or on seeing a blossomed flower, or hearing the papihā’s pi-pi call, some sleeping call within you rang; sometimes in deep music, sometimes in deep love, you felt a faint hint of the Divine—all that happened in dreams!

I am not new to him, nor he to me—
For years our meeting has been in dreams.
Now, meet with open eyes.

On the horizon of dreams, someone sparkled—
Look, on the far horizon the sun of the Divine has begun to rise.
On the horizon of dreams, someone sparkled,
Sun-like, someone smiled.
The spell of the night of grief is broken now—
The night of darkness, of separation, has begun to break.
The spell of the night of grief is broken now—
The gaze of longing arrived; thus someone arrived.

Someone has begun to come near—day by day nearer! Slowly, slowly the sound draws close.

At first you will catch a hint. At first only a feeling. At first his presence will be sensed—he will not be seen. Then, little by little, the eyes consent. As when you return home at high noon and, on entering your room, it seems dark—nothing is visible. Slowly the eyes agree; then the room begins to feel lit.

Smiles appeared on the lips of buds,
Extinguishing stars began to glimmer again,
And in the life of one who even a little—just a little—touches the Divine, the whole story changes. The song of life changes. Luminosity begins to ripen in every experience.

Smiles appeared on the lips of buds—
You had seen flowers before, but now in the flowers you will see his smile.

Smiles appeared on the lips of buds,
Extinguishing stars began to glimmer again—
You had seen many stars before, but now they are no longer the same. In every light his light will shimmer. In every beauty, his beauty. Now when you look at a beautiful woman, it will not feel as though you saw a beautiful woman—it will feel that He himself flashed a glimpse. Now when you see a child laughing, bursting into giggles—instantly you will feel: it is He who has burst into laughter!

Smiles appeared on the lips of buds,
Extinguishing stars began to glimmer again,
In the last watch tonight the heart beat in such a way
As if now the sound of your footsteps had arrived.

The conversation of silence has been for years;
For years, hearing him, I have heard myself.
I am not new to him, nor he to me—
For years our meeting has been in dreams.

Dharm Vedant! Do not stop—this is the difficulty that comes. People get a little something and stop right there. Further, and further! I will keep beckoning you, keep calling—further, further!

So many failures,
So many deprivations,
So many compulsions,
So many helplessnesses—
I wanted so much, yet still could not rise,
He who, once having come into that assembly…
Love was sorrowful,
Love was joyless,
Beauty was restless,
Beauty was impatient.
Destinations gave up their distances and came,
Whenever they were called with ardor.

You will not be able to rise now from this assembly. But do not merely sit. Even sitting, you must journey. The inner journey is taken sitting.

So many failures,
So many deprivations,
So many compulsions,
So many helplessnesses—
I know: there are many difficulties, many limits, many stones on the path. A thousand obstacles and hindrances! The whole world will turn contrary. For as soon as you begin to move toward the Divine, you will find your own becoming strangers, your own becoming enemies.

So many failures,
So many deprivations,
So many compulsions,
So many helplessnesses—
I wanted so much, yet still could not rise,
He who, once having come into that assembly…
But now there is no way to get up; you have come into the assembly. You have joined—this settlement of the mad, this ecstasy of the mad!

I wanted so much, yet still could not rise,
He who, once having come into that assembly…
Love was sorrowful,
Love was joyless,
Beauty was restless,
Beauty was impatient.
Destinations gave up their distances and came,
Whenever they were called with ardor.

And now there is nowhere to go. Where you are, there the Divine will come. Keep calling. But call—with complete longing. Call staking your whole life. Call so that every breath becomes a call, every heartbeat a call. If you call in totality, the door does not delay in opening. There was never any delay—you simply did not call.

Jesus said: Ask, and it shall be given. Knock, and the doors shall be opened. Seek, and you shall find. That is what I am telling you again and again.

That is all for today.