Sanch Sanch So Sanch #4

Mrityunjay Desai, the question is important, but the answer may hurt you—because within this one question many other questions are hidden, and you may not even be aware of them.

The most important thing to ponder, as you say that Indians, due to centuries of slavery and poverty, are afflicted with a dreadful inferiority complex, is this: why have Indians been poor and enslaved for centuries? Where is the cause of this slavery and poverty? What are its foundations, its roots? People don’t become enslaved and poor for no reason. You can be forcibly enslaved for a few days, a few months, even a few years; but can anyone be kept forcibly enslaved for two thousand years? And whoever came turned us into slaves—Huns, Shakas, Turks, Mughals, the English, the Portuguese—small tribes with little power or number came and kept this vast country subjugated!

There must be some hidden tendency in the soul of this country to live as a slave. This country seems to invite slavery. Those conquerors did not come without cause; as if, unknowingly, we had sent them invitations: “Come.” Perhaps we ourselves don’t know when we sent those invitations, but as conquerors came from afar again and again, surely there was something about us that drew them. And what is that something? Is it not the very thing you call “our India,” “our Indian culture,” “our Indian religion”? If it is, then we are in deep trouble.

As I see it, that is your culture and that is your religion—the very things that kept you enslaved and poor. Your poverty is even older. Slavery came later; poverty is ancient. India knows only one “eternal religion”—poverty. Don’t get lost in the stories that India was once a golden bird. For those for whom India was a golden bird then, it still is—those few. But for the ninety-nine percent, what gold, what golden bird! They have always been poor, they have always been hungry. In truth, because they stayed hungry, a few others could forge golden birds. Because they remained poor, a few could erect golden palaces.

So the “authenticity” you praise in India—if disease lies in that very authenticity—then we must think very carefully. Otherwise, in saving your “uniqueness,” you will commit suicide. And in my view, the disease is in your very uniqueness.

India remained enslaved because India denied the outer world by calling it maya, an illusion. Your great revered figures—Shankaracharya foremost—are responsible. Your scriptures that said the outer world is dreamlike—those very teachings enslaved you. If the world is a dream, what does it matter if you are slave or master? At night in a dream you are rich or poor, come morning it is all gone. What is the value of a night’s dreams?

Once the country accepted that foolish notion that the world is maya, the foundation for slavery was laid. How could you defeat those who took the world as real while you dismissed it as false? They fought in the real; for you it was all a dream—win or lose, the same. If you lost—dream; if you won—still a dream. In the end all returns to dust—the beggar and the emperor alike.

You became skilled at saying such “beautiful” things! You dressed hollow notions in lovely ornaments. You covered your stupidity with pomp and words. You have reaped the fruits of that. No one else enslaved you; you were eager to be enslaved. Don’t push this responsibility onto others. It is yours.

And until this country recognizes the world as real, good fortune cannot dawn here. If the world itself is unreal, how will science be born? And science is power. What science can arise from dreams? What physics, what chemistry, what mathematics? Dreams have no existence; how then will you produce a Newton, an Edison, an Einstein, a Rutherford? If the world is maya, there is no need for any of them.

Instead, you produce Muktanands and Akhandanands—a whole cohort of simpletons who parrot the same lines and keep stuffing your heads with the same centuries-old dung, and make you drink cow urine because “it is panchamrit”! Mix cow dung, cow urine, milk, ghee, curd—gulp it down; it becomes panchamrit! And worship the cow, because when you cross the Vaitarni, it is by holding the cow’s tail that you’ll get across. So worship the cow. Understand that the world is illusion; winning and losing are trivial; wealth is useless. And if wealth is useless, how will you create it? Who labors to create what is “useless”?

The seeds of your slavery lie in Shankaracharya’s dictum—Brahman is truth, the world is false. This is the seed-mantra of your enslavement. If the world is false, why snatch and struggle? If it doesn’t exist, why fight for it? Let Alexander come, let Nadir Shah come, let Genghis Khan come—what do we care! Let them loot dreams! They are ignorant fools! We are the wise, sitting by our sacred fires, fingering our malas chanting Ram-Ram, eyes closed. Let those who wish to gather outer clay pots do so!

