Saheb Mil Saheb Bhave #8

Chaitanya Kirti! There is a fundamental difference between Jin dharma and Jain dharma—just as there is between Buddh dharma and Buddhist dharma. First, understand this basic distinction.

Jin dharma means: the religion of Mahavira, Adinatha, Neminatha, Mallinatha—the religion of those who had conquered themselves, who had known themselves. From that self-realization, the Ganges flowed; from those icy peaks of self-knowing, streams descended—those pure currents: that is Jin dharma.

What Buddha saw, recognized upon awakening, lived and said—that is Buddh dharma.

But Jain dharma is the invention of scholars—just as Buddhist dharma is the invention of scholars. They have neither known nor awakened, nor lived it. They have no taste of their own, no experience. They are clever only at flaying words.

Understand also that the twenty-four Tirthankaras of the Jains were all Kshatriyas—every single one of them, not a single Brahmin among them. In fact, it was a rebellion against the pundits. It was a revolt against the Brahmins—against the Vedic ritualism, scholasticism, verbalism, and empty theorizing. It was a revolution of those who wielded the sword, to whom these word-games seemed meaningless, who knew experience alone to be meaningful. It was a Kshatriya rebellion.

Thus all twenty-four Jain Tirthankaras are Kshatriyas. But the irony is that Mahavira—the twenty-fourth Tirthankara, who gave Jin dharma its clear form, foundation, and definition—had eleven chief disciples, his ganadharas, and they were all Brahmins.

The Kshatriya revolt fell back into the hands of the Brahmins.

After Mahavira’s death, those who wrote scriptures about him were all Brahmins—the very trash against which Mahavira had blazed like a fire returned through the back door. Those ganadharas who became the executors of Mahavira’s estate were all scholars. They ruined everything. Thus Jin dharma was destroyed and Jain dharma established.

Then these ganadharas also decreed that there would never be a twenty-fifth Tirthankara. A scholar is always afraid of a Tirthankara. A Tirthankara is one who builds a ford, a crossing. A tirth is a place from which the journey toward the unknown and the unknowable can begin, where you can launch your boat to go beyond the clouds, toward the realm of truth and freedom like open sky. From where should one launch the boat, at what place to take the first step? Because if the first step goes wrong, all the steps go wrong; if the first step is right, half the journey is complete. So when, how, and from where to take the step—at the right season, the ripe moment, when the soul is ready to leap—not out of compulsion, not out of greed, fear, or any other desire, but out of the hunger and thirst for truth—one who creates such a ford is called a Tirthankara.

It is a lovely word. It is far lovelier than “avatar.” Because in avatar, the notion is that God descends, comes down—avaran. That requires you to first believe in God. The scholar’s religion always begins with belief. Jain dharma begins with belief—shraddha, blind faith; not discernment, not awareness, not the eagerness to know, but the haste to accept.

So the scholar will be frightened that another Tirthankara might arrive and upset everything. The scholar always creates a barrier.

After Mahavira, they shut the doors: “The last word has been spoken; now nothing more needs to be changed. The responsibility is ours now—to interpret, to give meanings, to graft meanings upon meanings. We will take care of it.”

But how will a scholar do it? One who has no self-realization—no matter how florid his language, how logical—will have a flaw at the foundation. And that very flaw shows up in statements like these, and in conduct like this.

They are all scholars. None of them has attained self-knowing. They killed Jin dharma and built the temple of Jain dharma upon its corpse. They killed Buddh dharma and built Buddhist dharma on its corpse. This has happened with all religions—with Jesus, with Mohammed. This is practically the entire tale of religion up to now.

A disciple of the Devil once came running to him and said, “What are you sitting here for?” The Devil was puffing on his hookah—he kept calmly puffing. The disciple was sweating. “Put that down,” he said. “Our entire order is in danger. Someone has found the truth—there, he has found it! We must act quickly. If people come to know the truth, what will happen to us, to our business?”

The Devil smiled and puffed away. Then he said, “Don’t panic; sit down. We have made arrangements. You are new—you don’t know. We have placed pundits everywhere. I know which man has found the truth; our pundits have already reached him—before you. Between him and the people everything will be muddled. Don’t worry! The people won’t receive the true news; it will be the pundits who carry the news to them. They are our men; they are in our service. They will distort everything—so artfully that no one will even notice. They will pose as friends and slit throats without even drawing a sword.

“It would be harder to work as enemies, so long ago we learned the trick of working as friends. Our pundits are posted everywhere. As soon as word arrives that someone has found the truth, a wall is built around him. Between him and the people stands a group of pundits. He will say one thing; they will transmit something else to the people. The words will be the same so that no one can claim anything was tampered with, the labels the same, but the contents swapped out. Don’t worry! This has been the way for centuries.”

I find meaning in this story.

Now these words are beautiful: ahimsa, aparigraha, anekantavada, co-existence. But on Mahavira’s lips, in Jin dharma, they had one meaning; in Jain dharma, another.

