Saheb Mil Saheb Bhave #7

Deepak Sharma! Life can be lived in two ways. One is the way of sleep. There are sweet dreams there—but dreams are only dreams; they are bound to break. If not today, then tomorrow; if not tomorrow, then the day after—only a matter of sooner or later. And when they break, they leave a deep sadness behind. When they break, autumn descends. Life slips through your hands in dreams, and death stands at the door.

There is another way to live—the real way. To live awake. To live free of dreams. Then there is a shower of bliss, a drizzle of nectar. Then flowers bloom and go on blooming. Not only do the hands fill; the very sky of your being fills with flowers.

Most people live as if asleep. So the story you tell is everyone’s story. Ambitions, expectations, desires—“let me do this, let me do that”—the outcome can only be loss; only defeat will land in your hands. Because you have not understood the eternal law of life: you are not separate; you are one with this existence. Flow with this existence. Your dreams separate you. Your dreams give you the illusion of being apart. It seems, “I have to do something, I have to become something.” And remember, what can a wave be by itself? How will it be? If it remains with the ocean, there is everything. If it takes itself to be separate, only pain will come to the hand, only anguish. The river is flowing east, and a wave in the river begins to imagine going west—against the river; then it will be defeated. The fault is not the river’s. The confusion belongs to the wave: “I am separate.”

This is all that sannyas means: I will flow with the river. Now I have no separate plan, no goal. The goal of the whole is my goal; if there is a goal, good; if there is none, good. Wherever this Vastness is going—if it is going anywhere, good; if it is not, good. Why should I take anxiety on my head? These two moments of life have been given—let me dance, hum, lift the flute, tie bells to my feet. This blessedness has been bestowed. These eyes have been given—let me fill them with beauty; this heart has been given—let me be stirred with love; this possibility has been given—let me make it real; let me not remain lost in dreams.

And what dreams will we see anyway? Our dreams cannot be greater than we are; they will only be smaller.

A cat had climbed a tree and was dreaming. It was afternoon, the tree’s shade dense. Below, a dog lay under the tree; he saw the cat asleep, utterly absorbed. The cat’s smile was clearly visible. Surely she was enjoying something! The dog coughed a little, cleared his throat, barked; the cat’s sleep broke. The cat said: What noise have you made! At least keep quiet in the afternoon! I was having such a delightful dream—you broke it! The dog said: That’s exactly why I coughed and cleared my throat. What dream were you seeing? Let me hear too!

The cat said: I was dreaming that it was raining, and only rats were falling—no water. The dog said: Fie on you! You fool—have you read the scriptures? It is clearly written in the scriptures that when it rains, bones rain down, not rats. In the dogs’ scriptures it’s written that bones rain. The cat said: What scriptures are you talking about? In our scriptures it is clearly written: when God gives, only rats, rats and more rats, rain down. And not only in our scriptures—people even say: a mūsalādhār downpour. Humans, too, are on our side.

What will you dream? Only that which, in your darkness, your ignorance, your stupor, you are able to see. Your dreams cannot be bigger than you.

You say, Deepak Sharma: “With silent eyes and a broken heart we tell our story.”
Everyone, one day, has to tell just such a story. The heart is broken—the strings torn to tatters; the instrument of the heart is broken, shattered. The eyes have grown dim; watching dreams, they have gone blind. Living in darkness, the capacity to see light is lost. Even words don’t come—how to say, what to say? But silent eyes say everything.

You say: “The tears keep flowing, keep flowing!”
Then nothing else remains at hand. Silent eyes. Forlorn eyes, forlorn faces, heaps of life’s broken dreams—ruins upon ruins. And remember: those who lose, lose of course; but even those who seem to win in this world also end up losing. Here no one wins, except those few who wake up in time. We have not called them Buddhas for nothing. Buddha means: the awakened one. Nor have we called them Jinas for nothing. Jina means: the conqueror. We are the defeated, and we are asleep—neither Buddhas nor Jinas. Even when we revere Buddhas, we only believe—worship, prayer, adoration are also done in sleep. Even when we revere the Jina, we do not become Jina; we become Jain! Be a Jina—wake up, live, conquer! To become a Jain is to have missed. The thread had come into your hands, and it slipped; the touch was about to happen, and you missed. You were turning at the right bend, and again you went astray. Then only petty things remain in the hand.

Neither nectar is flowing, nor tears. An idol is stone—how will it cry, how will it feel compassion? But religion has fallen into the hands of great tricksters. There are stones that absorb water. There are stones—in Africa, in Kashmir—that absorb moisture from the air. And that same vapor, cooled, condenses into droplets on the idol. Then the congregation of simpletons will spin one fantasy after another. Priests and pundits have been using such devices for centuries to blind people.

But at least think a little: when Mahavira himself was alive, even then there was not “bliss upon bliss.” No nectar rained down then—so what on earth will pour from a stone idol now? When Mahavira himself was present, how much bliss showered? How many lives were stirred? And what did you do to Mahavira? You pierced ears with nails, you tormented him, you assaulted him, you hounded him from village to village, you set mad dogs after him, ferocious dogs, because his nakedness pricked and irritated you. His nakedness proclaimed his simplicity, like a small child. But his nakedness made you uncomfortable. It reminded you: you too are naked beneath your clothes; however much you hide, truth won’t hide—expose yourself. You grew restless, panicked. You thought: this man is corrupting us, corrupting our children. You wouldn’t let him stay in any village.