And then you say we have been poor for centuries. Who is responsible? Not Genghis Khan, not Timur, not Nadir Shah, not Alexander—Shankaracharya laid the foundation for your slavery. And he wasn’t the only one. For centuries, the same type of people, the same nonsense! Even today the same blabber continues. People, blissfully intoxicated, keep drinking this trash! Satsangs still keep milking the same old scriptures! In the twentieth century it is still a new moon night in this country; dawn has not come.

Dawn will come the day you accept this sutra: the world is true and Brahman is true. This is what I say to you—both are true. And only if both are true can Truth be complete; a single-faced truth cannot be. Brahman is within, the world is without. If the outer face is false, the inner cannot be true. If one side of a coin is counterfeit, the other cannot be genuine. Either both sides are false or both are true. If the outside of a pot is false, do you think the inside is true? Inside and outside make the same pot.

Kabir defined the guru as the potter: one hand supports from within, the other taps from without—that’s how a pot is shaped. The inner is true and needs support; the outer is true and needs the shaping tap. Only then does the pot take form.

We have suffered under an extremely foolish and inert philosophy—inside is truth, outside is false! If the outside is false, what is this inside? The inside is only meaningful in reference to the outside. We are talking nonsense—as if the blackboard is false but the letters written on it are true. If the board is false, how can the letters be true? If the body is false, how can the consciousness dwelling in it be true? How can Truth abide within falsehood? If the world is false, how can its creator be true? How can its sustainer be true?

You say the world is false, yet you worship Brahma, Vishnu, Mahesh! They created the world—and the world is an illusion! How did they create what does not exist? Why did they create what does not exist? And how can creators of a non-existent world exist? Whom are you fooling?

It is like this: in school, a teacher told the children to draw a picture of anything they love. They all took hours. One little boy, Tillu Guru—Chandulal the Marwari’s son—stood up almost immediately and said, “Here’s my picture!” The teacher was astonished. She hadn’t finished speaking and he was done! She looked: a blank page. “What is this a picture of?” “This is modern art,” said Tillu Guru, smiling as only the wise should smile—hence his name. “Look carefully—there’s a cow grazing in a field.” “But there is no field! A field is green; this is blank white paper!” “Exactly,” he smiled. “There’s no green grass because the cow ate it.” “All right, but where is the cow?” “When she finished the grass, she went home. Why would she stay when nothing is left?”

No cow, no grass—and the picture is complete! Likewise, God created this vast existence—and it’s all false! No cow, no grass! And your God is a great creator—truly an expert in modern art!

Those who taught you the world is false pulled the ground from beneath your feet. They made you impotent, meek, inferior. And you still worship them. Still no awareness, no intelligence. Even now, common sense hasn’t touched you.

First, the world is true. When the world is true, then its energy can be harnessed; energy can be converted into wealth. Then science will arise, technology, industry.

If the West became prosperous, it didn’t happen because God was pleased and showered gold through a torn roof. Man worked hard. And he could work hard because the West never fell into the foolish idea that the world is maya. They made many other mistakes, but not this fundamental one. And by avoiding this one, they became powerful. Power brings wealth.

Here, everyone keeps telling you that happiness cannot be bought with money. Go to any satsang—Jain, Hindu, Christian, Muslim—everywhere the same message: happiness cannot be bought with money.

Who told you happiness can be bought? But other things can—bread, clothing, a roof. Happiness is a much later need. First you need food, clothes, shelter. Without these, how will happiness come? Granted, happiness can’t be bought with money—but money can buy those things without which happiness is impossible.

Let me state another truth clearly: happiness cannot be bought with money; but without money, the possibility of happiness does not remain. Those who told you money can’t buy happiness—ask them whether poverty can buy happiness. No one asks this. Can poverty buy happiness? The hidden syllogism is: if money can’t buy happiness, then poverty must be delightful. Why worry about money? If money brings no joy, and brings so much anxiety and stress, better to be poor.

So Mahavira renounced wealth; hence we worship Mahavira. Then why weep over poverty? Buddha left palaces, so we worship Buddha. Then you are more fortunate than Buddhas and Mahaviras; they had to renounce wealth; God was very compassionate to you—He didn’t give you any! He put you straight into the Buddha-Mahavira state.

