Saheb Mil Saheb Bhave #3

Narayan Shankar! No one else can give you this address—neither I nor anyone else. You will have to dig for it within yourself. If you keep asking outside, only confusion will come to hand. You will find many eager to hand you an address; they sit everywhere, waiting. Without your even searching you will bump into them. They are on the lookout for someone to ask, so they can advise. People are so keen to give advice, so eager to thrust their “knowledge” upon one another, that there’s no measure to it—because the ego has no greater enjoyment than this.

Whenever you start giving wisdom to another, two things are instantly established: the other is ignorant and you are wise; the other doesn’t know and you know. And who doesn’t want that pleasure? Therefore it’s hard for you to find a person who won’t advise you, won’t “give” you knowledge. Yet no one ever really takes knowledge from anyone else—and knowledge is not the kind of thing that can be handed over. It is good that people don’t take it; whatever is taken from another is rubbish. And those who are eager to give—what they have will be rubbish too. Because those who have truly known will have realized one thing: this cannot be made known to another. It can be known, but it cannot be made known.

I cannot give you your address. I know my address. I can certainly tell you the method by which I came to know it—how I dug my own well, how I found my own spring. I can tell you the method. But don’t clutch that method mechanically, or you will miss. This matter is subtle. Subtle, because no two persons are alike. The inner map of two individuals is never the same. So understand the pointers—but don’t mistake the pointers for a map.

There is no map of self-realization in this world. Yes, many—buddhas—have indicated. An indication means: understand, and then, with understanding, adapt it to yourself. Each person has to seek his own dharma. And those who sit settled in borrowed identities—Hindu, Muslim, Jain, Christian—miss. They think: we got the Bible, we got the Koran, we got the Vedas—what more is there to do? Memorize them. You will become a gramophone record—you won’t find your own address.

The method to find your own address can certainly be explained, but it must be received with great awareness. The human mind wants ready-made food—no need to do anything, no need to move, no effort, no getting up, no sitting down: let someone just hand it over while we remain exactly as we are, and yet let us obtain it.

You say, “I don’t know who I am, what I am.”
That you are—you do know at least that much, don’t you? That is enough. If one catches a single ray of the sun, one can reach the sun. If a single thread comes into your hand, it is enough. That one thread will lead you to the original source. If you grasp a single drop of water, you have understood the secret of all oceans.

You know at least this much: I am. That is a lot. Enough. On that very foundation the temple can be built. Dive into that alone.

About man it is necessary to understand one thing. All other animals are born complete; man is born like a seed—he is not born complete. This is man’s dignity—and his great anxiety as well. For if no effort is made, the seed will remain a seed and rot. Life will slip through your hands just like that.

Man must make effort. Then his seed will sprout; then it will become a tree; then the tree will flower, bear fruit; then fragrance will spread through his life. Then there will be juice, meaning, splendor—God, and knowing.

A dog is born a dog and dies a dog. A camel is born a camel and dies a camel. A dog cannot fall below being a dog; nor can a dog rise above being a dog. Man’s danger is exactly this—and his good fortune too; remember, both things go together. The danger is that man can fall below man—and he does. He can do such deeds that even animals would be ashamed. Chinggis Khan, Tamerlane, Nadir Shah, Adolf Hitler, Joseph Stalin—what animal can compare with their killings, their ruthless cruelties, their barbarities? All animals fade beside them. To call such men “animal” is not right; it insults the animals.

We call such people “bestial.” It isn’t appropriate—if by “animal” you mean creature; then you are insulting creatures. No animal has slaughtered millions like Joseph Stalin. If by “pashu” you mean something spiritual, then it’s fine. But how many people know the spiritual sense of the word “pashu”? They only know the literal sense. The spiritual meaning is precious, but it doesn’t refer to creatures.

The word pashu comes from pāsh—bond. One who is bound is pashu. One who is in bonds is a pashu. One who is fettered by passions is a pashu. But no animal is as bound by passions as man is.

So man can fall far below the animals. In animals you will see a certain innocence, a certain purity in the eyes, a kind of saintliness. Granted, an animal will kill when hungry, but no animal kills for the sake of killing—except man. Man goes hunting. He kills for sport—as if another’s life were a game to you, another’s murder your pastime. No animal hunts for sport. No animal kills for fun. And no animal wages war like man, in which millions die. Hiroshima and Nagasaki were not the doings of any animal, but of man. In a single instant, hundreds of thousands turned to ash.

When man falls, he falls terribly—he touches hell. But when he rises, he goes beyond the moon and stars. Rise—and he becomes a Buddha; rise—and Mahavira; rise—and Krishna; rise—and Christ; rise—and Zarathustra. Rise—and all suns grow pale; all flowers stale. Then there is no comparison to his beauty, no rival to his majesty—he is unique. Rise—and he leaves even the gods behind. Hence we have such sweet tales.

When Buddha attained the supreme knowing, the gods descended from the sky to bow at his feet. Indra came and placed his head at Buddha’s feet and said, “Please instruct us, because only after ages does a Buddha happen. Granted, we are gods, but we too are ensnared in passions. We dwell in a world better than humans, more comfortable, more affluent—but our merit will be exhausted, our heaven will soon be over; we must return to earth. And you have now attained a wealth that will never be exhausted. So grant us some alms, some indication, some awakening—we too wish to awaken.” In hell, people sleep; in heaven, people sleep. In hell, think of it as sleeping on thorns; in heaven, sleeping on flowers—but sleeping on both sides. No one is awake.

When Mahavira awakened, when the lamp was lit, the gods showered flowers. These are lovely tales. Don’t take them as history; the moment you mistake them for history, you miss. These tales are Purana. Purana means: more precious than history. History is only an aggregate of ordinary events; the Purana is not concerned with the ordinary. It speaks of those unprecedented realizations for which language has no way—so they are conveyed through stories. The Purana contains illuminating tales, not chronicles—not history; it portrays the eternal, the ultimate truth. But when we set out to paint the ultimate, we must use colors of this earth, and words of man.

