Sanch Sanch So Sanch #2

Abhayanand, this sutra is lovely—worth thinking about, worth meditating upon.
Kasyāsti nāśe manaso hi mokṣaḥ.
“In whose destruction is liberation? In the destruction of the mind alone.”

Mind is bondage. And a bondage only in our belief. In truth there is nothing to destroy; it is simply a matter of opening your eyes and the mind dissolves. With eyes closed, mind appears; the moment you open them, mind is gone.

It is like mistaking a rope for a snake on a dusky path. You panic, you run; you may slip and break a bone; you may even have a heart attack out of fear. And there was nothing there but a rope. The snake was your projection—your fear draped over the rope. The snake wasn’t there, yet your very real bones broke, your very real heart took a blow.

What is not, too, has consequences. Darkness, too, is not a thing—only the absence of light—yet it has consequences: in darkness you stumble into walls, trip on furniture. Light a lamp and darkness is nowhere to be found. In the same way, when awareness is lit, mind is nowhere to be found. Bring a lamp to that rope and you find a rope, not a snake. And then even the question “Where did the snake go?” becomes meaningless; what never was cannot go anywhere.

So be careful: do not take “destruction of the mind” to mean there is a substantial mind which must be demolished. That which truly is cannot be destroyed. It may sound a little strange at first, so let me repeat it precisely: that which is, cannot be destroyed; and only that which is not, can be destroyed. You cannot annihilate even a grain of sand. Science holds the power to wipe out humanity, even to strip life from seven Earths—so many hydrogen bombs and atom bombs!—but science still cannot make a single grain of sand vanish. What is, remains—forms change, shapes change, but being remains—in new forms, new shapes. Only the unreal can be wiped away.

That is why I say to my sannyasins: I will take from you only what you do not have, and I will give you only what you already have. I have nothing to take, nothing to give. Let awareness dawn upon what is, and let your delusion about what is not be shattered.

Mind is only an appearance, a snake seen in a rope. A little light of meditation—and mind is not to be found.

Shankaracharya’s sutra is right: Kasyāsti nāśe manaso hi mokṣaḥ.

What is moksha? Where is moksha? Drop the idea that somewhere beyond the seventh sky there is liberation. Liberation is within you. Caught in the illusion of mind, you cannot see it. Obsessed with the snake, you cannot see the rope. The moment you awaken from the trance of mind—and mind really is a kind of stupor, a swoon—the moment the turmoil of mind ceases, the stream of thoughts breaks, these dreams, memories, fantasies, desires and cravings empty out, if only for a single moment, instantly you see who you are. When mind stops, self-knowing is. And self-knowing is freedom.

Do not be misled by the word moksha; it carries a geographical flavor, as if it were somewhere else. I prefer the word mukti to moksha, because mukti has an innerness to it. In moksha we have externalized liberation—just as I distinguish between divinity and God, between dharma and religiosity, so I distinguish between mukti and moksha. My emphasis is on mukti, not moksha. Moksha carries a danger: it suggests “elsewhere, sometime else, in some other realm.”

And if liberation is “elsewhere,” the mind won’t die. You may renounce wealth and position, and then fill yourself with the desire for moksha. All desires are the same in this: any desire is enough to keep the mind alive, to nourish it. Desire is the root of mind. If you want anything at all, mind will remain. If wanting itself drops, mind drops. Mind is wanting—desire, craving, ambition.

That is why, if you look closely at your sadhus, saints and holy men, you will find no revolution has happened in their lives. Yes, the objects of desire have changed, but desire itself remains as before. No difference, not by a hair. They stand exactly where they stood. They wanted wealth; now they want religion. They wanted position; now they want God. They wanted the world; now they want kaivalya, aloneness. They have shrunk all desires into one desire.

Beware: when desires are many, the mind is weaker because it is divided—wealth, power, prestige, this, that—a thousand things, the mind is fragmented, and its strength is dissipated. But one who gathers all desires into a single point—“moksha!”—who harnesses the desire for position, wealth, prestige to that one target, whose every arrow flies in one direction—his mind becomes far stronger.