Mahavira’s fundamental gift to the world is anekantavada. It means truth has many faces—indeed infinite facets, endless ends. Therefore whatever is said about truth is, in some sense, right. In some other sense it may be wrong, but in some sense it is right. Therefore a lover of truth should not be dogmatic. Dogma asserts: “Truth is only like this, not like that.” Anekanta says: truth is also like this, and also like that.

But to soar at such a height—only a Mahavira can. Your so-called Jain monks—if they could even crawl on the ground it would be much; to speak of flying in the sky is far off. They haven’t even learned to stand; they are still scraping along on their knees. Where are their wings? They did something dreadful—that is the key point to understand…

They began to say that anekantavada alone is right. The word remained the same, but Mahavira’s meaning of anekanta was that whatever can be said about truth—each statement is right in some respect, even statements that appear opposite. When Mahavira was asked something, he would not give one answer, because he said: a single answer cannot contain the whole truth. At least seven facets must be spoken decisively about truth. Hence Mahavira gave birth to saptabhangi nyaya and syadvada.

Albert Einstein introduced the theory of relativity into science. Twenty-five hundred years earlier Mahavira did the same in the realm of religion. Mahavira is the Albert Einstein of religion.

But just as Einstein is not easy to understand—he himself once said that perhaps there are ten or twelve people on earth who truly understand him—so too anekanta is a bit difficult, because our habit is to divide things cleanly. Someone asks you, “Does God exist?” You want to give a straight yes or no, and you expect a straight answer in return. Mahavira will not do that. Ask Mahavira, “Does God exist?” He will give seven answers, not one. Your head will spin. To assimilate those seven answers, a vast meditative experience is needed. Where is that much space inside you? Your intellect can hold only straight sums like two and two are four.

Ask Mahavira, “Does God exist?” He says: syat—perhaps, in a certain sense—he is. Without syat, Mahavira gives no statement. “Yes, this too is true: God is.” But lest you clutch this and conclude that those who say “There is no God” are wrong, he immediately shocks you—before you can grab hold. He says: “Wait—syat, he is not.” Those who say God is not—in their statement too there is truth; and in the statement of those who say God is—there is truth too. Now you are in difficulty; this begins to go beyond your capacities. These appear contradictory statements given together. You wanted a neat answer.

And Mahavira doesn’t stop there. Seeing your predicament and agitation—“What kind of answer is this? Syat he is, syat he is not”—he gives a third statement: “Syat, both are together; he both is and is not—do not separate them. Think of them as two sides of the same coin.” Mahavira is trying to open all your doors and windows, but your trouble increases. Seeing it increase, he gives a fourth statement: “Perhaps it is inexpressible—avaktavya. Forgive me. If I have put you in a quandary by saying syat he is, syat he is not, syat both are—if you have become entangled and you had come to be untangled—then let it be, I will give you one sure statement: it is inexpressible; nothing can be said about it.”

Your difficulty does not lessen; it grows. And in this way Mahavira stretches it to seven statements. Seeing no resolution arising, seeing you more and more knotted, he says, “Understand thus: syat he is—and it is inexpressible.” He is—rest easy—but remember, concerning him nothing can be said; it is inexpressible.

But perhaps you won’t agree—you are an atheist. Then God must be so vast that he can absorb even the atheist; atheism should not close his door. So he gives a sixth statement: “Syat he is not—and it is inexpressible.” See the rub! He is not—grant it, that too is right—but remember, even so, nothing can be said about him.

And he gives a seventh statement: “Syat he is; syat he is not; syat it is inexpressible—take all three together.”

This Mahavira called saptabhangi nyaya—the sevenfold logic. As the sun’s ray splits into seven colors to form a rainbow, so the ray of truth also splits into seven colors and becomes a rainbow. To grab one color is a convenience: say, “Only red is color,” and there is no hassle; or “Only blue,” no hassle; or “Only yellow,” no hassle. Understand Mahavira’s compulsion: he says, “Yellow too, red too, green too, blue too—the seven are all colors; and that which arises from their meeting transcends all seven.”

White is the meeting of all seven.

You never thought that white is formed by the meeting of the seven colors. You would think: if seven colors meet, one thing is certain—white cannot emerge. Yet that is the entire science of light, the whole architecture of color. From the precise conjunction of all seven arises white—the meeting transcends them all.

Mahavira says: if you can unite these seven statements—the sevenfold logic—and see beyond them, you will see truth. Therefore Mahavira never calls anyone wrong—no one. And the irony: ask a follower of Jain dharma and he will say, “Only anekantavada is right.”

I once spoke with a Jain muni who said, “Anekantavada alone is true.” I said, “At least apply anekantavada to anekantavada itself—and to nothing else. Say, ‘Syat, it is true; syat, it is not true.’” He said, “What are you saying? Anekantavada is a hundred percent truth.” He did not see the contradiction. The very basis of anekantavada is to absorb the opposite statement too. But only a few enlightened ones reach such heights. The crowd of followers are the blind—and only the blind become followers. One who understands Mahavira is not a follower, but a friend, a fellow traveler. He does not believe in Mahavira; he knows that he is right, because he too is a witness.