When Mahavira was alive there was not “bliss upon bliss,” no nectar flowed. Now a few droplets condense on a stone and—bliss upon bliss! Use a little arithmetic! It’s simple math.

People say whenever religion declines, God incarnates. They quote Krishna: “I come age after age! Yada yada hi dharmasya glanir bhavati, Bharata—whenever righteousness declines, I come.” But when he came, what restoration of religion happened? The Mahabharata war happened; religion was not restored. By Hindu reckoning, about a billion people died in the Mahabharata war. Religion did not descend.

Truth is: in the Mahabharata, India’s backbone broke; it has not been set right till today. In the Mahabharata, India’s soul died; it has not been revived to this day. After the Mahabharata, India could not rise again, could not stand on its own feet—only kept breaking, scattering, fragmenting.

Christians say Jesus incarnated for the redemption of man—God sent him for this very purpose; he is God’s only son. Fine words—but where is the redemption of man? No one looks, no one asks. Man was not redeemed; Jesus was crucified. If that crucifixion itself is man’s redemption, that’s another matter. And even if Christianity spread across the world—did man get redeemed?

But people keep spreading such futile talk. And the wonder is, for centuries upon centuries we get caught in these vicious circles. We don’t wake up. Again and again we fall into the same stupidities.

There is neither any miracle here nor anything special. Just have that stone examined by a geologist and you’ll find it is porous. It has tiny pores through which vapor enters; when it cools, naturally the vapor turns to water. As it becomes water, it seeps out and drips down. Then you can project whatever you like onto the poor stone. And if it is nectar, why not lick it up? At least the Jains should become immortal! There aren’t even that many Jains—about three and a half million; there are enough idols in the country; go lick them all! At least you become immortal. If nectar is there, why miss it?

These things happen every year. And yet bliss is nowhere to be seen—only dreams upon dreams. If you keep losing yourself in these dreams, if not today then tomorrow you will cry, cry your heart out. Then there will be only tears.

Whose fault is it in this, Deepak Sharma?

You say: “Till yesterday there were dewdrops in these empty eyes, there were moon and stars.”
All lies! If they were true, they would still be here today. Why only yesterday? If they’re false, they belong to yesterday, not to today; if they are of today, they don’t belong to yesterday. In this world, the false keeps changing; the true is eternal. But we entangle ourselves in the false; we’re very impressed by the false. The truth is, we’re attracted to change itself.

Have you seen a dog sitting quietly? If nothing moves, it will sit at peace. Tug a thread tied to a stone from a little distance—the dog will spring up at once. So long as the stone lay still, the dog was unconcerned. The moment it moved, the dog woke, barked, got attracted: what’s going on?

It’s not just a dog’s trait; it’s the mind’s trait. That which doesn’t change doesn’t get noticed. Do you even see your wife? She’s invisible to you—unchanging. The same wife—yesterday, today, tomorrow. But the neighbor’s wife—you stare with fixed gaze. Do you notice your own house? Nothing—everything is familiar. When everything is in its place, nothing stands out. Yes, let something be rearranged—let a thief enter at night and shift things; a chair moved, a door left open, a lock broken—you startle. Change attracts; the still does not.

That’s why fashion must change every day. It’s obvious: fashion means what draws attention. If it doesn’t change, it loses appeal. So you need new saris, new borders, new prints, new styles. After some time the old styles return—after ten or fifteen years people forget them; then they’re new again. Women start piercing ears again, then wear hoops; noses get pierced; tattoos reappear. They had gone out of fashion; now they return; then they’ll go out again. Thus it goes. Change is needed.

What you grow accustomed to loses flavor. The same food every day—taste fades. You want new dishes; new fashions.

Mulla Nasruddin longed to astonish his wife with some trick. One day he thought, “If I shave my long beard and go home, maybe she’ll be startled.” He shaved beard and mustache and went home. It was night. The servant opened the door; Mulla went straight to bed. A little later his wife Guljaan awoke, stroked Mulla’s smooth cheeks and said, “Now you go, Chandulal—my husband will be home any time.”
If only the beard had been there, it would have passed. But these smooth cheeks… and Chandulal is completely clean-shaven—that’s why they call him Chandulal!

Here things are noticed only when there is change. Why do women delight so much in adornment? To come out fresh, new—so that eyes stay riveted. What a strange world! Women want people to stare; then if someone does stare, they say, “Lecher!” Lecher means: one who stares fixedly.

Osho plays with Hindi: Luchcha comes from lochan (eye). Luchcha means: he keeps looking, keeps his gaze fixed. And from the same root comes aalochak (critic). There’s little difference between the two: both are from the eye. Hours of effort are for this poor fellow; and when he looks, the heart gets angry.

When I was a college teacher, I was once in the principal’s office. He liked lofty talk; sometimes he’d call me in. A young woman came, very decked out—kohl in her eyes, hair done, perfume sprinkled. She said, “Such‑and‑such boy threw a pebble, writes me letters, scribbles my name on walls. I can’t tolerate it.”

The principal said, “Please explain to that boy. We’ve had many complaints.” I said, “We’ll see the boy later; now that the girl is here, let’s deal with her.”

She was startled: “I haven’t committed any offense.” I said, “No offense? Why the kohl? Why is your hair so carefully done? This perfume—sprinkled for whom? Is there a swayamvar going on here? And the poor boy is only honoring your effort—why the anger? His fault is only that he’s a fool; he fell for your ploy. Call him—I want to see him; he must be a fool. Otherwise who would fall for your trick? Apply as much kohl as you like—your round eyes still won’t become fish-eyes! Who is that nitwit—call him!”

