Saheb Mil Saheb Bhave #5

Parth Pritam Kundu! This is Kabir’s famous saying: “Kasturi kundal basai”—musk dwells in the navel. But even that doesn’t quite contain it; something is still left unsaid. Even Kabir, saying it, cannot fully say it. Because there is distance between the musk and the deer. Musk can be separated from the deer—indeed that is how musk is obtained. But you cannot be separated from yourself. Within you there is not even that much distance from yourself as there is between musk and the deer. Musk is in the deer, but it is not the deer. And the one you are seeking is you yourself. There is not even that much distance. The seeker is the sought.

That is the difficulty.
The greatest difficulty is this: you have set out to see yourself. Who will see? The other can be seen. Seeing requires distance. How will you see yourself? There the seer and the seen are not two. There the witness and the witnessed are one. Until this fundamental truth is understood, there is nothing but wandering. That is why man keeps searching.

And you say it rightly: “Searching for you I have wandered who knows where!”
Where has man not reached! He has reached the moon; soon he will reach other stars. And yet the quest is one—the same eternal search: Who am I? Man wants to know. Because until he knows who he is, how should he live—by what meaning, for what purpose? And without knowing oneself, however one lives there will be error and delusion. In whatever direction one moves, it will be a mistake, a miss. Whatever one does will go awry. Without self-knowledge, the auspicious is impossible.

Virtue is the fragrance of self-knowing; sin is the stench of self-ignorance. Therefore a self-ignorant person, even if he wants to do virtuous acts, cannot. He will go to do virtue and it will turn into sin. He will build a temple, and something else will get built. So many temples have been built—yet where is the temple of the Divine?

Shri Jugalkishore Birla once met me. He said, “I have built so many temples.”
I said, “Indeed you have, but they all became Birla temples. You meant to build temples of God, and they turned into Birla’s temples.”
He said, “That’s true! But no one has said this to me.”
I said, “No one else will say it. In fact, the one who introduced me to you, Seth Govinddas, began tugging at my kurta the moment I said it. He introduced us because he thought you might greatly help my work. He saw that I spoiled the very first matter. He was building a bridge of support, and I broke it up from the start. I told Jugalkishore, ‘You see Govinddas sitting by my side; he introduced me to you. He’s pulling at my kurta—urging me not to say such things! Those who come to you come as beggars. I have come to ask for nothing. I need nothing.’”

Jugalkishore was honest in that sense. He said, “Then you and I will not get along. I too was surprised because Govinddas told me your work needed support.”
I said, “My work needs no such support. I will wait for those who can truly be fellow-travelers in my work—until then I will wait. No help on conditions; when those without conditions come, then.”

Jugalkishore is gone now; were he alive I would have told him: my people have come. There are no conditions in their support. They don’t even think they are ‘supporting’ me—there is no question of transaction. What is mine is theirs; what is theirs is mine.

So I told him: those who come to you—why would they tell you the truth? They will say, “Build more temples. You have done a great meritorious deed. Heaven awaits you. The Lord himself is stringing a garland, waiting to place it around your neck. Has anyone else built so many temples?”

Something just like this happened fourteen hundred years ago. A rare sannyasin, Bodhidharma, went from India to China. Emperor Wu welcomed him. Wu had built countless Buddha temples, innumerable monasteries; tens of thousands of monks were fed from his treasury. They sang his praise—this is the conspiracy of vested interests, the alliance of so-called religion and politics. The emperor was pleased, the monks were pleased—what more was needed? They praised him and he opened more coffers.

Long before Bodhidharma arrived, his fragrance had reached China. He was of the caliber of a Buddha, no ordinary monk—a rare being. The emperor himself, with his ministers, went to the border to receive him. And the very first thing he asked—just what Jugalkishore asked me—was, “I have built so many temples; do you consider this a meritorious act or not? What fruit of merit will I earn?”

Bodhidharma looked him up and down—as a judge might look at a thief—and said, “Merit? None at all! You will fall into the great hell!”
Wu was shocked. “Are you joking?”
Bodhidharma said, “What you have done you did in ignorance. These temples you built for your ego. The idols there are not of Buddha; they are of your vanity. You will fall into hell—into the great hell.”

The emperor said, “No other monk has told me this.”
Bodhidharma replied, “Why would they? They live on your food. They depend on you. You depend on them. So the collusion continues. They praise you; you praise them. They say you are a great emperor; you say they are great monks. They promise heaven and much fruit of merit; you wash their feet and they sing your glory. I have nothing to do with any of this. Let me tell you: whatever a person does without knowing himself is sin. However noble his intention, it cannot produce virtue.”

Whatever is done in the state of self-ignorance goes wrong. Why? Because inside there is darkness—and your actions arise out of that darkness. That’s why I am not a great supporter of moralism. Moralism means: let the inner darkness remain; whitewash the outside.

Jesus said: your priests are like freshly whitewashed tombs—inside lies a rotting corpse, and above the surface a beautiful, white tomb. You light candles upon it, place flowers upon it, grow roses upon it. All false! Burn incense, wave lamps—useless. Inside there is only a cadaver.

However many fine acts you do—prayers, rituals, fire-sacrifices—it all remains mere ceremony, because inside is darkness. Wherever you go, you will land in the wrong place. If you don’t know who you are, how will you take a step, how choose a direction? You are sleepwalking.

The first, the most fundamental thing: know yourself. And the method of self-knowing demands courage—great daring. To climb Everest is not so difficult, nor to reach the moon—man has done it. The most arduous journey is to come within—for many reasons.