I am not a Jain, but I testify that Mahavira is right—without a shred of doubt—because my experience too is such. Truth manifests in all hues, in all modes. Non-insistence is the fundamental vision of a truth-seeker. The same applies to aparigraha. Aparigraha means: nothing is mine. But a follower of Jain dharma says: Jain dharma is mine.

Aparigraha means: nothing is mine—because where am I? Where there is no “I,” how can there be “mine”? Then what possession?

When China attacked India, Acharya Tulsi declared that our country has been attacked; we Jains must do whatever is necessary to resist. One of his disciples came to see me. I asked him to tell Acharya Tulsi: an aparigrahi should not speak the language of “my country,” “my caste,” “my religion.” As a muni at least he should realize: nothing is mine. Is the land mine? Is the nation mine? “May this flag fly high”—such things befit children. Little schoolchildren—fine. They are childish things. But our grip remains the same.

When “mine” leaves the shop, it sticks to the temple: my temple, my religion, my scripture! What difference is there? “My ledger, my account book”—that went; now “my scripture, my text, my idol, my religion!” “Mine” has returned. If “mine” goes, that is aparigraha.

But even Jain dharma does not remain wholly “mine” for the munis; there are sects and sub-sects. A Digambara temple is not a Shvetambara temple; it is the Digambaras’ temple.

Once, on a journey, a Digambara woman was traveling with me. She had vowed not to eat until she had Mahavira’s darshan—a Jina image. In one village there was no Jain temple; it was a problem. I had a book with Mahavira’s photo. I said, “Bow to this!” She said, “But this is a photo.” I said, “What difference between a photo and an idol? That one is stone, this one is paper. Stone is outside, paper is outside. Tomorrow both will be ash. Why worry?” “No, please don’t confuse me,” she said. “I will fast today.”

She stayed hungry that day.

Before going to the next village I had inquired if there was a Jain temple, so at least she could eat. Otherwise her murder would be on my head. They said, “Yes, a Jain temple is there.” I relaxed: “Fine—one day’s fast won’t harm; a little purification. She was anyway plump; perhaps she’ll lose a kilo—no harm.”

We reached the next village; she bathed; our hosts took her to the Jain temple. She returned furious: “That is a Shvetambara temple. I will not have darshan till we find a Digambara temple.”

Mahavira’s idol is there too—but it is Shvetambara’s! Even the idols are separate. Among Shvetambaras there are smaller factions: Terapanthi, Bisapanthi; Sthanakvasis, Mandirmargis, and what not—tiny divisions, and “mine” clings to these fences.

You ask rightly, Chaitanya Kirti, what has happened to Muni Bhadragupta that he says: “I will not let him enter my Kutch!”

What of a Jain muni’s claim on Kutch! But it makes no difference; if “my India” is possible, why not “my Kutch”? Then “my district, my tehsil, my village.” Then what trouble with “my house”? It’s the same thing. Then why such difficulty with “my wife” and “my children”? If “mine” must remain, what fault is the wife’s and the children’s that you ran away, leaving them? It’s not that the wife wasn’t from Kutch—she must have been a Kutch woman. The children too were Kutchis—they were born of two Kutchis. You left your wife—no shame at leaving a Kutch woman! You left your children—the little Kutchis—no shame! And still: “My Kutch”?

But I understand. It is a flock of the blind—led by the blind. The blind lead the blind, and both fall into the well. They keep falling—day after day. But if it is “my own well,” why not fall? “My well—we’ll fall in it. You fall in yours; we’ll fall in ours.”

Tiny fences and circles, petty codes and limits. How will these poor, uncomprehending people understand Mahavira! Therefore I distinguish between Jin dharma and Jain dharma. Jin dharma belongs to the awakened; Jain dharma to those asleep who have accepted. Born into a house, they have taken up the household’s creed. They have only words: aparigraha, ahimsa, anekantavada—mere words. No understanding of ahimsa. Now this is the language of violence! Organization—the language of violence.

What does organization mean? Sadhana can be the language of non-violence, not organization. Sadhana is personal; organization is of the group, the crowd. Organization is always against someone. Sadhana is for self-discovery, not against anyone. Where there is “against,” there is violence.

What does ahimsa mean? That if you strain your water before drinking, you are non-violent! If only it were so easy. Then whole villages with filters would be non-violent. If you don’t eat at night, you become non-violent! But what night is left now? You can have more light at night than by day. The fear was that flies and insects might fall; that in darkness you might kill some tiny life. Now you can floodlight your dining table—so bright the sun would squint. Where is the night now?

If you tie a cloth over your mouth, you think you are Jain! Then all doctors in hospitals—since they wear masks—are they Jains?

It is not so cheap. These are visions, not petty acts. But people get lost in acts and miss the vision. They clutch one or two behaviors and let the rest of life go on as it always did.

