Saheb Mil Saheb Bhave #2

Swabhav! The Indian psyche has been sullied for centuries. A deep concept of condemning love has been hammered into the Indian mind for thousands of years. It has become part of the blood. We call it culture, we call it religion, and we hide it behind beautiful words. But beneath all the wrappings there is a denial of love. And the denial of love is, at root, a denial of life itself.

To deny love is like opposing a tree and cutting its roots. Cut the roots, and the tree will die by itself. Poison love, and your passion for life will wither on its own—because apart from love, there is no other sweet stream flowing in life. Life is life because love flows. When love dries up, life’s spring is over; autumn sets in. Then life is a mere stump. And for centuries we have worshipped stumps—we called them saints and mahatmas.

The Indian friends who are here with me are certainly here, but how much they understand me—that is difficult to say. If even fifty percent of them understand, it would be a miracle.

You say that even “fifty percent of the Indian friends who have been with you for ten–twelve years don’t understand; they take love to mean only one thing—sex.”

When love is opposed, it shrivels and becomes a synonym for sex. When love is accepted, it expands and becomes the sky of prayer.

Under negation, things contract; under affirmation, they flower. Embrace love, and new leaves and new flowers will bloom; fruits will appear. Cut its roots and only the stump remains—a mere skeleton. That is what has happened. In the Indian mind, love has come to mean sex; “woman” has come to mean “body,” as if woman has no soul at all. In words we say God dwells in every particle; we talk grandly of nonduality. But all that talk seems false—because God is not seen even in woman. And this is the very woman whose womb bore you, in whose belly you grew for nine months, whose blood runs in your veins, whose bone and flesh and marrow formed you. She has donated fifty percent of your life. And yet our so‑called rishis and monks felt no shame in calling her a door to hell. They said this five thousand years ago—we might have forgiven it then, man was underdeveloped and uncivilized—but the same condition still persists today.

Woman has been reduced to body. Reduce her to body and she will of course become a gate to hell. Your scriptures keep repeating: woman is the door to hell. Your scriptures do not hesitate to count women among animals, rustics, and shudras. They don’t even feel a twinge that this is indecent. On the one hand they say, “See the whole world as pervaded by Sita and Ram,” that everywhere they see Ram and Sita—that the whole world is soaked only in Ram and Sita. And on the other hand, with the same tongue—without a stammer, without a pause—about these very Sitas they say: “The drum, the rustic, the shudra, the animal, and the woman—all deserve to be beaten.” As you beat a drum to make it sound, beat these too—this is their qualification, their capacity. They have no other capacity.

Your rishis and monks seem double‑tongued. Not only snakes have forked tongues—your rishis and monks do too. And not only snakes have poison—their poison is worse. The same energy that could have become love, because it did not become love, has become poison. It could have been nectar, blossoming and expanding. Unflowing, unblossomed, shrunken and putrefied, it turned to poison.

Even nectar, if dammed up and obstructed, becomes poison. Let a stream of water be held back and it will rot. And then you abuse it. You put up the dam, you pile stones in its way, you stop the flow—and when it stinks you curse the stream for the stench. You are responsible. And this matter has sunk so deep into the unconscious that you are no longer aware of it. On the surface you hear my words; they seem logical, you may even agree. But your unconscious mind remains steeped in old beliefs; deep down it is still humming the scriptures. After ten or twelve years with me, nothing happens.

I know those fifty percent friends who are here—they should not be here. They have no reason to be here. But the kind of work I do is like digging a well. When you dig a well, first you strike garbage. Naturally—on the surface, the world’s rubbish gathers. Digging begins with trash. Dig deeper and you hit stones and pebbles, dry earth. Dig still deeper and you reach wet soil. Keep going and you reach a vein of water. Deeper still and you find clear springs.

So when I first began digging, plenty of trash also came along. I’m busy removing it. A large part has been cleared; yet some remain stuck. They have become like Trishanku—suspended in midair. They are not with me; they know it, and I know it. They cannot be with me because they refuse to drop their beliefs. They cannot openly deny what I say—for to deny would mean leaving. They have formed an attachment to me, a fondness, but it is superficial, not of the soul. They have nowhere else to go, so they hang around. They cannot leave, and elsewhere nothing will appeal, because intellectually my words now seem right. And neither can they be wholly here. So, hiding in the shadows, their inner beliefs keep peeking out, showing up in all sorts of ways.

I know person by person who should not be here. But because they have been with me for ten–twelve years, I don’t say, “Take your path.” I think either they will change, or little by little they will drift away. One way or another, a path will appear. I cannot be harsh. I hope that perhaps a revolution may happen in their lives. But that “perhaps” is large, not small. I am hopeful by nature; otherwise the likelihood is very slight.

It is not entirely their fault. They are simply not clear about the direction they want to give their lives. If they want to continue by their old beliefs, being with me is a waste of time. And if they want to be with me, then dragging the old beliefs is needlessly carrying a burden. But perhaps even this is not clear to them.

