Saheb Mil Saheb Bhave #10

Yog Pritam! That is exactly what I am doing—hence so much opposition. For centuries man has been trained to weep. He has been taught the lesson of tears. The very meaning of religion has been poured into his breath as indifference, as melancholy—such poison. This is not your fault alone. In this pain you are not solitary; the whole of humankind is besieged by the same affliction. And the difficulty becomes truly complex when we begin to mistake thorns for flowers. Then they go on pricking, and still we won’t let them go. Imagine the plight of one who has taken thorns to be flowers—you can understand. They pierce, the chest is wounded, the life-breaths cry out, and yet the thorns do not appear as thorns. Eyes filled with conditionings go on seeing flowers in them. Your life has been distorted.

The heart does recognize where the mistake is, but the intellect does not, because your own intelligence has been snatched away. Dust has been thrown over it, and a borrowed mind has been handed to you—stale, rotten. Although that rotten mind was wrapped up in scriptures. It is wrapped in such lovely, colorful papers that you remain entangled in the wrappings and never sense the filth within.

There is a secret behind this conspiracy. If this secret becomes visible to you, the veena of the heart may begin to sing. You were made to sing—that’s why you were made. You were made to dance—that’s why you were made. Life is a festival. And just as blossoms open on trees, so too must blossoms open in human beings. They must open—inevitably, unavoidably. If in some life or two they do not bloom, we would call that life diseased. But here the matter has been turned upside down: once in millions, a single flower opens. What will you call such a gardener who plants millions of saplings and, once in a while, a single flower appears on a single plant? Will you call him a gardener? Will you thank him? You will have to say: that flower came despite him; it slipped past his gaze—otherwise it would not have come. If he had his way, it would never have come.

So too, in this garden of humanity, once in millions a Buddha, a Mahavira, a Mohammed—a solitary flower—blooms. And see how we treat that flower! The way we behave shows why the flower within us cannot bloom. If you crucify Jesus, how will the Jesus within you awaken? By crucifying Jesus you crucified your own possibilities. You committed spiritual suicide. If you stone Buddha, whom are you stoning? You are throwing hurdles at the very door of your Buddhahood. You are demolishing your own temple, you are shattering your own image, snapping the strings of your own veena. Then you weep and wail, “Why does the heart-lute not play? Why is there no song in life? Why does spring not arrive?” How can it, when you are betrothed to the fall? You do not let spring stay. Yet your very breath thirsts for spring, because you were made for spring, not for autumn.

The whole past of humanity is so rotten, so full of pus—pus oozes from every side—yet you are busy whitewashing. Pus flows here, you tie a bandage there; it seeps there, you bandage that spot. What will remain of your soul if it does not rot away entirely? And when no lamps light in your life, no songs sprout, no flowers bloom, then those very ones who have ruined your life will tell you: “This is the fruit of sins committed in your past births.”

I say to you again and again: what you are suffering is not the fruit of sins in your past births; it is the ill effect of the calamity that befell the whole past of humankind. You are reaping the fruit of a collective, great sin. What personal sins have you committed! Even if personally you sin, what can you do? Steal a little? Gamble a little? Drink a little? Are these sins of such magnitude? Even worth counting? And in your sleep, in your unconsciousness, what else could be expected of you? If someone mutters in sleep, will we not forgive him when he wakes?

Mulla Nasruddin used to mutter in his sleep every night, abusing his wife, talking nonsense. One day she shook him: “Nasruddin, what gibberish you utter in your sleep!” Nasruddin said, “Then listen and understand! Who says I am asleep? Awake you don’t let me speak—won’t let my tongue open—so being human I found a trick. I shut my eyes and lie down; what I needed to blurt, what I should have said while awake but it would have caused trouble—I mutter in my sleep.”

Such a man cannot be forgiven, for his sleep is false. But one who truly mutters in sleep—would you not forgive him upon waking?

Emperor Akbar’s procession was passing one day. A drunk sat on his thatched roof—where won’t drunks climb! Akbar rode by on his elephant; the drunk began hurling hefty abuses—this was Delhi; he must have been a Punjabi! If abuse must be given, the relish Punjabi has no other tongue matches. Translate the same abuse into Gujarati and its very life is gone; it turns round and soft, like distributing syrupy sweets. Punjabi has its own spice...

The drunk let fly weighty abuses. Even Akbar fumed. He was usually a calm man. Instantly he ordered, “Arrest him! Produce him at court tomorrow.”