Organization’s language is the language of violence; it is to do something against someone. In this language Shri Bhadragupta gave his statement: “Organize,” he told the Jains. And the great fun is that though the Jains fight among themselves, against me they can unite. All seven Jain sects gathered in Mandvi where Shri Bhadragupta spoke; all seven came together. Good! At least by my cause, some enmity dissolved. Those who had stopped speaking to each other perhaps said, “Micchami Dukkadam.” At least they asked each other’s forgiveness so they could unite.

Because of me, Hindus and Muslims come together; Christians and Hindus come together; atheists and theists come together. The Communist Party of Maharashtra passed a resolution that I should not be allowed to stay in Maharashtra. Not only theists—atheists and theists too unite. I am pleased: because of me a little brotherhood spreads! Is that not merit enough? All merit lies in spreading brotherhood.

And the language they spoke is violent. “Be prepared to sacrifice everything,” they said. “Even if everything has to be offered, do not back down—but we will not let this man or his saffron sannyasins enter Kutch.”

How will you stop my entry into Kutch?

To speak of barring someone’s entry is already steeped in violence. “Be prepared to sacrifice everything!” As if a jihad, a holy war is to be waged, swords to be drawn. “Oil your clubs, do your push-ups—get ready!” What madness! But don’t be startled—it is to be expected. I wasn’t surprised—I enjoyed it! What a sweet name: Muni Bhadragupta! What gentleness! What grace! What serenity!

And we used to call muni one who has tasted silence. These are babblers! They are political, not religious. Gathering the seven Jain sects and sermonizing, “Unite—religion is in danger.” Indeed, for the pundits, priests, and monks there is great danger because of me. Religion is not in danger—religion is delighted. I see new flowers blooming in religion. But those who hold the contracts in religion’s name are anxious and disturbed. What trouble will I cause them! When I have trouble with no one, how will I trouble them? I had never even heard this gentleman’s name. Neither friend nor foe. This is the first time I’ve heard it. What is their fear, their panic? If what you are saying is truth, is light, why such fear? And if what I am saying is wrong, then I should be afraid, anxious, disturbed. Will darkness fear to approach light—or light fear darkness?

Have you ever seen light afraid? You take a lamp into the dark and the lamp says, “No, I won’t go! Why risk my life? That darkness is so ancient—thousands of years old—and you want to take this tiny flame there; it will kill me!” The flame says nothing; it says, “Take me anywhere.” It is the darkness whose heart trembles. However ancient, it trembles before a tiny flame. It panics, screams, “Brothers and sisters, come! Gather! Our life is in danger!”

What so unsettles them?

Friends in Junagadh wanted me to choose Junagadh. I said, “I have no objection. I can come anywhere.” When the Jain monks heard that the people of Junagadh had invited me, they called my friends and said, “Don’t fall into this illusion; this is our Jain tirth. Near Junagadh is Girnar, one of only two great Jain pilgrimage sites—Shikharji and Girnar. Thousands of Jain monks and nuns are there. Don’t call him; there will be trouble.”

My friends returned and said, “We hadn’t thought of this.” I said, “Tell them: I am alone, and there are thousands of Jain monks and nuns here—not for a day but for thousands of years Girnar has been your field. Why are you afraid? I should be afraid. What is your fear? My sannyasins have no interest in your temples; no curiosity, no use, no time. They will not visit your Jain monks. Why are you so disturbed?” “No,” they said, “withdraw the invitation; don’t call him here. Our pilgrimage field will be ruined.”

These are like a hospital crying out at the sight of a patient: “Don’t let the sick man come; our hospital will be spoiled; our medicines contaminated.”

Is yours a religion—alive, rotten, dead—what is it? Why such panic! But this is only the beginning. Others too will unite; Hindus, Muslims—all their gurus will beat the drum of jihad: stop me from coming.

These are violent tendencies; they have nothing to do with religion.

I am not surprised. It is expected. It confirms the truth of what I have been saying. These people live upon untruth. They fear that if my words reach there, their walls will start to crumble. Their walls stand on sand. What I say is my experience; what they say is not—and that is the rub. There is their fear and tremble. Their chests are quaking.

You ask, Chaitanya Kirti: “In Jain dharma, ahimsa, aparigraha, anekantavada, co-existence, etc., have a special place.”

As long as it is talk of principles, these people talk the same talk. But when it comes to living them, trouble arises.

Here you will see living ahimsa; here you will see living anekanta; here all religions are present—that is co-existence. Here people of all countries are present. They have forgotten who is from where; forgotten caste; forgotten color and distinctions. You cannot tell who is Jew, Christian, Jain, Buddhist, Hindu, or Muslim—they have dissolved like rivers into the ocean.

The ocean knows co-existence. Does the ocean shout, “Here comes the Ganges—don’t let her enter; she will corrupt us”? Will the Ganges corrupt the ocean! Let the Ganges come, Yamuna, Godavari, Narmada—whoever comes, the ocean absorbs them, makes them salty. The Ganges becomes salty, Yamuna salty, Godavari salty. Whoever comes takes the ocean’s color, mode, taste.