Man’s unconsciousness is beyond measure.

Just yesterday I read in the newspapers: the head of the Swaminarayan sect, Shri Pramukh Swami, is in London. He is to meet the Archbishop of Canterbury—England’s foremost religious leader. All was arranged, a date fixed; but at the last moment he sent his conditions. Shri Pramukh Swami does not look at a woman’s face. So he has just informed them that when he comes to meet the archbishop no woman should be present. The whole of England is in uproar. This is not India where women will silently submit; where they will keep listening to the very mahatmas who call them “the drum, the rustic, the shudra, the animal, the woman”; to those who declare them the door to hell; where they will go on massaging the feet of those same mahatmas. This is not India. Women across England have strongly protested—because women journalists were to come, women photographers were to come... and what’s more, the archbishop of Canterbury’s secretary is also a woman—she would certainly be present.

The archbishop is a decent man—he fell into a dilemma: he had already agreed to meet; now to refuse seemed improper. And the condition is absurd. People are protesting: “This is the twentieth century—what age are you living in? You won’t look at a woman!”

But in India there is never any protest—he doesn’t look at women here either. There are no fewer women here; as many women as men—women are even more often the devotees of such fools. Women are easily impressed: “Surely this man is a great soul. When he takes no interest in us, not even enough to look at us, he must be truly accomplished!” An Indian woman hardly ever respects her husband. She may mouth, “You are my lord, my god,” but it’s all nonsense. She cannot truly respect him—because deep inside she believes he is a great sinner. “He is the one dragging me into sin; this rascal is hauling me into who knows what hell. Because of him I am caught in all kinds of sin—who else is there to drag me?” In her deep unconscious, there is bound to be disrespect for the husband.

And that disrespect finds expression in many ways—quarrels of every kind wives keep alive for husbands—at root, your mahatmas are responsible. And these mahatmas are revered by the very women whose degradation they have grounded, who have made women’s lives worse than those of insects. And the simplest logic fails to occur to them: the man who is afraid to look at a woman must have in his mind an extremely ugly, monstrous lust. What fear can there be in seeing a woman? The fear is within, not out there.

A miser will fear looking at money—naturally, because seeing money he cannot keep control of himself. A lustful man fears seeing a woman—because he cannot keep control of himself. If somehow he can avoid seeing women, then things go on. If money is nowhere in sight, what can the miser do? If no gold is seen, he may even fancy his safe filled with pebbles. If a woman is nowhere seen, then unexpressed lust can deceive him into believing lust is gone. But lust does not go like that—it lies there like a dried‑up stream.

Think of frogs after the rains—where do they all go? You don’t see endless dead frogs lying about. In the rains there are frogs everywhere—what happens after? They burrow into the earth; they stop breathing—almost like the dead. Almost dead! Breath closed, food closed, everything closed. The frog has a knack: for eight months it can lie pressed in the womb of the earth like a corpse. When the first raindrops fall again, thunder rolls, lightning flashes—something inside him cracks open, wakes up, and the frog is alive again. He had not died; he had gone into such deep sleep that even breathing stopped.

Frogs don’t die so easily. That is why after the rains you do not see piles of dead frogs. They are all pressed into the soil. If you dig the ground near ponds and tanks you will be amazed: dry frogs lying there. Sprinkle water, and they come alive.

Human passions are like that. They dry up for a while; sprinkle a little water and they revive.

I say English women should teach that Swami Maharaj a proper lesson—because it will be difficult for Indian women to do so just yet. Yes, my sannyasins can teach a lesson—a good one. But the women of England should not miss this opportunity. Don’t let him slip away from England now. Since he has come of his own accord, let there be demonstrations around him wherever he goes. England’s prime minister is a woman, England’s sovereign is a woman! Women should exert their full strength—this insult is intolerable. Wherever he goes, he should be encircled.

This is not only the display of Shri Swamiji’s foolishness; it is the display of collective Indian foolishness. It is an insult to India—such rude behavior toward women!

When he travels by airplane, they hang a curtain around him; he sits behind a screen—because the flight attendants are women. He sits hidden behind curtains. Have you seen men in burqas? He should be made to wear one. Better still—why not simply tie a bandage over his eyes? Then let him walk holding a man’s hand. He won’t see women—or men either. Because even seeing a man can evoke the remembrance of woman: after all, where did this man come from? He will have a woman—mother, sister, wife, daughter. Seeing a man can bring the thought of woman. It’s not as if men and women are species far apart; they are very near. They are born of the same womb; not so different after all.

Now scientists say any man who wishes to become a woman can; and any woman who wishes to become a man can. Sometimes it even happens naturally that some men become women, some women become men. The gap is not great; it’s a matter of degree—a small hormonal difference. Soon enough it will be possible to change two or three times in one lifetime. Why not taste a few lives in one life? Be a woman for a while, then a man; then again a man, then a woman—why not see life from all sides? I see no objection.