First: only one who is ready to be utterly alone can reach within. And there our hearts tremble. We are addicted to the crowd. We need company. Left alone for a moment, unease arises. We start reading a newspaper, switch on the radio, watch television, run to the Rotary or Lions club, sit in a hotel—something, anything to keep ourselves engaged. Not even for a moment will we leave ourselves alone. And one who cannot leave himself alone will never recognize himself. One must leave oneself so alone that not only people, but even thoughts fall away, desires fall away, memories fall away—no smoke within, no turmoil. A profound silence descends, so deep a stillness it hardly breaks. Only then can one dive within. Then recognition happens. And after that, life is revolutionized.

You are right, Parth Pritam:
“Searching for you I have wandered who knows where!”
That was easy. Everyone is doing it—setting out on a search. And such searching flatters the mind: “I am a seeker.” One searches in scriptures, in doctrines, in words and their arrangement, in nets of argument; in worship, in ritual, in superstitions, in beliefs. All are “seekers” in that sense. But no one seeks in the void. Because one who seeks in the void finds instantly. To seek in the void means the seeker must disappear—then the search is complete.

This search is unique, paradoxical: like a drop of water slipping into the ocean. Have you seen the dewdrop on a lotus leaf, glittering in the morning sun—now on the verge, now slipping? Mahavira has said: man’s life is like a dewdrop poised on a blade of grass; a slight breeze and it is gone. Death will drown you anyway. One who can drown before death arrives is the courageous one, the true renunciate.

Death drowns all—that is no glory to you. And then you have to return: drowned and yet not drowned. One body gone, another obtained. Here you sink, there you rise. You vanish and you appear. Not even a moment passes—on one side they are arranging your bier; on the other you have entered some womb. The breath breaks here and resumes there. A leap, because all the old desires remain the same, the old cravings the same. The same cravings that brought you into this body will carry you into the next. In how many bodies have you lived! How many births, how many deaths! And the same repetitive doing!

I heard a tale. A man dreamt at night that a horse named Heera would win the next day’s race. He collected all his money, took a friend, and said, “Come, today is the day of fate—everything on one toss! Heera will win—I saw it in a dream, not once but again and again. I am convinced it’s not ‘just a dream.’ It is going to happen. We’ll stake it all and return rich. Be my witness.” He sent the friend to place the bet. The friend returned: “I intended to put it on Heera, but the man at the window said, ‘Are you mad? That nag never wins, never will. Put it on number seven—sure to win; the favorite!’ So I put it on number seven.”

The dreamer beat his chest: “What stupidity!” The results came. Heera won. Number seven came seventh—there were only seven horses! The dreamer groaned, “You ruined me. Only this one rupee remains. Go get a Coca-Cola; we’ll drink and go home.” The friend returned with a Fanta. “I said Coca-Cola!” “That man again! He said Coke is poison—causes cancer and TB—and do you know what ‘Coca’ means? Cocaine! He convinced me. He said, ‘Take Fanta; it’s healthy.’ So I brought Fanta.” “Fine, fine—what’s done is done.” They drank it. “Now let’s go. But I’m hungry.” He gave the last four annas and said, “Buy some peanuts so we have something in the stomach.” The friend came back with roasted gram. “What kind of man are you!” “That same man again! He said the peanuts are stale. ‘Take roasted gram—fresh and good.’ It made sense, so I did.” The dreamer tore his hair. “Will you never learn? That man has tricked you three times and you still follow him!”

When I read this, I thought: this is humanity’s story. What do you do? Exactly what you did yesterday, and the day before, and the lives before—repeating, and listening to the same “men at the window”: priests, imams, pastors, pundits—whatever name they wear. It makes no difference whether you are Hindu, Muslim, Christian: without inner light, you will always ask others—and go wrong.

Learn one thing: after searching outside enough, now turn within! And even within, do not stop at “musk,” because even musk, though found within, is still “other.” It is not your very being. The deer is not the musk-pod. Kabir’s line is a symbol, like teaching children their letters: “A for apple…” It used to be “G for Ganesh,” now it’s “G for donkey”—because the constitution is “secular.” What a fall—from Ganesh to the donkey! Still, whether Ganesh or donkey, it’s only a pointer. Don’t cling to it for life.

Kabir is saying: the musk-deer roams the jungle and often gets in trouble. The barasingha has big antlers; when he runs, his antlers tangle in shrubs and his life is imperiled. And you—how many shrubs have you tangled in! Where have your antlers not got stuck! Then it’s hard to get free.

I knew a professor who would never look at a woman. Rain or shine, he walked with an umbrella, held tight to his head so nothing could be seen—especially women. In his class there were two girls. When they attended, he taught with eyes closed. That helped me greatly: while he lectured with closed eyes, I slept with closed eyes. One day the girls didn’t come. By habit I slept on. He opened his eyes to teach, saw me still with eyes closed, shook me awake: “Are you sleeping?” I said, “What did you think I was doing all these days?” He said, “I thought you too never look at girls—that’s why your eyes were closed.” I said, “I’ve nothing to do with girls or boys. Why do you keep your eyes closed?” He said, “Since the question has come up and there are no girls today… I walk with an umbrella so I won’t see women. Years ago I returned a woman’s greeting—ten years I have suffered for that. Five children! They eat my brains. I returned one namaste—and I’m stuck. Now I’ll go no further. I’ll neither greet nor look.” People get so frightened! Either they tangle in the world, or—terrified of tangling—they get entangled in renunciation. It is the same entanglement—first in desire, then in fear. Both are outside.