Mahavira had to drop his clothes with effort; God spared you the trouble—He sent you without clothes. Mahavira had to fast; in this country God is already making half the nation fast. Those who are not made to fast at least eat once a day. The food is mostly rubbish—no nutrition, none of those subtle elements that develop intelligence; basic deficiencies—scientifically lacking. But because we say money can’t buy happiness, why pursue money? Why strive to produce wealth? Money is mere filth of the hand!

What nonsense! And still you keep listening. Three to four thousand years of this babble—and you’ve reaped its fruits. Life has been pierced by thorns—where there could have been beds of flowers. And still you talk of Indian “uniqueness”...

And what is your uniqueness? Where will you search for it? You’ll rummage through the same rotten past—the same scriptures, the same “gurus,” the same hypocrites with lofty phrases who pushed you into pits. Their words speak of sky, but they deliver you to the netherworld. Sweet words, bitter results. Your uniqueness? You will have to let go of some of it. This excessive insistence on uniqueness has proved fatal; enough.

You say, “For centuries Indians, enslaved and poor, are afflicted with a terrible inferiority complex...”

But who makes them poor and meek and enslaved? Your mental conditioning still clings to you.

Mahatma Gandhi gave the poor a new name—Daridra Narayan, “God in the form of the poor.” If the poor are Narayan, how can poverty be eradicated? Will you eliminate Narayan? Narayan is to be worshiped. Install the poor in temples, worship them! Blessed is he who is poor! He called untouchables “Harijan,” people of God. We are clever with words. Once, “Harijan” meant those who had realized God; Gandhi applied it to bhangis and chamars. God is unknown—but we have His “people”! The word untouchable at least contained a sting, a pain. Harijan is syrup over poison—easy to swallow. Now being Harijan even feels good!

Should poverty be eradicated, or worshiped? If they are Daridra Narayan—then build temples!

Tagore said: My God is where the laborer breaks stone; my God is where the farmer, under the blazing sun, sows his field.

Fine—then the more who break stones by the roadside, the more gods there will be. The more the sun scorches, the more sweat turns to blood—the more gods. You are dressing up this sick state, adorning it, to preserve it!

Who is responsible? Your fatalism. For centuries your so-called religious leaders and sacred texts have taught you that each person is what fate makes him. Poor by fate, rich by fate. Nothing remains to be done. If fate is everything, manly effort dies. Wealth is created by effort, not fate. Power is created by effort, not fate. A fatalistic country—what else could it be but poor and enslaved!

Yet even now you sit with your horoscopes before astrologers; you show your palms to palmists—not just ordinary folk but your so-called leaders. Delhi is the densest den of astrologers, tantrics, swindlers—because every politician needs someone to read lines, study charts, tell the future: will he win the election; in which hour and auspicious moment should he file nomination; if the moment is off by a second, if the stars shift, he will lose. Every politician performs yajnas so that no harm befalls him—because his enemies perform yajnas to harm him. Tantrics are entrenched in Delhi. Ordinary people are not the only fools—your leaders are grand fools. And still you talk of uniqueness!

Burn this fatalism! Wherever you find lines of fate in your scriptures, burn them too. If fate remains, India’s misfortune will continue. This notion of fate is a great poison, absorbed into our very blood. You are not poor because Fate wrote “poverty” on your forehead. You are poor because you embraced the notion of fate. And fate appealed because effort requires labor, attempt, struggle, wrestling with nature—while fate is laziness: nothing to be done; what is to be will be.

And it’s not just small people who preach fate; your greatest preach the same nonsense. Krishna told Arjuna: Don’t fear—fight! Those who must die already have death written in their fate; you are not the killer. God has already killed them. If you are not the instrument, someone else will be. Thus he persuaded Arjuna into a great slaughter—historians estimate that if we take the scriptures at face value about eighteen armies, then around a billion to 1.25 billion people died. Who is responsible for those deaths? This notion—that those meant to die will die, those meant to kill will kill; it is all destiny. What is in our hands?

Where the boulder of destiny sits on the chest, what can result but slavery? The notion of destiny is itself slavery.