The girl vanished and never returned. I told the principal to send for her; the peon went—she had fled home. She had not imagined this at all.

Our reasoning is strange—women’s logic stranger still! If no one jostles them, life feels wasted; if someone does, they’re ready to report to the police. And they leave home fully prepared to be jostled. If you don’t, all that preparation goes to waste; hours of effort—someone must validate it. The one who does, gets trapped; he will weep all his life.

Mulla Nasruddin was swatting flies. His wife asked, “How many so far?” He said, “Only three—one male, two female.” She said, “How on earth did you tell male from female?” He said, “The male was sitting on the newspaper; the two females have been sitting on the mirror for two hours!” Obviously—no great calculation is needed.

Fashion changes. Dreams change—that is their charm. Truth is eternal; as it is, it remains. Saints have said: “As it is, thus it abides.” The day your mind falls in love with what is, just as it is—unchanging—you will find it tasteless. Your relish is for change. Therefore one day sorrow will come, melancholy will come.

God’s Beauty once asked:
“Why did you not make me imperishable in the world?”
It seems a fair question. Something like beauty—he created a rose; it blooms in the morning, by evening its petals fall. What is this? Our scientists are smarter: they make a plastic flower—make it once and it stays. Wash it when you like; soap it; fresh as ever. The plastic has more “eternity” than the rose. Is this what God made, a flower? So Beauty must have asked:
“Why did you not make me imperishable in the world?”

The reply came:
“This world is a gallery of pictures,
a long night’s tale of trial.”
This world is a picture‑house; colors must keep changing—that alone makes it attractive. It is made of perishable hues. If colors stood still, who would look? People would be bored. So everything is changing—every moment. All is fleeting, in flux.

The reply came:
“This world is a gallery of pictures,
a long night’s tale of trial.
It has appeared through the chemistry of change;
beautiful here is that whose essence is decline.”
What is destined to vanish is what appears beautiful here. The quicker it vanishes, the more beautiful it seems; the more urgently people try to hold it. It won’t stay—that’s why. Hence we’re excited by things that change quickly.

Who is excited by the soul? The soul doesn’t change. So we say: if not today, tomorrow; if not this life, the next; there are 8.4 million wombs—what’s the hurry? But the film showing today—who knows if it’s there tomorrow? Let’s go watch it. The temple is eternal, the Gita we can read tomorrow; today’s newspaper will be stale by noon. The Gita is old today and old tomorrow—always old, the same.

People read newspapers early morning, not the Gita or the Quran. Why? By afternoon it’s trash; noon brings the noon edition, evening the evening edition. It changes so fast—read it or miss it. The Gita—what’s the hurry?

“Beautiful here is that whose essence is decline.”
That is why people are mad for beauty; mad for dreams.

“Perhaps nearby, Qamar overheard this conversation.
The moon heard it and spread it across the sky.
The stars whispered it to the dewdrops.”
When the stars heard, they told the dew, “Here only the impermanent is beautiful.” That’s why a dewdrop looks so lovely—here now, gone now. A ray of sun, a little warmth, and it’s gone. Mahavira called life exactly this: a dewdrop poised on a blade of grass. A little breeze, it slips—no time at all.

That’s why we cling so fiercely to life. However much the awakened ones say: go within—we say, we will, but first let us watch all this outer spectacle. Out here one miracle after another, newer and newer toys. Inside is always the same—what’s the hurry to go there? We’ll see in old age, on our deathbed; first let us savor this colorful world.

Hence the Hindu arrangement: take sannyas only in the fourth stage, after seventy‑five. Son, you won’t survive that long; no need to take sannyas! Problem solved. In India the average lifespan is about thirty‑six. Scientists have found, from five‑thousand‑year‑old remains, that no bones indicate beyond forty years—meaning five thousand years ago people rarely lived beyond forty. However much you say our sages lived long—no bone testifies to it. Forty years felt long because life’s pace was slow. When pace is slow, time feels long. Even today villagers don’t know how to count age; ask someone—he can’t say. Forty years must have felt very long. Now life runs so fast that forty years fly by.

In the West the race is faster; everything changes faster. People don’t live in one house beyond three years, don’t stick to one job beyond three years, nor marriages last beyond three years. Three years seems the limit of tolerance. One person may marry eight or ten times.

I heard of a Hollywood actress: on her twenty‑first marriage, four days after the wedding she realized this man had been her husband once before. After twenty‑one husbands, who can keep track! Years must have passed since he last was. Maybe twenty‑five years ago—who remembers? So a few days later a doubt arose: he seems familiar—like from some past life, some déjà vu. Perhaps I’ve seen him somewhere!

The man also wondered: this woman is much changed, but somehow familiar; even the name rings a bell. When they compared stories, they found they had been husband and wife before. They struck their foreheads—the end! Ending takes no time; a little thing ends it.

Another story: an actress and an actor went to register their marriage. As soon as they signed, the actress said, “I want a divorce.” The ink hadn’t dried, and the marriage dried up! The magistrate was shocked. He’d seen many divorces, but so swift! Not even a wedding night; not even a handshake; just signatures. He asked, “If you wanted a divorce, why marry? What’s the reason?” She said, “This man doesn’t suit me; we won’t last a day. Still, I’ll tell you the reason: look at his signature—so huge! And mine so tiny. He’s flashing his swagger already. This won’t do. Better to end it before it begins. He did this on purpose.”