So the tales say that when Mahavira’s inner flame was lit, the gods showered flowers—flowers fell in torrents. Blessed is existence that once again a lamp was kindled in a human life.

When man rises, even gods envy him. And when he falls, even animals are ashamed. Man is a staircase, a stairway. Descend, and that very stair serves; ascend, and the same stair serves. The same steps work both ways. The steps by which you descend to the cellar are the ones by which you ascend to the terrace—the steps are not different.

You ask, “I don’t know who I am, what I am.”
How did you lose your address? How did you come down from your own temple? By those very steps you must go up again. Man is lost in thoughts—that is why he cannot find his address. If he becomes thought-free, he will know. He is lost in passions; the smoke of passions veils the flame, so the light is not seen. If the smoke of passions settles, the light appears. As the sun is covered by clouds, so you are covered by the clouds you yourself have raised. And you go on raising them daily—you are their creator. And then you go asking, “Who am I?”

Now you say, “I have come to ask you for my address.”
Whatever I tell you will not give you your address. I may say a thousand times that you are the soul, that you are the Supreme Self; that you are that which the Upanishads declare: Aham Brahmasmi—you are of the nature of Brahman; Tat Tvam Asi—you are That which is the center and support of the whole cosmos; that what Mansur cried is true: Ana’l-Haqq—I am the Truth; you too are That. You must have heard these things, read them; you didn’t come to me utterly new and fresh. You have thought, reflected, read, pondered, asked countless people, knocked on countless doors before coming. I too can say beautiful words—then what? What use will they be?

No—you must dig within. You must cut through the smoke of thought, the throng of passions, the confusion of memories, the net of imaginations. You must find such moments within when the mind is utterly still—when it is not. In that no-mind state, in that very instant, self-realization happens.

And don’t get entangled in futile things. Otherwise some people spend their whole lives merely doing postures. Someone stands on his head. Whether you stand on your head or on your feet, whether you lie on this side or that—you will still be you; nothing will change.

A crow was flying west. A cuckoo asked, “Uncle, you’re in such a hurry—where are you off to?” The crow said, “These people in the East have no sense of melody. Wherever I sing, I’m driven away; they have no feel for classical music. So I’m going west. I’ve heard there are connoisseurs there.” The cuckoo laughed, “Uncle, wherever you go, wherever you caw-caw, you’ll be driven away. Trouble will stand there too. Change your voice. What will going from East to West do? Change your voice. Change yourself! The change has to be within.”

But people keep making outer changes. A Hindu becomes a Muslim, a Muslim a Christian, a Christian a Hindu. They think: don’t wear this tilak, wear that tilak; keep a topknot… what games people play! Observe the five K’s and you’re a Sikh. If it were that simple—that you grow your hair, one K; wear a steel bangle, the second K; keep a comb in your hair, the third K; carry a kirpan, the fourth; wear the kaccha (loincloth), the fifth—five K’s done, and you’re a Sikh!

“Sikh” comes from shishya—disciple—in Punjabi form. Is being a disciple so easy? To be a disciple requires surrender, the dissolution of ego. But people invent cheap tricks.

I’ve heard that when Sardar Baldev Singh was a minister in Pandit Jawaharlal Nehru’s cabinet, there was a strong odor. Nehru said, “Baldev Singh, where is this smell coming from?” He replied, “I don’t know—perhaps from the loincloth, because I change it once every year or two.” Nehru said, “Once in a year or two! Then of course there will be a smell. This evening we have a function—ambassadors and foreign guests will be there. Please change your loincloth; otherwise what will people think!” He said, “Since you say so, I’ll surely change it.”

He came, and the smell had doubled. Nehru was alarmed, “You were better before! What is this? Did you change it or not?” “I changed it. You won’t believe me, so I brought the old one in my pocket.” He pulled it out: “Look!” Still Nehru said, “But the smell is worse.” “It must be,” he answered. “Because there are two loincloths now! I took one from my driver, Vichittar Singh—he probably hasn’t changed his in two or three years either. With two, the smell will be double. You had said to change it, so I did—took Vichittar Singh’s.”

All religions get entangled in trivialities. Not one—every religion. Practices that may once have been useful in simple living are clutched with such rigidity that having completed them, people think everything is complete.

Just a few days ago a Nihang Sikh wanted to enter the discourse hall here. A Nihang never sets aside his kirpan. He wouldn’t come in without it. He was told, “Please leave the kirpan outside; otherwise you will have to remain outside.” He said, “How can it be that a Nihang Sikh leaves his kirpan? Then there would be only four K’s left, not five—the kirpan must be with me.” But here, one is to listen—who is to wield the kirpan?

This is how people cling—to useless, formal things. And then the web of such formalities keeps growing and growing. In the Buddhist texts there is mention of thirty-three thousand rules for a monk. It is hard even to remember them, let alone follow them. Only a madman would try. By the time you complete thirty-three thousand rules, you’ll be dead. And when will the real thing happen? When will meditation happen? When will the inner entry begin?

So I will tell you only one thing, Narayan Shankar—remember one single sutra: meditation. Meditation is the method for the discovery of the self, for the unveiling of the self. You are buried under much dust and debris; meditation wipes that away—like dust gathers on a mirror till the mirror is lost in dust. But people’s foolishness is amazing.

A lady hired a new maid for cleaning. After three days she said, “Look—the piano is so dusty I wrote your name on it. It’s been three days and the name is still there, yet you didn’t notice.” The maid said, “I noticed, madam—what I noticed is that you spelled my name wrong.” The lady was even more astonished, “What are you paying attention to—spelling? I’m telling you the dust is so thick one can write on it. You are here to clean.” The maid replied, “This much dust must have been here before me. So much can’t gather in three days. And since the name you wrote three days ago hasn’t yet been erased, clearly much new dust hasn’t gathered. The dust is old—some other maid who worked here must have let it gather. What fault is mine?”