If a mere injection of hormones can convert a man into a woman and a woman into a man, then the switch is worth trying: be husband for a couple of years, wife for a couple of years. Let the wife also taste being a husband. Life’s experience will be richer, deeper, more abundant.

There is not much difference. Even a man’s face can remind you of a woman’s face; and young faces without beard and mustache even more so. Best to bandage the eyes—better yet, pluck them out and finish the nuisance. Don’t even bother with a bandage—become a Surdas! Then go wherever you like—England, America. Even if naked women bathe around you, they can do you no harm. Even if Indra sends apsaras, you are safe. If you cannot see, how will you know apsaras are dancing or crowds are raising a ruckus?

Twentieth century—and still such notions!

Swabhav, so the obstruction you see in fifty percent of the Indians here with me is no surprise. Men like this Swamiji have shaped their minds for thousands of years. In their deep unconscious lie diseases pressed down like snakes and scorpions. They understand my words on the surface, but deep within the old beliefs keep slithering. Therefore a split appears in their personality. They listen and nod as if they understand—and inside they hold the opposite understanding. That inner understanding will seek outlets and appear as sarcasm, jealousy, as looking at others with a criminalizing eye.

Among the Indian sannyasins living in my ashram, fifty percent are certainly trash—good for nothing, useful for nothing—only a nuisance. Yet they consider themselves superior.

The foreign sannyasins bear all the labor. The ashram’s shine and efficiency are because of them. The Indians will neither work nor sweat, and still they carry an inner swagger—just because they are Indian: some specialness, some purity, some religiosity—they are superior. As if being born Indian is enough to be superior. They prove superiority in no way at all—just an inner ego. How to feed that ego? Simple routes: condemn others. Find reasons: “Ah, these are all corrupt people, lost in lust!” The truth is exactly the opposite.

The truth is that not one Indian woman has complained to me that any foreigner pushed her, harassed her, tugged at her clothes, pinched her. But many foreign women write to me daily: “What should we do? When Indians come, it’s as if they haven’t come to meditate or to listen to you: someone pinches, someone pulls at our clothes, someone shoves.” Several Indian men have raped foreign sannyasins in the city—yet not once has a foreign sannyasin attempted to rape an Indian woman; not even indulged in harassment.

Still, Indians believe they are mahatmas. They were born in the holy land of India—what more is needed! Even gods, they say, long to be born here! Who knows what sort of gods are eager to be born here—and why? To rot?

This is our monthly experience. When there’s a Hindi camp, Indians don’t come. But when there’s an English camp, Indians begin to arrive. Strange! The Hindi camp is for them—but they don’t come. They don’t care for Hindi or for the camp. They come to the English camp—whether they understand English or not—because at that time there will be a crowd of Western sannyasins here, so there will be chances to jostle and steal. Theft happens only when Indians come from outside; otherwise, it doesn’t.

Recently the police raided an Indian den and recovered foreign goods worth some three hundred thousand rupees. All of it belongs to sannyasins—who else is foreign in Poona? But those whose things were stolen came years ago and have gone; they left complaints, “My camera was stolen, my tape recorder, my watch”—these were recovered; but their owners are no longer here. Who do we return them to? The ashram has no proof, so the police cannot hand them to us, though they admit the items are sannyasins’ property.

And the Indians—only ego and bombast. And that bombast finds no other avenue to prove superiority. In any work assigned to them in the ashram they prove third‑rate. Not because they lack talent, but because they are work‑shy—they don’t want to do anything. They come to the ashram precisely so they won’t have to work.

In India “ashram” has meant exactly that. They don’t know this ashram is not that kind of ashram. They say, “We will do devotion.” Then who will care for your food? Who will look after your clothes? You will do devotion—but will you also eat? Do you need clothes or not? Who should take care of that? Others, of course. Indians are always ready to receive service. And once they are “sannyasins,” then service is their due.

People write: “We are ready to take sannyas, but only if we are assured admission to the ashram.” I ask them: “What will you do here?” They say: “What is there to do in an ashram? We will be devotional; we will do bhajan.” I have no objection—do as much bhajan as you like; only don’t ask for food and clothing. Then they say, “On an empty stomach, O Gopala, devotion doesn’t happen.” So foreigners should worry about your food and clothes, they should labor for you while you engage in devotion! You play the mahatma, they massage your feet, and you look at them with contempt: “These mlecchas.” And the one way you have to justify contempt is to denounce their love‑filled way of living.

Swabhav, that is why you find that fifty percent of the Indians in the ashram not only burn at lovers but also look at them as criminals—they will surely brand them sinners—and they gossip sarcastically for hours. That is their “devotional practice.” They have all the time in the world—because they will not work. Tell them to do anything and they will invent excuses—so many that it amazes me.

Fifteen hundred sannyasins work in the ashram; barely fifty are Indian. The other fourteen hundred and fifty do not make excuses. But these fifty do little else. Today they are unwell; tomorrow a visitor is coming; the day after they must go for someone’s darshan; then a sister’s wedding; then finding a groom; then attending the wedding; then the baarat; then someone died; someone is sick and must be seen—always an excuse. And for each trip they want the ashram to pay—because they have nothing of their own.

