Saheb Mil Saheb Bhave #9

O embodiment of the Divine! The destination is indeed nameless, but it is not far. It is nearer than the nearest—so near that even “near” is too far a word. You are the destination and you are the traveler. You are the road and you are the goal. It is you who must “walk”—but other than you, there is nothing at all. There is no “going” anywhere; you have to drown in yourself. The very notion of going far is the beginning of wandering. And the mind always longs for distance; its curiosity lives in remoteness. The farther something is, the more alluring—distant drums sound sweet—more it lures the mind, whether your hands end up holding anything or not.

How lovely the rainbow looks from afar! Go close, and you will find nothing—only droplets of water in your hand. Yet from a distance, even all gems and pearls grow dull! Even a dewdrop glitters like a pearl from afar, outshining real pearls. Go near and the illusion breaks. But man is astonishing: when one illusion breaks, he promptly nurtures another; before the second has time to break, he is already making preparations for a third.

Mulla Nasruddin’s wife was dying. On her deathbed, in her final moments, she said, “Nasruddin, I know—no sooner am I gone than you’ll marry again.” Nasruddin said, “Never, never! Enough already—I’ve seen life. After living with you, who else could I ever love? Impossible. The day you go, my life will be a dark night with no lamp ever lit again. This house will never be adorned, it will remain desolate, deserted.” He spoke very lofty words. The wife listened. Women are more earthly, more realistic; men flap their wings in the sky, but women never quite leave the ground.

When Nasruddin’s poetry ended, his wife said, “Leave the poems—I know you well. You won’t live without a wife. I have only one request: don’t give my clothes and jewelry to the new wife; my soul will be hurt.” Nasruddin said, “Don’t worry about that—Farida won’t even fit into your clothes!”

She hasn’t died yet, but the preparations have already begun inside. The wedding band may play a little later outside, but within it has started playing. Inside, he’s already watching for the moment she dies. One dream hasn’t even fully broken and another is being arranged. We allow not even a moment’s gap between two dreams, because in that gap awakening could happen. We keep running dream upon dream.

Beloved, the destination has no name because you yourself have no name. You came to the earth nameless; no child is born with a name. We give the name later—it is merely functional. All names are expedient.

A little boy asked his mother, “Did you know me before I was born?” She said, “How could I know you before you were born?” The boy said, “That’s what puzzles me—if you didn’t know me before I was born, how did you recognize that I am the one? And how did you know my name?”

No child comes with a name or an identity. We paste identities on them, we stick labels on them. Without that, practical life would be difficult—how would you call someone in a crowd? Names are useful; truth has nothing to do with them. All names are untrue.

So what is your real name? Nothing at all. The destination is nameless—but the traveler and the goal are not two. This is humanity’s greatest stumbling block. If only the goal were far, we would have reached by now! We have invented countless means to reach far. We reached the moon; soon we will reach the stars. In going far, our skill is unmatched. How swift we are! We circle the globe in twenty-four hours—and faster vehicles will be found. But the obstacle is something else.

The obstacle is that there is no distance whatsoever. Where you are, as you are, you are already at the goal. You have never moved even an inch away from it. But we don’t stop; if we stopped, we would arrive. We are obsessed with movement, so we keep moving. Even now you ask for “the path.” To ask for the path means: “Suggest some way to go far.” There is no path. If there is nowhere to go, what path? No bridge is to be built. Be still; don’t run! Stop; don’t hurry—one who runs misses. The faster you go, the farther you will go—from yourself.

Someone runs after wealth and goes far from himself. Someone runs after position and goes far. Someone runs after God and goes far—from himself. How did we all go so far from ourselves? By running after something—mirages! Not only ordinary people run; even Rama ran after the golden deer. Let others be—Rama himself didn’t suspect that golden deer don’t exist! He went after the golden deer. He hesitated, not because the deer might be false, but because Sita would be left alone in the forest. Sita insisted, “Go! Why fear? Don’t miss this chance. The golden deer might get away.”

Rama went after the golden deer, and Sita supported him. Then she sent Lakshman too, because Rama cried out—false cries—“Help! I am in trouble!” Lakshman didn’t want to go. Sita wounded him with words: “I know—you want Rama to die so you can take me. That’s your desire. Why would you go? Your brother is in danger and you are pretending to stay for my protection. Go!” It was such a blow that Lakshman had to go.

Leave aside ordinary people—even Rama, Lakshman, and Sita are filled with the same patterns of thinking as we are. So what you chase is secondary: whether heaven, liberation, nirvana—it’s secondary. As long as you are seeking something, you will wander. Don’t seek—stop, settle. Absolutely settle! Let the mind not quiver; not even a tremor. However many golden deer call, however many invitations come, however many nets are cast to attract the mind—don’t move, don’t budge. This stillness is meditation. When it reaches its perfection, it is samadhi. And in samadhi are all solutions—that is why it is called samadhi: that in which all problems are dissolved.

You say:
“The nameless destination is far; the dawn...”
No—not far at all. Turn your eyes within; the sun has risen there. There, night never happens. But you are showing your back to it. If you keep your back to the sun, how will you see it? Outside it is only night. A thousand suns may rise—yet out there there will be no light. Inside there is only light. However much you turn your back to it, darkness never comes there. Just turn a little, peek a little—and morning happens now, this very instant. If there were distance, time would be needed: you’d travel, you’d arrive; on the way you could go astray; the road might be wrong; guides could be deceitful.

A man, drunk, returned home late at night. By old habit—like a machine—he reached his house. We move like machines. When you go home, you don’t consciously think, “Turn left now, turn right now.” You hum a film song and the car turns, the bicycle handle turns, your feet take the turns by themselves—you arrive home.

He arrived, but the drink was so heavy, he didn’t recognize his own house. He knocked; at midnight his mother opened the door. He pleaded, “Please tell me my home’s address. My old mother must be waiting.” Falling at her feet, he cried, “Tell me my address! My poor old mother must be looking down the road.” The mother said, “Fool, I am your mother!” The drunk said, “Don’t try to placate me. Don’t distract me with toys. My mother is waiting! Give me my address. My house is somewhere nearby; I’ve drunk too much; I’m not in my senses.” The mother said, “This is your house—come in!” He refused: “I won’t go in till I get my address first.”