Man doesn’t want to see his own mistake. And without seeing the mistake, he sets about all sorts of practices: someone will do headstands, someone will fast, someone will take vows, someone will go on pilgrimages, someone will bathe in the Ganges, someone will go to the Kaaba, someone will read the Koran, someone will memorize the Gita. None of this will do anything.

I did not become a mountain, not a waterfall,
not a river, not an ocean;
What kind of fate did I bring,
not a forest, not a meadow.

Whenever, under the blue sky,
those white pairs of cranes
stand in the water, scratching,
their necks turned to preen,
each time the heart grows restless:
for what purpose was such a life given?
Not a water-creature, not water-grass,
not a lotus leaf, not a pond.

Whenever, in the sal forests,
the waves of the Karma song arise,
and to the beat of the madal drum
innocent veils whirl in circles,
then this heart breaks into tears—
how accursed a life I’ve been given.
Not ankle-bells, not anklets,
not tattoo, not kohl.

Whenever the hamlet of huts
becomes the monsoon’s queen,
swollen bodies dance,
and clouds turn to water-water,
then the mind goes mad:
what will come of living this life?
Not a swing, not a round-dance,
not a Kajri, not a Chanchari.

Whenever that unfamiliar, intoxicating
humming comes and knocks,
and on the closed doors of the life-breath
the chains begin to jingle,
each time the mind keeps asking,
why is life so unjoined, unmatched?
What was outside never became inside;
what was inside never came outside.

Man squanders life like this, and then thinks: what misfortune, how unlucky I am; under what accursed stars was I born; how bad were my planets? Neither the stars were bad, nor the hours inauspicious. You are born with as much potential as any Buddha ever was, but you do not search your potential; you run outside, asking others for your address. If you want your address, close your eyes. If you want your address, stop thought. If you want your address, dive deeper and deeper within yourself. Go in—there the current will be found.

Meditation simply means: the art of becoming thought-free. And for one whose hand has learned the art of no-thought, the key to gold has arrived—the key that opens all locks.

I can give you meditation; I cannot give you knowledge. Understand this distinction well. Scholars and priests give you knowledge, not meditation. And that knowledge is stale, borrowed—not yours, of no use. I give you meditation: only the method of digging, a spade—here is the spade, dig; make your own well. It is such that only from your own well can you drink water. No one can drink from another’s well. That well is within. The thirst too is within. Another’s well will always be outside; and the outside well and the inner thirst never meet.

In the scriptures all the truths are indeed written. The true masters have said everything; nothing remains to be added. And yet what essence do you get? You can memorize the Gita, but you don’t become Krishna. If one could become Krishna by memorizing the Gita, how many would have become Krishna by now! You can memorize the Dhammapada, but you don’t become a Buddha. You cannot. Though you may begin to speak exactly as a Buddha spoke—the same words, the same gestures; you may sit as he sat, eat as he ate, wear the same clothes, shape your conduct as his—still it will all remain on the surface, a performance. Within, you will remain as empty as before. The ocean of God will not fill your little pitcher.

Science can be received from others. Hence science is taught in schools, colleges, universities: study chemistry, physics, biology—they can be taught. Newton discovered a truth—gravity; now everyone need not discover it again. You do not have to go sit under an apple tree in a garden and wait for an apple to fall, and then ponder: it fell down—why down and not up? There must be a pull, gravitation. Once found, it is found.

Outer truths are like that—they can be received from without. But the inner truth has to be discovered anew each time; each must find his own. That is its beauty—because it is forever fresh, never stale. Whenever you taste it, it will not be someone else’s tasted truth. It will not be stale; not leftovers. This truth will be utterly new—fresh, yours.

I cannot give you knowledge. If you want knowledge, ask the scholars and priests; they will give you knowledge. If you have come here, ask for meditation. I can show the path—how to walk. But what you will find on arriving is ineffable. It does not fit into words. Language is altogether impotent. It can be understood only in silence. Become silent—and understand.

Chandrashekhar Dubey! You have come to the wrong place. Go to Vinoba Bhave at the Pavanar Ashram; there you will get proper guidance. Here I will lead you astray. I’m warning you in advance—don’t blame me later.

Here’s what happened. Vinoba has an ashram in Bihar—the Samnvay Ashram at Bodh Gaya. The coordinator there fell in love with me and invited me to hold a camp in the ashram. When Vinoba found out, he was very angry, because he doesn’t even allow my books to enter the Pavanar Ashram where he lives. The residents read my books secretly. And then my camp was held at his ashram! He came to know only after it was over—otherwise it wouldn’t have happened.

At the camp something took place—someone just like you, probably another Chandrashekhar Dubey. Vinoba makes everyone take the vow of lifelong brahmacharya. To make someone who has not yet known desire take a vow of celibacy—there can be no greater foolishness. Someone who has not even tasted desire—whether it is bitter or sweet—you give him a vow, and lifelong at that! With them nothing is ever less than “lifelong.” Lifelong vows, land-gift (bhoodan), life-gift (jeevandan)... Life-gift! A man doesn’t know about tomorrow, not even the next hour, and he donates his life! And all those life-donors were deceived, and they deceived others too. Even Jayaprakash Narayan, the foremost life-donor, betrayed Vinoba—because there was a condition: no participation in politics. On that point they fell out. He not only participated; he threw the entire politics of this country into turmoil—upended it—and took countless life-donors along with him.