They brought the man next day. He bowed again and again, laid his turban at Akbar’s feet. Akbar said, “Today you seem a very good man—what happened yesterday?” He replied, “Yesterday it wasn’t me; it was the wine. Whatever was said, heard—do not mind it. I said nothing—wine made me say it. But whatever punishment you give, I am ready to bear.” Akbar said, “If it was wine, what punishment is needed? Wine will punish you plenty. Go, be off!” For if you were not in your senses, what meaning do your abuses have? Had you praised me, it would be meaningless too; if you sang hymns, meaningless; you abused—meaningless. What worth are a man’s words when he is not conscious?

So if in past lives you made some mistakes—what are they worth? The Buddha has said well: after enlightenment, if someone errs, he is responsible and deserving of punishment; but no one errs after enlightenment. After enlightenment even if one touches a thorn, it becomes a flower; touch clay, it turns to gold. Even mistakes are transfigured. After enlightenment, mistakes cannot be. The Buddha is right: responsibility arises only in awareness. What is done in sleep carries no responsibility.

But your priests will tell you the joylessness of your life is the fruit of sins from past births. I tell you: not so. It is the fruit of the conspiracy against the whole past of humankind. It is not a matter of isolated individuals; the very source-spring of our collective consciousness has been polluted. As if someone poured poison at Gangotri, the source of the Ganges; wherever the Ganga then flows, people go insane. Likewise poison has been poured at the very origin of your consciousness.

Why would someone do this? Why such effort?

There are vested interests behind it. That is the secret. If you want to keep every person a slave, never allow his inner song to awaken. For the moment the inner song is free, the breath is free. When wings grow on the song, wings grow on the soul. Then even in golden cages you cannot confine him. You can kill him, erase him, but you cannot enslave him. Once the joy within blossoms, the fruit of liberation has formed—how will you enslave him then!

So if you must enslave man, first remember this: never let him be joyful. Only a miserable person can be enslaved. Therefore keep man miserable. Arrange everything so that he remains unhappy, afflicted, harried. Entangled in troubles, he will remain a slave. He will be pitiable, impoverished. Tangled in anxieties, his intellect will never be honed; it will never become youthful; it will never be sharp—only dull.

Sorrow dulls the intellect—like a sword gone rusty that cannot cut even vegetables. Rust has been deliberately spread on your intelligence—skillfully, artfully. And all those who wish to keep man enslaved have their hand in it. Politicians are included—whether ancient kings and emperors or today’s politicians; it makes no difference. Politics plays the same games. Monarchy, democracy, socialism, communism—no difference. The politician’s move and mold are the same; his language, his arithmetic the same. His net is the same: to sit on people’s chests, to tighten the noose around their necks.

If people are happy, joyous, singing, dancing—they will be free. Such brilliance, such swiftness and shine will arise in their life—how will you enslave them! Just think: could my sannyasins march behind any politician? Impossible. Could they be taken in by the babble of any priest? Impossible. The moment a little fragrance enters life, all kinds of stupidity begin to fall away.

So one group is the politicians who want a shadow over people’s lives; the other is the priests.

Religion and politics together have strangled man’s breath. They have tightened a noose such that they neither let you live nor let you die. They won’t let you die—what use would that be? Prisoners are fed in jail. Not so much that he becomes strong enough to break the chains, but not so little that he dies. If the prisoner dies, whom will you keep as a prisoner? You’ll be left holding your own shackles! So they keep you alive—neither letting you die nor letting you live.

Have you seen Nandi seated outside Shiva’s temple? In Shiva’s name, people release a bull in every village. But have you ever compared that Nandi before the temple, or a bull set loose for Shiva, with an ordinary ox? There should be no difference between a bull and an ox, but what a difference! The bull’s swagger, his exuberance, his grace—where is that compared to the poor, humble ox! The ox is yoked to the cart, to the oil press—wherever you wish.

Try yoking a bull to the oil press! Neither the press, nor the oil, nor the oilman will survive! Try hitching a bull to your cart for a pilgrimage! The bull will reach the shrine—you may never return home! On the road he cannot be driven; such power, such radiance! He’ll toss the cart and vanish into the forest. And if on the way he meets some young cow—will he remember you in your cart? Let you and your cart go to blazes! Nandi will make love there, playing Krishna’s flute.

But the poor ox remains in the yoke, bearing the load. What happened? He was born a bull; you castrated him. You severed his life-energy, cut his roots. In the same way, every human being has been castrated. Your so-called religion and politics have stripped every person’s life of dignity and grandeur. He can drag himself along; he cannot dance. He has been left alive only enough to crawl. He can creep like a worm on earth; he cannot fly like a bird in the sky, cannot journey to distant horizons. He can kneel in prayer—but that prayer will be dead, without power. It will fall here itself; will it rise to the sky! He will bend the knee anywhere, fawn wherever he sees power.