The magistrate looked—indeed, the man had filled the page with giant letters; even a first‑grader wouldn’t write so large. The clash of egos had begun.

Our excitement belongs to the running of life—because the mind is attracted by change.

“The stars told the dew,
the dew whispered the sky’s secret to the earth.”
Thus the message spread.

“The flower’s eyes brimmed with tears at the dew’s message;
the tiny heart of the bud bled with grief.
Spring came laughing—and left the garden in tears;
youth set out to revel—and went home in mourning.”
So it goes for all.

Deepak Sharma, if you live in dreams, in the transient, then only tears will be your lot. Pearls you will not find. If you want pearls, you must transform your life—change the whole style.

If you ask me to define the world: the mind that lives in the transient—that is the world. And the mind that lives in the eternal—that is sannyas.

You say:
“Fragrant buds of dreams, lovely, colorful scenes—
till yesterday these empty eyes held dewdrops, moon and stars;
but now we no longer know what world we live in.”
Even now it isn’t too late. The one who strays in the morning and returns by evening is not called lost. Only the one who forgets returns; only the one who wanders learns. Learn now; it’s not too late. Step away from mind; awaken in meditation. Draw your relish back from the world. You poured it out—wasted. Now shower it upon yourself. The same energy that runs outward—turn it inward. Become a little introverted.

There are three steps: extroversion, introversion, and transcendence. If you are extroverted, first become introverted. From worldliness to sannyas; from mind to meditation. And when meditation arrives, sannyas arrives, then go beyond even them. Don’t stop there either; they were remedies. So long as there is illness, the medicine is useful; once the illness is gone, there is no point carrying the bottle around. As long as there is mind, use meditation; when mind is gone, meditation is also gone.

The day you are free of mind—the first revolution. The day you are free even of meditation—the second revolution. Only two revolutions. After that, the temple doors open.

“Do you know who the President of South Africa is?” Nasruddin asked his friend Dhabboo.
“No,” came the reply.
“Truly, you are a complete Dhabboo,” said Nasruddin. “Henpecked! You stay home all day; you know nothing of the world. Why don’t you wear bangles—effeminate! Do you even know where Jimmy Carter is President?”
Dhabboo, flustered, said, “Where did the President cut—er—get cut?”
Nasruddin slapped his forehead: “So you’ve never even heard of Jimmy Carter! At least tell me who is president of our city’s Rotary Club?”
Poor Dhabboo fell silent.
Nasruddin scolded, “Shame on you! Why don’t you go out morning and evening? You stay cooped up all day. Are you going to waste life like this? See, hear, test, recognize! You’ve come into the world—do something!”
Dhabboo changed the subject: “Do you know anything about Sardar Vichittar Singh?”
“No,” said Nasruddin. “Why—what’s special?”
Dhabboo gravely answered, “Friend, you roam around all day—and this loafer hangs out in your house all day.”
Nasruddin flared up: “Is that so! I’ll smash his bones. Tell me—what does the scoundrel look like?”
“Look?” said Dhabboo. “Exactly like your son, Fazlu!”

There is the extrovert, whose movement is outward, expansive. There is the introvert, who contracts within.

Carl Gustav Jung posited two types: extrovert and introvert. There is a third who is neither—who is beyond both. When he opens his eyes, he looks out; when he closes them, he looks within. But he is bound to neither—neither outside nor inside.

To remove the thorn of extroversion, use the thorn of introversion. And when both thorns are in your hand, throw them both away. Otherwise there is danger: some fools, having removed one thorn with another, fall so in love with the second thorn—“What a marvelous thorn! It freed me from the first”—that they keep it stuck in the old wound.

Same story again—bound once more.

Some escape the world only to be bound by sannyas. But the aim is not to bind; it is to be free—of the world and of sannyas. Sannyas is a bridge, a thorn to remove the thorn of the world. Then be free of both—don’t be bound even to this.

Buddha used to say: some fools once crossed a river in a boat, then carried the boat on their heads into the marketplace. People asked, “What is this? Why carry the boat?” They said, “We will never leave it. If not for this boat, we’d have perished on the far bank by nightfall; wild animals would have eaten us. By this boat’s grace we are saved. We will devote our lives to serving it.”
Buddha said: Saved or not, they remain fools! Now they will spend life hauling the boat.

Remember: don’t cling to means. They are useful, but they are not the goal. Many fall into this error. They drop indulgence and clutch yoga even tighter than they clutched indulgence. They drop wealth and clutch poverty.

But the grip is the same old grip. Bound to the world, now bound to sannyas. We have acquired such a habit of bondage that we must have some noose or other. Some gallows is necessary.

Deepak Sharma, you ask: “Please give the address.”
You will find it through transcendence—not by my telling. Yes, I can indicate the path; you must walk. You have been extroverted; extroversion has brought you to the point where your hands hold only tears and within is only sadness. Now learn introversion; learn meditation, learn sannyas—this new art. But let me remind you again and again: don’t get bound even to this. When you are free of mind, then thank meditation and say goodbye. Only when even meditation is no longer needed should you know: you are established in the Self; samadhi has opened.