So a young man and a young woman were both made to take the vow of lifelong brahmacharya. They had no idea what celibacy or non-celibacy is. “If Vinoba says so, it must be right”—they were impressed and took the vow. And there is a thrill in taking vows: the ego is gratified before a crowd; people clap; garlands are put around your neck—what fun! After giving them the vow of lifelong brahmacharya he sent them together, village to village, for bhoodan work. They stayed together, fell in love—which is absolutely natural. They sat together, walked together, traveled together—if a young man and a young woman fall in love, what is there to be surprised about? Now both were in great difficulty, because both had taken a lifelong vow of celibacy, and both wanted to marry. What to do?

They went and pleaded with Vinoba: “You gave us the vow, but we both want to marry; we have fallen in love.” At first he tried hard to persuade them: “One does not break a vow like this; it’s a great sin; it shows lack of resolve; your soul will fall.” But they were ready for all that—let the soul fall, let it be a great sin!... And I don’t think they did anything wrong at all. It is perfectly natural. There is an age when love will happen—should happen; if it does not, that’s when something is wrong, some distortion, some sickness. Their love was a healthy sign.

But Vinoba saddled them with enormous guilt. Even so, when they wouldn’t relent he got them married—he himself present—at a bhoodan conference. And when, after the marriage, they came for his blessings, he said while blessing them, “Now do not give up your vow of lifelong brahmacharya.” Again, before the crowd. So they nodded yes, bowed their heads: “All right.” Again there was applause; again garlands were placed around their necks: “An even higher thing! Now they are married and yet they will keep a lifelong vow of celibacy—both worlds balanced. This world and the other. Staying on this shore and reaching the other.”

You can imagine their predicament. They were simple, straightforward village folk. Had they been sly, dishonest, clever, university-educated, they would have managed—would have become hypocrites. Outwardly they would show that brahmacharya was going on; inwardly, whatever had to go on would go on. But they were innocent villagers, so they were in great trouble. After marriage, how to keep celibacy? And if celibacy was the goal, what was the need for marriage? That could have been achieved without marriage. Marriage was not going to help with celibacy.

They suffered so much that when I visited the ashram they both appealed to me: “We’re going crazy.” Things had become so bad that when they had asked Vinoba what to do, he said: “If you cannot control yourselves, live in separate rooms. And the girl should lock her door from inside and throw the key out through the window. The key will be outside, the lock with you inside; neither you nor he can open it.” So that’s what they were doing, poor things: locking the door and throwing the key out. One had the key, the other had the lock—brahmacharya will be maintained! Can celibacy ever have any meaning like this? If they were going mad, is it any surprise? No sleep at night, no peace by day: one clutching his lock, the other her key—and the key must not enter the lock, because: lifelong brahmacharya! The lock and the key kept far apart!

They asked me, “What should we do?” I said, “Are you total fools? I’ll set you free. If all that’s needed is applause, then people in my camp will clap. If you want garlands, we’ll garland you. They bound you with a vow; I release you from it.” So I dissolved their vow. And I said, “Give me the lock and the key—end the nuisance.” There was great applause, garlands; I gave them my blessings.

Later, when he found out, Vinoba was very angry. He said, “His camp should not have been held here at all. He has corrupted these two.”

Chandrashekhar Dubey, on the one hand you say you have taken a vow to observe lifelong brahmacharya. And exactly a month from now you are to be married. You will tangle yourself up and drag some poor girl into the tangle too. What has that girl done to you? If you have taken a vow of lifelong celibacy, please, keep your vow—what need is there to marry? And if you are going to marry, then why did you take that vow at all? And since you are the one who took it, you are the master; if you could take it, you can drop it. When you can put on a cap, you can take it off; when you can put on shoes, you can remove them—this is not like, “I put shoes on once, now how can I take them off?” “I put on a cap, now how can I remove it?” If you took the vow by mistake, drop it! And I don’t think such a vow will stand, nor does it have any meaning.

And you say you are also eager to take my sannyas. Do you intend to go mad? How many legs do you have—two or three? How will you walk in three directions? Even with two legs, going in two directions is difficult. One is marriage; then brahmacharya; and then my sannyas! You will be completely deranged. If you must take sannyas, go to the Shankaracharya of Puri. His sannyas will be useful to you—it will at least be on the side of your celibacy. He’ll explain to you that a wife is hell, a bundle of sin; that a wife contains nothing but bones, flesh, marrow, pus, filth, etc.—he’ll explain to you lofty things.

You have come to me... you’ve done a very wrong thing! From a religious place like Nashik you’ve come here—to an irreligious place. Still, nothing is lost yet; run away!

You say you are eager for my sannyas. If you are eager for my sannyas, then you will have to understand a little. I will not advise you to indulge in stupidities. First of all, end this nonsense of “lifelong brahmacharya.” Brahmacharya arrives; it cannot be imposed. It is not a vow; it is the distillation of lived experience. First live life. Brahmacharya will come, but live life first. Drink life’s bitter and sweet draughts. If someone else tells you, what is that worth? In your own experience, desire is still full within you; waves of lust will arise, surge, overflow—and you will exhaust yourself suppressing them. Your chanting and your rosary will all be for suppressing it. You will become repressed, neurotic; you will become ill and unhinged.

Psychologists say that ninety-nine percent of mental illnesses are due to repressed sexuality. Which means that ninety-nine percent of mental illness is caused by the so‑called religious gurus and priests. As long as these priests are in the world, man cannot be free of mental diseases—because they teach you the reverse: “Suppress.”

Understand! Experience! Experience will teach you a great deal.

A girl’s father asked the young man she wanted to marry, “My daughter has chosen you. When would you like to marry?”
“That your daughter knows,” the young man replied.
“And will you marry quietly, or will you bring a wedding procession?”
“That her mother knows.”
“But after marriage, where will you live with my daughter? What will you eat?”
“That you will have to figure out,” the young man replied.
“First find some decent place!”