That is my experience: worldly people have weak minds, and your so-called spiritual people have very strong minds. Their chains have not become fewer. Your bonds are like thin threads; theirs have become thick ropes, woven from all those threads. Your chains are many and flimsy—easy to break. Theirs is a great chain, forged from all chains into one.

So I tell my sannyasin: do not become a sadhu, a mahatma, a saint. Do not run away from the world. If you flee the world, you will need a positive goal ahead—one cannot flee only “from”; one always flees “for” something. And what you are fleeing toward by leaving the world is even more difficult. The mind will grow stronger—far stronger than before.

Hence your holy men carry a pride you do not find in worldly people. The worldly man sighs, “Poor me, bound in the fetters of the world.” The saint struts: “I have kicked away money, position, prestige! I left it all—for moksha.” And moksha becomes the final noose.

This is not how mind goes. Mind goes only one way: by seeing its nature with awakened eyes. What is the nature of mind? “More and more!” Whatever is, is not enough. Where I am is not the right place; how I am is not right. I must be somewhere else, someone else, attain something else. This endless race for more is the very nature of mind. The moment you know, “Where I am, as I am, I am delighted. Nowhere to go, nothing to become, nothing to get,” in that very seeing a lamp is lit within you in whose light mind is not found; a flame arises in which the darkness called mind dissolves.

Shankaracharya’s sutra is beautiful: “In whose destruction is liberation? In the destruction of the mind alone.”

But let me caution you: do not start thinking you must destroy the mind to get moksha—otherwise you miss. Shankaracharya is not saying, “Destroy the mind and you will attain moksha.” He is saying: where the mind is no more, what remains is moksha. Moksha is within you; mind has cast veils over it. Remove the veils and liberation is revealed. Moksha is your nakedness, your very nature, your inmost suchness. And mind? Mind is your wandering, your falling away from yourself—leaving the center, roaming the periphery. Mind is time—past and future. Moksha is the present—here and now. Look neither ahead nor behind; rest utterly in this moment—and you have found moksha, because resting utterly in this moment is moksha.

And he says:
Kva sarvathā nāsti bhayaṁ vimuktau.
“In what is there absolutely no fear?” Abhayanand has translated it as “In moksha.” I would say: Shankaracharya’s word is perfectly clear. Why have you translated it as moksha? How quickly our minds slide into mistakes!

Kva sarvathā nāsti bhayaṁ vimuktau.
Vimuktau! How do you make that “moksha”? In freedom, in being free—vimukti. You immediately turned it into “moksha.” We turn inner things into outer ones. Because as soon as we externalize them, we have a destination—“I will get it”—and the ego has a new project: “Now I must achieve liberation.” But it is all outside. The whole matter is always within. You hear it, and in the very hearing you shift it outward.

You translate: “Where is there absolutely no fear? In moksha.” Which means: “When I get moksha, fear will go.” Yesterday I received a letter from America. The head of the Hare Krishna movement sent a religious threat—as the religious have always done—saying: “If you say anything against the Hare Krishna movement, you will never reach Goloka, and you will have to fall into the seventh hell.”

Who wants to go to Goloka? A bull might. Who else? Strange people! At least ask if I even want to go to Goloka. What worlds they have imagined! Gandhi must have gone to Goat-Loka, because he drank goat’s milk all his life; who would let him into Goloka? And be careful with buffalo milk! And if you go to Goloka—what will you do there, and what will you be?

I was startled—because poor Bhaktivedanta Prabhupada has died; perhaps he has already become a bull in Goloka!

A man died. His wife went to a “spirit-medium,” reputed to contact the dead. “Please,” she said, “let me speak to my husband just once. If I know he has reached a good place, my sorrow will be eased.” The medium lit incense, muttered mantras, rolled his eyes—and then suddenly, in another voice, said, “I am here.” The wife asked, “How are you?” He said, “Very fine, very happy. Green pastures everywhere, grass everywhere, flowers blooming, cows grazing.” The wife said, “Leave this grass and cows aside—first tell me about heaven.” He said, “Look, this cow beside me is so beautiful she puts Hema Malini to shame!” She said, “Have you lost your mind? You reach heaven and talk like this?” He said, “Who says I reached heaven? I’m right here in Poona, reborn as a bull! What a lovely cow is standing here—my mouth is watering! And you’re talking about heaven! Heaven be damned—I’m off after the cow.”