Between religious leaders and politicians there is a pact. Both want to ride on man’s chest. They have divided the loot: the politician wants possession of the body; the priest, of the soul. And their method is one: never let man become intense, aflame. Never let the ember of revolution glow. Layer dust upon dust until only ash remains in his breath. Then he will say “Yes, sir,” remain a slave, serve vested interests; he will press the feet of those who kill him, who have wiped the colors and juices from his life, erased all rainbows, plucked all flowers—he will sing their praises, call them benefactor: “Without you, how would I live!”

Hence, Yog Pritam, it has become difficult. Otherwise it is very simple. Life can be filled with devotion—it must be. As every tree must bear flowers, so in a human life the blossoms of bhakti and feeling are his destiny.

You say:
“Pour such devotion into my breath that all turns into kirtan...”
There is no need that I pour it into you. Just listen to me, and drop the stones you are clutching, because of which the springs of devotion cannot burst forth. But you prize those stones greatly. You value them beyond measure. You call them Hinduism, Jainism, Buddhism, Christianity, Quran, Bible, Gita. How to drop them! “These are not stones, they are scriptures; these are our temples, our mosques, our Kaaba, our Kashi—how can we drop them!” Then devotion cannot arise. With stones in your ears, my words will not reach your breath.

I am ready, Yog Pritam—but you must show a little readiness. Devotion cannot be forced. There are things in life that cannot be imposed. You must cooperate; only then can your own nature be revealed.

You have written lovely words, your prayer is sweet! This is exactly what I long for; this is what I am doing. But the obstacles come from your side.

You say:
“Pour such devotion into my breath...
Bestow such a festival upon life...”
And what else do I want! Celebration is religion to me. Dance is meditation to me. But your feet are so shackled—how will you dance! And when you cannot dance you think the courtyard is crooked. “I cannot dance—the courtyard is skewed.” You blame the courtyard; you do not look at your feet. You mistake the chains on your feet for ornaments. They may well be of gold, studded with jewels—but a chain is a chain. In truth, golden chains are more dangerous than iron ones, because iron you may try to break; golden chains you want to preserve. “They are wealth!” You keep them close to your life’s life. Then there will be no dance.

And do you see why people are angry with me? What am I snatching from them? I am taking away their gloom, and they are angry. I am taking away their indifference, and they are angry. I want to give them celebration, and they are angry. I want to give them kirtan, singing, music—and they are angry. I want to make their life a ceremony, and they are angry. Because for ages they have defined religion as escape, as renunciation. I say: religion is the supreme celebration—and they abuse me as a hedonist.

Their definition of religion is fixed. Until their definitions change, their breaths cannot change. That is why I must change your definitions. I must strike again and again—somehow to make you aware that you have surrounded yourself with false notions. No one else is your enemy—only these wrong notions. But you refuse to see fault in them. You carry them on your head with pride: “My notions—wrong? Never! The whole world may be wrong; my notions cannot be wrong.” Then stay content in your sadness. Then do not ask for kirtan, do not ask for bhajan.

You have been taught that religion is seriousness. I say to you: religion is not seriousness. Religion is play, not gravity. But those who sit with long faces—they are compelled to. Someone is fasting. Someone in the heat sits surrounded by sacred fires. As if the burning sun were not enough, he must light more fires around and sit amid embers. What face will he have if not mournful! If flowers do not wither, what else will they do! Try placing braziers around a rosebush; see whether the roses become “mahatmas” or droop. If they droop, you will say: “They know nothing of being sages.”

Your “mahatmas” are withered, lifeless—but you don’t see it.

A Jain monk was brought to me. His devotees said, “He is a great renunciate, a great ascetic—what a body like purified gold!” I said, “Bring him, I too will see.” He came—indeed, like gold, as a fevered man sometimes looks: yellowed, like leaves about to fall in autumn. Call them golden if you like, but the truth was different—deathliness on the face. Constant fasting—just bones. Keep a man perpetually hungry and thirsty, his face will surely go sallow. The devotees were saying, “A body like gold, like refined gold!” What we hide in words! I told them, “Fools, get this man treated. If you love him, donate some blood to him. He has lost his blood, nothing else. This is not a golden body—he is dying.”

They were shocked. “What are you saying? This is the power of austerity!” I said, “No power—only powerlessness. He has dried up.” But you honor his withering. And once honor is given, a man is ready to do any foolishness. Starve him, make him stand on his head, make him stand naked, freeze him in winter, roast him in summer—do what you will—so long as you keep feeding his ego with your respect.

Those whom you call renunciates and monks have only one consolation—your reverence. You are satisfying their ego, that’s all. Nothing else lives in them: no devotion in the breath, no kirtan in the inhalations, no celebration in the soul, no dance in their feet. And when you call them “mahatma,” knowingly or unknowingly you too begin to wish to become like them.