In samadhi, even meditation is not needed. One established in samadhi does not “meditate.” There is nothing to do; the matter is over. No mind remains, nor the need for a method to dissolve it. In samadhi one knows the eternal—what always is, just as it is, “as it is, so it abides.” There you will know who you are, what you are. And not only will you know yourself; knowing yourself, you have known all—for that innermost core is one in all. There is no duality there; there is advaita.

Hari Krishna! A habit is a habit, not your nature. Nature cannot be dropped; a habit can. You don’t get caught by a habit—you are the one who clings to it. So you can let go whenever you wish. And remember: a habit can be dropped only easily. If you drop it with struggle, it won’t really leave you; it will return through the back door. You’ll quit cigarettes and start puffing on a hookah. Give up the hookah and you’ll begin chewing tobacco. Give up tobacco and you’ll get into some other mischief. Escaping mischief is hard.

It’s hard because you don’t go to the root of habit. You get more excited about dropping the habit than about understanding it. If you understand, dropping is simple. But who has the time to understand? Who wants to understand? People are worried about “giving up.” And there are advisers everywhere—“leave this, it’s bad; that is bad.” Whatever you do, you’ll find people eager to make you quit. If you heed everyone you’ll make your life a misery—absolutely miserable.

I’ve heard: A father and son set out at night, on a full-moon night, to sell their donkey at the market. They walked on foot. Some people on the road said, “Look at these donkeys! Two donkeys leading a donkey—three donkeys in all.” The old man asked, “What do you mean?” They said, “If you have a donkey, why walk? Don’t you have that much sense?” It sounded right, so both climbed onto the donkey.

A little later more people came by: “See these donkeys! They’ll kill the poor creature—two riders on one donkey! Get down, you fools! Have you no shame? Look at the donkey’s condition—he’s staggering!” Alarmed, both got off: “They are right too.”

Soon others appeared: “If you have a donkey, at least seat the old man,” they told the young son. “Don’t drag an old man on foot; you’re young, you can walk.” That also seemed reasonable.

A little further still: people again—there’s never any shortage of people! Even if you don’t want to meet them, they’ll meet you. “What a spectacle! The father rides while the poor son walks. Shame! As an elder, have some sense!” Flustered, the father got down and put the son on.

Then again a crowd: “Behold the age of Kali! The son rides while the old father walks. You wretch! You ride the donkey and drag your father on foot? You should drown yourself in a handful of water.” The son, panicked, got down.

They wondered, “What now? We’ve tried everything.” One last idea remained: “Let’s carry the donkey.” So they tied the donkey to a pole, hung him upside down; the donkey, alive and kicking, thrashed and brayed. But the two were determined: “We won’t be fools now. Everyone we met advised something; they must all be well-wishers.” The donkey shrieked; a crowd gathered, laughing, “What fun! We’ve seen men riding donkeys; never donkeys riding men. A miracle!”

On a bridge, with the commotion and the thrashing, the donkey fell into the river and died. They had gone to sell him—and returned home empty-handed.

If you listen to people, you’ll find advisors of every kind. You eat potatoes—someone will show up: “Don’t eat potatoes!” Why? “Potatoes are sin. Eat potatoes and you go to hell.”

Jains don’t eat potatoes. Or if some do, they’re corrupt; they know nothing of religion. “What grows underground, untouched by sunlight, increases tamas—dullness. Grown in darkness, it’s full of darkness. Eat it and you become tamasic.” Then you’re doomed—you can’t even eat potato chips! “Eat potato chips and rot in hell! You’ll pay for each chip, peeled off piece by piece and tossed into cauldrons—eat more chips, son!” “Control your tongue,” the Jain monk exhorts. “Master the palate! Why be entangled in potatoes?”

And now the newspapers report that those who eat potatoes don’t get stomach cancer. Now you’re in a fix. Don’t eat potatoes—risk stomach cancer. You’ll die of cancer. Hell will be whenever it is—but cancer will come if you don’t eat potatoes. So which will it be? Rot in hell or rot in cancer? And who knows if hell even exists? And even if it does, it will be so crowded—where will you find a place? You’ll queue for lifetimes. And if you get in, how many cauldrons can there be? They must be long since insufficient. Infinite people have been born, eaten potatoes, and gone to hell—what are your chances?

Umar Khayyam said, “There are such great sinners there, who would spare a glance for a poor fellow like me? With these petty sins, who will value us? Who will even ask?” Nadir Shah, Timur, Genghis Khan, Hitler, Stalin—champions will be up front: “Raise our banner high!” Who will notice you? Wave your loincloth all you like; no one will ask. Shout “Long live!”—no one will heed. They’ll scold, “Keep quiet! Sit outside! Even the greats can’t get in—why are you pushing in?” You’ll say, “But I ate potatoes!” “Sit outside! Ate potatoes and think you’re something? These grandfathers—Idi Amin and the like—ate people!”

Idi Amin said there’s no food tastier than human flesh. When he fled Uganda, they found in his refrigerators the flesh of children—several children, preserved and frozen. If he says it, he speaks from experience. Who wants to quarrel with the experienced? I’ve never tasted it, so I can’t say. He said nothing is tastier.

In Africa there are still tribes that eat people and believe human flesh is the most delicious. Truth be told, there are big hotels in the world where human flesh is served. Children are kidnapped—young children taste better. Where do those missing children go? They vanish into five-star kitchens. You might not even know whose flesh you’re eating. And in front of such “illustrious” figures you’ll flaunt your potato? “I’m a big potato-eater!” Then go, eat for ten or twenty-five lives, and come back.