A woman said to her husband, “Whenever you see a beautiful girl you forget that you are married.”
“Forget? On the contrary,” the husband replied, “the awareness becomes even more intense—that alas, I am married! God, in what ill-fated moment did I get married!”

First go through these troubles!

The wife said to her husband, “Where did you learn to cook so well? From your mother?”
“No, no, from my father,” the husband said.

Go through a little!

The wife said to her husband, “Have you forgotten your friend? His wife has died; the bier is ready; they are all waiting for you. He has especially called you. Won’t you join the funeral procession?”
“I won’t go,” the husband said.
“Why?” the wife asked in amazement. “He is your close friend.”
“Does it look good that he invites me to the funeral of his fourth wife, and I haven’t been able to invite him even once?”

Then celibacy will become easy—not so soon!

It is said about Morarji Desai that after losing power he became so frightened of chamchas—sycophants; the word also means “spoons”—that even at the dining table he began eating with his hands instead of with spoons.

Experience is a great thing. One scalded by milk blows even on buttermilk.

A woman asked her neighbor, “Can you tell me the secret of your health?”
“When I take milk to my husband, I start a quarrel over something. In anger he says, ‘I won’t drink milk.’ So I drink it,” the neighbor said.

Not now, Chandrashekhar! Wait a bit. Brahmacharya will come. If you impose brahmacharya, it will never come. You will remain full of lust all your life. And if you force celibacy upon yourself, you will land in great difficulty. There are so many women in the world—how will you protect yourself? The great virtue of a wife is that she protects you from other women. Otherwise you’ll get into trouble everywhere. Every husband needs a wife—otherwise who will protect him? Husbands think they are protecting the wife. They are mistaken—completely mistaken. The wife protects them; otherwise they would stick their nose in anywhere, run off anywhere, do anything upside‑down!

Anand Amrita has written and sent a sweet and true incident. Amrita left everything in America and came here. She writes:
“My friend’s father once came to America. He was considered a very religious man. He thought that because of living in America his family members were becoming irreligious. To save the family from irreligion he would preach to them daily, praising our culture and religion. Inspiring them to preserve Indian traditions was his daily routine. In no way could the family swallow the old man’s sermons.
A few months later, he suddenly stopped his religious speeches. Even when asked, he would remain silent. He would sit at a window and do his japa. His lips could be seen moving. While chanting, he began to hold a newspaper before his eyes and constantly moved it up and down. The family became a little anxious—had the old man developed some illness? He sensed their anxiety and stopped moving the newspaper up and down. But he made a hole in it. Now everyone’s amazement knew no bounds.”

In the bungalow across the way the neighbor’s young girls would be sunbathing.
All that culture and all that religion were ground into dust. Now, through a hole poked in the newspaper, they are doing their “satsang.” Chanting “Ram-Ram”! They must have forced all that religion upon themselves. This is the plight of most people in this country: their lives are imposed upon. I am against imposing anything by force.

You have asked for three things, Chandrashekhar. First, you say you are curious about my sannyas. Do that first. I call it first because after that you will be able to find the right kind of wife. My sannyasins do not believe in arranged marriage; they trust love-marriage. Arranged marriage is compulsion, rape, violence. A woman you never desired, a woman who never desired you—by having some priest mutter mantras over you, you don’t acquire the right to make any kind of relationship with her. Your relationship is immoral.

In my view, all children born of arranged marriages are illegitimate. Seven rounds around the fire—and the children become legitimate! Why not take seventy rounds! What is there in going around in circles? You’ll only produce ghanchakkars—dizzy fools!

Any relationship you form in this world other than out of love will be hollow, superficial. What reasons will there be for it? Reasons other than love: money—how much dowry; family status; prestige; a good job; a higher post—but is that love? And you think this woman is your wife, that you are her husband? Is there any bridge between you?

So it is sheer accident if, in this country, even one out of a hundred couples turns out to be a true pair. Ninety-nine couples are false; that is why their lives pass in quarrel after quarrel.

First, take sannyas. Then second: when love dawns in your life, when you feel an affinity with someone, when it seems there is a relish in living with someone, when an irrepressible longing arises to be with someone—then by all means live together. That living together is what I call marriage; marriage has no other meaning.

And stay together only so long as the stream of love flows within you. The day you find the stream of love has dried up, do not force it; ask forgiveness—“It’s over. The love for which we came together has vanished.”

And don’t remain in the illusion that true love never dies. The truer it is, the sooner it dies. Fake flowers last; real flowers blossom in the morning and are gone by evening. Truth has depth but not length; untruth has length but no depth. And that is why marriage lasts; marriage is built to last. That is why for centuries the clever, the worldly-wise, the crafty have forbidden love-marriage—because love-marriage is dangerous. Who can trust love? Will it last or not? It is here today; tomorrow it may be gone.

This fire is such that you can neither ignite it nor extinguish it. If it catches, it catches; if it goes out, it goes out—it is beyond your hands. It is an inscrutable riddle. Yet it is through the inscrutable riddle of love that your steps begin to move toward the divine—because the divine is an even greater riddle.

So I say: you should take the risk with love. This obsession with durability, this market-minded notion that things must be permanent—these are the traits of the shopkeeper’s mind. And the shopkeeper-minded person gains nothing of real value in the world. Yes, he will die having collected a few potsherds; his whole life will be spent piling up shards. His soul will be sold for a few shards. Life needs gamblers—people who stake everything. And love is a great stake.

So first, Chandrashekhar, sannyas—so you can learn the art of love, the art of meditation, the art of silence, and gather courage. Then, if a flower of love blossoms in your life, do live with that person—carefree—but only so long as the flower of love is in bloom. When love departs, do not stretch a single moment of untruth; do not keep repeating a lie.