Just then another drunk came by, driving an ox-cart. “Why bother?” he said. People of the neighborhood gathered, laughing. The second drunk said, “Get in my cart; I’ll take you home. I also have to go home, and my house is right next to yours.” If the first drunk sits in this drunk’s cart, he will go even farther. This drunk too is going away from his home. “Right next to yours” means—right next to the house where he already is! But in this world, the blind are always available to lead the blind. Ask, and they come; don’t ask, they still come.

And what foolishness goes on in the world! What strange things people do, hoping to reach the goal: someone fasts—as if starving had anything to do with the goal! Someone plucks out his hair; as though uprooting hair will reveal the goal. Someone tends a sacred fire; someone smears ash; someone stands on his head; someone grows matted locks—how are these connected to the goal? Someone counts beads; someone chants “Rama-Rama.” Neither you have any real name, nor does he—what chant are you lost in? What smoke are you raising?

Someone performs havan-yajnas. While people starve, ghee, rice, wheat are thrown into the fire—worth millions. Thousands of yajnas are performed across the land—by fools who make others foolish. Drunk-blind guides leading the way; and greater fools following. For centuries you’ve performed yajnas—neither poverty diminishes nor misery—but you go on. Why? Because you think the goal is elsewhere, so you must “do” something to get there. There must be a method, a ritual.

There is no method, no ritual. It is utterly simple: become a witness. Sit within and watch the movement of thought. By being watched, thought falls quiet. The moment you begin to watch it, it starts subsiding, thinning. When all is thought-free, the destination is here. You were always at the destination; only thoughts led you astray. Sitting at home, you can get lost in faraway dreams and forget your very house.

Emerson was a great thinker. And thinkers often get into such trouble—they get so lost in thought that they lose their hold over themselves. Never mistakenly call Buddha, Mahavira, or Patanjali “thinkers.” They were not thinkers. Yet even people like Dr. Radhakrishnan call them “great thinkers.” Radhakrishnan was a thinker; so he imagines Buddha is a great thinker—and feels he is praising him. But such “praise” is a condemnation. Buddha is not a thinker. Bertrand Russell, Hegel, Kant, Aristotle, Plato—these are thinkers. Buddha is not. If you must call him something, call him thought-free—meditator, one established in samadhi, enlightened; not a thinker. They do not think about light; they have seen it—they are seers, not thinkers.

One winter morning—it was snowing—Emerson’s servant lit the fire in the room. Emerson sat close by reading his newspaper. The servant went out; the fire blazed so fiercely, and Emerson was so close, the heat became unbearable. It didn’t occur to him to pull his chair back; he forgot—lost in thought—he shouted, “Help! The fire will catch me! Where is the servant?” A neighbor heard and rushed in. The situation was truly bad: a piece of cloth hanging from the chair had caught fire; Emerson sat hunched on the chair, yelling. The neighbors said, “Sir, this is too much—why don’t you pull the chair back? Or get off the chair!” He said, “It never occurred to me. I panicked and lost my senses.”

Lose yourself in thoughts and who retains their senses? A thinker is an unconscious person.

Yet Emerson wrote beautiful books; he was deeply influenced by Vedanta. He wrote a great poem on Brahman—very lofty talk about the Absolute. Lofty talk is easy. Life has nothing to do with lofty talk. Life is very simple—it is not mathematics.

Don’t ask whether the destination is far, whether the dawn is far, whether there is a companion. What will you do with companions? You must go within—and no companion can go there. There you must go alone; there you are alone. And it is good that no companion can enter there—otherwise hotels would open inside, rest-houses would be built, markets would spring up. If companions could go within, would your wife sit outside? She would rush in with the children, throw you out: “You go take a walk somewhere—I’ll put the kids to sleep here, we’ll cook here, we’ll picnic here.” It is a blessing that no one can enter your within—otherwise even that little solitude would be lost. That is the one place still left to you—fortunate indeed; otherwise nothing private would remain, no solitude. Others would occupy it, those with sticks would force their way: “Move aside! You go pace outside!”

Mulla Nasruddin turned a hundred. People asked, “What is the secret of your health, your longevity?” He said, “There is one secret. The day we married, my wife and I agreed: if she gets angry, I’ll go outside and I won’t get angry then; if I get angry, she will go outside and she won’t get angry then. Since then, I have lived mostly outdoors. That is the secret of my health—fresh air, water, sunshine; I roamed outside. Because the moment I step in, she thunders like lightning. She never gave me the chance to get angry first so that she would have to go out. I have been only at an advantage. She is ill all the time—backache, stomachache, headache. I have no time for aches—I circle the whole town!”

No one can enter your within—that is auspicious. There, you alone are the master; no one else can be.

Diogenes, that astonishing sage of Greece—Greece had one Mahavira: Diogenes. Same ecstasy, same flavor, same fakirhood, same joy; and the same beautiful body. It is said of Mahavira that such a beautiful body is rare; he was entitled to be naked. With such beauty, nakedness is a right. I do not consider the so-called Jain monks fit to be naked. No one has the right to thrust an ugly body upon others’ eyes. No one has the right to be a thorn in another’s sight. Better to cover yourself. People are already miserable enough; life is hard as it is—then they glimpse a “monk” and hailstones fall upon their little crop! Mahavira had the right to be naked—beauty grants that right.

Diogenes too lived naked—he was that beautiful. Bandits once caught him, thinking, “We’ll sell him; a good price will fetch.” He was so zestful and strong that eight men were needed to catch him—and even then they were afraid that if he attacked, all eight would have to run. But when they came, he said, “Don’t be afraid; don’t trouble yourselves—I understand your intention. You’ve come to catch me? No need; I’ll come along. You walk behind me; I’ll go ahead. Where to?” Frightened, they followed; they had never seen such a man. Whispering among themselves, “What to do? He’s gone ahead; we’re behind.”