Foreign sannyasins support themselves; they pay their own way; they are the backbone of the ashram—and still they are the ones to be condemned. Why? Because of their loving way of life. That provokes jealousy—because the same longing is suppressed in these Indians too, but they lack courage.

I would like these friends to drift away little by little. Even their questions that come to me are not worth answering—trash questions with no purpose or value.

In the relationship of man and woman, the Indian mind has held only one notion: there can be only one bond—sexual. That friendship can exist between man and woman has never been part of Indian tradition. Indian tradition has never had the courage to conceive friendship between man and woman.

Sex is one relationship. It is not the whole. Friendship is also possible—and it should be. A beautiful, cultured person should have enough capacity to befriend a woman or a man. Friendship means there is no question of bodily give‑and‑take; it is a connection of souls.

In the West this happens: a man and a woman can have a friendship like that between two men or two women. The basis can be intellectual; there can be a meeting of minds, a convergence of interests. Both may love music; both may be inclined to classical music. It is not necessary that the woman with whom you have a bodily relationship is also your match intellectually. It is possible she has no taste for music; or that you have none and she does. She may love dance while you love philosophy. Then naturally she will befriend people who love dance; and you will befriend those who love philosophy.

In the West, the bodily bond is not the only bond—and that is a superior thing, understand this. If the bodily bond alone exists, it means that within man there is no mind, no soul, no God—only body. But if above the body there is mind, and above mind the soul, and above the soul God, then relationships can exist on all four planes. On the level of mind you may relate to one person and on the level of body to another—because it can happen that a woman’s body does not appeal to you, but the dignity of her mind enchants you. And it can also happen that a woman’s body magnetically attracts you while her mind does not interest you at all. Then what will you do? In India there is only one remedy: settle for one thing and forget the other. But this is harmful—it blocks a whole direction in you.

If your wife loves dance and you do not, what should she do? Should she befriend a dancer or not? You will not approve. “What is the trust in these singing‑dancing folk? If they were worthy people, would they spend life in song and dance? They would do something practical—work, trade, business, earn something! What is this—tying bells to their feet and dancing? Are these people of any worth? Why befriend them?” If your wife wants to learn dance, you will look for a teacher dead, dull, or old—so there is “no danger.” Even then, you’ll station your son or daughter there: “Stay and keep watch—he may be a dancer, but who can trust him?” You will keep an eye.

You want your wife’s every interest to be restricted to you. And she, naturally, if you want that, will also want your interests restricted only to her. She will not want you to sit with friends too much. Many wives dislike their husbands’ friends—because you converse so joyously with your friends that wives seethe with envy: “As soon as a friend arrives, spring comes to your life. And when he leaves, here I sit—as if I don’t exist. You have no use for me. Ages have passed since you looked at my face.”

And the wife may be right. If someone were to ask you suddenly: “What color sari is your wife wearing today?” you probably couldn’t answer. Who looks at his wife’s sari color! To hell with it—let her wear whatever she wants, so long as she doesn’t chew my head! For years you have not looked at her face carefully.

Mulla Nasruddin’s wife went missing. He went to the police to file a report. “When did she go missing?” “Seven days ago.” “What were you doing for seven days, old man? You came to your senses only now? Were you drunk?” “No,” Nasruddin said, “I just couldn’t believe my good fortune! Then when it finally sank in that she has truly run away, that by now she must be far away—when even if you search you won’t find her—then I came to report.”

“Alright. Her height?” “Don’t ask such difficult questions. Who measures his wife? Average—neither tall nor short.” “Any identifying features?” Nasruddin scratched his head. “Identifying? A booming voice. When she roars, your chest trembles.” “Something else—voice is uncertain; she may not speak. Some mark.” He thought hard. “Nothing comes to mind.” “Fat or thin?” “Right in the middle.” Evading every question. “And there is another sad thing—she took my dog with her.” “Alright, describe the dog.” Then he rattled it off: “Alsatian, so many feet long, so many feet tall, black with one white ear”—detail by detail. The inspector said: “You can describe the dog like this, and about your wife you say, ‘Just imagine’!”

People are more interested in their dogs!

Ask any wife: when did you last really look at your husband? Who has the time! If there is a break from fighting!

In this country there is only one tie. Your loafers and louts also look at woman in only one way: as a sexual means. And your rishis and monks also look in the same way: as a sexual means. In this matter there is not a hair’s difference between the two.

To me there is no difference between them—because their vision is the same. The lout’s vision is: use the woman, exploit her—she is only a body. The monk’s vision is: run from woman, because woman is sex, body; she will attract you, you will lose control; stay away from opportunity. “Do not sit for ten minutes in a place where a woman has sat.” Why?

I once traveled with a brahmachari. We boarded a train; some passengers had just gotten off; I sat down where two women had been sitting; he remained standing. I asked, “Won’t you sit?” He said, “After ten minutes.” “Meaning?” “Where a woman has sat, one should not sit for ten minutes—because particles of her energy remain there.”

