Saheb Mil Saheb Bhave #1

Beloved Anand Sant! God is not a person, as is commonly imagined. Out of that mistaken notion came temples and mosques, Kaba and Kashi; idols, rituals, sacrifices, priestcraft, scholarship—an entire apparatus, a whole conspiracy—an elaborate arrangement for exploiting human beings. The whole misunderstanding stands on one point: as if God were a person.

“God” only means this much: existence does not end with matter. Matter is only the outer form of existence, not its innermost core. It is the circumference, not the center. And a circumference cannot be the master; only the center can be. That is why the Divine has been called “Saheb”—Master.

One has to call it something, give it some name. Lao Tzu said: It has no name—therefore I will call it Tao. Attend to the statement: it has no name, yet we must at least point toward it, raise a finger, indicate some address, somehow send word even to the blind, shout into the ears of the deaf, shake the sleepers awake. All names are mere devices. Give any name. Any name will do.

Buddha called it Dharma. Mahavira called it Paramatma—the Supreme Self—but gave it a meaning very different from the Hindu usage. The Hindu meaning is: He who has created everything—Creator, ruler, almighty controller. Mahavira’s meaning is: the soul in its supremely pure state—the supreme soul.

Give any meaning, any name; existence itself remains the Nameless. Yet without a name, our dealings falter. Even a child is born nameless—and then we must call it something. So say Ram, Krishna, Rahim, Rahman—let all be remembered as symbols, and then you won’t go astray. But when someone clutches the symbol as the truth itself, delusion begins. A picture is a picture; if that memory stays alive, even a picture is dear. But if the picture becomes all-in-all, you have missed. What was meant to be a support becomes an obstacle. An idol, if kept as an idol, can be lovely.

There are images of Buddha, Mahavira, Krishna—they can be dear, if you understand them as symbols. Krishna’s flute-playing image is a symbol of celebration—of dance and song. His dancing pose declares that existence is not for the indifferent. Those who wish to live, to know life’s ultimate meaning, should dance, sing, hum, fling colors, make life a festival. The indifferent are fugitives from life, escapists, anti-life. And how will you find life’s truth with your back turned to life? You can miss it, you cannot attain it. You must wade deep into life, dive so utterly that you are dissolved—so totally that no one remains to return.

Ramakrishna used to say: a doll of salt went to measure the ocean’s depth, and never returned. How could it? In taking the measure it dissolved. It was a salt doll—made of the ocean, coming from the ocean, returning to the ocean. Who is there to return? Who is left to tell how deep the ocean is? The one who found the depth became the depth. If you turn your back on life, run from the ocean with your face turned away—do you think you will discover its depths? If you close your eyes to flowers, how will you know beauty? If you shun rainbows and yet keep chanting Satyam Shivam Sundaram, will you not see the contradiction? You disfigure yourself, you become twisted and ugly within—and still you trumpet Satyam Shivam Sundaram without even a blush! Truth’s supreme expression is beauty. You must recognize beauty, know it, assimilate it, embrace it—then you will know, then you will recognize.

Krishna’s yellow silks, the peacock plume, the poised flute, the dancing feet, the bells on his ankles—all convey that only the dancer has completed that path. Seen as symbol, Krishna’s image is beloved. But if you offer food to, seat, carry on a swing a stone idol or a metal statue—then the error is at the root. You have gripped the symbol so hard, squeezed its neck so tight, that its life has gone out.

Banging your head before Mahavira’s image will do nothing: your head might break. Understand the image. That naked, standing figure is another pointer, another finger. Krishna is one finger—adorned in beautiful garments, ornaments, peacock-plume. The moon is one, the fingers that point to it may be a thousand. Fingers may be of many kinds, but the differences among fingers do not divide the moon. Yet madmen seize the fingers! They have no use for the moon; they quarrel over fingers. Whose finger is beautiful? Whose finger superior? Whose finger dear? Whose finger ancient? Whose finger scriptural? Which finger has the Vedas, Upanishads, Gita on its side? Which finger is mentioned in the Quran, the Bible? Which finger has the right to point to the moon? You are entangled in fingers. Like little children: when the mother’s breast is not available they suck their own fingers. You are missing the breast, missing nourishment, you never lift your eyes to the moon from which ambrosia rains—you keep sucking fingers.

A child, sucking his finger, falls asleep. He thinks he has found the breast, found nourishment. We can forgive the child. But here, elders too are sleeping with fingers in their mouths. No difference at all.