I say to you: you come with a blank page. Your fate is a blank page. Then you must write your own script upon it—whatever you will. If you want abuses, write abuses; if hymns, write hymns. If you want poverty, write poverty; if prosperity, write prosperity. You are not born with a fixed destiny. Every child is born like a zero, formless; then he gives himself form. He becomes his own maker.

There is no fixed fate. The farce of fate has gone too far. And if you say we suffer inferiority because of slavery and poverty, you are wrong. You suffered a dreadful inferiority complex first, and therefore you became enslaved and poor. Don’t harness the bulls behind the cart.

Look rightly, Mrityunjay Desai. The sense of inferiority is ancient; poverty and slavery came later. Inferiority is rooted in belief in fate—“what can we do; we are helpless.” From there, inferiority sprouts. An inferior person inevitably follows someone. He will blindly imitate either his past, or his priests and pundits, or his politicians. Because what else can an inferior person do? How much strength does he have? He will always need to hold someone’s hem. He will be a line-follower, a sheep, not a man. And if forced to choose between holding the tattered hem of India’s rotten past or that of the West, if there are only these two options, I will say: better hold the West’s hem; at least it is new.

Although I do not accept that there are only two options; there is a third. I will speak of it. But if there are only two, I would say: it is better to blindly imitate the West—if blind imitation is your stubborn insistence. I am not recommending imitation. I am saying: if you must imitate, better imitate Einstein than Manu. If you must imitate, better imitate Sigmund Freud than the Koka Shastra. If you must imitate, better sit in an airplane than trudge behind a bullock cart.

Today the West symbolizes science and manly effort, a declaration of human dignity—just as you symbolize human inferiority and meekness, the West symbolizes human worth and pride, achievements wrested through struggle.

But these are not the only two choices. Do not misunderstand me. I am not saying: imitate the West. I am saying: do not imitate at all.

Now the distinction between East and West must be dissolved. That is my effort—to dissolve it. The whole world is one. Wherever something is beautiful, choose it. When you create a lovely garden, you pick the loveliest flowers—from everywhere. Choose flowers from wherever they bloom best. This whole world is ours. Why these divisions? What East, what West?

And if you keep dividing East and West, how long before you divide Gujarat and Maharashtra? The Maharashtrian will say, “Why should we imitate Gujarati culture? No garba dance; we will do tamasha!” Or, “Why imitate Bengalis? No Durga Puja; we will celebrate Ganpati. Ganpati Bappa Morya! Why worship someone else’s Mother when our own Father is present!”

Where will you stop? In Maharashtra, there is Marathwada; among Brahmins, Deshastha and Konkanastha; where will you stop? “Pune has its own culture. How can you wear Kolhapuri sandals living in Pune! Shame! Such slavery, such inferiority! And Pune—where Tilak and Gokhale and even Nathuram Godse hailed from! In such great Punean culture—you wear Kolhapuris? Drown yourself in a puddle!”

But Kolhapur has its own pride—where a Shudra, Shivaji Maharaj, arose. He was a Shudra—you’ve forgotten that—so loudly has the song of Shivaji been sung that even Brahmins forget and garland his statue. Kolhapur has its swagger! Then come neighborhood prides.

I lived long in Jabalpur. In the Ganesh festival, an enormous procession winds through the city—but with a hierarchy. First the Brahmins’ neighborhood Ganesh, and at the very end the Chamars’ Ganesh. One year the Brahmins’ idol arrived late and the Chamars’ Ganesh landed ahead. The procession had to start on time, so it did. But when the Brahmins’ idol arrived, they stopped the procession and said, “The Chamars’ Ganesh cannot be ahead! Move them back! Keep them in their place!” And the Chamars’ Ganesh had to go behind—after all, it is the Chamars’ Ganesh; some sense of propriety must be maintained!

How will you decide? The Chamars’ Ganesh became a chamar, the Brahmins’ Ganesh a Brahmin! Both made in the same shop, painted by the same artisan, both to be immersed in the same river. For a little while, the bier you carry—whose bier first, whose later! Of course the Brahmins’ idol first, Chamars’ later—according to status! Where will you stop?

What is “India”? Burma was once part of India; now? Pakistan was once part of India; now? Bangladesh was once part of India; now? Is Bangladesh’s culture yours or not? Is Lahore and Karachi your pride or not?