Diogenes said, “You want to take me to the slave market to sell me; your intention is clear; your thoughts are visible to me.” They said, “Yes, that is our intention,” speaking timidly, lest he erupt. He said, “Don’t worry; don’t be frightened. You look so scared, I feel compassion. I’ll come along. I’m of no particular use anyway; at least I’ll be of use to you. My ecstasy will not leave me; wherever I am, I’ll be ecstatic. You’ll get some money—your work will be done.”

They began to regret whom they had caught—he had rebuked them without striking them, and made them feel small. They didn’t even dare ask him to let them go. So, helplessly, they went behind him.

He reached the slave market. A man for sale is made to stand on a platform; he climbed up by himself and shouted, “Is there anyone with the courage? A master has come to be sold—any buyers of a slave?” A crowd gathered. Those who brought him hid amidst the crowd—“Who is this? Who brought him for sale?” “Who would bring me to be sold?” said Diogenes. “I am selling myself. These poor fellows standing here will receive the money. But is anyone brave enough to buy a master?” Silence fell. Many wanted to buy him—he looked strong, useful—but dangerous. To shout like this—“Is there any buyer for a master?” He added, “Understand one thing clearly: your money will go, but my mastery will not. Wherever I am, I remain master. No one can enter within me—there I am sovereign.”

This is good, beloved—that there is neither companion nor friend within. Do not fear it. What will you do with companions? Taste the joy of being alone. When moments arise, relish the plunge into solitude. Hum within, dance within. There is the temple; there the Kaaba; there Kashi and Kailash.

You ask:
“What is the world’s way? What is that thing
without which this boat will not move?”
The world is a spectacle—a play, a stage. Think of it as a Ram Leela. A game has rules. Even in cards, the king is king, the queen, queen, the jack, jack—some order is needed, or there is no game. Four people playing must make agreements. Here, millions gather and the play goes on—many agreements are required. That is the “way” (reet).

You ask what the world’s way is. It is only this: because there are so many of us, we must make compromises.

I had a professor—well-known in philosophy. Lifelong celibate; lived alone in a big bungalow. He became very fond of me. I was a student in the hostel. He said, “Why are you stuck in the hostel? Come live with me. I have a six-room bungalow and I’m alone. Take a room, take two rooms—take as many as you like. No wife, no children; one servant who comes in the morning, leaves by evening.”

I didn’t want to go—why disturb someone accustomed to solitude? I refused; he wouldn’t listen. One morning he arrived with his car and servant, packed my few belongings and took me away.

A difficulty began there. He would wake at two in the night and play the electric guitar. Having lived alone, he did whatever he liked. Granted, my room was different, but if someone plays an electric guitar at 2 a.m., sleep is difficult. And I used to sleep at two—I would read and write till two or three, then sleep. Just as I was ready to sleep, his guitar began—and it continued till six. At six I would get up and go for a walk.

One day I bore it; then I said, “We’ll have to find a way—a reet.” He slept at six in the evening; the servant left and he slept. If you sleep at six, you will wake at two—how long can you sleep? So I sat outside his door and read my book aloud so loudly that he could not sleep—he kept tossing. I read till two. At two he got up and played the guitar. Neither of us slept that night. In the morning he said, “We must make an arrangement. Can’t you read softly?” I said, “Of course. I have always read softly; there is no need to read aloud—your guitar made me read aloud. Can’t your guitar play without electricity?” “It can,” he said. “Then let it be so. Don’t plug it in. I’ll take the last room, number six; you stay in number one—four rooms between us. That distance is enough. If you want to play, play—with door and windows closed. If you want them open and the guitar plugged in, fine—then I’ll sit opposite and make as much noise reading till two as I can!”

We agreed.

A second problem arose—milk. When alone, he fetched it; now, seeing a student, he said, “How about you bring the milk in the morning?” I said, “I’ve never fetched milk. Let’s devise a rule.” “What rule?” “Whoever wakes first, goes for milk.” “Fine,” he said.

Next day neither he nor I woke till ten. I would wake and check; he would wake and check; both would go back to sleep. At quarter past ten, he leapt up—the university awaited. Whether I went didn’t matter; I seldom went anyway. He panicked, “Too late! This has never happened. I’ll get the milk.” I said, “Had you woken earlier, I wouldn’t have had to keep peeking since six! Let’s fix the rule: from tomorrow, you will bring the milk. Otherwise we’ll continue like this—let’s see who lasts longer. I can manage till noon or two; your job will be in danger.” He said, “It’s clear from one day enough: I must bring the milk at six—for both of us.”

Thus, rules must be made—compromises. Even two people living together need rules. Here the world is so big—four billion people on earth—so rules, laws, and arrangements are needed. “Keep left,” “Don’t keep right”—you must settle this, else accidents will multiply: a moderate fellow says, “I follow the middle path; I’ll walk down the center.” A rightist says, “I’ll keep to the right.” A leftist says, “I’ll keep to the left.” You can, but then collisions will happen; things get difficult.

An American wanted to go to England. He bought an airline ticket and asked for information so he could prepare and not be a total stranger. They told him everything, including: “In America you drive on the right; in England, on the left. Keep that in mind.” He said, “Fine.” On the day of his flight he arrived with plaster on his leg and arm, supported by two men. “I don’t want to go now; cancel my ticket.” “What happened?” the officer asked. “I thought I’d practice before going—since in England they drive on the left, but here I’ve always driven on the right. How will I change suddenly? So I practiced driving on the left in New York—and this is the result!”

That is what rules mean: a mutual agreement—to be followed for convenience. A sannyasin knows it is an agreement; a worldly man takes it as truth. That is the only difference. The worldly man believes it is reality—like “keep left” is a universal, eternal law, God-ordained: Esa dhammo sanantano. He thinks it is a divine command of the eternal religion: keep left or go to hell! Nothing of the sort. It is a practical arrangement.

The worldly man takes everything seriously—that is his mistake. The sannyasin takes nothing seriously; everything is a play. He understands utility, but he is not bound by it. It’s a game of chess: we admit there are elephants, horses, a queen, a king—but it is an admission for the sake of the game. And since you are not alone on the earth, rules are needed. If you were alone, no rules would be needed—do whatever you wish. But we are not alone, so for smoothness, arrangements are natural.