People clutch at symbols with excessive insistence—and so they miss. Otherwise, Krishna’s adorned form is a pointer; Mahavira’s naked standing image is a pointer. And one who understands sees both fingers pointing to the very same moon. Mahavira’s naked image says: become innocent as a small child, unaware even of being naked or not; unaware of man or woman; no urge to hide. Where the urge to hide arises, deceit arrives, craftiness arrives, cleverness arrives, fraud arrives, ego arrives. A little child is naked and knows it not.

The Bible tells that when Adam ate of the tree of knowledge, the first thought that came to him was, “I am naked.” He hurried to pluck leaves and cover himself. Before tasting the fruit of knowledge he had no sense of nakedness. There was a natural beauty, a spontaneity—instantly lost. Every child is born like Adam—guileless, stainless, with no soot or stain; nothing to hide. There is no sin—what to hide, and from whom? Not even the question of being separate has arisen; there is unity with existence.

Such is Mahavira’s naked standing image: the day you too become innocent like a little child, that day you are God. That day you have attained what is worth attaining—the wealth of all wealth, the kingdom of all kingdoms, the supreme state.

But the same stupidity: people “practice” nudity!

Nudity is not a practice of the path. Practiced nudity cannot be simple. The matter is plain: practiced nudity cannot be innocent. A child does not “practice” nudity—he did not rehearse it in the womb. His nakedness is spontaneous.

Likewise, in a moment of meditation life becomes stainless. Whether you remove your clothes or not becomes secondary. Not all awakened ones shed clothes outwardly, but in a deeper sense all dropped them: nothing remained as a veil between them and existence; they became unveiled. They opened themselves before existence. That much is the symbol. If you pull it further, you fall into stupidity.

Now a Jain monk “practices” nudity through five steps. For if he became naked at once he would feel shame, unease—what will people say! So gradually: first he leaves some garments, keeps a wrap; then drops the wrap, keeps a loincloth; then slowly drops the loincloth; step by step, methodically. But the entire method is strategem. When finally he stands naked, his nudity and Mahavira’s nudity are different. This nakedness is circus, because it is cultivated. Mahavira’s was spontaneous, not cultivated.

There is a beautiful incident in Mahavira’s life that I never tire of telling. He wished to renounce and go to the forest. He had seen everything—kingdom, affluence, all comforts. But he sought his mother’s permission. She said: Never again raise this subject while I live. I will not be able to bear it. After my death, do what you wish. Mahavira said: As you wish—and never raised it again. Surprising! So easily persuaded? How simple! He must have been a wondrous man. One might insist: this is sannyas! Permission? Who seeks permission to leave all? And if no one grants it, will you stop? Seen superficially it might seem a clever dodge—he knew she would refuse, and so he could avoid renouncing. But no, it ran deeper.

When the mother died, returning from the cremation ground he asked his elder brother for permission: Now give me leave. Mother had said, “Say nothing while I live,” so I kept silent. The brother said: Are you in your senses? Have you gone mad? Mother has died; now you too will abandon me? Father is gone, mother is gone; you alone are my support—so long as I live, do not even mention this. Mahavira said: As you wish. The mother’s death was foreseeable—the old die sooner or later—and then renunciation could have followed. But the elder brother differed from Mahavira by only two years; he might die first; who can tell when he would die? Still Mahavira stayed.

Within three or four years the brother gathered the family and said, It is no longer appropriate to restrain him. For in truth nothing remains to restrain. Mahavira lives at home as if he were not. He rises, sits, eats, drinks, walks—like a void. He is and yet is not. All has become acting. No relish remains. No task interests him. Ask him and he will do it—no refusal. Don’t ask and he sits—no inclination to do anything. Seeing his state, the brother said: It is not proper to hold him back. Inwardly he has gone; only the body remains. Let us not make ourselves partners in holding even the body. Let not this sin be ours. As far as his will can reach, he has gone—only palaces are unseen to him now. He sees nothing: has no dealings with wealth, takes no interest in family or state. Ask and he murmurs “yes, yes”; don’t ask, and even if the house is on fire he sits witnessing. The witness in him is now so deep that to restrain him is wrong.

The brother himself prayed to Mahavira: You have already gone; why should we keep your body? Go—go happily.