Fools like this have shaped the psychology of this country—“Do not sit where a woman has sat.”

Yet both carry the same view: woman is only an instrument of sex.

Therefore, in this country, Swabhav, friendship is impossible. Friendship is a somewhat spiritual thing—a higher‑plane matter. You cannot even imagine a friendship between a man and a woman. That a man and a woman could sit for hours discussing philosophy or poetics—you will say, “Nonsense, a show! Behind closed doors something else is going on. Philosophy and poetry are for show; close the door and there remains only one shastra—the shastra of the body. Then they study each other’s anatomy.”

Here no one can believe that a friendship can exist whose plane is not the body. This culture is still deeply materialistic. You may claim it is spiritual—I will not agree. I see no spirituality anywhere—only talk of it.

Will you call Shri Pramukh Swami Maharaj spiritual? On the one hand he says God dwells in all, Brahman permeates everything—except women. Even Brahman is afraid of women! What becomes of Brahman when confronted by a woman? When the day of judgment comes and God must face all—including women—what will be His condition? And if Brahman pervades all—even trees and stones...

Once disciples brought to me a Sufi fakir: “He is a great siddha; he sees God in everything.” Take him near a tree and he would stand with arms outstretched: “Ah! What a lovely God!” He would see the moon and stars and do the same—and his devotees would be moved to tears. But he feared women. I said, “You see God even in stones, but not in women? What’s the matter with your God? He appears in stone—you have such deep vision—but not in woman? She has the same bone, flesh, and marrow as you. You see Him in men, but not in women? Why do women frighten you so much? What is this fear?”

This is forced; it is mere hiding; it is repression.

A psychotic patient kept clapping his hands. A psychiatrist asked why. “Clapping keeps the lions away.” “But there are no lions here.” “You see the effect of my clapping! As long as I’m here, no lion can come. Clapping has that power.”

These escapees think they have attained brahmacharya; they believe in the effect of their flight. By not looking at women they have become celibate! They are deceiving themselves and the world. But this fraud has entered our blood. This country must be freed of this materialism—of this hypocrisy. And for that, more natural relationships between man and woman are needed—more loving relationships, more friendships. Let there not be only one direction and one dimension. Let relations be established on many dimensions.

You should not object if your wife has a friendship with someone in music. You are no musician, she loves music; you have no right to murder her music—no right to kill a soul.

In Poona there is a woman who loves me very much. She cannot come here to listen—because her husband says, “When I am here, why go anywhere? If you have to ask something, ask me.” She told me that when I was in Bombay, she would somehow manage a pretext—her daughters live there—so she would visit them and come to hear me. Now that I am here in Poona, it is very difficult—there is no easy pretext to visit the ashram. “In Bombay I could go to see my girls and meet you. What can I ask this roaster of gram?” she said. “What does he know!”

But the husband insists, “Ask me. You want to talk of Brahman? I am here. Have I died? No need of satsang elsewhere. When I cannot answer, then you may go.” I told her, “Then do some satsang with him.” She said, “What satsang with him! It ends in a beating! He throws your books out of the window; he removed your photo—‘No other’s photo can be in this house while I am here. Who is husband—me or he? Two pictures cannot hang in one house! Who is your husband? Your husband is me. Then remove that picture.’”

I asked, “Then do you bring the books back?” “I don’t have to—he brings them back himself out of fear. I have seen him in private ask forgiveness from the picture and the book—afraid some sin might be committed.” “Before me he struts and threatens; before your picture he bows his head. What satsang can I do with him? What does he know!” “Still,” I said, “ask him—maybe he knows.” “He knows nothing. I asked him, ‘Teach me meditation.’ He shut his eyes and said, ‘Just sit like this.’ ‘Then what?’ ‘Nothing else.’ He has never meditated; his forefathers never meditated; I’ve never seen him meditate—his life is spent counting money, that is his meditation; wealth is his god; he is a contractor; and liquor is his prayer.”

When he goes abroad for work, he has to take his wife—lest she come here for satsang. I told her, “See, satsang has brought you at least one benefit—you travel abroad now.” She said, “I don’t want to; I’m fed up going with him. He drags me along only out of fear that I might come here. His trouble is he can never accept anyone above himself.”

This is our pitiable condition. We must accept all dimensions of life. If you want to learn music, go to a musician. If you want satsang, sit with a saint. If you want to learn mathematics, go to a mathematician. If you want the fragrance of God, sit with one who has known God. This does not mean it is against husband or wife. Husband and wife share one bond—one dimension. Not all dimensions can be fulfilled in that one bond. It is impossible to find everything in one person. If someone does, it is great good fortune; otherwise, it is impossible. How could it be possible?

Therefore room must be made for friendship. And we should gather the courage to accept friendship. But we are frightened people, fearful people, lustful people.