You ask:
“What is the world’s way? What is that thing
without which this boat will not move?”
Your boat must move among many other boats; you cannot steer wholly by your whim. You must keep others in mind. And there is no harm—just keep the awareness that it is play. Don’t take it more seriously than that.

“What is the song of love? What is the music of life?”
You will not know this until you are steady within yourself. When you settle in yourself, you hear the music of life—the veena of the heart begins to play. When you settle in yourself, a new sound of love arises. What you now call love isn’t love—it is part of the social arrangement: father, so love him; mother, love her; brother, love him; wife, love her; husband, love him—whether you feel it or not, do it; it’s a system.

The day you settle within, a new love sprouts—beyond arrangement, unconditional. It is not “love this one, love that one”—you become love-full. Whomsoever you relate with, the relationship is suffused with love. Touch even a stone, and there will be love in your hands; touch the earth, and it will turn to gold. Your love begins to transform life.

You ask:
“What is the song of love?”
“What is the music of life,
without which this night won’t wane?”
This night will not wane without it. Look within—everything arises from there: light, music, poetry, love, God. The night vanishes—utterly. Darkness recedes; all becomes luminous. Death vanishes; all becomes amrit. And what is not within you! But we never dig within; we never search. We rush outward in a frenzy—no pause, no rest.

I teach you only rest—pause. Nothing else is taught here. Only this: the running about is a game; the truth of life is in stopping, in resting.

The very meaning of “ashram” is: a place of rest—where rest can be tasted. Even if you labor there, the labor is restful. You can see the sannyasins at work here. They work harder than you do at home, yet you will find repose on their faces; you will sense a dance in their steps—no burden, no weight; a lightness. One who begins to know inner rest finds his outer labor restful too.

“The river’s current says, the feeling of living never dies.”
It doesn’t die because in truth you never die. That is why the feeling persists. Although you see people die daily—today this one, tomorrow that one—still, something inside keeps whispering that you will not die. This is not a lie. Deep within, this truth never settles—that “I will die”—because no one within dies. Outside you see A dies, B dies, C dies—outside, yes. Inside, neither A dies, nor B, nor C. They only left a house, took another; or, if fortunate, the sky itself has become their abode—the vast palace of the sky, the gagan-mahal Kabir sang of—sunna-mahal. Or, if unfortunate, they are back in some clay hut, some shanty, repeating the old story. You have come and gone many times. If you leave knowing yourself, you need not return—the cycle ends.

“The river’s current says, the feeling of living never dies.”
Within you, nothing dies—hence the feeling remains. Though you see so much death, still the sense of life does not break. The river daily falls into the ocean, yet knows it will live again—clouds will fill, rains will fall, streams will descend from the mountains; the river flows on—continuously. And even a river may dry up, but the inner current of consciousness never dries—it flows on, endless. That current of consciousness is what is called the soul, the Supreme. These are only names; don’t get entangled in them—call it what you will.

You say:
“One who burns in his own fire—no one loves like that!”
That is why you do not know love. When ego burns in the fire—like dry grass—then, out of that egolessness, a love is born that is eternal. The love Jesus called synonymous with God.

What you now call love is not love; it is a bargain, a transaction, shopkeeping, grabbing—give less and take more, always calculating your profit. You have mistaken something else for love.

A poet paused by a tree in the garden, his heart brimming with verse. It was early morning; birds were singing, the cuckoo calling, the fragrance was rich. He stood near the tree and said, “O tree, O mango tree, if only you could speak—what would you say?” The gardener nearby was watering. He laughed, “If it could speak, it would say, ‘Sir, I am not a mango tree—I’m a guava tree!’”

What you are calling love is not love; it is not a mango tree at all—it is a guava tree. Yet you go on calling it love and composing great poems. In your poetic fervor you don’t even see what you are naming. What do you call love? Sex-desire? It dies in a little while. It turns into hatred at the slightest friction. The one for whom you said, “I could die for you,” you are ready to kill for the pettiest reason. What love is that!

It is all snatching and grabbing. The lover thinks, “I am not getting love”; the beloved thinks, “I am not getting love.” That is the quarrel of lovers everywhere—the uproar, the perpetual strife. Why? Both are begging, both want to take, and neither is ready to give—what can they give; from where? If it were within, they could give. Both are beggars, bowls extended before each other, pleading, “Fill my bowl.” Neither sees that if the other had anything, why would they have stretched out their bowl to us?

Except for the Buddhas and the Jinas, none has known love. And for that love, one thing must be burned: the ego. Ego is love’s enemy. Where ego is, love cannot be born. Ego is love’s death, its grave. We are all full of ego; our “love” is but ego’s display.

Stop calling this love. Let the ego burn—let it be reduced to ash. When you are gone, love will arise; as long as you are, there is no love. Then the love that appears is neither mine nor yours—it has no boundary, no shore. It is as infinite as the sky, as vast as the Divine. Only that love can satisfy; apart from that, there is no fulfillment. Then life is dance, song, celebration.

These lines of Yog Preetam will serve you—

Let what is steeped in the heart with love
rise to the lips as speech.
Let the song awakened in the depths
flow out in measured verse.

Let the heart, with the meeting of the Beloved,
be nightly lost in dance;
Softly, softly in the ears
let a sweet reed-music play.

When clouds swell and lightning flashes,
when life is drenched with honey,
the mind stays soaked in the nectar—
let the body too dive in.

If heaven descends upon the earth,
the feet of the earth begin to dance;
When God smiles within,
all the world’s breath grows bright.

When the inner-consciousness is joyous,
even the body grows wings—
Two boons from the Giver:
let them blend in harmony.

If the person within is rejoiced,
beauty shows itself;
If the heart is brim-full of rasa,
bliss spills over.

Where is the boundary between inner and outer?
In all, only His face is seen.
Like water and sugar fused,
let both be drenched in ecstasy.

Let what is steeped in the heart with love
rise to the lips as speech.
Let the song awakened in the depths
flow out in measured verse.

Tejram Meena! That very problem cannot arise for you. You are not Mahavira. So the same solution won’t work for you either. You want to be clever; you want to deceive.

Tejram Meena is from Gangapur City, Rajasthan. Looks like a thoroughbred Marwari. You are using your Marwari cleverness. Mahavira was not a Marwari.