Mahavira rose and went. He divided his belongings. One garment remained. On the way, a last beggar came running and said: I got nothing. I arrived as you were finishing. What about my share? Mahavira said: Only this cloth remains—it is valuable. Let us split it in half. You can sell it and get enough. Half and half they made—he became half naked, not by practice, but by accident.

Leaving the village, the remaining half snagged on an acacia. Who would stop? He had already delayed enough. Why disentangle cloth from thorns? And the bush had asked with such insistence! He gave that half to the bush. Thus his nakedness came.

This nakedness and the so-called Jaina nudity are worlds apart. “You too take your share—nothing else remains.” That thorn-bush stood at the boundary of the kingdom: “Perhaps you too have some claim from some birth—take it. I have no leisure to stay and untangle cloth, and why should I snatch it back? Having given all, why create a scene over this scrap?”

Thus his nudity came—not as a practice.

The twenty-three Tirthankaras before Mahavira were not in fact naked. All twenty-four Tirthankara images today are nude because of Mahavira’s imprint. Though he is the last chronologically, in truth he is the first. The earlier twenty-three paled before him; his sun made theirs dim. His impact was such that nudity became a supposed necessity for a Tirthankara. People’s mathematics! They keep adding up. So they stripped the earlier twenty-three as well. They were not nude; they had not given up clothing. Mahavira’s imprint made it seem that clothing them and leaving Mahavira naked would be an insult to those twenty-three. Hence all twenty-four images are nude.

Those twenty-three wore white robes. Hence the two Jain sects: Shvetambara (white-clad) and Digambara (sky-clad). In truth Shvetambara is the older current, for those twenty-three wore white. The quarrel arose among Mahavira’s disciples: shall we follow the twenty-three, or this one man? But this one was so powerful—his spontaneity, purity, the freshness of flowers—denial was difficult. Most were won by Mahavira and thought it better to dye the twenty-three in his color. They did.

Some traditionalists did not accept altering the twenty-three; they were history-minded, sticklers for the line, so they honored Mahavira but would not strip the twenty-three. They put clothes on Mahavira! How to clothe a naked one? The Shvetambaras invented a trick—see what devices men invent!—that Mahavira did wear white garments, but they were gifts of the gods and invisible to human eyes. Therefore he seemed naked. He wore white—but divine robes seen only by gods. How these people saw them, who knows!

But truthfully, they had to do one of two things: either strip the twenty-three, or dress Mahavira. To dress this living naked man before the people was impossible. The first Tirthankara, Adinatha, was said to be five thousand years earlier—distant, faded. You can remove his clothes, he cannot protest. But Mahavira was alive; how to dress him in public? So, full of cunning, they dressed him in invisible, god-gifted clothes.

This is how we live—by calculations. Straight truth would be: the twenty-three were clothed, the twenty-fourth was not. What harm? But they feared inconsistency, contradiction. Small minds are obsessed with consistency. And in truth, it is impossible that Adinatha and Mahavira be without difference: such incomparable beings must be unique, not similar carbon copies.

Mahavira’s nakedness is only a symbol of innocence. There is no need to practice nudity. If it comes naturally, that is another matter; if imposed by effort, you will miss. All religions create this trouble—they grip the symbol too hard.

God is not a person. All forms are our imagined forms. They are beautiful symbols—do not mistake them for truth. God is an experience—ineffable, inexpressible. For pointing, some name must be given. Maluk Das said “Saheb”—a lovely word. Saheb means malik—owner, master. Sufi fakirs enumerated ninety-nine names of God; among them, Ya Malik—O Master! The Sufi imprint on India’s medieval saints is deep. Kabir, Nanak, Maluk—you cannot call them Hindu or Muslim. In truth, you cannot call any saint Hindu or Muslim. If a saint is Hindu or Muslim, Jain, Buddhist, Christian, Jew—then he is something else, not a saint.

In medieval India an extraordinary mingling happened—Ganga met Yamuna: India’s ancient tradition embraced the tradition of Islam. While fighters fought, stabbed, killed, lovers loved. The fakirs who embraced bore the Sufi imprint. Even their words were influenced. “Saheb”—a transmutation of Ya Malik. Maluk’s saying goes:

Saheb mil Saheb bhaye, kachhu rahi na tamai.
Kahai Maluk tis ghar gaye, jahan pavan na jai.