My message: the question is not to entangle or to avoid, but to awaken. There is nowhere to search, because the one you are seeking—you are that. Tat tvam asi—the Upanishads say: you are That! The goal is hidden in the seeker. Open the inner eye and see.

Good that you have come here. Here we do not entangle anyone in outward show. You say: “Neither heaven says a word…” Even if it existed, what would it say? Heaven is no place; it is the extension of your craving for pleasure. You want pleasure here, and in the next world too. Each community imagines a heaven and hell according to its climate and conditioning: India’s heaven is air-conditioned, with cool gentle breezes; Tibet’s, filled with warmth and sun. India’s hell has fire—endless flames! Perhaps the shortage of kerosene is because Indian hell hogs the supply. Hell is below, and the earth’s petroleum is below—so they must be siphoning it off! Tibet’s hell is ice—buried in snow for eternity.

Heaven and hell are not religious truths; they are psychological projections. A Sufi woman, Rabia, once ran through the marketplace carrying a torch in one hand and a bucket of water in the other. People asked, “Where are you going?” She said, “I am going to burn your heaven and drown your hell—until you drop these ideas, you will never know yourselves.”

When one knows oneself, a third dimension opens, which we call moksha, nirvana. No other language has exact words for it, because nowhere else did the search go so deep. As the West discovered the secrets of science, we discovered the secrets of the inner. Judaism, Christianity, Islam—born outside India—end at heaven and hell: the mental plane. The materialist ends at body; these three end at mind. India gave birth to three great paths—Hindu, Jain, Buddhist—all speak of moksha. Heaven and hell are mentioned for the unripe, who still need “A for apple.” But for those who know: not heaven and hell—moksha, nirvana.

Moksha is not outside; it is your innermost. The day you are free of mind, that day you attain moksha—here and now.

You say:
“Neither heaven speaks nor hell opens a door.
I look into every eye, groping for your picture.”
Grope as much as you like in eyes—you will only find your own image. The eye is a mirror; it shows your face. And your face is not you. Your real face you have forgotten, hidden behind masks. Even if your true face shows, the face is still not you—you are the one within. The seer is you; the seen is not you.

Tie this knot in your awareness: you are the seer, not the seen. Whatever can be seen, know: this is not me. Neti, neti—“not this, not this.” Go on negating. In such negation, when only the witness remains—no object to witness—when only the knower remains, the pure witnessing, then know: you have arrived at the door of moksha, at your own doorway. Knowing that One, all is known. The art of knowing that One is meditation. The resolve and surrender for that knowing is called sannyas.

Parth, now dive into meditation! Be dyed in sannyas! Do not go from here empty-handed; go with your begging-bowl brimming.

You say:
“Are these gaps only breaths, or only distances?
You say nothing; your lips won’t open.
How long must I keep walking, groping in hearts?”
As long as you wish. It is your decision—no one else can make it. I may say, “Be free this instant!” and you will say, “Let me ask my wife. When I left home she warned me not to return a sannyasin. My mother wept and said, ‘Do anything, but don’t wear the ochre robe.’ The children said, ‘Papa, be careful—other papas went there and returned mad!’”

Since you have come, don’t just compose poetry—poetry you could write at home. I want to give you the art to become poetry. How long will you keep composing? Become a poem! Let what you have said become your revelation. Don’t leave searching for pretexts.

The mind is skilled at excuses—very “reasonable” ones. First it will say: “This sannyas differs from our ancient idea.”
Certainly it does! The old conception could never be universal. How many can run away from the world? And where will they go? If all run to the Himalayas, the Himalayas will be as crowded as the cities; the escapees will have to escape back.

In America this happens weekly. On holidays everyone flees to “solitude”—mountains, beaches. See the beaches: not a foot to spare. You had more space at home. Sensible people wait for Sunday—when everyone leaves, they enjoy true solitude downtown. Meanwhile the roads to the beach are bumper-to-bumper, hours to arrive and hours to return, accidents quadrupled.

The old sannyas is not workable. And who will feed them all? In Thailand the government had to decree: no one may become a monk without permission—forty million population, eight million monks! One in four. That means three must carry one on their backs. Who supports them? Their dignity is gone; people turn away. In China it is illegal now; in Russia, monasteries closed—no monk’s life permitted. In India there are some fifty-five lakh Hindu sannyasins—who pays for their food, clothes, housing? Why should anyone? If you want moksha, must others sweat, smuggle, black-market, so that you can go to heaven on their backs? He will go to hell and you to moksha on his earnings? If he goes to the first-grade hell, you will go to the second-grade—for you drank the blood of the smuggler too.

I heard: a man received a Marwari’s blood in transfusion. Revived, he gave the Marwari a hundred-rupee note. Fifteen days later he weakened again; the same Marwari came, lured by the hundred. He gave blood again; the man gave only twenty-five. The Marwari wondered, but thought, “Twenty-five is not bad.” Fifteen days later, a third transfusion—this time only “Thank you.” The Marwari asked, “Won’t you give anything?” He said, “What can I give? Now my blood too is Marwari! The first time I wasn’t; I gave a hundred. Second time your blood ran in me; with difficulty I gave twenty-five. Now—just thanks. And think twice before giving me blood a fourth time!” Obvious: by the fourth time he’ll pick your pocket while you give.

You become like the blood you imbibe. The old sannyas attracted the lazy, the uncreative, the free-rider—not those aflame with talent and creation. Of fifty-five lakh sannyasins, in how many do you see the lamp of meditation lit, the fragrance of God-realization, the fire of revolution? Mostly ashes—the defeated who couldn’t win in life and declared “the grapes are sour.”