First thing: when Mahavira’s mother, father, or elder brother told him, “As long as we are alive, don’t even raise the topic of sannyas,” he didn’t go asking anyone else—like you have come asking me. The distinction begins right there. He didn’t go to ask anyone.

I was in Raipur. A young man came and asked me, “Should I marry or not?” I said, “Go ahead and marry.” He said, “Then why didn’t you marry? When you tell me to marry, why didn’t you?” I said, “Look, there is a difference between you and me. I never went to ask anyone. You have come to ask someone. The difference starts right there. If you weren’t going to marry, you wouldn’t come to ask either.” What does asking mean? That you are in two minds.

Mahavira never had two minds. His mother said, “As long as I am alive, don’t raise the subject of sannyas.” Mahavira didn’t utter a word: matter finished. Then when the mother died, he didn’t even come home from the cremation ground. While her pyre was still turning to ash, he said to his brother, “Mother used to say, ‘As long as I live, don’t take sannyas.’ I kept silent for two years. As fate would have it, now mother has gone. Now I ask for your permission—you are the elder brother—give me leave.” The elder brother said, “Aren’t you ashamed? Have you no sensitivity? Mother has just died; before that father died—when father died you asked mother, because father had first stopped you; now mother has died and you start pestering me! Calamities are falling on us like mountains—father gone, mother gone—and you have only one obsession: sannyas! As long as I am alive, don’t bring it up.” Still, Mahavira had no inner conflict. He said, “Alright.” And he didn’t bring it up. He simply didn’t raise it!

But don’t misunderstand this to mean that Mahavira was stopped from sannyas. If you take it that way, you’ll be mistaken. Mahavira became a sannyasin while living at home. He took the very kind of sannyas I am giving you. In a way, the beginning of this sannyas was with Mahavira. He became a renunciate right in the house. All his time began to pass in meditation. Eyes closed, he would be immersed within. If someone told him to eat, he would eat; if no one said anything, he would sit silently. He gave no advice, no opinions. Even if two people in the house were fighting while Mahavira was sitting there, he wouldn’t even say, “Brothers, don’t fight; why quarrel?” He would just watch as if he had nothing to do with it. Even if the house caught fire, Mahavira would sit and witness it—as if he weren’t there at all.

My mother is here. In childhood it often happened with me. I never proved useful for any housework. Not even small tasks—“Go get the vegetables”—the market wasn’t far, a small village, four steps away—but I never did even that. Gradually the family accepted it—what can you do? So I would sit right in front; my mother would be sitting in front and say, “There is no one visible in the house; someone has to be sent to the market for vegetables.” And I would say, “No one is visible.” I am sitting right there, and she says in front of me, “No one is visible in the house—if there were someone, we would send them for vegetables.” I’d say, “If I see someone, I’ll tell you; I don’t see anyone either.”

Later, when I went to university, I stayed at my aunt’s. She had this fixation that I had been spoiled. At home no one ever told me to do any work, never made me do any, so I had been completely spoiled. So she took on the job of reforming me. I said, “Perfect.” The very first day she said, “Go and buy mangoes. It’s mango season.” I said, “Alright.”

I went to the market and asked the shopkeeper, “Which are the most expensive mangoes you have?” He looked at me and immediately understood I wasn’t a real buyer! Mangoes of all kinds were there in front of us, and I ask, “Which are the most expensive?” Clearly I had never bought mangoes. So he pointed to the most rotten, decayed mangoes and said, “These are the most expensive.” I said, “Fine. Give me a hundred.” He was startled, a little embarrassed—I saw the shame on his face too—rotten mangoes! And I paid him what he asked, did no bargaining, brought those rotten mangoes home.

I came back happily, “I’ve bought the best mangoes!” I told my aunt, “These mangoes…” She saw them and beat her head. I asked, “Why?” She said, “These are rotten. No one would take them even for free. Why on earth did you bring them?” I said, “Have I ever bought mangoes in my life? I simply asked that gentleman for the finest, the best, the most expensive, and he gave me these. I paid this price.” She said, “I’ve never heard of such a price! He charged four times what the best mangoes would cost and gave you rotten ones. Now take these…” There was an old woman next door; leftover food we used to give her; she had no one. “Go and give these to her.” I said, “Alright.” I went to give them. She said, “Throw these on the garbage heap! Don’t ever bring such things to me!” I said, “As you wish,” and threw them on the heap. I said, “Even that old woman won’t take them.”

After that, my aunt didn’t try to reform me again. She said, “Enough. You can’t be reformed. You are totally spoiled.”

Tejram Meena, you say, “My condition is the same as Mahavira’s.”

Your condition cannot be the same. Never imitate others. Yes, if you have the capacity to be sannyast like Mahavira while living at home—then be so. But the first mistake you have made is that you are asking me for advice. Mahavira asked no one.

Second thing: you are only trying to find a trick. Your people at home may oppose, but did your wife say, “As long as I am alive, don’t take sannyas”? She wouldn’t have said that. And do you think when your wife dies you will then take sannyas?

And in my sannyas there is nowhere to go—Mahavira had to go to the forest. In my sannyas you remain at home. Meditate; drown in meditation right there. Where is the question of going anywhere? Your wife is afraid that if you take sannyas, you’ll leave home. Our notion of sannyas has become such: the moment we hear the word, our life-breath trembles. Wives get scared, children start crying, as if the man has died. The panic that comes with death, the same comes with sannyas. I am giving sannyas a new interpretation, a new definition, a new color, a new life. Where is there to leave, where to go? You remain where you are. So in this sannyas there is no reason for anyone to oppose.

And if you feel you can keep the same patience as Mahavira, then do keep it. But do what Mahavira did: become such in the house as if you are not there—utterly like a zero. Then I have no objection. Otherwise it will be cleverness.

Chandulal the Marwari was seriously ill. Ill, but he wouldn’t get treatment. Friends pleaded, “Friend, see a doctor—how long will this go on?” When they pressed hard, Chandulal asked, “Tell me, how much will it cost to see a doctor?” They calculated, “About a hundred rupees.” Chandulal said, “Eh? A hundred! Alright, then tell me how much the bier and such will cost after I die.” They calculated again, “Fifty to sixty rupees.” Chandulal said, “Then dying is more profitable—at least forty rupees saved.”