But remember: don’t take “master” in your ordinary sense. It only means this: lay down your ego—which forever proclaims ownership—offer it, surrender it to the supreme existence. If there is any master, it is this total existence. From it flow seas and rivers, rise mountains, sun and stars; trees are green, flowers fragrant, birds sing, human eyes shine, breath is alive—this whole existence is pervaded by a godliness. If there is any Master, it is this supreme godliness. Therefore “Saheb” is a sweet word!

Saints used Saheb in two ways: for the Divine, and for the true Master—the living embodiment here on earth of that which cannot be embodied. One who has known, lived, drunk it; in whose every pore it has settled; in whose every breath its fragrance wafts; whose gait carries its color and style; in whose eyes, when you look, you find yourself gazing into it; whose hand in your hand feels like its hand—him too they called Saheb. And the Divine also Saheb. Behind both uses, the intent is one: relinquish your proprietorship.

But as I said, people grab the symbol. “God is Master, so we will pray to him”—but never drop the ego! On the contrary, we ask him to fatten the ego: O Master, O Lord of lords, let your will be done—get me a job! Make me win the election! Bless my shop! Let my trade prosper! Let the dust I touch turn to gold! Let success be mine, may I be remembered in history in letters of gold—these are ornaments for ego.

What do you ask in temples? Do you go to offer yourself, or to ask for things? Your prayers are proof of the beggar within. Who is that beggar? Your ego—insatiable. Beg, beg, beg, it says: keep begging. Whatever comes is too little.

“God is Master; worship him. He will be pleased. Praise him”—praise meaning flattery. Proclaim, “We are sinners, the worst of sinners!” Exaggerate your sinfulness to display your pitiableness—and sing loudly of his compassion. Butter his ego: O purifier of the fallen, redeem me! Ah, you stepped on stones and they came alive—the stone-like Ahalya revived by your touch! You gave sight to the blind, made the lame climb hills—what can you not do! Spare a glance on this poor one too! Let one glance fall this way!

The word “prayer” has come to mean begging. A lovely word has become dirty in our hands. Whatever falls into our hands gets defiled. Our hands are dirty; our minds are dirty—full of filth.

An old woman drove her car through a red light. The traffic policeman blew his whistle many times, but she stopped only after crossing. Angry, he asked, Didn’t you hear my whistle? The old woman flared up: Child, is this the age for me to be listening to whistles? I am old now—whistles you should have blown thirty years ago. What are you whistling now!

The policeman was signaling her to stop; but we have our own interpretations.

When you stand before God and pray, you say nothing about God; you only expose the hunger of your ego: by your grace all will happen; miracles will happen; what can you not do! This is not prayer. Prayer is gratitude—thanksgiving. Prayer is the proclamation: you gave life; you poured such flavor into life; you gave awareness, consciousness; the capacity for meditation; the possibility that the lotus of samadhi may bloom. How to thank you? How to express gratitude? I find no way to discharge this debt. Even if all other debts are paid, yours cannot be. So I bow, and bow a thousand times. If your namaz, your prayer, your worship is anything other than gratitude, know that you have not understood. You have misunderstood.

“Saheb” is a symbol—and a sweet one. Try to understand Maluk’s line:

Saheb mil Saheb bhaye…

First Maluk says: He who met the Master became the Master. That is the proof of meeting. There can be no other. If after meeting there still remains distance—what sort of meeting is that! If you met and yet did not become that—what sort of meeting! Meeting God, one becomes God. Meeting Brahman, one becomes Brahman. Meeting Truth, one becomes Truth. What else can meeting mean? The Upanishads say: He who knows That, becomes That. We are That already; it is only unrecognized. We can never be otherwise. Not for a single moment can we live apart. Life is another name for That. That beats in the heart; That comes and goes in the breath; That pervades within and without, above and below, in all ten directions. Not an inch is empty of That. Everything is filled—brimming. Even if you want to, you cannot be other than That.

Strange, though—man has taken himself to be separate. And not only that, he opposes those who declare their oneness. Mansoor was crucified for one crime: he declared “Anal Haq”—I am the Truth. That was his great offense.

What was Jesus’ crime? He said: I and my Father are not two—We are One. Enough for crucifixion.

Had you understood Mansoor, you would have known you too are That. Had you understood Jesus, you would have known the same. Jesus is not making a private claim for his personality; his declaration includes all life. Mansoor’s statement is not only about Mansoor; it is about you as much. Even those who crucified him—about them too it was true. Mansoor knew; they did not.