Who wants to go to Goloka? Anywhere but Goloka, I’m ready to go. What would I do there? And as for the seventh hell—I have no objection. Seventh, fourteenth—any hell will do. Wherever I am, as I am, I am blissful—so I will be blissful there too. What can the seventh hell spoil? Nothing of mine can be spoiled. We’ll gather sannyasins there; we’ll hold satsang there too. And if I have to go to the seventh hell, my sannyasins will also go there—where else would they go? We’ll settle in again.

These beyond-world fantasies—Goloka, Vaikuntha, heaven, moksha—are madness. There is no heaven anywhere, no hell anywhere. When you are not in yourself, you are in hell; when you are in yourself, you are in heaven. Keep such threats for other madmen. One who is rooted in himself carries his heaven within. One who is not rooted in himself carries his hell within—wherever he goes.

Abhayanand, Shankar is precise: “Where is there absolutely no fear?” Do not translate it as “moksha.” Say: “In freedom.” And freedom means: freedom from mind. Freedom means samadhi—the ultimate state of meditation.

Śalyaṁ paraṁ kim? Nijamūrkhataiva.
“And what is the supreme thorn? What is the greatest obstacle?” “One’s own stupidity.”

Whose stupidity could obstruct you except your own? What is our stupidity? Our greatest stupidity is this: we are ignorant, but we think we are knowledgeable. We know nothing, and we wrap ourselves in scriptures—wrap scripture-cloth around us, drape ourselves in a “Ram-Name” shawl. Within, there is no taste of Rama, no glimpse—inside is only kama, desire—yet outside we wear the shawl of God’s name, reading the Vedas, the Quran, the Bible, the Guru Granth Sahib. But who is the reader? In what state? Unconscious or alert?

Understand this: if you are unconscious—even if you read the Vedas, what will you read? Your Veda will become pornography. Read the Quran—you will turn it into garbage. You are the one who reads and gives meaning. Words are in the book, but who gives them meaning? Who lends them tone and color? Entering you, they will be colored by you, stupefied like you.

If you are awake, meditative, silent, then there is no need to read the Veda, because the door of the inner Vedas opens. No need to recite the Quran; its verses begin to descend within you. What happened in Mohammed begins to happen in you. Why cling to stale, borrowed things?

What is stupidity? There is only one stupidity. We are all born ignorant—that is harmless. Every child is born ignorant; there is no danger in that. The danger begins when we cover our ignorance with borrowed knowledge. Ignorance draped in secondhand knowledge—that is stupidity. Another name for stupidity is pedantry—parrot-learning.

So many parrots! Imams, ayatollahs, popes—priests, pundits, scholars—repeating like machines. They do not know what they repeat, nor why. They do not know that within them the scripture of scriptures lies unopened, layered over by the silt of centuries. Within is the mirror wherein truth can be reflected, but the mirror is buried in dust—the dust of their “knowledge.” The trash of scripture has covered their mirror.

Ignorance is not dangerous; it is innocence. Every child is born ignorant, but his mirror is clean. A child is not stupid. To become stupid one has to go to university. To be stupid you need at least an M.A., Ph.D., D.Litt. To be stupid you need degrees.

“Upadhi” is a beautiful word in our language: it means both “degree” and “disease.” Degrees are diseases people wear like tails—M.A., Ph.D., D.Litt.—a tail they drag behind. The longer the tail, the more “importance.” Remember Hanuman? He kept lengthening his tail—meaning, he kept becoming a bigger pundit! He even made a throne of his own tail and sat on it. Everyone is busy lengthening their tail.

Stupidity is the given name of your so-called scriptural knowledge. It does not remove your ignorance; it only covers it. If only you recognize your ignorance, it is easy to dissolve. But once you cover it, even recognizing it becomes difficult. Like someone with a wound who pastes a rose over it—how will the wound be treated now? Pus gathers within, while the flower gives fragrance above. That is our state.

Śalyaṁ paraṁ kim? Nijamūrkhataiva.
There is only one thorn: you have veiled your ignorance. Unveil it. Recognize it. In the very recognition, the rains of wisdom begin. He who has recognized his ignorance, in that very seeing has become wise. The seer is always separate from the seen—and free of it.