Don’t run your account like a Marwari. Mahavira was not a Marwari. He didn’t stop because of any accounting. You are doing arithmetic; you’ve thought, “This is a good excuse—become Mahavira for free. No turmeric, no alum, yet the color comes out fast—Tejram Meena becomes Mahavira. Has there ever been a Mahavira in Gangapur City?”

Villagers once came collecting donations from Chandulal the Marwari. They knew he’d give nothing, but thought, what harm in trying? Chandulal said, “I will certainly donate, friends, but let it remain a secret, for I believe in anonymous giving.” The villagers said, “Don’t worry, Chandulalji, it will remain completely secret.” Chandulal asked, “Alright, what amount shall I write the check for?” They were astonished. “Make it one hundred and one rupees.” Chandulal drew the check and gave it, but when they looked they said, “Sir, you haven’t signed it!” Chandulal said, “I told you, brothers, I believe in anonymous giving. I don’t want people to know I gave the donation. I will never sign.”

If this is the kind of cleverness you’re arranging—that you become Mahavira for free while staying comfortably at home—then you remain a Marwari, not a Mahavira. What meeting can there be between a Mahavira and a Marwari? Don’t be clever!

You ask: “In the previous discourse you said that when Mahavira wanted to take sannyas, his parents and elder brother opposed him, and Mahavira agreed and kept patience. If the same problem arises for us, kindly tell us the solution!”

That problem simply cannot arise for you. First, this sannyas is different; you are different—how can the problem be the same? Never try to impose Mahavira or Buddha or Krishna or Christ upon yourself. Otherwise you will miss, and badly. And the mind is very cunning—the mind has always been a Marwari. It cooks up calculations and schemes, escape routes that look very elegant and beautiful, but are deep down diplomacy and politics.

A man went to buy owls. The seller—who else—was Chandulal the Marwari. He had two owls. He priced one at ten rupees and the other at twenty. The customer asked, “Why, sir? Both owls look the same—why the difference?” Chandulal said, “Sir, one is an owl, the other is the owl’s son—more accomplished. Hence double the price.”

No cleverness! Speak with understanding. Yes, if you really feel the problem is identical, then the solution is identical: become like Mahavira while living at home. Do you have that much patience, that much courage? Can you do it? If you cannot, then why be so frightened? This sannyas is no escapist sannyas. Neither your wife will be harmed, nor your mother, nor your children—in truth, they will benefit. You will become more loving, more joyful, more playful; spring will enter the house because of you. Where no song ever awakened, some song will awaken; where no music ever rose, some music will arise. There will be some talk of the Divine, some bhajan, some kirtan, some meditation. Perhaps they too will dive in, perhaps they too will be soaked. Think of them too. Your sannyas may become the beginning of a new revolution in their lives. Have compassion on them as well.

But in any case, sannyas must happen.

Either gather the courage to tell them, “I am taking sannyas.” Or gather the other courage—which is the greater courage; remember, the second courage, to live like Mahavira at home, is the greater courage. Only a Mahavira can do it. To be so detached will be very difficult: the house burns, and you simply watch…!

There was a great Bengali scholar, Ishwarchandra Vidyasagar. The Viceroy had invited him to honor his scholarship. In British times, Calcutta was the capital. The Viceroy resided there, and Vidyasagar too. The Viceroy organized a special gathering to honor scholars. Vidyasagar was invited to receive the highest honor. He lived simply. His clothes were old-fashioned. Friends said, “Will you go to the Viceroy’s house in these? It will be awkward. Let’s have proper clothes made—sherwani, something splendid. It’s a matter of honor. Not just yours, the honor of all Bengalis.”

At first he demurred, but friends insisted, so he agreed. A fine sherwani was made, churidar pajama, turban; a handsome walking stick with a gold handle—everything ready. He had to go the next day to be honored. That evening he went for his walk in the garden, as usual. There he always saw a Muslim gentleman, Mir Saheb, who came daily. A Lucknowi type—very refined. The elegance with which he twirled his cane as he walked was a sight!

That evening Mir Saheb was walking ahead; Vidyasagar followed. Mir’s servant came running, “Mir Saheb, hurry, run! The house is on fire!” Mir Saheb said, “I’m coming.” But his stride remained the same—the same Lucknowi gait, the same lilt, the same twirling cane—not a bit of haste, no running. The servant couldn’t comprehend; he thought perhaps Mir hadn’t understood. He said, “Did you hear or not? What are you thinking? The house is ablaze, if you go at this pace, by the time you reach, only ash will remain!”

Mir Saheb said, “I heard. But shall I change a lifelong gait for the sake of a rotten house burning? The house is burning now; it will burn anyway—why lose my gait? What’s done is done; the house burned, so it burned. And if I reach, what will I do? Arrive a little sooner or a little later—what difference? But I won’t abandon the gait of a lifetime!”

Vidyasagar heard and was amazed: here is a man whose house is burning, yet he will not abandon the gait of a lifetime! He walked on in the same manner. Vidyasagar followed, thinking: this man is worth seeing. A crowd had gathered; they surrounded Mir Saheb, offering consolation. He said, “What’s there to console? Things burn—what is there here that endures? Today a house burns, tomorrow I will burn. Let it burn. Don’t offer vain consolations.”

Those who came to console were taken aback. No thanks; instead he scolded them: “Be quiet! It’s only a house burning—what’s the big deal? This house will burn; all these houses will burn. One today, one tomorrow, one the day after—sooner or later, everything here will burn to ash. Why disturb one’s inner peace over it? Why invite restlessness? Why throw away the prasad of one’s life for this?”

He stood there and watched, just as others watched, as if someone else’s house were burning. Others cried and wailed; Mir Saheb stood calm.

Vidyasagar thought, “And here am I; for a shabby honor to be given by a Viceroy—just a certificate of paper—I am changing the clothes of a lifetime.” “To hell with that honor!” Next day he went in his old clothes. Friends were shocked: “We had the clothes made—where are they? And what is this shabby bamboo stick you’ve brought, the one you roam around with? We had a golden cane made with a jewelled handle—what did you do with all that?” He said, “Forget it—nonsense! Last evening a Muslim shook me so deeply I couldn’t sleep. I was the one who was agitated while his house burned! And what a magnificent man he was!”