Geographical borders have no intrinsic value. Where does East end and West begin—can anyone show? The earth is round. Nowhere does East begin or West end. You think you are East and England is West; the Japanese think you are West, because Japan is the land of sunrise. But east of Japan lies someone else; east of them, someone else. On a round earth, you are someone’s East and someone’s West. Wherever you stand, you are both—East and West. The very notion of nations is blind.

You say you suffer an inferiority complex and so you imitate the West. You have been blindly imitating for centuries; whom you imitate is secondary. The blind man will sometimes follow this one, sometimes that—whoever he finds. The blind must ask, must take someone’s hand.

I heard of a blind man standing by the road, needing to cross. A man stood nearby. “Brother, help me cross,” he said. They held each other’s hands and crossed. The blind man said, “Thank you for helping me across.” The other laughed, “Truth is, I am blind too, and I also needed to cross. Two is better than one, so I thought I’d hold your hand. Thank you for helping me!”

Here, the blind lead the blind. Then what difference does it make whose blind hand you hold? Blindness is your old habit. So you will imitate the West.

But there can also be intelligence. Blind imitation can be dropped. Do not imitate your past—there is nothing of real worth there. Do not imitate anyone else either. Decide once for all: we will not imitate; we will open our eyes. One who opens his eyes will choose what is beautiful wherever he sees it.

In the West, science is beautiful—choose it. In the East, meditation is beautiful—choose it. I say the same to Westerners: you have science—don’t drop it. You lack meditation—don’t reject it merely because it comes from the East. Just as Mrityunjay Desai is troubled, so are people in the West.

The University of Amsterdam has begun a six-month lecture series about me—psychologists, scientists, physicians, philosophers, theologians all invited. Why? They say there is a danger: people from Holland go to Poona daily; we must prevent our youth from blindly imitating India.

Carl Gustav Jung, a great Western psychologist, wrote that the West should discover its own yoga and meditation; it should not imitate the East.

It’s amusing, as if Western meditation could be something different! Meditation means: to be without thought. Jung spoke foolishly—perhaps like Mrityunjay Desai. As if meditation can be Eastern or Western! Meditation is simply meditation; where is “East” or “West” in it?

Jung came to India—saw the Taj, Khajuraho, Konark, Ajanta-Ellora. Maharshi Raman was alive. Many urged him to go sit at Raman’s feet—if you wish to grasp the deepest Eastern quest from which Khajuraho, Ajanta, Ellora, the Taj sprang, go and sit by such a one. He refused. “I will not go. The West must find its own meditation and yoga; we will not imitate.”

Meditation is neither Western nor Eastern. It means: thoughtless awareness. When thought is gone, how can East or West remain as a thought? Meditation means inner wakefulness. Is wakefulness Eastern or Western? Does a white man awaken into white awareness and a black man into black awareness? A long-nosed man into long awareness and a flat-nosed into flat awareness? What madness!

But such madness is not limited to small people. Don’t laugh at Jung. Your great ones say the same. Mahavira declared that through a woman’s body there is no liberation. The same foolishness. Will a woman’s meditation differ from a man’s? If a woman becomes silent, will her silence be “feminine” and a man’s “masculine”? Silence! Will it have gender? When inner stillness comes, when the unstruck sound resounds, will there be man and woman there? Yet Mahavira said: through a female birth one cannot attain liberation. At most, through severe austerities and meditation one may be born as a man in the next life; then, in a male body, attain liberation.

And these are the very people who say the body is mere dust. Then what great difference between the dust of a woman and a man? If the body is clay, from the same clay a doll and a manikin are formed. Why such distinction between doll and manikin? And their soul is not clay! The soul goes to liberation; the clay remains—woman’s and man’s alike. At the pyre, can you tell from ash whether it was a man or a woman? Dust is dust. Yet even Mahavira stumbled.

Among the Jains, one Tirthankara was a woman. But they could not tolerate that—a woman, and a Tirthankara! She must have been immensely powerful—so much so that while alive they were forced to accept her; more powerful than Mahavira perhaps—for a woman to be a Tirthankara and make people accept it was no small thing. A very courageous woman—Malli Bai. But after her death, the Jains changed her name to Mallinath. I was born in a Jain family—unfortunately! But one has to be born somewhere. Hindu, Muslim, Christian—all would have been unfortunate. Perhaps in the future there will be fortune. The children born in my sannyasins’ homes will be fortunate, because they will be neither Hindu nor Muslim nor Christian; they will simply be human.