And the third thing Shankaracharya says:
Ke ke hyupāsyā gurudevavṛddhāḥ.
“Who are worthy of upasana? The Guru, the Deva, and the Vriddha (the mature).”

Abhayanand, Shankar’s statement is lovely, but people’s interpretations are utterly foolish. Who is a guru? One who “gives knowledge”? But truth cannot be given. Yet people think: “A guru is one who teaches you—the Vedas, the Quran, the Bible, doctrines—the one who instructs.” And who are the devas? Indra and that whole lot who, having earned much merit—building dharmashalas, roadside water stands, temples—have reached heaven. They built inns here and now spend their days in revelry there. Build a charity-house here so you can enjoy under a wish-fulfilling tree there! There, whatever you wish is instantly granted. In the world you must labor for years, be battered by crowds, get a hundred shoes before you can see a show—first become the show yourself! And by then you are in no state to watch anything. But under the wish-fulfilling tree, it happens instantly.

So who are the devas? Like Jugal Kishore Birla—he built so many temples; he became a deva. They say he was received at heaven’s gate with fanfare—shehnais playing, gods ringing bells, bhajan-kirtan. He himself must have been surprised. I knew him—so let me tell the truth. Perhaps he had harbored a doubt: “I’ll get heaven, but such a red-carpet welcome, flowers that never fade, apsaras—Urvashi, Menaka—garlands in hand!” He had built temples; heaven was assured. He once asked me, “I built so many temples, gave so much charity, created so many trusts—what will be the benefit?” A doubt lingers; only then does one ask. The fear is that the money may be wasted—neither here nor there, like the washerman’s donkey. I laughed it off—why trouble a dying old man? It was too late for truth and I don’t tell lies.

But when he arrived and saw the reception, he asked the gatekeeper, “Does everyone get welcomed like this?” “No,” the gatekeeper said, “this is for you—because you manufactured the Ambassador car.” Jugal Kishore was more startled: “I built temples, inns, yajnas and havans—and that didn’t earn me heaven? The Ambassador car did?” “Understand,” said the gatekeeper. “Because of your car, more people remembered ‘Ram-Ram’ than for any other reason. Those inside the car keep muttering ‘Ram-Ram’. Those who see it on the road say ‘Ram! Ram!’ and jump aside. What a marvel you made—everything rattles except the horn! For miles you can hear ‘Ram-Ram’ being chanted. As your Ambassador passes, silence falls; people become meditative! That is why your welcome is so grand.”

And now perhaps he sits under the wish-fulfilling tree, wondering how to open an Ambassador factory there. Think it here—and it is there.

Our scriptures say: donate a rupee here and get a crore there. Lottery is an ancient thing! Don’t blame governments for running lotteries; the priests invented it long ago. At least with the government lottery, the prize, if it comes, comes here. The priest’s lottery pays “after death.” They write promissory notes and tuck them into a corpse’s shroud, to be redeemed “there.”

So devas are those who, by “merit,” reached heaven. Then, of course, politics runs there too: one becomes Indra and won’t let another become Indra. Indra’s throne is always shaky—every time some sage or rishi begins to rise, he dispatches apsaras. And the poor rishis—repressed, hungry, having left their wives—boil within. At just that moment Menaka arrives—what are they to do? They fall. They become “yoga-bhrashta.” The gods’ business is to corrupt others—some gods!

Do not take such meanings, else the whole verse is squandered. And do not think “vriddha” means the old by age; otherwise the world is full of old donkeys. Age is not proof. If Shankaracharya meant age, he himself would be disqualified—he died at thirty-three. By “vriddha” he means mature—ripened in experience.

And do not take “upasana” to mean ritual worship; you will ruin it. Understand me. “Who are worthy of upasana?” Upasana literally means “sitting near,” upa-asana. As you sit near me now—that is upasana. Near whom should one sit? There is no question of worship; worship is for the gullible and the greedy.

Upasana means satsang: near whom should one sit so that revolution happens? If you place an unlit lamp near a lit one, there is a point of proximity at which the unlit lamp too takes flame. Every Diwali you have done this. That is the science of upasana: come close to a lit lamp—closer and closer—until your unlit lamp catches fire. That is satsang.