But man is bizarre. He will not accept “I am God.” Why? He will not accept even that someone else is God. Why? He cannot accept another as God because it bruises his ego: while I am here, how can someone else be God? Who dares to claim to be God!

Man understands only one language: ego. He knows nothing of the language of egolessness from which such proclamations arise. He interprets them in his own way—and in no other.

That is why Jesus, on the cross, prayed: Father, forgive them; they know not what they do. They know not who they are, nor whom they kill. They were not crucifying Jesus—they were crucifying their own future, denying their supreme possibility.

Mansoor laughed when he was killed. Someone asked from the crowd: Why do you laugh? Mansoor said: Because whom you crucify is not me. I never said “Anal Haq” about this body. And the one about whom I said it is laughing. Try to cut me!

He is saying what Krishna said: Weapons cannot cleave me; fire cannot burn me.

The Vedas proclaim: Amritasya putrah—you are children of the immortal. You are his offspring; you rise from him—like waves in the ocean. Not a whit different.

But man insists on being separate. So when someone declares “Aham Brahmasmi,” our egos smart. We translate his words through our stupidity.

A man was walking with his dog. A jester met him and said, “Where are you going with this donkey?” The man, angry, shouted: Are you blind? This is a dog, not a donkey! The jester said: Who’s talking to you? I’m asking the dog!

We rush to conclusions—always in our way. Perhaps other meanings are possible, other angles. But we are expert in just one interpretation, and we force it onto everything.

A drunk went to the railway inquiry office. “Babuji, where did that cart-pusher on the platform go?” “I don’t know,” the clerk snapped. The drunk wandered off, came back: “Did you see my wife pass this way?” “No,” said the clerk. Fifteen minutes later he returned: “What’s the price of snacks at this station?” The clerk exploded: “Have I leased the whole station? Ask the snack seller!” “If you know nothing, why run an inquiry office!” muttered the drunk and moved on.

“Inquiry office”—so the drunk thinks it should know everything: where the cart-pusher went, whether his wife passed, what snack prices are. He has his own world.

You too are drunk on ego. When someone announces: Saheb mil Saheb bhaye—you bristle. You feel a shock. You think it is a boast of ego. You cannot imagine it could be an announcement of humility. And in truth it is always born of humility. As long as ego is, one cannot muster the courage to say it. This boldness belongs only to egolessness.

In a country where minor crimes were punished with flogging, a man was sentenced to fifteen lashes for teasing a girl. After fifteen he was half-dead. The officer said, “Listen, mister, if you tease any girl again, it will be eighty lashes. And from today, consider all girls your sisters.” The man replied, “Yes, sir, absolutely. You won’t have cause to complain again.” Just then his wife arrived, weeping: “My lord, are you in great pain?” He blurted, “No, no, sister, I’m perfectly fine!”

You live in darkness. Darkness has its own language, its way of seeing and thinking. When someone full of light speaks to you, you do not understand; you miss. You lack even the humility to sit quietly and try to understand. Instead your knives flash, your swords are drawn, you are ready to kill and be killed—as if truths can be cut by swords! As if bullets can kill truth! As if crucifixions can murder truth!

Saheb mil Saheb bhaye, kachhu rahi na tamai.
A beautiful saying of Maluk. Not a trace of darkness remained—no ignorance. And ego is ignorance, darkness, tamas. To believe and know that I am separate from existence is the greatest error; all other errors arise from this one. One who has known the Truth, who has lit the lamp of meditation within, finds this darkness ends. A luminous experience remains—non-division, non-duality.

Saheb mil Saheb bhaye, kachhu rahi na tamai.
Kahai Maluk tis ghar gaye, jahan pavan na jai.

The wind reaches everywhere, but God’s home is so subtle that even wind does not enter. Even wind is too gross there. Only egolessness can enter—so fine that only one who can abandon himself at the door, lay himself down on the steps, is entitled to enter, becomes worthy. One willing to dissolve is the one who attains.

Blessed are they who are ready to vanish. Without vanishing, no one attains. Either vanish and attain, or attain and vanish—two sides of the same coin.

Anand Sant, meditate on this sweet saying. Here “Saheb” does not mean a person—not Ram, not Krishna, not Mahavira, not Buddha. “Saheb” means: at the center of the heart of this universe, the music that resounds; the music that has tuned the whole into harmony; the music that binds this universe in one note. The world is not chaos; there is an exquisite order. Such a vast universe moves in such silence, peace, and bliss; nowhere is there unruliness, nowhere a hitch—everything flows as an unbroken stream. The unknown energy that gives such rhythm to all this—that unknown energy is “Saheb.”