You honor only that which you want to become. Your honor is symbolic, an arrow pointing to what you aspire to. Whether you manage it or not is another matter. Those who did manage have dried up; those who didn’t became half-dry.

So far, this is humanity’s condition: a few were supremely foolish—dull-witted—and in the hope of gratifying their ego became ready for every kind of stupidity. Most were not so foolish, but neither intelligent enough to call this stupidity what it is; so they honored it and said, “One day our good fortune will dawn, the merit of our deeds will accumulate; we too will undertake such a great journey as you have.” Though they did not go, their capacity to dance in this world was lost. They became incomplete. They remained in the world while their goal became otherworldly gloom.

Friedrich Nietzsche has said well: religion has done two things—completely ruined some lives and left others half-dead. Transformation did not happen: a few became corpses whom you began to call mahatmas; others, not so extreme, kept some sense but their breath too became labored; their life was poisoned. They stayed in the world, but were filled with guilt: “What we are doing is wrong; the life we live is sin. It should not be so, but we are weak, it is compulsion; merit has not ripened yet—so we crawl like worms.” And when a man sees himself as a worm, when his life is filled with guilt—how will he dance?

Certain things are indispensable to dance: your guilt must end. Embrace life in its totality. It is God’s gift, God’s prasad. Do not run away from it. To run from it is to insult the divine, to malign the divine.

On the one hand you say God created the world, life, existence; on the other you say it must be renounced. He gave life—what do you give in return? Flight. Your running from life, shrinking life, renouncing life—this is a clear complaint: “You erred in giving me life.” Your mahatmas seem wiser than your God. He gave life; they teach you to abandon it. No joy will be possible unless these notions are dropped.

You say:
“The plant of my life has not found a flower.”
How will it find flowers? You do not water the roots; instead you make the roots practice austerity—watering would be “indulgence”! You make the roots do yoga; then how will the treetop bear blossoms? The flower blooms at the summit because the roots drink sap from the earth. Here you cut the roots, there you hope for flowers! Stop hacking at the roots! Stop these double, contradictory acts! Your life has become hypocrisy.

I want my sannyasins’ lives utterly free of hypocrisy. Live as is natural, spontaneous. When hungry, eat; when not, there is no need to eat. When sleep comes, sleep; there is no need to wake at Brahma-muhurta. If at Brahma-muhurta the Brahman within sleeps well, let him sleep. The Brahman within you knows better than you. Do not yank yourself up by force at some “holy hour.” Do nothing by compulsion. Take life simply, easily, naturally. Live by inner spontaneity—and you will see: flowers will bloom!

You say, Yog Pritam:
“The plant of my life has not found a flower;
I am a wave that could not find a shore.”
The shore is very near—it is already there. You yourself hesitate; you won’t go to the bank; you avoid it.

You say:
“They say divinity hides in the breath of stone.”
Indeed it does. But leave stones aside—you are alive, yet you cannot sense the deity within you.

A woman has written to me: “My four sons have become your sannyasins; my daughter too has taken sannyas. Now that I am here, my mind is wavering; I too am being soaked in your flavor. But what can I do—I belong to the Mahanubhava sect. In it the doctrine is that the soul can never become God. How can I leave that!...” And my proclamation here is: it is not a question of “becoming”—the soul is God. What is this talk of becoming? You are! Even if you want to be something else, you cannot.

I understand her predicament. The taste touches her; my words touch her... She must be elderly; four sons have taken sannyas, a daughter too—so she must be old; the roots of old beliefs have tightened. And what beliefs! Beliefs that won’t even allow you to be divine—and you still clutch them. You hold bottles of poison to your chest. You have held them so long that now if someone tries to take them away, you won’t give them.

What am I snatching from you? A vain gibberish lodged in your mind that man cannot be God. Who says so? Leave man—what is there in existence other than God? Stone too is God. Trees, animals, plants, birds. The One has manifested in countless forms. These are the notes of one veena—different tones and songs, but the veena is the same. These are waves of one ocean—some small, some large, some moving east, some west—but all of one sea.

Even such simple truth, which affirms your dignity and glory, which declares your inner divinity—you hesitate to accept. Your breath shrinks: “Can man be God? In our Mahanubhava sect this is not so.” Then clutch your sect and remain merely human! Or find some extra-great sect in which man is but a worm; that will be even better!