Whoever keeps repeating a lie becomes a lie. Whoever holds a lie in place becomes, little by little, a corpse—dead, a hypocrite. When there is no love, you have to say there is love, to proclaim there is love, to put on a show of love. A thousand devices are needed—because love is gone. If love is there, it is enough; no need to bring a sari, no need to bring bouquets or buy garlands—love is sufficient. Love has its own air, its own fragrance. But when love dies, then bring saris, bring jewelry, bring gifts; somehow make up for what has died, gather a few hollow contrivances to maintain the deception that love is there. Because once a promise was made—now how to break the promise! But what can you do? This fire is such that you cannot light it, you cannot put it out. You are helpless. Love is far bigger than you. It comes like a flood; and when it has gone, you don’t even know when. If it lasts, it lasts; if it doesn’t, it doesn’t.

Whoever has truly lived love has tasted both its joys and its sorrows—both. Love will give you the torments of hell and also the moments of heaven. It will carry you to the highest heights and drag you to the lowest lows. It will hurl you into the deepest darkness and raise you to radiant peaks. Love’s roots go down to the netherworld; love’s branches reach up to the sky. After knowing both, out of the maturity of this experience, brahmacharya arises.

Brahmacharya means: love has ripened you so much that even love begins to look childish. Your pot is no longer raw; it has been baked. You have passed through the fire that bakes. Then, if brahmacharya comes into your life, it will not be forced, not imposed, not superimposed—it will be natural, spontaneous. And when brahmacharya is spontaneous, it is not a vow—remember that. A vow means: something imposed.

I am against vows. I am in favor of spontaneity. For me, spontaneity is saintliness. Flowing with spontaneity is what I call surrender. And the readiness to pay whatever is required for spontaneity is sannyas. Let life itself be lost, but do not become inauthentic. One day the flower of brahmacharya will certainly bloom in your life.

But there is a whole process to its flowering. If today you decide to sit down with a vow of lifelong celibacy, you will suffer. I cannot support you in such an undertaking. If you need support for that, someone like the Shankaracharya of Puri will suit you. Or go to Vinoba Bhave. Or is there any shortage in this country? Muktananda, Akhandanand—there are plenty! Go anywhere except to me. What I have told you, no one else will tell you—because I have no desire to follow any tradition, no urge to prop up any tradition. I simply put it to you as the truth is for me; I do not want to alter it by a hair. I have no shame, no hesitation. I do not put my trust in manners. If for truth’s sake all manners must be dropped, I am ready.

For the kind of foolishness you are talking, only someone like the Shankaracharya of Puri can support you. You have come to the wrong place with me. I will tear you to pieces. Your whole inner posture is wrong. You are talking in a thoroughly obscurantist way. A young man should not even talk like this. Here old age has arrived before youth. You never became young and you are already dead—dead long before dying. Your funeral bier will be carried out forty or fifty years from now, but you have died already.

And if you insist on it—if you must take a vow of lifelong celibacy—then please, why do you want to inflict suffering on some woman? What harm has she done to you? The wedding is a month away—one month is enough. Run—get as far away as you can. In a month, even on foot, you can reach China.

Yog Hansa! Arre, whoever wears a kachchha is a Kachchhi! But keep changing your kachchha! And if you change, don’t do the swap with Sardar Vichittar Singh!

We will go, Hansa, we will go to Kachchh! Paan Kachchh halonta. You aren’t the only Kachchhi. Aun Kachchhi aniya. I too am Kachchhi.

From Kashmir to Kanyakumari I have gone, from Bombay to Calcutta, only Kachchh I have never gone. I have kept it aside because if I go there, I won’t move away again. In the whole country I have left only one place—Kachchh. And many times Kachchhis have said to me, “Come to Kachchh.” I said, I will come. If I come, then I will come and that’s it. Then why go anywhere else? From Kachchh where would one go next? So we will go to Kachchh; don’t you worry! Protests and so on are absolutely natural.

And it isn’t any great protest—two, four, ten people. It will add a little spice to the journey if there is some opposition. If my caravan goes somewhere and arrives without any protest, it doesn’t look quite right. There should be some “Long live!” and “Down with!” cries. The whole of Kachchh should tremble when we arrive. But out of a hundred, ninety‑nine percent are with us; one percent are against. And those who oppose have vested interests. They are frightened.

And you are right that these are the same people who were very impressed hearing my discourses on Mahavira.

They were not impressed by me. They were impressed because I praised their Mahavira—as if they have some ownership over Mahavira. I was only speaking my own truth. Mahavira was just a peg; the coat I hung on it was my own—I always hang my own coat, whatever the peg. On every peg I hang my coat. I don’t concern myself with the pegs. If there is no peg but only a nail, I hang it on the nail. If not a nail, then on the window, on the door—somewhere the coat must be hung.

So whether it is Jesus, or Mahavira, or Buddha, or Tilopa, or Saraha—what worry! I don’t worry; on any peg I hang my coat. What difference does the peg’s color or style make! I have to say my say, and I say it. But people are so foolish that the moment they see my coat hanging on Mahavira’s peg, they think, “Ah, it is Mahavira’s coat!” They are overwhelmed. And when I take off my coat and start to move on, that’s it! And the coat is mine—what has Mahavira to do with it? He was naked; he had no coat anyway. And if I kept my coat hanging on him forever, what about the other pegs? The same coat I then hang on Buddha—and the followers of Buddha are delighted. The same coat I hang on Jesus—and the followers of Jesus are overjoyed. But a difficulty awaits them all.

When I spoke on Mahavira, the Jains were very pleased. They felt, “At last someone will carry Mahavira’s voice to the ends of the earth.” They have mixed their own ego with Mahavira’s name. If the whole world is impressed by Mahavira, their banner will fly. And I have no interest in flying anyone’s banner. If I found something lovable in Mahavira, I said so. And even then I gave my meanings. It is not necessary that Mahavira would agree with my meanings. He cannot. There is a gap of twenty‑five hundred years—how could Mahavira agree with my meanings? In twenty‑five hundred years, man has not stood still. In these twenty‑five centuries how many revolutions have happened, how far man has come, how much water has flowed down the Ganges!