Give any name you like. “Saheb” is a lovely name—very lovely. And how will you make an idol of Saheb? Maluk chose well. How to carve an image of “Master”? For Ram you can sculpt the bowman; for Krishna the flute-player; for Christ the crucified. But Saheb—what image? None will do—only the feeling remains.

And that is best—drown in the feeling. Many have gotten shackled to idols, bound to temples. Now humanity needs wine-houses, not temples. Temples have become a mountain on the chest. We don’t need big scriptures—only small pointers. The scriptures are jungles. People get lost in them. They go seeking clarity and exit more entangled. Pandits are more tangled than the ignorant. The scholar’s plight becomes worse than the simpleton’s.

An Upanishad offers a stunningly revolutionary statement. I have studied almost all the world’s scriptures; I found nothing to match it. Its revolution is such that even today no ash settles upon it—though many have tried to cover it, the ember still glows. It says: The ignorant wander in darkness—but the learned wander in deep darkness. Whoever said it had a lion’s heart. Don’t talk about the ignorant wandering—it is natural. Ask about the learned! They wander in profound darkness.

Which learned? The pundits. They get caught in hair-splitting. Pointers lie forgotten while they weave webs of logic and debate. Where is the time for meditation? And remember: the only solution is in samadhi. If scriptures could solve our problems, by now all human problems would be solved—we have scriptures aplenty; yet every scripture has added problems.

To my sannyasins I say: pointers are enough. Do not get lost in more tangles.

Saheb mil Saheb bhaye, kachhu rahi na tamai.
Do this much: break the inner darkness. Shake off this sleep within. You have slept enough—how long will you sleep? But you even find new arguments to protect your sleep.

Your first argument is: Who says I am asleep? This is our greatest argument. Once you begin to justify this, the question of breaking darkness never arises. Man is adept at finding reasons.

A hunter father fired at a flying bird before his son—missed, as usual. The son kept watching the bird. The father said, “See, son, a miracle—dead and still flying!”

Man is clever at rationalization.

Gurdjieff—one of the supremely awakened of this century, among those of whom we can say “Saheb mil Saheb bhaye, kachhu rahi na tamai”—often told a parable. A magician had many sheep. He needed many shepherds—and inspectors to watch the shepherds, because they would steal, eat, sell the sheep. The flock was so large he could hardly count them daily; lambs were born and he couldn’t keep track. Servants were careless; wild beasts took some.

Worn out, one day he thought: I am a magician—why not use magic? He dismissed all the staff, hypnotized the sheep, and told them: You are not sheep—you are men; there’s no need to fear or run; return home on your own. You are not sheep; that was your delusion. And you need not fear being slaughtered. He needed sheep daily for food and guests, and they trembled seeing sheep killed. He convinced them: you are not sheep—others are sheep. You are men. You will never be cut.

From that day there was perfect peace. The sheep returned on their own. They had no fear, for they were not “sheep.” When one was killed, others smiled: We are men! Let the sheep die—what is it to us? Their mutual solidarity broke; they stopped moving in flocks. No need for shepherds or inspectors.

Gurdjieff said: This is man’s condition. He hypnotizes himself. His greatest hypnosis: I am fine as I am; what is there to do? I am not asleep. I am already awake. I am already wise. Why meditate? Let the ignorant do that.

And he finds small tricks to certify himself: one memorizes the Gita, another Quranic verses, someone rings a bell in the temple at dawn, another lights a lamp and waves an arati—thinks: done, worship complete. Every man has found a cheap religion—no inner revolution required, nothing in life must change. Religion helps keep life exactly as it is.

If you truly suffer—pain, trouble, which you do—it proves the darkness is dense. Without darkness there is no sorrow, no hell. Hell is born of self-ignorance; self-knowledge is heaven.

Anyone who reminds you of this will irritate you. That is why you never forgive living Masters. Yes, after they die you worship them—out of guilt. When they lived, you could not forgive them; when they die, guilt gnaws.

Psychologists say: When fathers die, sons hang their pictures, offer flowers, make much show. When the father was alive they hardly noticed him—never massaged his feet, never served him. At his death their mistreatment stands before them. Now what to do? There is no one to ask forgiveness from. So repentance arises; they cry.