My vision of sannyas is totally different—new, for the future human being: creative, active, productive, standing on one’s own feet; not a beggar. Truly a master—of oneself, not a wannabe master of others. One who gives to the world, adds to its beauty.

Naturally your mind is filled with old notions. You are new here—I see your name for the first time—so questions will arise: “This is not the sannyas we knew.” We are infatuated with the old—as if truth were some wine that improves with age. Truth is ever fresh, like a morning’s first light, a flower just opening, the dewdrop’s coolness, the awareness of a newborn child.

This sannyas is utterly new, life-affirming, full of love for life. I call life itself the Divine. Seek nowhere else—not in Kaaba, not in Kashi, not on Girnar, not in Jerusalem. Seek within—life flows there. Why wander? Find it in yourself, and then share it, pour it out.

My sannyasin is to share—joy, blessings.

I fear only this: that you may remain with poetry. India is adept at that—centuries we have polished beautiful words while living ugly lives. Eyes fixed on stars, and we fall into potholes. A famous Greek astrologer studied the stars at night and fell into a well. An old village woman pulled him out. He said, “Do you know who I am? I am the royal astrologer; emperors call me from afar, my fee is thousands. I will read your fortune for free—come tomorrow.” The old woman said, “Keep your address. One who cannot see the pit before his feet, what will he tell me of my future? You didn’t know there was a well here, that you would fall in tonight—will you tell my tomorrow?”

This is our condition: eyes glued to heavens, big talk; chant the Upanishads, the Vedas, the Gita—yet we don’t know how to live. We have forgotten the art of life, how to love. We seek God in heavens, hells, skies, netherworlds, and cannot peek within—so far from ourselves.

So don’t get lost in fine talk, Parth. Fine talk misleads—bottles labeled nectar filled with poison. Sip with awareness.

Because I speak straight and plain, many feel hurt and get angry. Understandably—because I won’t endorse their pleasant nonsense. I want to set your feet on the ground; we will worry about moon and stars later. Songs will come later; first learn the art of life. The flute will sound later; first awaken your inner song. Then even without bells tied to the feet they will tinkle on their own. You’ll be startled: I didn’t pick up a flute—whence these sweet notes? I didn’t open my throat—whence this song?

Become quiet, empty, dive into meditation—and the Divine will sing through you. Then poetry acquires meaning; otherwise it is just ornament on a corpse—garlands, perfumes, lamps on a dead body. Our poems are like that—dead.

Here you have come—there is a living possibility. A laboratory of life-revolution is at work. Take part. The seed within you can sprout—there is promise of germination. But courage must be yours.

You ask: “How long must I wander?”
Until you decide. Until you pledge yourself. Until you stake yourself on the wager. Do it today—and the wandering ends today.

Dharma Jyoti! When it happens, it happens just like this. It happens neither by something being said nor by something being heard. Between disciple and master, saying and hearing are secondary; the real thing is neither said nor heard. Just as a flame slips from one lamp into another—just so, the flame slips from one lamp into another. From the lamp from which the flame slips away, nothing is lost; and to the lamp that receives it, everything is gained. The master loses nothing; the disciple gains all.

You are right, Dharma Jyoti—
“Who knows what you said,
who knows what I heard,
but something did happen!”

I too can see that it is happening. When I look at you, I feel delighted, rejoiced. It comes by great good fortune, with great difficulty. You cannot manufacture it. People try a thousand devices, yet it does not happen. But if one surrenders, lets everything go, it happens. It is happening to you. And it will happen more—more and more. This journey has a beginning, not an end. This bud does open, yes, but it keeps on opening. This flower goes on opening. Then there is no obstruction; then it is infinite. Then it expands as vast as the sky. Then it becomes as immeasurable as the divine. From it arises the proclamation—of “Aham Brahmasmi,” of “Ana’l Haq.” That fragrance will rise, that song will rise, that hymn will awaken.

You have set out in the right direction! Now do not look back.

Neelam! If there were any shortcoming, I would tell you! There is no shortcoming at all. As for my saying to you again and again, “Now you just come,” there is a different secret behind that.

Orison Swett Marden wrote in his memoirs that he once went to see an art exhibition. There he saw an extraordinary painting—something he could neither quite understand nor quite fail to understand. So he stood staring at it and kept on staring. The painter himself was nearby. Seeing Marden stand there for a long time, he came over and asked, “Do you want to ask something? I painted this. You’ve been gazing at it for quite a while.”

Marden said, “I certainly want to ask. It feels as if I understand, and yet I don’t. I want to know the secret of this painting. What title have you given it? There’s no title written on it.”

The painter said, “I deliberately did not write the title. But since you ask, its title is: Time.”

Marden was even more startled—how is this a picture of time? Because the picture showed a man with a very strange head: completely bald at the back, the skull utterly smooth, and only a fringe of hair in front—hanging down, covering the face. No face visible, only hair—while the back of the head was entirely smooth. How could this be time?

Marden said, “You’ve made it even more puzzling.”

The painter said, “It’s a picture of time because, if you want to catch time, you can only catch it from the front, not from behind. Once a moment has passed in front of you, grab as you might from the back, you won’t even find a lock of hair to hold. The skull is smooth. You will keep running your hand over it; you will keep wringing your hands. If you want to catch time, you must seize the opportunity before it arrives. Time has hair only on the front of its head, not at the back.”

That insight appealed to me too. Time must be seized from the front.