Mahavira never asked anyone what caste or religion he belonged to. Mahavira’s very rebellion was against caste and varna. The four varnas of the Hindus—Mahavira opposed them. What varnas! All are born with the same soul, the same consciousness. He discarded the distinctions. But Jains keep rigid distinctions. A Brahmin arrives: “Come, Panditji, sit.” A Harijan arrives, they scorn him—more than the Hindus would.

Jains consider themselves more pure than Hindus—even more than Brahmins. In a Jain household, if a cook is needed, only a Brahmin can get the job. They thereby achieve a double result: they insult the Brahmin by showing his worth is only that of a cook—wash the dishes—and, besides a Brahmin, they will not let even a Kshatriya cook. Although all twenty-four Tirthankaras were Kshatriyas. If even one of them applied to cook in a Jain home, he could not be accepted. “Out! What Kshatriya, what Khatri—where are you sneaking in? A pure Brahmin is needed.”

Building an idol in a temple is one thing!

In Bombay I was a guest of a Jain family. They asked about the man who cooked my food. I said, “He is Nepali—a Nepali Kshatriya.” They said, “We will not eat what he cooks; he must be a Brahmin.” I said, “And you worship twenty-four Tirthankaras—each a Kshatriya. Before you bow, at least ask, ‘Sire, are you a Maharaj? Which Kshatriyas’ feet are you touching!’”

My cook is a pure Kshatriya—Nepali Kshatriya. Buddha himself was Nepali. In truth, he should not be called Indian—Kapilavastu lay in Nepal. On the border—hard to decide Indian or Nepali. More likely Nepali. That is why in Nepal some imprint of Buddh dharma remains; in India it has completely vanished.

A Kshatriya cannot be allowed to cook—what of a Shudra!

I have said again and again: Jain dharma may be a religion, but it is not a culture. Because at least let the Jains establish one settlement. Culture means where all aspects of life manifest. Let them establish one settlement consisting only of Jains. A difficulty arises. On whom will they depend for water? Who will make their shoes? Who will clean their latrines? If only Jains are there, no Jain will clean latrines, make shoes, sweep the streets, shave beards. Who will do these? At least establish one settlement—then I will say, “This is a culture; this is a society.”

What society! It is parasitic—sitting on the chest of the Hindus; exploitative. Like the dodder vine—you have seen it—without roots of its own; wherever it climbs, it sucks the blood of that tree. It spreads from tree to tree. Its name is amarbel—immortal vine. It will be immortal! How to kill it? It has no roots to cut. It lives rootless, spreads, and drinks the sap—the tree will dry.

Jains are like the dodder. They are not a people, not a religion, not a culture, not a civilization—only a small ideology. And even that—where do they live it? It is for speechifying. Fine for lectures—but not for life. Establish one settlement!

What I speak is culture—the culture of the coming human being. That is why I want to begin with a settlement: to demonstrate that what I say is not a parasitic ideology—not a dodder that sits on others’ chests. It can stand on its own feet, with its own roots. We will have our own shoemakers, our own teachers, our own farmers, our own gardeners, our own cleaners, our own doctors.

This community of ten thousand sannyasins, this commune, wishes to prove to the whole world that a classless, varna-less society—free of high and low—can be created, in which love is the only bond, the only currency. Where money has no value—only love. Only such a love-filled society can be non-violent. Only such a society can declare co-existence to the world. In it all kinds of people will be present; all streams of life will meet. Naturally there will be anekantavada.

No insistence upon anyone; no pressure; no attempt to force anyone into a mold. Freedom for all. That is why fear spreads: may this settlement of mine not actually arise—that is their anxiety. For such a settlement would be a new example before the world. Until now, none has been established. People have talked of classlessness and varna-lessness—but talk remained talk. In Russia, a classless society did not arise; new classes replaced old ones. In China the same.

This commune will be communist in the original sense—at the root. That spreads fear. To stop it, a thousand pretexts will be sought. Because its very presence will be felt in the far corners of the earth. People will come from everywhere to see it.

The day this saffron city of sannyasins thrives in Kutch, tourists from the whole world will come to Kutch. Fewer will go to the Taj Mahal—what is there to see now? Fewer to Khajuraho—they have seen enough statues. Here there will be life—something alive.

This creates restlessness and panic: all their glamor will fade; these Bhadraguptas will be worth two pennies. Now they are big munis there. Then they will be uneasy. Thousands of munis will live in our settlement—munis in truth, for silence will be their sadhana.

And nothing will be stopped by their obstruction. The more they try to stop it, the more intensely it will happen. It is going to happen. Their noise may cause a little delay—nothing more.

And if they insist on this foolish talk of organization and bans, then I can speak in their language too. Then ten thousand sannyasins will march—alive or dead, we will reach Kutch. Then we’ll see who stops us and how. If it cannot be straight, I know how to get ghee with a crooked finger. But we will get Kutch’s ghee. So far I am moving peacefully. I have no faith in their ahimsa, anekanta, and co-existence. Those are their doctrines. I am bound to no doctrine. I trust living moment to moment. If they insist on obstinacy, so be it—we will accept that challenge too.