If you are that magnificent, Tejram Meena—if you are as ‘tejasvi’ as your name—then no problem. But then, if the house catches fire, watch it at ease. Live at home as if in an inn. Then no obstacle remains. Then you have understood Mahavira.

But if you don’t have that much courage, don’t drape yourself in Mahavira’s mantle. Don’t hide yourself, don’t save yourself with tricks. Otherwise people are so skilled at finding nice-sounding justifications that they think, “Now what shall we do? Since a person like Mahavira waited, we too will wait. When my wife dies…” And you think your wife will die before you! Usually, wives do not die first.

Women live five years longer than men—remember. And men commit another stupidity: they marry women five years younger. The man is twenty-five and wants a girl of twenty. So five years younger, and women live five years longer—the average is five years more. That makes a ten-year difference. Tejram Meena, you will be sent off first; only ten years later will your lady be sent off! That’s why there are so many widows. That’s the reason. First you mess up by five years. If you go by arithmetic, you should always marry a woman five years older. It’s advantageous in many ways—she’ll be a bit experienced, won’t harass you so much, there’ll be some motherliness, a little compassion and tenderness—and she won’t send you off first; you’ll depart roughly together. Going together is good. Why do women live five years more? Psychologists and scientists have studied, but haven’t quite found the reason. We say men are stronger—so men should live longer. But it isn’t true.

A man’s strength is only muscular. Yes, he has stronger muscles. If you want to make someone carry loads, he’s suitable. Yoke him to a cart; he’ll pull. That’s one kind of strength. But there’s another strength, deeper—endurance—which women have. They don’t break easily; no matter how many blows, they bear, swallow, digest. Men can’t take that many blows. Nature made women strong because they have to give birth to children. Give birth to just one child, Tejram Meena—then you’ll know! With one, you’ll remember your sixth-milk! Then you won’t say, “Two or three”; you’ll say, “One is enough. What two or three—do you want me alive or not? One is plenty.”

Nine months carrying a child! Try it—tie a small stone to your belly and carry it for nine months! Your back will bend; you won’t manage to sit and rise; you’ll forget what and how to eat; your senses will be confounded!

And you know children these days—they start their mischief right in the womb: strikes, gheraos, down-withs and long-lives—what not! Scientists say boys kick; girls lie quiet… After two or four children, women get a feel whether a girl or a boy is inside. The boy starts politics right there—he’ll kick, twist, make a racket; he’s already trying to reach Delhi. Girls remain quiet.

The mother begins to sense whether it’s a girl or a boy. Girls are a bit calmer.

And it doesn’t end after nine months. Then try sleeping at night! Some children are wonders—sleep all day and stay awake all night! Who knows what arithmetic they have—snoring by day and by night not letting anyone sleep.

Someone asked the inventor of the alarm clock, “Why did you create it?” He said, “I have no children in my house.”

Those with children don’t need alarm clocks; they don’t let you sleep anyway. Then there’s the squealing, the crying; always some mischief. But women—nothing disturbs them; they’ll manage through the night, and all day work, all night with the children—still no problem. There is in them a certain gentleness, a certain endurance; therefore they live longer.

Otherwise, what have you left in a woman’s life to make it worth living? Nothing. Her life has been so battered, so clipped and crippled—what joy is there in her life? Do you think, Tejram Meena, that seeing your face gives her bliss? She curses her skull and her fate—what else can she do!

Chandulal’s wife was talking to him about their daughter’s marriage: “Find a boy, and quickly!” Chandulal said, “Don’t be hasty. Find a proper family, a proper boy; only then do it. In haste there will be a mess.” His wife said, “If haste creates a mess—had my parents not been hasty, would I have married a baboon like you? It’s only because of haste that even a baboon like you got a wife. Otherwise, would you have ever found one?”

Your wife is stopping you because you have crippled women—made them handicapped, broken their hands and feet; economically, you have stunted their lives; in every way you have made them dependent on you. And then you talk of sannyas! And your wife won’t even know what kind of sannyas you are talking about. She’ll think only of the old sannyas. Explain that this sannyas is not the old one.

This sannyas is a completely new expression. Nowhere to go, nowhere to flee, nothing to drop, nothing to renounce; live exactly where you are—learn a new art of living there. Learn a new style of being. And in that style your wife will lose nothing. If not, bring her here. She will understand. You won’t bring her, because if she comes, she will take sannyas first. Women understand quickly—because what I say is straightforward.

Women naturally feel frightened of the old sannyas. How much atrocity has been committed in its name! Husbands remained alive and women became widows. Millions of women became widows. Then look at how they had to live—washing someone’s dishes, stitching someone’s clothes, cooking someone’s bread, or becoming prostitutes. Whose sin is all this? Their children became orphans. You fathered the children and then became a sannyasin! If you had to be a sannyasin, why marry? Why have children? You brought a wife home, set up a house, and then ran away—abandoning responsibility. Millions did this—and we gave them such respect. We called them renouncers and ascetics; muni, mahatma, yati—we worshipped and venerated them, waved lamps, garlanded them, burned incense—without any concern for how much disorder and adultery spread in the country because of them, how many became destitute because of them.

I am utterly opposed to that sannyas.

Explain to your wife and family my understanding of sannyas. Better still, bring them here. Instead of trying to become Mahavira, bring them here. And if you truly want to become Mahavira, then do it with courage—become Mahavira! It is not as easy as you think. Don’t think you’ve found a trick to avoid things. And whom will you deceive? Not me—you do as you please.

But remember: the false cannot be liberated. If you deceive yourself, you will repent deeply. Transform your life in time; don’t waste time; don’t let it slip by just like that.

Sahajanand! Dreams do not come true. Sometimes, by coincidence, the outer and the dream coincide—that’s another matter. But that is sheer chance. If it hits, it’s an arrow; otherwise it’s a fluke. Ninety-nine times out of a hundred it doesn’t hit; once in a while it does. But that doesn’t make you an archer.