“I have seen him… once again I have seen him…”
Though I have seen him before,
Today I have seen him with my heart and soul.
I saw myself through his eyes,
I saw him through his glance.
Where roads and destinations vanish,
I saw him along that secret way.
From here I saw moonlight on the steps;
From there I saw the steps from the moonlight.
In him I saw a temple of words,
And silence become eloquent.
A fragrance not of this world—
I saw his garden drenched in that perfume.
He walks carrying a brimming ocean—
I saw it from his head to his feet.
I drank his beauty with my eyes—
Perhaps I saw with his lips too.
When these eyes began to empty,
Then I saw him to the brim.
I saw him once in the city—
Now I saw him in his home.
I have so often seen the moon from the earth—
Now I saw the earth from the moon.
Even the dark valleys are beautiful,
Seen from a peak of light.
The shore is what drowns us often—
I saw that from the wave’s view.
How fragile the palaces of fact are—
I saw from the glass-house of dreams.
Though I saw him for but a moment,
It feels as if for an age I have seen him.
Such a long acquaintance, yet fresh
Like the first glance of love.
There, lamps burn upon lamps—
Wherever I look, his radiance.
In love, even while extinguished,
I saw the moth’s art of burning-on.
How small the circumference of words—
I saw by passing beyond words.
How could I have seen him at all?
I saw him by the grace of his glance.
Once again I have seen him.

Upasana means: to sit near a buddha. And simply by sitting, drinking begins—if you can just sit—silent, empty, thoughtless, without alternatives—drinking begins.

Mad with love we acted—and we drank;
Unselfconsciously we lifted the cup—and drank.
Under the pretext of temple and mosque, drinking is forbidden;
We took your name—and drank.
Mad with love we acted—and we drank;
Unselfconsciously we lifted the cup—and drank.
Suddenly her downcast glances returned to mind;
We took one salaam from those eyes—and drank.
Mad with love we acted—and we drank;
Unselfconsciously we lifted the cup—and drank.
We laughed at the world’s faithlessness and raised the cup;
We took our revenge upon the world—and drank.
Mad with love we acted—and we drank;
Unselfconsciously we lifted the cup—and drank.

Just sit—let upasana happen—and drinking happens. The company of a true master is a tavern. A true master is a brimming decanter. You become the cup; you draw close—and the wine is eager to overflow, to fill you. Not far—nearer and nearer—intimacy itself is upasana.

“Who are worthy of upasana?”
Ke ke hyupāsyā gurudevavṛddhāḥ.
The guru is worthy of upasana. Who is a guru? Not one who gives you truth, but one who gives you thirst for truth—who makes you parched for it. Truth cannot be given.

One eternal rule: truth cannot be given, but it can be taken. When a flame passes from one lamp to another, does the first lamp lose anything? Nothing is lost, nothing diminishes. So the lit lamp gives nothing, but the unlit lamp receives everything—where it was dark, now it is afire. Strictly speaking, we should say: the lamp does not “give”; the other lamp “takes.”

Human language is peculiar. We call a moving thing a “car”—we should call a fixed thing a “car” (something “car”-red, carried). We say “the moving is called car”—then what do we call the fixed? In the same way, we have called the receiver “the giver.” The guru does not give; the disciple takes. This is the magic of upasana: the guru loses nothing; the disciple gains all.

Who is the deva? Let us understand this word too. Deva comes from the root “div.” From div also comes “divya” (divine), “divas” (day). From div comes the English “divine,” and “day”—and, you may be surprised, even “devil.” Div means light. That which is luminous. Day is called “divas”—day. The luminous is the divine—jyotirmaya.

The rishis of the Upanishads sang: “Tamaso ma jyotirgamaya”—from darkness lead me to light; “Mrityor ma amritam gamaya”—from death to deathlessness; “Asato ma sadgamaya”—from the unreal to the real. All is contained in the first: from darkness to light.