Better they do not speak such foolishness; else they will regret much. I do not want any situation of conflict; no curiosity for conflict—why waste energy? But if it comes to that, then so be it. Then ten thousand will march on foot to Kutch. We will see who and how stops us. How can anyone stop anyone?

The eyes of the whole world will then be fixed on this. It will become an international issue. Better these fools remain silent, peacefully recite their scriptures in their temples, and not get into pointless hassles. I have no binding to Mahavira. They may. I love Mahavira, but I am my own man. I am not bound to go by Mahavira or Buddha. I live by my own awareness. And if I see that it is becoming a matter of challenge, then it will be addressed as a challenge.

So they should beware—do not babble such nonsense. I have not created any disturbance in this country—nor will I, as long as I see that silently work can proceed. I do not want to create disturbance without cause. I have no interest in politics. But it is not as though if people opt for disturbance I cannot answer disturbance with disturbance. I can teach them what the taste of disturbance is.

Then their talk of organization, sacrifice, and martyrdom—we will see how much sacrifice they can do, how much struggle they can endure. They have not yet seen what sacrifice means. They will come to know it once.

These ten thousand will move from here. For now, we are talking of buying land. Then we will not buy—what is there to buy! Then it will be a matter of occupation. We will pitch our camp. If something is to be done over the corpses of ten thousand, then let it be done. Not that we will take up swords. We are unarmed sannyasins. We will set out. If we live, we will arrive; if not, fine—we will go up and found our settlement there. It makes no difference; the settlement will be founded—here or there.

But the talk these so-called munis and mahatmas make is such utter boorishness, so contrary to their own lives, and yet these blind ones neither see nor these deaf ones hear. There are many vested interests. Behind it is deep politics.

Yesterday another newspaper reported that the real reason to stop me is that my presence—and that of ten thousand sannyasins—such a large settlement—will dominate Kutch politics. I have no interest in politics. For twenty-five years people know I have no interest. I have never voted. My sannyasins have no concern. But people’s anxieties are strange. They fear I will dominate Kutch politics, and with the force of ten thousand I will take it over.

So the political tricksters there are behind all this. These Jain munis are only the outer masks; behind them sit the politicians.

Shri Morarji Desai is still at work—inciting Kutch industrialists in Bombay: “Try to stop him.” Seven industrialists from Bombay have petitioned the Chief Minister of Gujarat to stop me entering Kutch. But this matter will not stop now. Morarji knows well—had he not tried to stop me earlier, he would not have fallen so badly. He is reaping that fruit and will reap more, it seems. Flat on his back, saying not a peep—still, no sense. It seems he must take a few more blows. Now from behind—since he could not from the front.

And see their trickery!

In Kutch we were offering four times the price for land—land nobody would buy for a paisa. The Kutchis have all run away. Kutch land is barren, desolate—no value; no one willing to buy. They asked for the moon; we agreed. They tried in every way to stop us. A thousand legal tricks Morarji played—lies, not true. And these are all truth-loving, non-violent Gandhians! Holding the big franchise of Gandhism! All lies.

False reports were arranged: that the Air Force objected. Now the files are in our hands. With Indira’s arrival I first asked to see those files: when did the Air Force object? It never did. But Morarji had the collector issue a false statement that the Air Force had put a stop, that ten thousand foreign sannyasins gathering there is dangerous; the sea is close; international border; Pakistan near; an Air Force base only thirty kilometers away—hence, with our modern equipment, we could be dangerous.

Even the “thirty kilometers” was false. Proper measurement shows fifty miles, not thirty kilometers. Pressed, the collector wrote: “We were told: write ‘no more than thirty kilometers.’ However much it is, you write thirty, because the Air Force can object within thirty kilometers.”

But the Air Force neither objected nor is the place within thirty kilometers. Both were lies. This truth-loving, non-violent Gandhian Morarji Desai did it.

And what he did for himself—do you know?

In Ahmedabad—just before leaving office—a palace worth at least five crores: Shahi Bagh—built by Shah Jahan, the builder of the Taj; a hundred acres in the heart of Ahmedabad—the governor’s residence—sold for only fifty lakhs to the Sardar Vallabhbhai Memorial Committee. One day before leaving. At least five crores—sold for fifty lakhs. The Committee didn’t even have fifty lakhs. Where would they get it? They were unwilling to take it: “Where will we get fifty lakhs? And its upkeep costs at least five lakhs a year—who will bear that?” So fifty lakhs were donated—from the Gujarat government to the Committee—on the same day, and the same day the five-crore property was sold for fifty lakhs.

And the fun is that the chairman of the Vallabhbhai Memorial Committee was Babubhai—and the Chief Minister of Gujarat was also Babubhai. One and the same man did both transactions. Fifty lakhs donated by the government to the Committee (he the giver); and then he bought the property for fifty lakhs (he the taker).

All these mischief-makers—crooks of every sort—are in panic. They will incite all sorts of people; they will incite the Jains: “Danger to you!” When the purchase of the palace was nearly finalized, on the seashore there was a Muslim pir’s tomb where no one had come for years. As soon as news spread that we were buying it, a lamp began to be lit daily; cleaning started; a maulvi began to sit there.