Neelam, I know your moment to come is drawing near, nearer, nearer—and I recognize time. So I want to catch it in advance. That’s why I say to you: now you just come! I am saying it beforehand because the moment of your coming is very close now; it won’t be long. You do not lack courage. If you lacked courage, you could not have become a sannyasin. You are not afraid of inconvenience either. I know you well. Among the few people I trust, you are one. Among the few I have chosen, you are counted. There is no shortcoming. Yet everything has its own season—like spring comes and the flowers blossom.

Your time is drawing close. Any day it will happen of its own accord. From my side I keep sending the invitation, so that you never feel that I had not called you. When the moment comes, be assured from my side that I have been calling you again and again—so there is no obstacle here, only a welcome.

Someone once asked a great billionaire, Morgan, “You were born poor; how did you amass billions?” Morgan said, “I have the art of recognizing opportunity. And when opportunity comes, I instantly leap onto it.” The questioner said, “I also recognize opportunity—but by the time I recognize it, the opportunity has already gone. Then you may keep jumping, but the horse has already passed. You keep leaping, yet you stay where you are. The question is: how to know beforehand that opportunity is approaching? Otherwise, since opportunity does not wait—like a fast horse rushing past—you see it, you see it, you start getting ready: tuck in your dhoti, tie your loincloth, tighten your turban, do a little grooming, and by then the horse is gone!”

I once asked Mulla Nasruddin, “Old man, you’re sitting here fully dressed—where are you off to?” He said, “To Bombay.” But he said it angrily. I asked, “What’s the matter? Why so upset? Going by plane, by train, by car—how?” He said, “By helicopter.” I said, “Helicopters aren’t even running for passengers yet.” Mulla said, “They will be running—by the time my wife finishes dressing up, they’ll be running. You just watch—they’ll be running. That’s why I’m fuming. She hasn’t even decided which sari to wear. And after she puts one on, she changes it again. Then she stands for hours before the mirror.”

If you “dress up” like that, time and the opportunity that comes with time are racing away; they don’t pause for even a moment! Time will not wait for you.

So Morgan said, “Time will not wait for you. When it comes, you must leap and mount.” The other said, “That’s easy to say! By the time I recognize it and jump, it’s gone!”

We have a lovely word in Hindi—“a gaya.” You can write it in two ways. If you write it together—“a gaya”—it means “has arrived.” Break it in two—“aa, gaya”—and the matter is finished: “come, gone!” This word is very sweet; it contains a great secret. I don’t think any language has a word whose meaning flips so quickly—just split “a” from “gaya.” “Vasant a gaya”—“spring has arrived,” one thing; and “Vasant aa, gaya!”—“spring—come, gone!” It passes like the wind.

So Morgan said: that’s the secret—and, Neelam, you should understand why I say this to you again and again. Whenever you come for darshan, I say it. Even now you’ve been here for a month, six weeks, and you haven’t come—perhaps for fear that if you come I’ll say it. And ask as much as you like, if you come I will say it: now you just come!

Morgan’s answer you should grasp: the secret is one—keep leaping, keep jumping. Don’t bother whether the horse has arrived or not; you just keep jumping! When it comes you’ll land on it; if it hasn’t, you’re still getting good exercise. If it’s come, you’ve mounted; if not, you’re doing your workout.

So whenever you come, I say: now you just come! Just understand that jumping is my habit. When you arrive, we will mount. In truth, we have already mounted; it’s only a matter of a little sooner or later. I know that too. Because the day I feel the time has truly come, that day I will not say “Now you just come”—I’m warning you now—on that day I will say: Now, don’t go! Finished! Then the “Sant” at the door won’t even let you step outside. And you aren’t the only Punjabi—Sant is Punjabi too.

And Sant is very skilled at wielding the kirpan.

When Sant first came, he wouldn’t meditate at all—straightaway he would wield the kirpan. Why meditate? He would clear the whole area around him—make it empty—such a way he swung his kirpan all around! People came to me and said, “What kind of meditation is this?” I said, “He is Punjabi. This is his meditation—let him be! Wielding the kirpan is his ancestral trade. His father and his father’s father did the same—making and selling kirpans. That’s exactly why I have put him on guard duty. He can wield a blade with his bare hand; he doesn’t even need a kirpan.”

So, Neelam, he won’t let you out. The day I say, “Enough—now don’t go,” Sant will get the message; then, try whatever you like—he won’t let you get out. He does double duty: the one I tell him “Don’t let in,” he doesn’t let in; the one I tell him “Don’t let out,” he doesn’t let out. He doesn’t even let me go out—so how will he let anyone else!

There is no lack in you—only a matter of time… a little longer. And not long. Very soon you will find that I say, “Enough—finished; now no going, no doing.” And I know that the day I say, “It’s finished—now no going,” that day there will be no need to tell Sant to stop you; you yourself will not be able to go—you won’t be able to move an inch. I have that much trust in my sannyasins!

Just now the Protestant Church in Germany has written a book against me. They tried very hard to dig up material against me. But the man who wrote it must have had to read all my books. As he kept reading, it’s evident he was affected. Reading and reading, many things appealed to him. But he is appointed in the service of the Protestant Church—his pay had to come from there. So he wrote the book, but the book itself reveals that the man was influenced—deeply influenced! So he wrote some things he should not have—things that in fact do not denounce or refute me, but unknowingly praise me. One thing he wrote is that, whatever else may be, there is one thing we will have to learn from this person and from the sannyasins who move with him: today on this earth, do any Christians love Jesus as much as these sannyasins love this person? We must discover the secret: what is the matter? Why do so many people love this person so much? He has admitted that these people, if needed, can die—can give up their lives. Today who is ready to lay down their life for Jesus? He himself has acknowledged it, and said that we should research this too: what has been lost?