If I were to meet Mahavira, what he said and what I say would differ vastly—earth and sky apart—separated by twenty‑five hundred years. Though we would understand each other. Because the experience from which he spoke is also my experience. In experience we would agree, but our statements would differ—certainly differ. My language is different, his language different. His way of saying, mine another. His style of expression, mine another. My way of thinking is different. I am speaking to twentieth‑century people; he was speaking to people of twenty‑five centuries ago. The difference is bound to be there, and vast.

So when I interpret Mahavira, remember, those meanings are mine. The Jains were pleased. But that pleasure was not going to last long. Yes, from among them I caught a few Jains—those who were truly pleased; those who did not care that I had praised Mahavira; those who were genuinely stirred; whose hearts truly overflowed; whose Jain ego was not gratified but who found a path, a way, a vision. They came with me. After all, Hansa too came with me just like that. Some Jains from among them came along. I had cast the net only for them. The fish that were mine have fallen into my net. And what was I to do with all the other rubbish? So as soon as I spoke on Jesus, those who were keen only to fly Mahavira’s flag were alarmed just at the mention of Jesus.

A Jain monk said to me, “You take the names of Mahavira and Jesus together—that is not good. Where is Mahavira, a Tirthankara; and where is Jesus? Jesus was crucified. The cross befalls only the one who has committed great sins in past lives.” According to Jainism, the doctrine of karma is the fundamental basis. In Jainism there is not even God, that you can appease some ultimate judge and be saved—praise him and he saves his own, throw nonbelievers into hell and take believers to heaven.

There is no conception of Ishvara in Jainism. In place of God there is only the doctrine of karma. And karma is utterly impartial, neutral. Principles have no favoritism. So why the crucifixion? The Jains hold that even a thorn cannot prick Mahavira, far from a cross. When Mahavira walks, if a thorn lies upright on the path it quickly turns aside seeing him approach, because all his sins are finished; how can a thorn prick now? A thorn pricks only when one has some sin. But sins are at an end. Jesus was crucified—so it must be the fruit of some great sin.

So the Jain monk said to me, “How can you take Jesus’ name? You go too far—you even take the name of Mohammed, a man who fought with the sword! You also take Krishna’s name in the same line!”

The Jain scriptures have consigned Krishna to hell, because it was he who caused the Mahabharata war. Poor Arjuna was turning Jain; he was saying, “I will become a Jain monk.” He wanted to renounce everything. A great dispassion had arisen in him. And Krishna thrashed him soundly—just as I have now thrashed Chandrashekhar! In that way Krishna gave Arjuna a good shaking. He brought his mind to its senses. Arjuna was saying, “My Gandiv is slipping from my hand.” He sat down saying, “My limbs have gone slack. I cannot even rise.” He was practically paralyzed. Krishna made him stand again. With a lot of pushing and shoving he made him drink the entire Gita! However much Arjuna tried to escape—this way or that—Krishna closed all the doors! And it doesn’t even seem Arjuna ultimately agreed; he said in fright, “Brother, now spare me! All my doubts have vanished! Better to go and fight than to have you keep gnawing at my head! How long must I endure your head‑chewing?” The sense is: “All my doubts are destroyed, O Krishna. Now be at peace, I am ready for battle!” Better to fight than to keep hearing you—so the poor fellow fought.

The Jain view is that Krishna made him commit violence.

So the Jain monk said to me, “You take all these names alongside Mahavira’s. Where is Mahavira—the Tirthankara, supreme person, knower of the ultimate, absorbed in samadhi—and where are these others!” So their discomfort began.

But when I spoke on Jesus, the Christians were deeply impressed. The Jains filtered away—Jains like Hansa, who had the courage to stay with me, remained—but Christians began to come. As long as I spoke on Jesus, Christians were very happy with me. My talks on Jesus were translated into almost all the languages of the world. In Christian churches, quotations from my words on Jesus were given. Christian pastors came from far countries to listen and to understand. They felt that someone had said about Jesus what had never occurred to them, what they had never known. But when I began to speak on Lao Tzu, they fled. A few remained. This was bound to happen.

That is precisely why I have spoken on different figures: people are divided. Today it is hard to find a person who is not divided into a group. Before someone like me, the big question is: whom to awaken? People are split into classes: some Jain, some Hindu, some Muslim, some Christian, some Buddhist—everyone is divided. So I have to search among these divided people; I have to call out among them. There is only one way to call them: call in their own idiom. Among them, whoever can understand will stay; whoever cannot will leave. When I spoke on Lao Tzu, their difficulties began. When I spoke on Buddha, their difficulties became great.

You will be surprised to know: my books on Jesus were translated into all Western languages. The books on Lao Tzu and on Buddha were translated into Japanese; but the book on Jesus was not translated into Japanese. The book on Mahavira did not go outside India at all; it was not translated into any language. No one read it except Jains. The Upanishads—Hindus read them. The Gita—Hindus read it; Jains did not. This is my own method. I have to find my people from everywhere. They are divided; they are lost in crowds. How am I to pick them out? What is the device? For a while I speak their language. In that language, whoever awakens will awaken and come with me. But when I speak on someone else, they will immediately begin to have difficulties—instantly.

When I spoke on Buddha, the Jains were very pained, because between Jains and Buddhists there is an old rivalry. Buddha and Mahavira were contemporaries; the opposition is ancient, the struggle intense. And the Jains were badly beaten in that history: Buddhists spread throughout Asia; Jains shrank—some three and a half million in number, what a number! So there is deep inner chafing, great resentment toward Buddha. And when I spoke on Buddha, their restlessness knew no bounds. They at once began to oppose me. Then I spoke on Patanjali; on Tilopa; and when I spoke on the Vigyan Bhairav Tantra, a real stampede began. Because their whole outlook is repression. Even with Mahavira I had given meanings that said: not repression. I will always give my meanings. But since the name was Mahavira, they listened. And when I spoke on pure tantra, they were floored.