Then what is wrong with atheism! It is almost the perfection of such religion: “There is no God—end the fuss!” What if, by some mischance, He appears and embraces you and won’t let go—you cry, “I belong to Mahanubhava; what are you doing?” and He says, “No, I have fallen in love; O Devi, I dissolve in you and you in me.” You try to wedge your sect’s scripture in between—useless. Better an atheist: “God does not exist—no question of becoming!”

Such sects are cloaked atheisms. Any “religion” that says man cannot be God is atheism in the guise of faith. Theism is the declaration: man is God. Tat tvam asi—thou art That. Not for a single moment have you been otherwise, nor can you ever be. Commit a thousand sins, wander far—where will you go? There is no place outside Him. Wherever you go, He is. Whatever you are, He is. Whatever you do, He is—the witness behind all. He watches the whole play. But such strange notions cripple your feet; paralysis strikes the breath.

You say, Yog Pritam:
“They say divinity hides in the breath of stone;
yet the beauty of my inner being could not blossom.”
It is because divinity hides in stone that we carved stone idols. That was the secret: to proclaim there is no divide between stone and God; even stone can be divine. Stone is divine—just a little polishing, a little form. Pick up the chisel, remove the excess; the hidden God will be revealed. The crude rock in the artist’s hands becomes a Krishna, becomes a Buddha, becomes worthy of worship. If stone can become a Buddha in an artist’s hands, what to say of man!

You say, Yog Pritam:
“Strike such a blow, O sculptor, that the image is revealed;
free the veiled arts, let all become a garden of delight.”
I am striking. That is why people are seething. That is why the abuse rains on me—perhaps as on no other. I am happy. It means the blows are landing. Otherwise why abuse? The blows are reaching. Somewhere, in someone, pebbles and stones are cracking, notions are breaking. People are frightened, restless—afraid that the divine within may burst forth. They will make a last effort to keep things as they are.

I will go on striking. As long as I have strength, I will strike. As hard as I can, I will. Here, I shall be utterly merciless—no softness.

You say:
“I am that veena that has lain unplayed till now;
no gathering of the breaths was adorned, no east wind stirred...”
Yog Pritam, now it has begun! I have plucked your strings! The song has begun to awaken! Somewhere the strings are trembling—jhan-jhan. Somewhere anklets are beginning to ring.

“Life’s grove has not bloomed, the cuckoo found no coo...”
Ah, the cuckoo’s call has begun to come!

“No lamp was lit, the shehnai of the breath has not yet sounded...”
You may pray to me: strike more, O sculptor! This shows that now you taste the blows. You are not sullen, not angry; you are not becoming an enemy. You know now: this blow is a friend’s blow—the blow of a supreme friend.

“Play such a strain, O Lord, as pierces the breath;
pluck the strings of the heart-lute, let everything become song.”
It is happening. Open more of your doors and windows so I can flow into you. Remove the obstructions. The revolution has begun; the lamp is lit. And a single spark burns the whole forest.

“Pour such devotion into my breath that all turns into kirtan;
bestow such a festival upon life that all turns into dance.”
That you could say this prayer is itself the sign that things are beginning to happen: the song has sprouted; the veena has begun to tinkle; far off, perhaps, but the cuckoo has called. The flower may not yet have opened, but the bud is near to bursting. Soon petals will unfold, fragrance will fly. You have set out—keep going.

In his final message the Buddha told his monks: charaiveti, charaiveti—keep moving, keep moving; do not stop. This journey is endless. Here song after song will arise. Here, having climbed one peak, a higher peak will appear. Here, touching one star, a thousand more will challenge. The journey begins—but it has no end. That is why we call the divine infinite, bottomless, immeasurable, incomparable, indefinable.

Sureshchandra! Don’t worry—when it comes to “spoiling” Marwaris, I’m quite skilled! And when I can spoil a Marwari, then I feel confident I can spoil anyone. Then my faith in man is restored.

A thief broke into a Marwari’s house. He was just about to break open the safe when he saw a plaque on it: “Don’t bother trying to break this. The safe is open; there isn’t even a lock. No need for dynamite or hammers.” So he opened the door—the safe door did open—but the moment it opened, lights blazed all around, electric bells started ringing, policemen with guns rushed in from every side, and he was caught at once. The door really was open.

As they led him away, people heard him muttering: “From today I’ve lost faith in human beings.” A policeman said, “Not in human beings, just in Marwaris. This is Marwari cleverness. Don’t lose faith in man—how could an ordinary man be that shrewd! That’s a Marwari’s work.”

When I can spoil a Marwari, my faith in the whole human race returns. Then I feel there’s nothing to worry about. If even a Marwari has been spoiled!

Sureshchandra, I’ll spoil you too—don’t worry. And it’s not that everything about Marwaris is bad. Where there are thorns, there are also flowers.