A wife dies and the husband beats his chest; yet while she lived how many times he wished her dead, thought, What misfortune was it that I married her! When she dies, he moans: this is not love or memory—it is regret. He could not love when it was time; now the pain pricks. To cover that wound, to escape guilt, he beautifies the tomb, shows the world how much he “loved.”

Wives torment husbands while they live—perhaps that is all they do! And when the husband dies they are ready to become sati. Astonishing. While alive, they roast him twenty-four hours a day: won’t let him sit in peace or stand in peace. Snatch the newspaper: always with the paper, as if I’m dead! Even at meals they eat his head with complaints.

I have stayed in many homes and seen enough to understand why for centuries men have become sannyasins—running away from “maya-moh.” Maya-moh? Word games—the issue is wives. They were tormented into dispassion. Then these very “mahatmas” write, “Woman is the gate to hell.” They are speaking not of womankind but of one woman who turned their life into a hell. Burnt by milk, they now blow on buttermilk. One woman made them enemies of all women.

And when such a husband dies, the same wife is ready to mount his pyre—the drama of sati. It is not love; it is remorse: when there was time, I did not love—now how can I live? Better to die; sacrifice myself, and balance the account.

Human psychology is complex. Things are not as they appear. There are webs within webs. Jesus alive—stoned, conspired against; today half the earth is Christian. Buddha alive—attempts on his life: mad elephants loosed, rocks rolled, poison given; today all Asia worships him. Of all the statues in the world, Buddha’s are the most. The word for statue in Arabic and Urdu, but, is from “Buddha”—so many Buddha images were made that “Buddha” became “but,” idol, and idol-worship—“but-parasti”—meant Buddha-worship. And yet how much he was harassed!

Mahavira—did you harass him less? Nails driven into his ears; rabid dogs set after him; driven out of towns. Today there are temples everywhere, worship everywhere.

Strange! What is the matter with a living Master? He tells you plainly, truth as it is. You are asleep, he says you are asleep. You are blind—he says blind. He speaks without ornament: two and two are four. His clarity hurts; he shakes you to awaken you. He must—if he doesn’t, you will go on sleeping. So you shout, abuse.

Immanuel Kant, Germany’s greatest philosopher—Germany produced many greats: Hegel, Schiller, Feuerbach—but Kant towers above them. Yet he had a quirk: waking in the morning was hard. He hired a servant to wake him. Only one lasted, because when anyone tried to wake him he would curse, hit. By evening he would instruct, “Whatever I say in the morning, wake me!” But servants are human; when beaten and abused they left. One stayed because when Kant hit him, he hit back—strong fellow. He would drag Kant from bed, throw off the quilt, overturn the bed. Kant was aghast: are you my servant or am I yours? The man said, Servant or master, you said wake you. If you hit me, I will hit you. When life is at stake, self-defense is right—and the best defense is attack. I will give you such a thrashing you’ll remember! Kant came to depend on him, but the daily fracas continued—the same tussle every morning.

Man sleeps even deeper than that. Disturb his sleep and he becomes enraged. You want someone to sing lullabies, to deepen your slumber; to teach you “how to sleep better.” Your priests oblige—they increase your darkness, and you are pleased. The Master disturbs you—hence you are upset. He reminds you of your supreme nature: Saheb mil Saheb bhaye. He says: Meet the Master—be the Master. You are the Master; just awaken, and you will be it now.

Why does man refuse even the declaration of his godliness? The reason is simple: accept it and you must change your life at once. If you are standing on the street blowing smoke, then remember “Saheb mil Saheb bhaye”—how will it look? The Master smoking a bidi? Gambling, drinking—and the Master drinking? The Master contesting an election? The Master, hands folded before each voter begging for votes! You will feel ashamed: what kind of God am I? Picking pockets! Standing in line a mile long for a movie! Getting thrashed—but determined to see the show! How to accept you are Divine? You say, No, no—this is too troublesome. Accepting it means I cannot go on living as I do.

You don’t want to change your life. Then at least say so. But you won’t. Instead you say, Man cannot be God; God is God, the maker; man is man, the made—we are creation. He wrote our destiny: that you will gamble, drink!

A friend of mine—a truly nice man in every way, except for a habit of drinking. Often drinkers are nice—affable, sweet. Those who neither drink nor smoke nor chew—often they are stiff, rigid, trouble-makers, lacking compassion. This friend’s wife had the “religious” itch—which women often do. She harassed him. Dragged him to saints; he had to go—guilty for one fault, he feared his wife. Before saints he would nod submissively while within, he told me, he felt like wringing their necks: the “Maharaj” keeps whacking me with sermons and I cannot speak because my wife brought me. She expects me to listen.