Whoever is luminous is deva. That is why they called the moon “deva,” the sun “deva,” fire “deva”—they are luminous. And that is why the guru is called deva—he is luminous. More luminous than sun and moon and fire—because the sun, one day, will go out; it was not once, and will not be one day. Its oil will be exhausted—it is being exhausted even now. Scientists say perhaps in four thousand years the sun will be extinguished. If before then man has found another planet to live on, well and good; otherwise the earth will be ruined on its own. When the sun goes out, everything goes out.

It would not surprise me if, from man’s unconscious, a deep urge has arisen: “Let us go to the moon, to Mars, to distant stars.” Today there is no practical use, but unconsciously some recognition is rising: the earth’s days are numbered; we must leave. It is unclear, hazy—nature and life work in twilight.

Have you seen the silk-cotton tree’s seeds? Around the seed, the tree wraps cotton. Why? The tree is huge. If seeds fell beneath it, no saplings would ever grow. So the unconscious of the tree creates cotton around the seeds so they won’t fall straight down; the cotton will carry them on the wind, far away. Falling down means death; going far is necessary. The tree does not do this for your pillows and mattresses! It is for its progeny.

Those who have watched crucifixions saw a strange thing: when a man is put on the cross, instantly semen spurts from his genitals. Scientists say the cause is simple: the spermatozoa panic—“This man is finished. Let us find a way into life, into some womb!” They find no womb—but they rush out. Here the man is nailed, there the semen flees.

Perhaps the sun’s setting is registered in nature’s unconscious. The sun has shone for four billion years—enough! It is waning. One day it will go. The moon is all borrowed light—broker’s business—taking from here, giving there. Like shining a torch on a mirror—the mirror returns the light. When the sun goes out, the moon goes out.

But the guru’s light never goes out—because it burns without fuel. It is the only flame that burns without fuel. Because there is no fuel, there is no question of exhaustion. Hence the guru is called deva—another name for his luminosity. And he alone is “vriddha”—regardless of age.

Shankaracharya was thirty-three, yet he was vriddha, mature. Jesus was thirty-three, yet vriddha. Morarji Desai is eighty-five—he is not vriddha; he is still full of childish mind. “Child-mind” is a sweet word for stupidity. His mental age is hardly thirteen or fourteen. Not more.

What things he says! Brezhnev came and he announced: “Brezhnev told me: finish Pakistan; teach them a lesson.” A Gandhian, a truth-teller! One Harishchandra of truth, and one Morarji of truth—only two ever in the world. Harishchandra saw in a dream that he had given a donation; this one must have heard in a dream that Brezhnev told him so. The whole of Russia was startled—“We never said that.” He insisted, then shifted: “Brezhnev did not say it; someone else said it. I do not wish to name him.” How can he name him? If he names, he must bring proof.

Such childishness. These days he goes around saying, “I have the solution to Assam’s problem.” Then what were you doing when you were Prime Minister? Is Assam new? Then you were busy drinking shivambu—and now you have the solution! “But I will not reveal it unless the government asks me.” So Giani Zail Singh wrote to him, “I ask you. Please come.” And I saw yesterday he said, “First send the ticket.”

What kind of people are these! They don’t even have a ticket to Delhi! Enroll him in Mother Teresa’s orphanage—their satsang will be perfect. What talk!

And I say: I am ready to buy him the ticket. And the “solution” will be exactly what I have often told you. In a village a theft took place. No one could solve it. There was a Sheikh Chilli who said, “I can.” The inspector was thrilled. “Tell us!” The villagers said, “He might—once a huge elephant passed through at night; none of us could tell, though we saw the prints in the sand. He said immediately, ‘Nothing—it is just a deer hopping with a grinding-stone tied to his feet!’ He knows everything.” So the officer said, “Tell us.” He said, “Not here—alone.” He led him far out of the village. The officer began to worry—no one in sight, not even a cow, Goloka left behind. “Now tell me.” “Come close,” he whispered, “in your ear: it must be that a thief did the stealing.”

I will buy Morarji Desai the ticket. You go whisper in Giani Zail Singh’s ear.

To grow old is not to be vriddha. Only a true guru is vriddha. Vriddha means one who has seen life and recognized its futility; who has seen its impermanence; who has found no essence in it—and, seeing this, has ended the entire race of the mind. One who is established in samadhi—that one is guru; that one is deva, because luminous; and that one is vriddha. He alone is worthy of upasana. Shankaracharya’s sutra is indeed lovely.