So now their life‑breath is trembling, Hansa—it is entirely natural. They are scared and upset that if I go to Kachchh… and I will go.

Morarji tried to stop me and himself went away. I kept waiting; I said, fine. I took Saswad as a pretext—so it would seem I had dropped the idea of going to Kachchh. But I did not go to Saswad either. You went to do the inauguration; I did not set foot there. If I go, I will go to Kachchh—paan Kachchh halonta. Saswad is no distance—twenty‑twenty‑five miles—I did not even go to see it. You went and inaugurated it, you went and held the ceremony. But I knew that Morarji and company were not going to last long. It was like a pot breaking by a cat’s luck, the rafters giving way—pure accident that Morarji sat on the country’s chest. Otherwise there was neither merit nor purpose nor any benefit to the nation from him. How long could he sit on our chest? His going was certain. A year or two—I said, wait; there is no harm. Now the time to go to Kachchh is coming close. Nothing will come of their opposition. Their hand is behind it. Those who are opposing today have Morarji’s hand behind them. Because he feels his prestige is at stake. He feels… by every kind of false means he stopped us from going to Kachchh.

On the seashore where we wanted to build the ashram, by pressuring government officers—naturally they could pressure them; power was in their hands—false reports were written. Now that all the files have been seen, they are all false. They had it written that an Air Force base is only thirty kilometers away, therefore in relation to the Air Force nothing could remain secret if an ashram were built here—thirty kilometers is too close. Now, on checking, it turns out the base is not thirty kilometers but fifty miles away. And when the collector was asked why “thirty kilometers” was written, he said, “What can we do? We work for our stomachs. We were pressured to say thirty kilometers, so we said thirty.”

And they also falsely publicized that the Air Force was opposing the ashram being so near. Whereas now, after seeing all the files, the Air Force had raised no objection at all.

Now they have no other means. One last device remains: gather Kachchhis in Bombay and create some noise. They are trying to stage that. It will do no harm. It will create no obstacle. It will be of benefit.

Truth is never harmed. All attempts to harm it go in vain. There may be a little delay. But what is delay to truth! For truth, eternity is available.

And I need a place that is, in a way, completely apart—so that the deepest experiments I want to do can be done. Those deep experiments cannot be done amid crowds, in the marketplace, in cities. Such a place is available in Kachchh. Because Kachchh’s population is small—Kachchhis have all left; hardly any Kachchhis live there. The number is next to nothing. The whole of Kachchh has a population of seven lakhs. Kachchh has ample space where we can have utter solitude. Such solitude that no one ever comes, no one ever goes; only those who come for sadhana come. And if they come, it is as if they are cut off from the world—as if the world is forgotten—as if one has gone to the moon, so far from the world. I need such a place. I have my eye on that place. I will not let it go—no matter how much opposition there is. Those opposing are opposing on utterly false grounds.

For Kachchh, the ashram’s arrival will bring nothing but benefit. The ashram’s presence is giving Poona one and a half lakhs of rupees a day. Only when the ashram moves will Poona realize the buzz is gone! Hotels are lying empty! Prices are dropping! For Kachchh—one and a half lakhs a day… and this is only the beginning, because we have no facilities yet; only three thousand sannyasins are here now. In Kachchh, within two years, I will settle ten thousand sannyasins. Ten thousand sannyasins are ready to come; only space is the issue. Once we have the place, an ochre settlement of ten thousand sannyasins will arise. It will be a unique experiment on this earth. Never has there been an ashram on such a scale, nor is there now. And so universal—people of all races, all religions, all countries.

Kachchh will be blessed. Its poverty will end. There are five thousand unemployed people in Kachchh. We alone will be able to give work to those five thousand—only we will. We will remove Kachchh’s unemployment entirely. Because for ten thousand people we must make arrangements for living—houses, dwellings! And I don’t believe in poverty and misery—that we should build hovels. Those five thousand unemployed in Kachchh—their unemployment will end at once. And when ten thousand sannyasins come and live there—and these sannyasins are no ordinary monks; they are all well‑educated people, the cream of the world. Among them are great scientists, engineers, architects, painters, sculptors, researchers, actors, musicians, dancers… and all this work is about to begin there.

Vinod is sitting here; I have already told Vinod: as soon as the ashram is built—our own film industry. The whole world goes on blathering about what should not be in films; but let someone show what should be. Let someone make even one film and show what ought to be.

We have the finest artists—actors, sculptors, painters.

We will start all kinds of industries there. Because I do not want sannyasins sitting idle. For our sannyasin, labor is sadhana; creation is meditation.

These ten thousand sannyasins will make Kachchh the most prosperous land in this country. Within five years you will see the truth of what I say. The whole country will be filled with envy that they missed their chance—“Why didn’t we invite the ashram!” And then these people who are opposing today will realize. Then they will come to their senses—properly then. “You have given nothing to Kachchh. You yourselves ran away from Kachchh—you are deserters. I am bringing people from all over the world to Kachchh. And there an entire new little world of creativity will be built.”

At first there will be small industries, but soon… I have no trust in small things… the industries will grow large. Near the Kachchh ashram there should be a hospital of a kind that has no second in all India. And there will be—such a hospital will be.

We will have our own agriculture, using the most modern systems. We will have our own industries of every kind. The ashram will be self‑reliant—and with the ashram’s support the whole face of Kachchh will change; rejuvenation will come to Kachchh.

Yog Hansa! We will go—don’t worry in the least! Don’t you worry at all. You are not the only Kachchhi. Aun Kachchhi aniya! And, paan Kachchh halonta!

That’s all for today.