There is a famous story about Mulla Nasruddin. He took the children of his school to a village fair. There were many stalls. At one stall people were betting on archery. You put down some rupees, then shot an arrow. If it hit the mark, the shopkeeper paid you ten times whatever you staked: put ten, get a hundred. If you missed, your ten were gone. It was a business—a straight gamble.

Nasruddin said to his students, “Come!” He went straight up and put down a hundred rupees. He picked up the bow, adjusted his cap, drew the string, and said to the boys, “Watch carefully!” A crowd gathered to see what Nasruddin would do. The shopkeeper got curious, the boys packed in—the whole school had come. He shot. The arrow flew far beyond the target; the spot to be pierced was left behind, his arrow went way ahead. People burst out laughing, clapped, hooted. Nasruddin said, “Be quiet, you ignoramuses! First understand the point!” A hush fell. He said to his students, “You see? That was the arrow of a man with an excess of self-confidence. Learn the lesson.” People said, “True enough. If the arrow overshoots, it means too much self-confidence.”

Nasruddin took a second arrow. He shot. It didn’t even reach the target; it fell after four or six steps, far short of the mark. Again laughter, hooting. Nasruddin said, “Silence, fools! Still you don’t understand? Boys, did you get it? This was the arrow of a man who, frightened by his own self-confidence, swung to the opposite extreme, began to feel inferior. That was his arrow.” Now people said, “Point well taken! He’s a crank, but he speaks to the point!”

He took a third arrow. It went and struck dead center. He picked up his hundred and said, “Now give me a thousand more.” The shopkeeper asked, “What is this?” He said, “This is my arrow. The first arrow belonged to the man with too much self-confidence. The second belonged to the man full of inferiority. This one is mine.”

Whatever hits is my arrow; for what doesn’t, I will find a way to account for it.

Sometimes your dreams do hit the mark—by coincidence. Don’t start thinking dreams are true. What was going to happen was going to happen; it just happened to line up with your dream. That happens once in a while.

Chandulal and his friend Dhabbuji were talking. Dhabbuji asked, “Friend Chandulal, tell me something. Has any wish of your childhood ever been fulfilled or not?” Chandulal said, “Yes, why not! As a child, when the master would grab my hair and beat me, I used to wish, ‘O God, if only there were no hair on my head, how good it would be!’ And by God’s grace, today there isn’t a single hair on my head—nothing but the moon, all moon—completely bald. That wish was fulfilled. God listens, sir—provided someone asks!”

Now, if once in a while the arrow hits, that’s another matter.

Chandulal is happy. When he goes for a haircut, it costs less. With no hair, what is there to cut?

Someone asked him, “Doesn’t the baldness trouble you?” He said, “Trouble? Only advantages. Just one small difficulty: early in the morning, when I wash my face, I don’t know where to stop—there’s a little confusion there! Sometimes I use too much water, that’s all. Otherwise, it’s all gain. What loss is there? And these are signs of intelligence.”

Have you ever seen a Sardar go bald? What baldness! First there must be intelligence. So the bald have calculated and declared it for themselves—intelligence. Have you seen women go bald? Not a chance! I’ve seen only one woman in my whole life so far. I’ve wandered all over India looking and looking that I might find one bald woman. One woman—and she wasn’t much of a woman: a moustachioed woman, with both a moustache and a bald pate. An astonishing woman!

Only by coincidence... Sahajanand, dreams do not come true. If once in a while a dream happens to coincide, don’t make it a rule—that is the exception. But people cling to what they believe; if they find even an exception, they take it as the rule.

Two friends were talking. One said, “Man, you have firm faith in astrology! The astrologer looked at my son’s hand and said, ‘Sir, your son’s life will have many ups and downs.’ And in the end his prediction came true.” The other asked, “How so?” The first said, “These days my son is a liftman. From morning to evening, up and down, down and up—his whole life passes in ups and downs. What an astrologer! What a statement! Right on the mark!”

Astrologers talk like this. They keep a list of what to say. They say the same things to everyone: “Your life will have great ups and downs.” Now whose life doesn’t have ups and downs? Have you ever seen a person whose life has no fluctuations? Whether he is a liftman or not, there will be ups and downs. Otherwise what will you do in life? If you neither go down nor go up, what will you do? What work is there except this? Go down and go up! Stay entangled like that. Some set up a ladder for wealth, some for status; some are climbing onto chairs, some are getting pulled down. If you don’t step down, others will pull you down. And sometimes, if you don’t climb, others will push you up. Others also enjoy the spectacle of going up and down. This is the show of the world: people going up, people going down. What else is here? Only waves upon waves.

Astrologers say, “Money will come into your hand, but it won’t stay.” Whose hand does it stay in! If money stayed put, would it be called money? Why is it called currency in English? Because currency means flow—circulation. It comes and goes. Comes and goes: that’s what currency means—doesn’t stay. If it stayed, would it be money? What else in the world moves as much as money moves? From one hand to another, from the second to a third—always on the move. It doesn’t see day or night; it just keeps moving. Through how many stations, how many halts, before it reaches your hand! So everyone feels the statement fits: perfectly true.

Astrologers keep such statements ready—arrows that will hit everyone. “You have great talent, but there are many obstacles.” Now to whom would that not apply! Every person believes he has great talent. If he is not advancing, it’s because of obstacles placed by others.

There is an Arabic saying: Whenever God sends someone into the world, he whispers a joke in each one’s ear: “I have not made anyone more beautiful, more talented than you.” So everyone comes into the world with this inner tune: No one is more beautiful or more gifted than me. He doesn’t say it aloud—because it wouldn’t look proper—he keeps it hidden, but inwardly he thinks so and spends his whole life trying to prove it. But there are so many others putting up obstacles—who lets anyone’s talent settle!

No, Sahajanand, dreams neither come true, nor can they. And we call dreams imagination because they rob you of what is. You remain lost in what should be, and what is slips out of your hands. And other than what is, there is nothing. Only that is. To live in what is, to be wholly absorbed in what is—that is meditation, samadhi.

To remain lost in dreams is to keep missing the present with your own hands. And apart from the present, nothing else is true.

That’s all for today.