Today there are those who “follow” Mahavira—but how many would be ready to lay down their lives for Mahavira? And there are those who “follow” Buddha—how many would be ready to die for Buddha? Yet the reason is not that there is any lack in Buddha, Mahavira, or Jesus. The sole reason is that those who “follow” Buddha today have not chosen him themselves—their forefathers made them accept. Those who “follow” Jesus know nothing of Jesus—their parents imposed the conditioning. They believe out of compulsion. It is a formal belief.

You who accept me—the love you have given me is not out of any compulsion. You have given it in spite of all inconveniences. All the compulsions are there to separate you from me; none are there to join you to me. There are a thousand reasons to separate you from me—someone is Hindu, someone Muslim, someone Christian, someone Jain, someone Buddhist. What reason is there to join you to me, except love?

So, the day I say to you, Neelam, “Now don’t go,” you yourself will not go. You too are waiting for that day; that I know as well. But for now I am saying to you: now you just come. I will keep saying this as long as I feel you are still needed there. The day I feel the work there is complete, I will say: now don’t go—don’t go anywhere. On that day, for you, this world—this ocher world—will be everything; it will be your world.

And you are fortunate, because your husband loves me no less than you do. And your one daughter—she too loves me no less than you.

She has put me in a tight spot!
Satyapriya, all three of you love me—each trying to outdo the others!
And the same is true of Neelam’s family. There too I’d be in the same difficulty if someone were to ask. If Neelam’s daughter Priya were to ask me which of the three loves me the most, I would be in the very same fix—each trying to outdo the others!
So the day you arrive, your husband will be here, your daughter will be here. I am waiting for the right moment. On that day I will say, “Enough—now don’t go back!”

There is no lack. There is no lack in anyone. Man is born complete. The Upanishads say: we come from the Whole. And that which comes from the Whole is whole. This is the secret: from the Whole, so many wholes are born—and yet the Whole remains whole. There is no deficiency in the Whole. The very meaning of “Whole” is that however much you take from it, nothing is taken away; however much you add to it, nothing is added. It remains just the same, whether you subtract or you add.
We are all whole; only we lack awareness. My work is to awaken that awareness. I do not make you whole; there is no deficiency in you that needs to be filled. You are already complete—you simply do not know it.

Vivekananda often told a story—very dear to me.
A pregnant lioness leapt from one cliff to another. In the leap something happened and her womb was released—perhaps it was exactly time for the birth. The cub was born. She leapt on, leaving him behind. A flock of sheep was passing below; the cub fell among them, and they raised him. They fed him milk. He grew up among sheep. Naturally, he thought himself a sheep. Just as one raised among Hindus becomes a Hindu, among Muslims a Muslim, among Christians a Christian—so this lion, raised among sheep, took himself to be a sheep.
He grew up. He was a lion, yet vegetarian, munching grass and leaves. And like lambs who scurry to the middle of the flock out of fear of wolves, hiding among the elders, he too stayed tucked inside. He looked taller, different, visible from afar—but how would he know? And the sheep had no difficulty either, because they had seen him grow gradually; nothing seemed amiss.

I knew a man whose buffalo gave birth to a calf. He used to pick up the calf and stroll with it every day. I asked him, “What on earth are you doing?” He said, “You’ll see. I want to carry the big buffalo—this is my training.” And he trained himself. The calf kept growing day by day, and day by day he carried it. The practice kept increasing. He never noticed that the calf was becoming a buffalo. In the end, when the calf had become a full buffalo, he could still lift it. You wouldn’t be able to lift a buffalo like that. Even he didn’t quite believe it would work—but it did. What happens gradually often goes unnoticed.

So neither the sheep noticed, nor did the lion. The lion thought, “I’m a sheep,” and the sheep thought, “He’s one of our lambs.” A bit odd perhaps, a bit different—but differences do occur sometimes.

One day an old lion attacked that flock. He was shocked to see what was happening. He had thought himself experienced, seasoned by life—only to find his experience in tatters: the sheep were running, and in the midst of them a lion was scurrying along, bleating like a lamb! He forgot about catching a sheep; he ran after the lion instead. But catching him was difficult, because the young lion ran fast—he was a lion after all—and the old one was aged. Somehow, panting, the old lion managed to seize him. And the captured one began to cry and plead like a lamb, bleating, “Let me go! Don’t kill me! I’ve done you no harm!”
The old lion said, “Who’s killing you? Who’s harming you? At least listen for a moment!”
He kept bleating, “I don’t want to hear anything. Let me go—my companions are leaving!” But the old lion wouldn’t listen. He dragged him to a nearby pond, a small pool, and said, “Fool, come with me!” The young one dug in his heels, but was pulled along.
Somehow he was dragged to the water’s edge. “Now look,” said the old lion, “peer into the mirror of the water. Look at both our faces!” Reluctantly he looked—and was stunned. The faces were the same! Many times while passing by water he had felt a vague suspicion that his face looked different from the sheep’s faces, his color and form a bit different; but he would think, “So what? Nature must have made a mistake.” He would console himself and suppress his doubt. Today it was utterly clear. And from deep within him arose a lion’s roar—from the very core of his life-force. The whole forest trembled! The old lion said, “Now do you understand who you are?” He replied, “I understand. Thank you! How can I ever be grateful enough? Had you not dragged me here, had you not taken such trouble, I would never have known. I would have lived a sheep—and died a sheep.”