People get hung up on anything. Someone chews tobacco and feels, “I’m sinning.” What sin? If you don’t chew tobacco, you’ll chatter. Scientists say chewing tobacco, betel, areca nut—or chewing gum in America—this great global “chewing” craze has a reason: if you don’t chew, you’ll have to talk. The mouth must move. Better to chew tobacco, brother, otherwise you’ll chew someone’s head.

So they sit, making their tobacco, spend time on it, then on chewing, then on spitting artistic jets.

I was a guest at a lawyer’s house in Bhopal. On the wall a plaque: “Spitting on the floor is prohibited.” I asked, “What’s the matter—who would spit on the floor?” “What are you saying?” he replied. “This is Bhopal! People spit anywhere, never mind the floor.”

I said, “Have you heard the story of a famous philosopher? He entered a house where a sign said, ‘No spitting on the floor.’ So he took aim and spat on the ceiling. Now what can you do? When it’s forbidden to spit on the floor, he spat on the roof. From the roof it fell on the walls and the floor. He said, ‘It’s not my fault. If it comes down from the roof to the floor—God’s will! When He gives, He breaks the roof to give—what can I do?’”

What are your habits, Hari Krishna?

You ask, “Can lifelong habits be dropped easily?”

First, be sure what your ‘habit’ is. Ninety-nine out of a hundred are utterly harmless. Needlessly the sadhus and mahatmas make a fuss about them. Someone drinks tea and thinks he’s committing a great sin. What sin? You sip your tea—who is harmed? Tea is thoroughly vegetarian. No harm at all. A little nicotine—no sin in that either. It warms the body a bit, gives a little zest—nothing wrong; a bit of zest is good, it helps you engage in work. But no! In Mahatma Gandhi’s ashram, tea was sin—except for one person: Rajaji alone had the right to tea, being the in-law. Rules cannot apply to the in-law; one must keep in-lawly courtesy—so he had an exemption. For the rest, tea was sin.

Once a young man was caught making tea in secret. A scandal in the ashram. Gandhi fasted for three days—for self-purification. He drinks tea, and Gandhi does self-purification! That was his method of tormenting people—it was violence, not nonviolence. What a fine way to torture—publicly shaming the man. The whole ashram cursing him: “Wretch! Great sinner! For the sake of tea you’ve made the poor Mahatma fast three days!” He’s dying of guilt, weeping, holding Gandhi’s feet: “Please, never again—never! Not in any life will I drink tea. Please break your fast.” But Gandhi says, “I’m not doing it for you; it’s for my self-purification.” “Why your self-purification when I drank the tea?” “Because if I were a true guru, how could any disciple of mine drink tea?” Astonishing! “So I purify myself; it has nothing to do with you.”

A clever way to torment. In the name of nonviolence, deep violence. The intense craving that others should live according to me—that itself is violence.

That’s why I see no real contradiction when, just yesterday, I read a statement by the Frontier Gandhi. Someone asked him, “So much adultery and rape in India—what do you say?” He said, “Catch them one by one and shoot them. Blow them away!” No Indian Gandhian will say, “What are you talking?” But I see no contradiction between Mahatma Gandhi and the Frontier Gandhi. He is simple, that’s all—not twisted; not a Hindu who winds around with metaphysical analysis to act by indirection. He’s a Pathan—a Pukhtun: “Pick up the club and decide plainly; shoot!” He is at least direct. But who will shoot? The one with the gun—the very one who will rape. The one who shoots him will rape. Rape cannot be ended by shooting. Whoever has the gun has always raped. Is this new?

Kings used to have thousands of queens. If that isn’t rape, what is? Not only in the past—just fifty years ago, the Nizam of Hyderabad had five hundred wives. In the twentieth century! People ask me, “Is it believable that Krishna had sixteen thousand wives?” Why not? If in the twentieth century one man could have five hundred, what is sixteen thousand five thousand years ago? Do the math. “He who had the stick owned the buffalo”—not just his own; he took everyone else’s buffalo too.

Who will shoot? Shooting will change nothing. And this is what you’ve been taught: either shoot the other to reform him or shoot yourself to reform yourself. No talk of understanding.

Habit? First worry about understanding—what habit? Don’t squander life on petty habits. If someone chews glue, let him. What sin is that? Someone smokes—let him. He’s just blowing smoke. It’s a kind of pranayama: instead of breathing in fresh air, he makes smoke first and then breathes. And truly, in cities like Bombay, New York, London, smoking is pointless—the air is smoke anyway. Cars, trains, planes, factories—so much smoke that scientists in New York are amazed humans can digest it at all. So you make a little private smoke of your own and inhale it—no big deal.

Don’t get entangled in trifles. Life wasted on small knots. Do try to understand the underlying reason: why are you enslaved to such a habit? See the root and a great secret opens: uproot a tree by its roots and it dies. Likewise, if you see into the roots of a habit, the moment the diagnosis is complete, the cure happens. Then they fall away easily. But if you use crooked methods to quit, new habits will catch you. Out of the well into the ditch. Difficult? Then yes—very difficult.