Swabhav, do not worry because of such friends. They will gradually leave of their own accord. They will have to—either change or go. How can they stay with me long? When I look at them I am astonished—why have they stayed? I see no reason. They are not blissful—how could they be, when they do not dive totally into me? And they cannot go either. The reason, I feel, is: where could they go? Wherever else they go, they will have to work, to toil, to labor. There is a laziness—“Let us stick around here.” But I am slowly removing such people. To be with me, you must be with me totally. There is no way to be with me half‑heartedly.

Chaitanya Kirti! This is the pus of centuries being discharged. It used to come out earlier too—you just didn’t know, because there were no means to know: no newspapers, no radio, no television. These happenings are nothing new; they are ancient. They have always been happening in this land. Your Puranas are full of accounts of rape. Open them and look. You will find this is our “ancient culture,” our inheritance. Nothing new.

And it wasn’t only men who committed rape; your gods did too—often with other men’s wives. Even the wives of your sages were not spared. Say such things and people feel hurt, they bristle. Truth feels like someone has thrown chili into the eyes or rubbed salt into a wound. But what to do? If we don’t face truth, no change is possible. The delusion being spread is as if these incidents are happening only now. When were your Puranas written? And what stories do they tell? Your gods are corrupt and violators; everyone’s eye is on someone else’s wife. Your rishis and munis are no different.

The one you call Dharmaraj, Yudhishthira, could stake his own wife in a game of dice. What greater humiliation of a woman! Is a woman a property, an object, some furniture you can wager? And when he lost, he had to sit and watch as Duryodhana dragged her to be disrobed. Having lost, she was no longer his; the new “owner” was Duryodhana. What objection could he raise then? And the great “knower,” Bhishma, sat there silent, while Dharmaraj had staked her and Duryodhana was stripping Draupadi. Is this a new incident?

Ravana was tricked at Sita’s swayamvara. A false rumor was spread that Lanka was on fire, so he would rush back—because there was fear that if Ravana, strong and a devotee of Shiva, stayed, he would break Shiva’s bow and win Sita. So the rishis conspired to spread a lie. Ravana went back to Lanka; meanwhile the bow was broken and Sita was married to Rama. To avenge this deceit, Ravana abducted Sita. The whole upheaval starts there. But the beginning was by your “good people.” Ravana was retaliating.

And then, it was natural then and is natural even today that if someone falls in love, he or she proposes. Ravana’s sister proposed to Lakshmana: “Marry me.” Lakshmana cut off her nose! These brave men felt no shame cutting a woman’s nose. They cut off their own nose. And Rama stood by watching, as if in silent blessing—no objection. Ravana’s sister made no ugly proposal. If you did not wish to marry, you had the right to refuse. But why sever her nose?

These things kept happening. When Arjuna brought Draupadi home, the story says he called out, “Mother, see what I have brought!” But the truth seems more like this: Draupadi was extraordinarily beautiful, and the five brothers were jealous; they could not bear that she would be only Arjuna’s. So they decided: let the five share her. A woman can be shared! Even if Kunti had mistakenly said, “Whatever good you’ve brought, share it among the five,” mistakes can be corrected. Once it was known she was a woman Arjuna had married, could the slip not be amended? Must an inadvertent word become binding truth? It was merely an unknowing remark; she could have asked forgiveness: “I thought you brought food, or a toy—so I said share it. How was I to know?” No—yet the five shared the woman. Is this not rape? A woman to be divided! She ended up with five husbands.

A Brahmin came to Rama and said, “My young son has died, and this happened because a Shudra listened to Vedic mantras.” What possible connection could there be between a Shudra hearing the Veda and a Brahmin’s son dying? If all Brahmins’ sons had died, one might at least wonder. And if a Shudra heard the Veda, then Shudras’ sons should have died—what fault was it of the Brahmin? What a strange logic: one commits the “crime,” another is punished! What was this Brahmin’s fault in particular?

But we are habituated to believing foolishness. There was a famine in Bihar, and Mahatma Gandhi said it was the fruit of the atrocities committed against Shudras. So the fruit came only in Bihar? Atrocities against Shudras happen across India—why famine only in Bihar, as if oppression exists only there? This is the old way of “reasoning.”

Rama accepted such reasoning too. A Shudra named Shambuka was summoned. Since he had committed the great crime of hearing Vedic chants—what logic is this? The Veda’s message is for all. Is a Shudra not human?—molten lead was poured into his ears. He would have been deaf for life, perhaps dead—who can survive molten lead in the ears? And if he lived, it would be as stone-deaf. And you do not call this atrocity, this violence!

In the Mahabharata, millions died. According to Hindu accounts, over a billion perished. And for what? For the throne, for power, for prestige.

First understand this: the atrocities are old, the violence is old, the rapes are old. Krishna had sixteen thousand women. Not all were his wives. Many were other men’s married women whom he abducted. Was this not rape? Not adultery? Women were sold in markets—in Rama’s time they were sold. And you call that Ramrajya.

People ask me when Ramrajya will come. I say: it should never come. Have you not had your fill of Ramrajya? In Rama’s time men and women were sold like animals. Slaves were bought and sold for money; yet you think it was a golden age, that what happened was auspicious.