I repeat: from enlightened beings no mistakes ever happen. But one becomes an enlightened being at a certain point; before that, many mistakes happen. As I say, Jesus became an enlightened being on the cross; before that, many mistakes happened through him. Buddha left home at twenty-nine; six years later, when he was thirty-five, he attained enlightenment. So in those thirty-five years, whatever he said, whatever he heard, whatever he did, has no value. Mahavira attained enlightenment at forty; whatever he said, did, or heard before that is all wrong.

The sutra I am supporting must certainly have been spoken in the state of enlightenment. And the sutra I am not supporting must certainly have been said before enlightenment. There is no contradiction in this. A revolution happens within a person. An extinguished lamp behaves in one way—there is no light in it. A lit lamp behaves in another way—there is light in it. The same lamp was sometimes lit, sometimes it goes out. One and the same lamp—sometimes extinguished, sometimes aflame. Enlightenment, fortunately, does not go out; this is good. Once lit, lit forever.

So whatever statements were made before enlightenment have no value. Yes, sometimes a statement may, by coincidence, come close to truth; then I will certainly praise it to that extent. Only yesterday I was praising Rabindranath’s words—but only to the extent proportionate to the reflection, the glimpse of truth in them.

I am no one’s follower, nor do I have enmity toward anyone. Therefore, whatever utterance of Mohammed seems right to me on the criterion of enlightenment, I will certainly support. And if even some saying of Krishna does not meet that criterion, I will oppose it just as much as I can, without the slightest hesitation.

This creates difficulties for you. I understand your difficulties, because you want straightforward, simple talk. You want me to say either: he is enlightened, therefore everything is right—garbage or whatever, all of it right. Or to say: he is not enlightened, and then even diamonds and jewels are wrong.

A similar question—

Rishiraj Trivedi, first consider this: Balya, the Bhil, who could not even chant "Rama, Rama" properly--would he be able to write the Ramayana? A man who, while chanting "Rama, Rama," began chanting "mara, mara"--could such a person write the story of Rama? Is there any possibility? None is evident. He could not even remember "Rama" fully--just two syllables, the smallest of words--even that he forgot and started saying "mara, mara"--would such a person write the Ramayana? He was not educated. And even if he had written the Ramayana, whatever an unlettered, uncultured person writes will carry the imprint of all his lack of culture; his entire illiteracy would cast its shadow over it.

So first of all, Balya the Bhil is such an uneducated man, a killer, that there is no likelihood of his composing the tale of Rama. Someone else must have written the story of Rama; yes, and it was affixed to Valmiki’s name. This is an old current in India. There are so many books under the name of Vyasa that one person could not possibly have written them. One book is three thousand years old, another two thousand, another one thousand, another five thousand. So it seems Vyasa never died; he kept up this racket!

But "Vyasa" became merely a symbolic label. Whoever wanted to set his work going would write it under Vyasa’s name. Once Vyasa’s name was attached, that thing received respect. Even garbage would turn into a diamond. So who knows how many people wrote books and circulated them under Vyasa’s name. There was no copyright, no law, no courts, no printing presses. People wrote by hand. In those days you too could have written a book and put Vyasa’s name on it--the book would have taken off.

It is unlikely that Valmiki wrote the Ramayana. He could not even chant "Rama" fully--will he write the Ramayana! Yes, some Brahmin must have written it and made use of Valmiki’s name. Because Balya the Bhil attained Buddhahood by chanting "mara, mara." He became peaceful, silent. His fame must have spread. He had become luminous. Some scholar-priest would have written it.

And the truth is that to this day no enlightened person has written any book. The enlightened only speak; it is the Brahmins who write. Neither Buddha wrote any book, nor Mahavira, nor Krishna, nor Jesus, nor Mohammed. No one wrote any book. They spoke. Someone else wrote. And whoever wrote will also intrude; he will insert his own notions, his own beliefs.

Therefore, Rishiraj Trivedi, I look at it straightforwardly. If there is any error anywhere in the tale, I will oppose it--whoever may have written it, under whichever name it circulates. And in the story of Rama and Sita there are many things that are rubbish, without any value whatsoever.

Enough for today.