A teacher got married. On the wedding night, as soon as he lifted the bride’s veil, he fired a volley of questions:
“Your name? Champa or Chameli?
Who were your friends?
Tell the exact ages—yours and your friends’.
How many siblings do you have?
How many younger? How many older?
Who in the family is idle?
Who stands on their own feet?
From birth to marriage,
list the films you’ve seen.
Which film with whom? Pair them rightly.
Explain the geography of your house.
In brief, tell the family history...”
Hearing this barrage,
the poor bride was in shock.
To soothe her the teacher said,
“Don’t be afraid. Think carefully,
and answer any five questions.”

Old habit! Poor fellow knows nothing else—what can he do? A teacher is a teacher.

I knew a math teacher—a geometry teacher—who got six months in jail. There was a brawl; he was a fiery Rajput—swung his stick—got six months. He was fond of me. I went to receive him when he was released. I asked, “Was everything okay? Any trouble?” He said, “All was fine, but the cell they kept me in made me restless.” “What was the trouble? Too small? Too dark?” “Darkness or size I don’t mind. But the corners weren’t ninety degrees. They were skewed. It tormented me! For six months a hammering in my head: Which fool built this cell! A ninety-degree angle should be ninety.”

He was a geometry teacher; it would irk him. I understood his suffering. Had it been up to him, he would’ve demolished and rebuilt the cell. But he couldn’t—handcuffed, and six months staring at crooked corners! In class, if a student made the slightest geometrical error, he wouldn’t mark it wrong—he’d tear out the whole page. Rajput! He erased wrong things on the spot.

He said, “Darkness wouldn’t have bothered me; in fact, darkness would have been good—then I wouldn’t have to see. But those corners—thud, thud in my chest—all day. Open your eyes—there they are! Try anything, wherever you look—four faulty corners. And how long can you stare at walls? Even staring at walls has a reason—you’re avoiding the corners.”

It will be hard.

On a train, a gentleman had long been suppressing a sneeze. Each time it came he made a strange face to hold it back. Stopping a sneeze isn’t easy—only a great yogi could. Finally a fellow passenger asked, “What are you doing? Why suppress it? Let it out! Why such suffering? The faces you make frighten me—what will you do next? You’re doing all kinds of yogasanas. Let it out—it’s only a sneeze. What’s the harm?”

The man said, “You don’t know. My wife used to say, ‘Whenever you feel a sneeze, understand I remembered you; come to me at once.’” “Where is your wife?” “Don’t ask. Don’t remind me. She’s in her grave—dead. But she left her terror. Since she died, I haven’t taken a sneeze. Because she said, whenever a sneeze comes, know I remembered you, and wherever you are, come immediately. My life may leave, but I won’t let a sneeze out. First life will go, then the sneeze.”

If you tackle things with such misery, of course it will be difficult.

A hunter shot down a crane flying very high. Chandulal, a Marwari standing nearby, said, “You wasted that bullet.” “How?” asked the hunter. “From that height the crane would have died just falling. Why spoil a bullet?” Marwari arithmetic—calculating! “Unnecessary expense. From that height it would’ve died anyway.”

Mulla Nasruddin once went hunting. His wife wouldn’t permit it—she didn’t trust whether he was going hunting, or some other “hunt.” She said, “I’ll come.” “This is hunting,” pleaded Mulla. “Even my pajama gets loose—what will you do there?” She said, “Exactly that loose pajama worries me—might get loose somewhere else! Now you’ve aroused more suspicion. I’ll keep an eye on the pajama.” She came.

He seated her in a hut and went out hunting. Soon a man came running: “Sir, where are you going? A cheetah has entered the hut. Your wife is alone—do something!” Nasruddin said, “Brother, what can I do now? The cheetah has got himself into trouble with his own paws—let him save himself! No one came to save me—I was trapped twenty years and no one’s mother’s son came. Now the cheetah must manage his own fate.”

The man stood stunned—what was he hearing? He didn’t know Nasruddin’s experience. His wife would make the cheetah see stars!

A person lives from experience. If you’ve lived fifty years, Hari Krishna, what are you? Your mind is the sediment of fifty years of experience. Your habits arise from that experience. If you try to change them by force, it will be hard. Their roots spread through fifty years. Today you see only the sprout above; the roots go deep. You cut the sprout; new shoots will come. The roots remain. That’s why changing habits seems hard—because you only cut leaves and branches; you know nothing of roots.

My request: First, don’t waste time on little habits. Even if you drop them, nothing great is gained. Ninety-nine percent of your habits are such trifles, inflated by you—and by your mahatmas who attack them daily—needlessly harassing you. Your habits are innocent. If you enjoy tasty food—no sin. It’s natural. But your mahatmas say, “Not good. Slave of the tongue! Give up salt! Eat without salt!” If you do, you’ll be in trouble. Salt is a bodily need—not a habit. Those who call it a habit mislead you. To say eating without salt is a great renunciation is foolish. Your body needs salt. Roughly eighty percent of your body is the same composition as seawater; it needs the same proportion of salt to stay healthy. Without salt you’ll go limp; your vitality will wane; your radiance will fade.

Hence the saying, “There is great salt in that man’s life.” And Jesus’ famous line: “The awakened are the salt of the earth.” Meaning: they give this world its savor, life, energy, sparkle; they light lamps; they bring a little light.

Yet your mahatmas advise absurdities: “Give up salt.” Someone says, “Give up ghee.” Another: “Don’t eat sugar.” Another: “Quit sweets.” These are needs. Excess harms—yes. But excess water also harms. It’s not about salt, ghee, sugar.