Upon inquiry, the palace servants said, “Because of your coming, at least this tomb has someone to clean it. The pir’s soul must be thanking you—no one ever came here. Now they’ve set up camp to create a ruckus that ‘This is our tomb; we won’t give this land; it is a Muslim pilgrimage place.’ Five or ten Muslims arrive in the morning, sit and sing hymns—prayers began where no one came for years.”

On the land the Maharaja was selling, his brother—at odds with him, never on speaking terms, never coming to that palace—wrote a letter: “Our mother is still alive; when she dies, her tomb will be built here next to our father’s tomb—so keep this in mind if you take this land, because her tomb will be here.”

The mother is alive; no one visits her; but when she dies, her tomb must be built there!

They too were incited: “Start this trouble.” The Muslims were incited: “Start this trouble.” The king’s son was incited: “Our father’s tomb is here, so we will come whenever we wish. Whoever wants to come must be allowed. We will hold ceremonies here and cannot be stopped,” though never before had a ceremony been held. Father and son don’t get along; father lives in London; they don’t speak.

Behind all this one man worked—Morarji Desai. Even now he is at it.

People get beaten, almost die—but habits don’t leave. Old habits haunt.

So far I have wanted no disturbance—and still have none. In the coming three or four months, if it can be done peacefully, good. I will continue peaceful effort for another few months. If not, then as it will be, so it will be. If it must be disturbance, it will be disturbance. But this settlement will arise somewhere; it cannot remain unbuilt. They feel that now I can build it. Earlier they were unafraid because they knew how to incite Indian industrialists and moneyed men to stop funding. I have stopped taking a single rupee from this country. Now no one can incite my sannyasins. We are capable of building the settlement.

All Kutch’s fortunes will change—and that too is their fear: if Kutch’s fate changes, then these very Kutchis will curse them for obstructing.

Fifty crores will be spent in establishing the settlement. The arrangements are being made worldwide. Assurances are there. No obstacle there. Fifty crores will flow into Kutch within two years. Even now fifty lakhs per month go to Poona—six crores annually—though only three thousand sannyasins are here. When ten thousand are there, at least twenty to twenty-five crores per year will flow into Kutch.

I asked the Chief Minister of Gujarat: “How many are unemployed in Kutch?” He said, “We have five thousand applications—five thousand laborers are jobless.” I said, “We will hire all five thousand. We must build houses for ten thousand—we will hire all five thousand.”

I will see who stops this. Those five thousand laborers will stand there to welcome my sannyasins. Who will give them bread? Let’s see which Jain muni feeds them. Why not until now? Five thousand starving there, and no breadwinner. I have decided that whatever we buy will be from Kutch. All that we build—so many buildings, a hospital, a university—everything will be procured from Kutch, not from outside. Let Kutch see clearly what it means to stop this settlement—and what good fortune it would be for Kutch to let it be built.

Within five years Kutch’s radiance will change; color will change; life will come. Within ten years Kutch can become the most prosperous part of India. No obstacle. Kutch’s population is only seven lakhs. To enrich it is no difficulty. For me it will be an experiment too—to show how this fire can spread, how we can teach people to live in prosperity; to present a complete example for all to see.

All this creates their panic.

But don’t forget the other side, Chaitanya Kirti. Yesterday I read in the paper that a youth organization—the Yuvak Kranti Dal—has begun preparations to welcome me. They held a big event and prayed that I must come; Kutch’s youth are ready to support. If it remains a controversy, Kutch will be split—youth will be with me; the old, the dead, may be with the Bhadraguptas. Let it be.

Every household in Kutch will divide: one part with me. And I have done nothing yet. Soon I will send my sannyasins to establish contact in Kutch. Many Kutchis are my sannyasins. I will tell them: go, build contact; take the news to every house—what our plan is, what we want to do.

I can fight—no obstacle—but I have no desire to, because energy would be wasted. So for four more months I will try to settle it quietly—as far as possible. There is no reason for any obstacle now. But if it doesn’t settle, we will not stop. If obstacles are put up, we will break through and reach Kutch.

We will send sannyasins to stir the winds; to build contact; to speak plainly house to house what our coming means, our purpose. Distribute literature, take films and tapes—let them see and hear; give them our plan of the ashram.

If we must prepare for struggle, we will.

But I see no reason for that necessity. It will be resolved. Small fry shout; dogs bark; the elephant passes. No need to worry.

Anand Usha! This is exactly the wine being drunk and poured here. The hand does not touch the cup; the wine does not even touch the lips—and it descends into the very life-breath.

“Let not the hand touch the cup—that is the condition;
whoever goes to the tavern is of small heart.”

Indeed, small-hearted is he who goes to the tavern—shameless. He never learned how to drink; he never recognized the real wine. True wine is not pressed from grapes; true wine is pressed from meditation. It is brewed within; it has nothing to do with the outside. Only the unknowing go to taverns. The wise build the tavern within. They press that nectar inside themselves. That nectar is what we have called the Divine. Raso vai sah. Of all the definitions of the Divine, one is dearest to me: raso vai sah—He is rasa, the very essence, the very sap.