The truth is, you have always oppressed the Shudras, but it was never spoken of; today, for the first time, it is being raised. Today newspapers spread the news, radio carries it everywhere. That is why, Chaitanya Kirti, it seems to you that rapes, violence, and crimes are rampant. They always were. If they paused at all, it was during British rule. They were rampant under Muslim rulers. If India has seen a few civilized moments, strangely, it was in the days of British slavery. I am not supporting slavery; I am saying only that under the British India saw a little civility. You are free again now, and you take freedom to mean restoring your ancient culture, hoisting the Aryan banner—reviving the same stupidities, the same deadness. After all, freedom for you means license!

It seems Churchill may have been right: India was not ready for freedom. Looking at your ways, one suspects his “wrong” may have been right. Your true colors are showing. Satis have begun again. The British had somehow stopped them; now they have resurfaced. You have started staging pageants of sati, building shrines to satis, attempting satis in places. Children are being sacrificed again. These are your old ways and customs, which you are re-adopting—breathing life into a dead culture, trying to bring back Ramrajya and the golden age.

You ask: “These days rape, violence, and other crimes are increasing across the country.” Because you have become “free.” You now want to do what has always lurked in your innermost core. Shudras are being burned—burned alive. You talk of nonviolence while filled with violence within.

Recently Khan Abdul Ghaffar Khan, the Frontier Gandhi, regarded as the second Gandhi after Gandhi himself, a great worshipper of nonviolence—ninety-four years old, yet with a childlike mind—at Vinoba’s ashram in Pavanar, at a press conference in Vinoba’s presence, said something. Vinoba did not deny or protest; he was silent—silence implying consent. He has said nothing even after, though over a week has passed. Clearly he agrees; his inner conviction seems the same. Journalists asked, “You are a leader of the Frontier Province: you should lead the Pashtuns to freedom.” With Gandhian humility he said, “Leader? No, no. I am a Khudai Khidmatgar, a servant of God and people. I am no leader.” Next, someone asked, “Z. A. Bhutto has been given the death sentence—what do you say?” He replied, “He was a great sinner. Hanging is not enough; he should have been burned alive in the public square.”

These are God’s servants! Devotees of nonviolence! Frontier Gandhi! Only burning Bhutto alive in public would have satisfied them. Hanging was not enough. They speak of forgiveness, nonviolence, love—and inside, poison. We are so soaked in hypocrisy we live in words and forget our reality.

The same was true of Mahatma Gandhi; no difference. All that nonviolence was politics. Neither your Rama was nonviolent, nor your Krishna, nor Parashurama. Which of your avatars was nonviolent? Gandhi was a devotee of Rama. Rama’s image is incomplete without bow and arrows. Are those symbols of nonviolence? Even dying, Gandhi’s last words were, “Hey Ram!”

Before independence someone asked Gandhi: “If the country becomes free, what will you do with the army?” He said: “We will dissolve it. An ahimsak nation needs no army.” After independence, when reminded, he fell silent. No dissolution. He said, “Who listens to me?” Who listened to you under the British? You made noise then; do it now. Your own disciples were in power; if even they wouldn’t listen, better drown in shame—what were you alive for? Why preach nonviolence all your life then? And when Pakistan attacked Kashmir and war broke out, and planes took off from Delhi to bomb Pakistan, Gandhi gave his blessing. All forgotten! Bombers receiving the blessings of the priest of nonviolence! Say this and people burn with anger: “You don’t accept our Mahatmas; you speak against our rishis.” What can I do? Your rishis are like this. What is my fault? I want to state things plainly, as they are—even if it stings. If we state the disease clearly, treatment becomes possible.

You say, Chaitanya Kirti, “Thoughtful people are condemning these incidents.” Who are these thoughtful people? They are the cause of these incidents—the same pundits and priests. They are at the root of this mischief and then they condemn it. The same maulvis and pundits incite riots and killings, and then conduct interfaith prayer meetings for harmony. Recognize this fraud.

These “thinkers” have always been here. What have they done all this while? In five thousand years, what kind of structure have these thoughtful people given this culture? So rotten, foul, ugly, inhuman, perverse—what more do you expect from them? You must invent new ways of thinking. You need a gust of revolution. These “thinkers” are not thinkers; they just trace the same old line again and again.

Mahatma Gandhi gave the “untouchables” a new name: Harijan. The Shudra is gone—only the name changed; the untouchable is gone—only the name changed. What changes with a name? A sweet label—Harijan. Of what use? However sweet the name, the treatment remained the same. Before independence he said India’s first president would be a Harijan woman. After independence, the matter disappeared. The Brahmin coterie returned. Pandit Jawaharlal Nehru, and then pundits all over became chief ministers. The same club. Where did the promise of a Shudra untouchable woman president vanish?

You say they condemn. Condemnation achieves nothing. You can denounce bitter neem fruit endlessly; it will remain bitter. You water the neem and then condemn its fruit—both at once.