Once a philosopher asked Chandu Lal: “On one side there’s a heap of wealth, on the other a heap of knowledge—what will you choose, Chandu Lal?” Chandu Lal said, “Sir, I’ll choose the heap of wealth.” The philosopher said, “I knew it. After all, you’re a Marwari! If I were in your place I’d choose knowledge.” Chandu Lal replied, “That’s right—because a person chooses what he lacks.”

Your Marwari-ness has already started to slip, because your very first statement is: “First let me make it clear that I am utterly ignorant.” A Marwari never admits that. The first brick of the building has already fallen. See what Chandu Lal said: a person chooses what he lacks. You’ll choose knowledge because you’re ignorant. I’ll choose wealth because I’m already knowledgeable—what will I do by choosing knowledge again!

Hope arises because you accept you are ignorant. This is the beginning of revolution. You are a Marwari—so the case is difficult, but not impossible.

Chandu Lal came down with a serious illness. He asked the doctor, “Doctor, I will survive, won’t I?” “Certainly—there’s a hundred percent hope,” the doctor replied. “Medical research shows that in this disease only one out of ten patients survives. I’ve treated nine so far; they all died. You’re the tenth—you have every hope of surviving.”

Don’t worry. I’m not that kind of doctor. I’ve treated nine Marwaris; all nine survived. You’re the tenth—what’s there to fear? If nine have survived, you’ll make it too. If you don’t believe me, ask my Marwaris. Ask Manik Bafna, ask Sohan Bafna, ask Satsang—there are top-notch Marwaris here! Ask Advait Bodhisattva, ask Krishna. Every Marwari who has fallen into my hands so far has been saved—saved meaning spoiled! Understand my meaning: I mean he is no longer a Marwari.

Marwaris do have virtues. Once they grab hold of something, they don’t let go. They won’t let go of wealth, and if they get hold of meditation, they won’t let go of that either—remember that. They simply don’t know how to let go. The question is: what do you put into their hands?

And they are good-hearted people.

Chandu Lal’s wife said, “Did you ever think in your heart, if I had married someone else, how would it have been?” Chandu Lal replied, “Why would I wish ill upon someone else?”

They are decent people. Good householders.

So don’t worry!

You say: “First let me make it clear that I am utterly ignorant.”

Good that you made it clear—first of all. But don’t just make it clear to me; understand it clearly within yourself. Sometimes it’s easier to say it to others, because in this country we’ve become such pretenders! Whoever you meet says, “I am but the dust of your feet.”

I lived many years in Jabalpur. A gentleman lived next door—he had a great reputation as a religious man, a saintly soul. The sole reason for the fame was that he knew a few sayings of Kabir and Dadu Dayal. There wasn’t much else to him. But he would trot out Kabir anywhere and everywhere.

When I lived next door, he trotted out Kabir on me too. And he displayed great humility: “I am the dust of your feet.” Naturally, whoever he said this to would reply, “No, no—how can you be dust! I am the dust of your feet. What are you saying!” This is the Indian way—mere etiquette. When he said to me, “I am the dust of your feet,” I said, “That’s exactly what I see—you absolutely look like the dust of feet.” He glared at me in such anger! For a moment he was speechless. All his memorized couplets of Kabir and the rest vanished. Tulsidas’s verses took to their four legs and ran away. He just growled and stared, and said, “What did you say?” I said, “I only accepted what you said; I didn’t say anything. You said you are the dust of my feet; I too consider that you fit perfectly as the dust of feet. You are absolutely right.”

He was so annoyed that he never met me again. If he met me on the road, he’d turn his face away. But I’m not one to let go so easily. If he turned his face, I’d come right before him—even if I had to circle around him. “Jairamji! All well? What happened to the humility? And Kabir’s hymns?” He became so flustered that he’d inquire whether I was in or out before leaving his house. I wouldn’t leave it there either. I’d go to his house at odd hours and knock. At first the maid would open the door; then he told her, “Don’t open the door to this man. Just seeing him, I get furious.”

The maid said to me, “Why are you after him? He says that just seeing you makes him angry.” I said, “A gentleman, a saintly man—how can he possibly get angry! Oh, never! Just take me inside, let me meet him; let me see how he gets angry!” She said, “You really… and please don’t say I told you, or I’ll lose my job! He buzzes like a hornet when he hears your name, saying, ‘This man told me I am the dust of his feet.’” I said, “I didn’t say it; he said it. I merely agreed.”

But etiquette is one thing—people mean something else entirely.

So just keep this much in mind: when you say, “I am utterly ignorant,” don’t say it out of etiquette. I accept that you are. There’s no obstruction in that. This is precisely where the journey can begin. If inwardly you’re thinking I’ll say, “Ah, what a humble person! How egoless!”—I won’t. Those are the oldest, easiest ways to nourish the ego.