In that same folly she brought him to me, thinking I would “explain.” He came cringing, eyes downcast. I said, Why downcast? No need to worry—you only drink! Not a great sin. Nothing else, right? Anyway, wine is not non-vegetarian—it is vegetarian, distilled from grapes! He glanced at his wife: Where have you brought me! She looked at him: Now what! I said, If it’s pure grape, drink in peace. Why the fear? Drink with an open heart. She said: What are you saying? I have taken him to so many—no one could stop him, and here you are saying, “Drink freely!” Now it will be worse.

I said, Do one thing. How long have you tried to stop him? “Thirty years,” she said, “since marriage.” Without success. Then, for seven days, stop trying. Do not utter a word against drink. Bring him back after seven days. And to him I said: For seven days, drink with an open heart—then we’ll see.

He left elated—touched my feet thrice. The wife was aghast. I said, For seven days, say nothing.

She returned on the third day: I can’t bear it; I cannot keep silent. I said, Think. He has a habit thirty years old, now in his blood. A mosquito that bites him must get drunk! Don’t let anyone take his blood—it will intoxicate them! And you can’t keep from speaking for seven days? You have no habit, yet you cannot stop? She said, No—I cannot bear it. He drinks more now, then lectures me on your teachings, reads your books, starts preaching at two in the morning. When he drinks, he listens to no one. I cannot endure it.

I said, If you cannot drop your habit of “stopping,” how will he drop his habit of drinking? You too are addicted—to stopping him. Leave it to me; in thirty days I will manage. Give me seven days of silence. She could not. But seven days later the husband came—alone. He said, She couldn’t keep silent—but I understood something: my drinking fattens her ego; her stopping bruises mine; her insistence makes me insist. What shall I do now? I said: Take sannyas. “What! I cannot give up drink,” he said. I said, I am not asking you to drop it—become a sannyasin; these little things we’ll see later.

He took sannyas—and his drink dropped! He said to me, Now it is difficult. I sit with a bottle and think: I am a sannyasin—shall I drink? To hell with my wife—she made me drink for thirty years by trying to stop me! Now I can’t even go to a bar. I went once—someone fell at my feet: “Mahatmaji, how are you here?” I said, “By mistake—I forgot this is a bar!” and fled.

If even the remembrance that “I am Divine” begins to arise, you will see a revolution in your life. Gradually, things will fall away—without your dropping them, they will be dropped. The perception of your own godliness is such a flood—it sweeps away all the rubbish, the filth of many lives.

Maluk is right:

Saheb mil Saheb bhaye, kachhu rahi na tamai.
Kahai Maluk tis ghar gaye, jahan pavan na jai.

We have reached that house where even the wind cannot enter. That house is within you. You are the temple; you are Kaba, you are Kashi. Go nowhere else; seek nowhere else. Only deepen a single remembrance: the Saheb is seated within you. Standing, sitting, walking—do not forget: the Saheb is within you. As this remembrance grows dense, a revolution will begin. As it grows denser, things will keep falling away. One day you will find all the trash gone. Kachhu rahi na tamai—no darkness remains, no ego remains—only light.

Light is our nature. It is not an attainment; it is our very ownness.

A little glimpse of it, and you will feel as the poet Swabhav writes:

How can I be at peace after seeing You?
What ghazal can I recite after seeing You?

My very life is calling out to me:
Shall I go—or shall I not—after seeing You?

How can I be at peace…

I honor the Kaaba too with my eyes—
But where shall I bow after seeing You?

How can I be at peace…

Your intoxicating glance has made me drunk—
Shall I go to the tavern—after seeing You?

How can I be at peace…

My eyes can bear no other vision now—
With whom can I meet eyes after seeing You?

How can I be at peace after seeing You?
What ghazal can I recite after seeing You?

Just a glance within, and ghazals resound. Songs erupt. Flowers bloom. Lamps are lit—Diwali happens. A cascade of colors bursts—spring breaks out. Turn within a little, and the flute plays; the cuckoo coos; the papihas cry “Pee, pee.” Just turn within.

Being with me has only one purpose: to learn the art of turning within. Sannyas is the art of turning within.

Enough for today.