The same scriptures are still worshipped in which the roots of this country’s deadness lie. The same Puranic tales are read. The same Brahmin coterie sits enthroned, the same priests, the same pundits—still the owners, their net and conspiracy binding all. And the condemnation also goes on.

Nothing will happen through condemnation. We must change the roots, cut the neem and plant mangoes. We must think differently.

You say, “Preventive measures are being suggested.” You have been “preventing” for centuries. Why not cut the root? Why not go to the source? Why so much violence in India? Why are Shudra settlements set on fire? What is the cause? And as long as Shudras remain, the settlements will be burned.

The Manusmriti says clearly: if a high-caste man—a Brahmin, Kshatriya, or Vaishya—fancies a Shudra girl, he may marry her. But a Shudra cannot marry a girl of a higher varna. Most riots arise from this. Whenever a Shudra falls in love with a higher-caste woman, there is conflagration.

As long as you carry the Manusmriti on your head, these riots will continue. The Manusmriti says there is no sin in killing a Shudra. Killing a cow is a great sin; killing a Shudra is not. If the Shudra is sinful, killing him is meritorious. Killing even a sinful Brahmin is sin.

Have you repudiated such scriptures that divide human beings from human beings? Or do you still accept them? As long as you accept them, as long as you do not sever yourself totally from the past—declare once for all that we are finished with it, that what is gone is gone, that we have no relation with it—this mischief will continue. What are the riots? Petty absurdities that make the world laugh. A Shudra draws water from a “high-caste” well: riot. A Shudra steps into a temple: riot.

Your “preventive measures”? Make the penal system stronger. But whose hands does it strengthen? Those who hold power. The policeman, inspector, constable—whose man is he? Not a Shudra’s. What weight does a Shudra carry? He belongs to the Brahmin, the Vaishya, the Kshatriya. He himself is likely from these three. They have money; he gets bribes from them. His salary is too little to live on; he lives on bribes. In this country, can anyone survive without bribes?

You want a strict penal system. How will it happen? It cannot. You saw it: when Morarji’s government came, those with clear charges—the Baroda dynamite case, an actual incident, not fabricated—were all acquitted. Those in power got acquitted. Not only acquitted; those who might have spent their lives in prison became cabinet ministers.

They did not know their power would be washed away in two or three years—though I said they would be seen flowing in the drains within that time; they could not last longer. And they did flow away in the first flood. Confident that no one could unseat them, the very accused in the Baroda case wrote books, admitting they had planned it all. Indira did not foist false charges; the crime and the plan were theirs—admitted in their own books. In the hope that no one could remove them, they would enjoy the halo of martyr and revolutionary while holding power and being freed of crime.

In their three years of rule, what did Morarji and Charan Singh do? Filed false cases. And the entire legal system aligned with them. I say this from my own experience: I do not step out of my room, yet I face over a hundred cases—unimaginable offenses! Every few days a new summons. I no longer even sign for them. If I do not sign, the question doesn’t arise. Yet the summons keep coming. Just day before yesterday—from Chhapra, Bihar, where I have never been—there is a case in court that I hurt someone’s “deep sentiments.” In a country of seventy crores, how can one speak after consulting everyone’s heart? If only I had known that the gentleman in Chhapra would be hurt, I would have shot the arrow clean through—no chance of a “hurt,” it would have been a kill. A half-embedded arrow causes more pain. But he is “hurt”—and a case!

They filed countless cases on Indira and Sanjay. The same courts, the same law. Everything seemed “correct.” Then when Indira returned to power, the same courts said the cases had no merit; they fizzled out.

So whose penal system will you strengthen? How? In a village, power belongs to the one with land and money. What is the status of the patwari or constable? They will obey the powerful, serve them. It is their tradition, their habit.

Strengthening the penal system will achieve nothing. Give more power to the police, and the result will be that the atrocities others commit, the police will commit. They are already doing so. With power, their repressed desires surface. Pick up any woman, take her into custody, violate her. In lockup no one can do anything; no one even knows what happened; no witnesses.

But I do not blame the constables, the havaldars, the tehsildars as individuals. I blame the entire tradition of this country, which has stuffed every mind with so much repressed sexuality that given a chance, they will not refrain.

Your mahatmas are responsible for this epidemic of rape. Your rishis and munis are responsible for this violence. Until you free yourselves from your rishis, your mahatmas, there is no hope. Neither punishment nor “preventive measures” will work.

Chaitanya Kirti, this country needs a revolution from the roots up; surface whitewash will not do. I am engaged in that effort—to shift your vision at the roots. That is why I am gathering thousands of enemies; naturally, because I strike at their cherished beliefs. Otherwise, why would they fear me? I sit quietly here, go nowhere. Yet they are alarmed. They sense clearly that if the seeds I am sowing bear fruit and flowers, the whole climate of this country can change. These flowers can become flames; they can give birth to revolution.

Other than a great revolution, there is no remedy left for this land.

Enough for today.