Live with awareness. Don’t be obsessed with renouncing. Sleep? Your mahatmas say too much sleep increases tamas. How many hours do they permit? Ask them and they say, “Less and less—two hours is enough.” If you sleep two hours, you’ll be sluggish all day. Then the mahatma’s statement seems true: “You are tamasic—reduce sleep further.” But the real cause is that you’re sleeping too little. A young man needs between six and eight hours. For the old, sleep naturally decreases to four or five; later to three.

Babies in the womb sleep twenty-four hours. Are they tamasic? They sleep and therefore grow. The growth of those nine months never happens again. For growth, sleep is needed. After birth, twenty-three hours, twenty-two, twenty, eighteen—gradually sleep reduces to what is needed.

Neither under-sleep nor over-sleep—then there is balance. And no one else can decide your quota. Each person’s need differs. A laborer needs more sleep; a desk worker less. Intellectual workers need less; manual workers more. It also depends on your body. The more food you can digest, the more sleep you’ll need; the less, the less. Labor, diet, your life’s activity—all affect sleep.

If your mahatmas sleep less, no surprise—their work is little; sleep drops on its own. Nothing saintly about it.

Be your own judge. Don’t live on other people’s advice. I don’t know which habits you mean; I can say this: ninety-nine percent are harmless. Don’t be troubled by them. Yes, one percent may be worth dropping. For instance, meat-eating. It is harmful. To end a life merely for food—when delicious foods abound: fruits, vegetables, nuts—why destroy a life? Life is as dear to others as to you.

Such a habit should be dropped—but through understanding, not coercion. My emphasis is less on dropping and more on understanding.

My experience is: as one comes to tranquility in meditation, meat-eating falls away on its own. Many of my sannyasins come from meat-eating cultures all over the world; I never insist they must stop; but as meditation deepens, they themselves begin to see—spontaneously—meat becomes impossible. Understanding brings revolution. Awareness alone is the true revolution. Through awareness, your nature reveals itself and habits break by themselves.

Don’t impose from above. Don’t turn religion into conduct. Join religion to meditation. Then the transformations that follow in your life are graceful.

Change your seeing—and the world changes.

A man asked an insurance agent, “Suppose I take a twenty-thousand-rupee policy in my wife’s name today and tomorrow she dies—what will I get?” The agent said, “Can’t say, sir. That depends on the judge—gallows or life imprisonment.”

He’s buying life insurance today and calculating her death tomorrow.

Violence lies within people. Even if you don’t eat meat, what then? You may still drink people’s blood. Jains are in this country—vegetarians—but as skilled in financial exploitation as anyone. They filter their water, but drink blood unfiltered. They don’t eat at night; they eat “pure” food—but if a man’s throat falls into their hands, he’s finished. Once caught, compound interest mounts. The wheel never stops—better that the man himself ends. His children and their children will pay. And it all proceeds with love, under a shop sign: “Ahimsa paramo dharmah”—Nonviolence is the supreme religion—while they conduct the business of usury.

Giving up outwardly changes nothing. Mahavira said, “Give up violence.” So they gave up overt violence—so much so that nothing else remained for Jains. They couldn’t be warriors—requires the sword. No one wishes to be a shudra—who will carry night soil? They couldn’t be farmers—agriculture involves violence: uprooting plants, cutting trees—plants have life. Mahavira said, “Uprooting plants, cutting trees—you will go to hell.” So only business remained. Inevitably, Jains became banias—traders. And all their violence descended into commerce. Their claw of exploitation became the strongest. They are few in number, but heavy with wealth.

Therefore I don’t tell you to change from the surface. If you see a wrong habit, a sin, go to its roots: understand! And descend into meditation.

A husband said, “Beloved, see what a fine thing I’ve brought for you!” The wife snapped, “Enough with fine and not-fine! Will you spend your whole life confusing me like this—or will you ever bring something of gold?” Her eyes are on gold. What’s this fine-or-ordinary? Gold matters.

Why has gold become so important? It brings power, gives strength—feels like “I am something.” It does the work of a sword without a sword. Power without muscle.

Mulla Nasruddin and his son jumped across a stream. The old Mulla cleared it; the son fell in midstream. “Papa, this is too much! You’re old and you made it. I thought if you could, I could—and I fell.” Nasruddin laughed: “Son, there’s a secret.” He jingled his pocket—clink, clink. “I don’t understand,” said the son. “Coins must be in the pocket. Then a man can cross not just a stream but the sea. When I leave home I carry cash. It keeps me warm, puts strength in the life-breath. That’s a man’s true soul; no other soul. You jumped soulless—so you fell. Next time put coins in your pocket and see!”

Money has a power. Invisible, but potent. Money kills—without killing.

So if you escape in one area, the disease will erupt elsewhere. Don’t rush to renounce; seek to understand. Understanding comes only through meditation—no other way.

When you learn to be thought-free, the mirror of consciousness becomes so clean, dustless, that everything is seen clearly. Then living according to that vision is effortless.

You ask, “Can lifelong habits be dropped easily?” Absolutely—easily. But not by trying to drop them. There is an indirect process: through meditation, through awareness, all habits fall away. And the beauty is, when they fall through meditation there isn’t even the inner swagger, “See, I dropped my habits. I gave up this, I gave up that.” The ascetic’s conceit, the renouncer’s pride, doesn’t arise. Life fills with revolution—but without the vanity of revolution. Not a shadow of it. That alone is true revolution. Otherwise ego flattens everything.

That’s all for today.