People even nurture ego in the garb of egolessness. And behind a confession of ignorance they hope people will now say, “Yes, wise one.” Only two days ago I thrashed a “wise man.” So you must have heard! And perhaps you thought, “Let me make this clear first!” Otherwise I might start thrashing. But if I decide to, I don’t let go—no matter what you do!

Understand this clearly within: I am ignorant. This is the first step toward truth. By mistake, by confusion, don’t hold even the slightest insistence on knowledge. Because even a tiny grain of sand in the eye is enough—the eye shuts. A little speck and the mountain that was visible disappears. Tiny delusions fall into our eyes, and though the divine is present all around, we don’t see it. The “knower” doesn’t see; only the one who is ignorant can.

But don’t take it to mean—since you’re a Marwari I have to explain it carefully—that if you become ignorant, you have found God. Don’t become ignorant in order to attain God. If you become ignorant with the desire to attain, you haven’t become ignorant at all. That’s just another trick of knowledge—another cleverness. “All right, let’s become ignorant—if that’s the technique to get God, what can a Marwari child not do!”

I’m not giving you a technique to attain the divine. In unknowing, the vision of the divine happens—this is a natural outcome. It happens of itself. It is not a result you can aim at. Therefore you cannot make unknowing into a means. If you try to turn it into a means, you will miss.

You say: “Since I started reading your literature, the feeling to become a sannyasin has arisen, and I came here.”

Now that the feeling has arisen, what are you doing here? Are you trying to put the feeling to sleep? “Sleep, my little prince, sleep, dear child! Don’t raise your head now! You’ve come this far—now what’s there to do? Sleep now; you’ve seen it all; now go to sleep!” When the feeling has arisen, don’t delay!

But man is just like this! When a bad impulse arises, he acts at once. For example, when you want to hurl an abuse, you don’t say, “We’ll do it tomorrow. Why today? I’ll come back in twenty-four hours.” In that moment you settle accounts on the spot. Even if the other person says, “Why the hurry? Let’s sort it out tomorrow; let’s leave it for today,” you’ll say, “You insulted me—I can’t wait now! I must return it immediately!”

But when it’s a good deed, the feeling arises—and then what are you waiting for?

Remember: if it’s something bad, stop and delay. Because what is stopped, is stopped. What you don’t do now, you will never do. If a bad impulse arises and you stop, you’ll stop that too; if a good impulse arises and you stop, you’ll stop that too. The arithmetic is the same. If you’re going to do it, do it immediately.

When this noble resolve has arisen, why are you doing accounts? What are you thinking now? Soon the feeling will die. A thousand considerations will arise: profit or loss? What will happen at home? What will the wife say, the father say, the mother say? What will the people of the caste say, the community—the Chandu Lals—what will they say? In all this thinking, the feeling will be lost. Feeling is a very delicate thing—like the tender petal of a rose. Stir up a storm of thoughts and somewhere the rose will be crushed, lost. When such a beautiful feeling arises, you should take the leap.

You say: “The feeling arose; I came here. But I have not yet taken sannyas.”

Then do it, brother! Enough delay already! Who knows about tomorrow? I am here today—tomorrow I may not be. Today the feeling is in you—tomorrow it may not be.

Three days ago a gentleman wrote that he wants to take sannyas from my own hands. “Please reply.”

I was about to send a reply today when his second letter arrived: “Please don’t reply to that question now—the feeling has left.”

In just three days the feeling left. Good that I waited three days—otherwise the poor man would have gotten trapped and into trouble.

Mulla Nasruddin’s wife once came running and said, “He’s going to hang himself!” I said, “Don’t worry—I know him; he won’t hang himself.” She said, “Believe me! He’s locked the door, and when I knock, he says, ‘Don’t disturb me; I’m hanging myself.’” I said, “Does it take so long to hang? He’d be done by now! Is he still talking?” “Yes, he’s talking.” “Then don’t worry.” Still she insisted I come. So I went.

I knocked on the door. He said, “Don’t knock. I’m going to hang myself.” I said, “If you’re going to do it, do it quickly—how long are we supposed to wait without knocking? We have other work too. Hurry up and do it, so we can settle your case and move on.” He said, “When did you get here?” I said, “Your wife brought me. How long have you been locked in?” “About three hours.” “So what have you been doing for three hours? Haven’t hanged yet?” He said, “What’s the use hiding it from you now! Come in.” He opened the door, quickly locked it again, took me inside, and said, “Don’t let my wife in.”