Neelam, there is no lack in you; there is no lack in anyone. You are all lions—only born among sheep, raised among sheep, and so you have taken yourselves to be sheep. My whole work is simply this: to drag you somehow before the mirror, to help you recognize who you are. Once awareness dawns of who you are, the lion’s roar will arise. In that very instant life is transformed. Then there is nothing to practice—no training is needed to become a lion from a sheep.
Religion is revolution, not practice. Religion is a new birth, not practice. Those who keep practicing never come to know religion.
That is why religion happens only in the presence of a true master.
Those who were with Buddha, it happened to them. They loved Buddha as you love me. They would have died for Buddha. Those who were with Jesus were ready to die for him. But today’s Christians have no recognition of Jesus, nor today’s Buddhists of Buddha. They are Christians by compulsion, Buddhists by compulsion, Jains by compulsion—formal, by birth, by conditioning. There is no personal choice in it.

You have chosen me! And you have chosen despite all obstacles. Society will oppose you; you will have to face difficulties, suffer a thousand hindrances. You will be insulted, disrespected; people will laugh, they will slander; they will give you as much trouble as they can—and as my work spreads and my sannyasins grow, the machinery of persecution against you will only deepen. Yet despite all obstacles you have decided to be with me. You have courage—audacity! Only then is such love possible.
And there is no lack in anyone. This is my fundamental declaration: you come from the Whole and you are whole. The Vedas say, amritasya putrah—you are all children of the immortal! I say this to you again and again: there is no deficiency. Therefore nothing needs filling up—no special “sadhana,” no practice. Only recognition, pratyabhijna: a single meeting with yourself.

Krishnatirth Bharti! First, just as poets are born poets—you don’t become one—so too Marwaris are born Marwaris; you can’t become a Marwari. Try a thousand tricks—you’ll remain raw. If you fall into the hands of a real Marwari, you’ll be fooled.

Marwaris can be turned into non-Marwaris—I’ve turned many; some are sitting here. When they first met me, they were Marwaris; now they’re not Marwaris at all. But there is no alchemy in the world that can turn a non-Marwari into a Marwari. Impossible! So it’s tough, what you’re asking—“Can I become a Marwari too?” Even if you manage it, you’ll be counterfeit. And some genuine Marwari will jolt you at once.

And Marwaris are people of excellence! One has to praise their intelligence—there’s no doubt about it. I am an admirer. It is indeed a matter of honor and pride.

I’ll speak of one Marwari; there’s no need to speak of many. As the saying goes, you only need to test one grain from the pot—if that one is cooked, the whole pot is cooked! Know one Marwari and you’ve known them all—because a Marwari’s arithmetic is one, his accounting is one, his ledger is one.

You know the Marwari Chandulal—let’s pick him as that one grain of rice.

Chandulal Marwari said to Mulla Nasruddin, “Big brother, lend me five rupees.”
Nasruddin said, “But I don’t even know you.”
Chandulal said, “That’s exactly why I’m asking you—people who know me never lend me money!”

Seth Chandulal’s beloved asked him, “What proof is there that you love me?” Chandulal said, “The greatest proof—and what greater proof could there be?—is that when someone calls you fool, witch, bitch, I get furious at once. And just yesterday I found out you have two lakh rupees in the bank. Now tell me, what greater proof could there be that I’ve fallen in love with you!”

A Marwari has his own language, his own way.

Chandulal is bald. He said to the barber, “There’s hardly any hair on my head; you should charge me less.” But the barber too was a Marwari. He said, “Sir, I don’t charge you for cutting hair at all; I’m charging you for finding the hair.”

One day Chandulal heard people saying Marwaris are misers, and he got all fired up. He went straight home, opened the safe, and took out a gleaming rupee. He thought, It’s a hot day—today I’ll drink juice with this very rupee. The juice shop was far, the heat was fierce, but he went on foot. He was drenched in sweat. He kept the rupee clenched tight in his fist; it, too, was wet with sweat. When he reached the juice shop and opened his fist, he saw the sweat on the rupee—and his heart melted. All his bravado cooled. He began to weep right there. He said to the rupee, “You don’t want to be parted from me! Oh my dear, is that why you’re in tears! God may say what He will—I cannot be so cruel.”
He returned home at once, locked the rupee back in the safe—and what peace he experienced! Could that be had by drinking a hundred glasses of juice? Not even by drinking ambrosia!

On Raksha Bandhan a Brahmin tied a rakhi on Chandulal’s wrist. Chandulal handed him a pice. The Brahmin had expected a quarter-rupee, but when he rubbed it on his palm and saw it was just a pice, he felt insulted. Returning it, he said, “A pice? It’s hardly even a pice!”
Chandulal was no less. Returning the rakhi, he said, “A rakhi? It’s hardly even a rakhi!”

One day Chandulal Marwari stormed into the postmaster’s office and said, “Sir, for some days now I’ve been receiving letters full of threats. I want to do something about it.”
The postmaster said, “You should, Mr. Chandulal! It’s illegal to threaten someone by post. Can you tell me who’s sending the threatening letters?”
“Why not, why not! Those bastards at the income-tax office!” said Chandulal Marwari.

Chandulal and his wife got off a train. Outside the station he said to her, “See, you’re as forgetful as ever. You left your umbrella right there in the compartment. Good thing I remembered—so I brought not only my umbrella but yours too.”
His wife said, “Oh Ram! But neither of us brought an umbrella from home.”
Chandulal was taken aback for a moment, then said, “Bless Lord Rama—when He gives, He tears open the thatch and showers it down!”