“Do not accuse me; I am no drunkard—
if you make me drink with your glance, what am I to do?”

That is exactly what is happening here, Usha. Drink to your heart’s content! No one is accusing you. This is no temple or mosque. Here, drinking and serving is the very practice. Drink fully. Do not be miserly in drinking. Open every door and window of your life-breath; let the sun dance within, let the winds blow, let the rivers flow; let all of life stream through you.

“They say there is a difference between love and faith,
but my faith is in both.”

It is the unknowing who say love and religion are opposed, different. There is not the slightest difference. Love is religion. Those who say there is a divide between ishq and iman are wrong. There is no opposition. Where love and faith are in conflict, there both are false—false love, false faith. Where love is true, love itself becomes faith. Where there is depth of love, there is the experience of religion. The perfection of love is God.

So you say rightly:

“but my faith is in both.”

Do not even count them as two; if you count two, you will already have gone astray. There isn’t even that much difference that you could call them two. There is only one—and those who do not know call it love; those who know call it religion. Those who are half-asleep call it love; those who have awakened call it religion. It is merely a difference of language.

And what you now know as love—if you go on refining it, sharpening its edge—that very thing becomes religion. The energy of love transforms into the energy of religion. Think of love as an uncut diamond, and religion as that diamond once it has fallen into a jeweler’s hands: he has given it facets, given it shine, given it form and color and shape. In his hands, what was useless is trimmed away, and what is essential is saved. What was hidden within becomes manifest in his hands.

We call that very one the true Master—the jeweler—into whose hands a man falls and becomes gold; he touches earth and it turns to gold. That is exactly the work being done here: to turn the earth within you into gold; to transform the love within you into religion; to turn the darkness within you into light. In this very alchemy, the initiation is what I call sannyas.

You say:

“Should I prostrate to appease God—
but if the Beloved sulks, what am I to do?”

There is no need for prostrations. It is before false gods that prostrations are required. Before false gods prayers are needed—before stones, bowing and scraping. With the true God, love happens. The true God is the Beloved. And there, both sulking and making up are delights. There, even sulking has its flavor. There, sulking is play. There is no opposition in it.

You ask:

“but if the Beloved sulks, what am I to do?”

You sulk too! In the world of love, sulking is no bad thing; in the world of love, sulking is an art.

And Usha, being a woman you ask me this! This the Beloved should be asking me—why are you worrying? This is a question that stands before a man. Women, from birth, know how to win over a sulking lover; they manage it in a moment. For women, coaxing men is an easy matter beyond measure. The real difficulty arises when the woman sulks—then the man is utterly at a loss. He may bang his head, but no solution appears. If he has to fight, he can; but to coax—this he doesn’t know. It isn’t in his nature. He cannot figure out, “What do I do now?”

And every devotee who can see the Divine through love becomes feminine. You must have noticed in the utterances of the saints that whenever they hum the true language of love, they instantly speak in the feminine voice. Kabir says: “I am Ram’s bride.” Bhakti is feminine. And the one who is drowned in devotion acquires all the arts of woman. He learns how to sulk and how to make up. God himself then follows after him to appease him. Kabir has said:
“God follows behind, calling, ‘Kabir, Kabir.’”
What a wondrous thing to say! Only the fearless like Kabir can say such a thing: “God follows behind, calling ‘Kabir, Kabir.’” And we do not even listen! We have sulked—now let him appease us! Now the Divine comes trailing behind, saying, “Kabir, where are you going? Listen—where are you going?”

The devotee does not have to appease God; God appeases the devotee. Such is the majesty, the art, of devotion. But devotion must be true.

True devotion does not arise from belief; true devotion arises from meditation. It is born as you become silent, as you become still. As silence deepens, bliss begins to shower. Nectar begins to rain. And in that very experience, love for the Divine is born.

Most people worship God either out of fear—lest they rot in hell—or out of greed, to enjoy the pleasures of heaven. These are the two types. Neither is a devotee. The devotee is a third kind of person: he is in love. Where, then, is fear or greed? He wants neither Vaikuntha nor heaven nor liberation—he wants nothing. What the Divine has already given is more than enough—beyond his capacity, beyond his worth, beyond his merit. He is bowed under the weight of grace.

He does not perform a prostration; he simply bends under the weight of grace—like a branch bending when so many flowers bloom upon it. What is it to do? The branch is not performing a prostration; so many flowers have blossomed, such a spring has come, such abundance that the shrubs bow down, the branches stoop to the earth. So does the devotee bow. It is not a prostration; it is not a prayer—it is bowing under grace. So many flowers of bliss bloom, so much nectar fills within, so heavy he becomes with rasa, he has to bend. That bowing is of another order. The joy of that bowing is of another kind.

That alone is true prayer, which arises from bliss.

Where there is asking, there is no prayer. Where there is gratitude—only gratitude—there is prayer.

Enough for today.