I saw him standing on a stool with ropes tied to both shoulders. I said, “Is that any way to hang yourself? Put it around your neck, man!” He said, “I did put it around my neck first—but it made my breathing choke badly!”

So there he was, ropes around his shoulders, standing for three hours. Stand there three lifetimes—you’ll never manage a hanging like that!

Three days earlier this man’s feeling had arisen; in three days it was gone. It wasn’t a sound feeling. There was dishonesty in it: “I must take sannyas only from your hands!” He must have hoped I wouldn’t say yes—so the hassle wouldn’t arise. Perhaps then he got scared I might say yes—so what then? Better end the affair. He stood on the stool with the rope on his shoulders for three days. Then he thought, “What if he actually replies, ‘Fine, come today’—and today I was about to reply, ‘All right, come today—now put it around the neck! How long will you stand with it on your shoulders?’” So he got free first by writing, “Now please don’t reply; the feeling is gone.”

What can you trust in a feeling? Today it is; tomorrow it isn’t. It was there in the morning—and by evening it’s gone. When he wrote the letter, it was there—now it isn’t. Feeling goes like a ripple of wind—can you trust it?

You say: “But ever since coming here, I experience a peace.”

Don’t experience so quickly! Perhaps this too is a trick: “Now that I’ve already experienced peace, why take sannyas? Let’s go home, brother—attend to the shop, the business!”

If without taking sannyas you can feel peace just from the air around sannyasins, imagine what will happen when you actually take sannyas! Give the imagination a little room. Give your feeling some wings—let it fly. Rise a little higher. Look at the sky. If just by coming here you feel a strange peace, then when you enter this Ganges, when you take the plunge, when you bathe, when you are dyed in this color, this radiance, this glory, this dignity—what will not be possible! The impossible too can become possible.

Now you say, “I want to leave all work for a year and drown in solitary practice.”

In my view, here your Marwari is entering. You must have thought: first spend a year in solitary practice and see; then we’ll settle accounts. First verify what can be gained from meditation, from solitude—whether anything is gained at all. When it’s certain the deal is worth making, then we’ll take sannyas.

Notice you haven’t asked about sannyas? The feeling has arisen, but you raise a new point: “For a year I want to leave all work and drown in solitary practice.”

But for a year!—notice, there’s a time limit. “It’s only a year! I’m taking a year’s leave. After a year I’ll jump back into the field. And if nothing much comes of solitude and silence, then what’s lost in a year I’ll recover with double effort. What’s the harm? What’s the loss?”

Let sannyas happen first. And I don’t say: go into solitude and leave your work. Because what will you do in solitude? You’ll think only of work: “After a year, when I return home, how will I arrange my work?” What will you do in solitude? What does a man do on a fasting day? He thinks about what he will eat tomorrow. What else? On other days there are other things to do.

What will you do in solitude now? And I’m not some absolute partisan of solitude either. There’s no need to leave home and hearth for a year. Become a sannyasin; living at home, carve out one hour of solitude in the twenty-four; remain immersed in work for twenty-three hours. That one hour will be more meaningful. That one year won’t be more meaningful. And such a heavy dose all at once is not good; sometimes it causes damage—serious damage.

Mulla Nasruddin heard that in an ashram there was a fruit that makes one young again. First he searched for it himself, but there were many trees and he couldn’t figure it out, so he asked the saint. The saint plucked a fruit and gave it to him. He took it home. He had thought to eat it himself since he was old—but the moment he showed it to his wife, she snatched it and ate it—before he could say a word. She instantly became young. He remained an old man; she became young. She grabbed his hand and said, “Come on, let’s go to Blue Diamond!” Mulla tried hard to avoid it—“What will people say?”—but now the wife was not only strong as wives are, she was also young. She dragged him along.

The next day he came and grabbed the saint’s collar. “I feel like wringing your neck. You’ve gone too far! What a disgrace I suffered! At Blue Diamond she threw me down. A crowd gathered. She stripped off my clothes and gave a half-hour performance—I can’t show my face in the neighborhood. To hell with that fruit!”

He became so angry that the saint said, “Don’t be upset; don’t worry. Take one more fruit—feed her again. She’ll go into her previous birth. Then buy a small pram, seat her in it, and wheel her around—she won’t be able to trouble you.”

If you leave all work for a year and go off—what will you think and do sitting there? Lust will grip you, greed will grip you; thoughts and fantasies will swarm. It will bring little benefit.

I don’t tell you to run away. I don’t tell you to renounce. Let life be transformed simply and naturally. Stay at home—but as a sannyasin. Give twenty-three hours to family and the world; give one hour to yourself—one hour to me. That one hour will do the work. That one hour will bring enough revolution into your life. That much is enough. A small spark is enough!

That’s all for today.