Chandulal’s son Jhummaan came home gleefully and said, “Papa, Papa, today I ran behind the bus all the way home and saved a full fifty paise. Now do you admit I’m truly your son!”
Chandulal boxed his ears and said, “You good-for-nothing, you’ll ruin me one day! Idiot—if you’d run behind a taxi you could have saved three rupees, and you ran behind a bus to save only fifty paise! When will you get any sense? Aren’t you ashamed—you a Marwari child? Go drown yourself in a palmful of water!”

Five years later, when his son came out of jail, he saw his father’s beard had grown very long. He asked, “What’s this, Father, why have you grown such a beard?” Chandulal said, “You scoundrel, what else could I do? You took the razor with you. Without a razor how can anyone shave?”

A Marwari has his own way of seeing, thinking, discerning. You can’t learn it from the outside. You can’t practice it. There’s no university that can make you a Marwari. You may pick up little, petty miserly habits, but the depth a Marwari has—his stinginess has reached right down to the soul! It’s not a bodily event; it’s a spiritual event.

So, Krishnatirth Bharti, drop this notion of becoming a Marwari. And in any case, it’s not a good idea; it’s dangerous. Because if this idea remains in the mind and you die, you’ll become a Marwari. Don’t keep such dangerous notions in the mind. Who knows when you’ll die! Is life reliable? Here today, gone tomorrow. And the thought that remains at the moment of death is the one that bears fruit. So uproot this thought completely. Don’t let it enter within at all. Keep it entirely outside. Steer clear of it.

I praise Marwaris so much precisely so that the feeling of being a Marwari doesn’t remain inside you. And what have you understood! You think you too must become a Marwari! You’ve read the lesson backwards! What I’m explaining and what you’ve understood! This praise of Marwaris—why do I offer it? So they won’t be offended; those who can understand will understand anyway. The truly intelligent will stop being Marwari.

And you’ve outdone yourself—now a longing is arising in you to become a Marwari! Beware of this dangerous thought.

However clever miserliness may appear in this world, deep down it is stupidity. Outwardly it may look very shrewd, but a person loses himself and piles up money. He gathers potsherds and loses himself, plunders himself. He fills the safe and the soul goes empty. He dies—empty hands, empty soul—and the safe remains full here! Who takes the safe along?

And the Marwari is unfortunate indeed. He can’t even enjoy here—let alone taking anything along. He can’t even enjoy here; he only knows how to accumulate. He just keeps on accumulating.

I’ve had much to do with Marwaris. I’ve traveled widely in Rajasthan. And across India, in different corners where Marwaris live, I’ve had relationships with them. I’ve been astonished to see people who have crores, yet live like beggars. What’s the point of those crores? Why have you accumulated them? All your intelligence got spent in accumulation; nothing remained for enjoyment.

And I say: life is for enjoyment. Truly talented are those who enjoy here and enjoy there as well. One can enjoy both sides—because the Divine is supreme ecstasy. Enjoy life in all its limbs—in the body, in the mind, in the heart, in the soul. Enjoy life in all its forms; only then will you recognize all its forms. Only then will the colors of the rainbow come into your life. Only then will true richness come. Richness doesn’t come by hoarding money; richness comes to the one who enjoys life in depth. Enjoy everything! Enjoy each moment so fully that nothing remains in it; squeeze it completely, so there’s no need to look back. Wring it dry and throw it away—because time once gone never returns.

I teach you the art of enjoyment. And in my understanding, only the one who knows the art of enjoyment blossoms the flower of renunciation as well. It’s a very strange and seemingly senseless thing. But life is very strange and seemingly senseless. The one who knows the art of enjoying is the one who knows the art of renouncing.

The Marwari knows the art of accumulating; he cannot enjoy, therefore he cannot renounce. If you haven’t enjoyed, what on earth will you renounce! In fact, even to enjoy you have to renounce. Otherwise, how will you enjoy? If you want to save a rupee, then you cannot enjoy that rupee. If you want to drink juice, drink it; if you want to save the rupee, save it.

That Chandulal brought his rupee back home—moved by its “tears,” thinking, “Poor thing, how unhappy it is to leave me!” To hell with such juice! He walked two miles there—the juice he already had in him got spent; he walked two miles back—whatever remained got spent too. And the rupee returned to the safe!

Chandulal was walking along the road with his wife when he suddenly pounced and picked something up from the ground, then instantly flung it away and said, “If I find that bastard, I’ll cut his neck!”
His wife said, “What happened? Which bastard? Whose neck are you cutting? What did you pick up, what did you throw? I can’t understand a thing—your business is so quick, deals are done by signals!”
He said, “Some bastard hawks in a way that sounds just like a fifty-paisa coin! If I find him, I’ll take his head off!”

Krishnatirth, there’s no need to become a Marwari. If there’s a small part in you that’s Marwari—and there surely is—that very seed then wants to become a full Marwari. Burn it to ash now. Burn the seed. Don’t keep this craving at all! Better to go to hell than to become a Marwari! Those for whom there’s no place in hell—they’re sent to Marwar. “Mhaaro des Marwar!” And then they head straight toward Marwar.

Beware! From now on, beware! Never let such dangerous thoughts enter the mind—because if such thoughts sometimes take root, you’ll wander for eternity! Even to become human, one has to pass through 840 million wombs. Now just think—how many millions of wombs must one pass through to qualify as a Marwari! Eight hundred and forty million is for an ordinary person. To attain the qualification of a Marwari, think of four billion, eight hundred million—at least.

That’s all for today.