In childhood I never learned that among the twenty-four Tirthankaras there was a woman, because from the name Mallinath one can’t tell. Go to Jain temples—all twenty-four idols are men. Even Mallinath’s idol is male. What dishonesty! I learned later that it was Malli Bai. How could they accept her? It breaks their whole schema. Not only liberation, but a Tirthankara—a woman! She must have been bold—naked, too. Among the Jains, to be a Tirthankara, nudity is required. A great courage. If she were here today, she would be my sannyasin. She must have thrown off her clothes. Stalwart—like Rani of Jhansi: “She fought like a man!” There must have been great struggle. But once dead, the Jains whitewashed it: Malli Bai became Mallinath; even the idol made male. Not one female idol! Why can’t a woman’s body attain liberation?

Jung makes the same mistake. He thinks Eastern and Western meditations differ, as you do. In science, what will you “discover anew”? And what need is there? The West labored for three hundred years and built science. What will you invent different? When you add two and two, will you make five in India? It will be four—in West or East. If you heat water, will it boil below a hundred degrees in “holy India”? Because saints are boiling it? No—at 100°C it boils into steam, East or West. When you split the atom, what will you find other than neutrons, electrons, positrons? If you discover electricity, will you find something else?

It would be foolish to reject the West’s three hundred years of great discovery and presume, “We will create our own path.” Then you will have to start with ABC. You will always lag behind, counted as fools. Nor do I say to the West: discover your own meditation, because the East discovered it over five thousand years. Why deny such readily available wealth?

But Jung denies. He says, “We will make our own yoga.”

In the West, how will you do a headstand differently? It must be done as it is. How will you sit in padmasana differently? In siddhasana? The same. To reject five thousand years of discovery just because it was done in India is madness—just as rejecting Western discoveries would be: “We will re-discover penicillin; we won’t accept Western penicillin; we will find pure Swadeshi penicillin! We will invent our very own train, our own airplane!”

Once discovered, by whomever, a discovery becomes the wealth of all humanity. The West discovered science—it belongs to all; it is no one’s private property. The East discovered meditation—it belongs to all; it is no one’s private property. When Eastern meditation and Western science join, for the first time man will be whole, not crippled. Today humanity hobbles—one leg here, one leg there. They hop on one leg; you hop on the other.

You know the Panchatantra tale: a forest caught fire. A blind man and a lame man—beggars—were there. Clever fellows—they quickly decided to join forces. The lame man could see, but not walk; the blind man could walk, but not see. The lame saw where the fire was, where the path lay—but couldn’t move. The blind could move—but didn’t know where to. They united: the blind man put the lame on his shoulders—thus eyes and legs joined. Separately, both would have died; together, both were saved. The lame guided, “Turn here, go there,” the blind walked. They became one.

This is humanity’s condition today. Half the wealth is with India—the eyes of meditation—but India is lame: it lacks the legs of science. The West has strong legs—science. They reached the moon; they will reach the stars. But there is no inner eye; no insight. However far they go, what will they do without the wisdom to see?

If only the blind and the lame would join—Eastern eyes and Western legs; Eastern meditation, Western science—we could give birth to an undivided humanity.

Therefore I do not say: imitate anyone. But also do not reject something because it is “Western”—“We will spin our charkha, our takli; we will follow our forefathers; we will wear talismans; our ancestors did so, how can we do otherwise?” Then what befell your ancestors will befall you—poverty, slavery, inferiority.

To the East I say: accept the truth of the outer world. To the West I say: accept the reality of the inner world. The East has said: Brahman is true, the world is false. The West has said: the world is true, Brahman is false. Both are crippled, incomplete.

I say: the world is true and Brahman is true; matter is true and the divine is true—two faces of one Truth. The day we can accept both simultaneously, neither East nor West will need inferiority. Today both are inferior—in different ways. Each is compelled to imitate the other. This imitation can end through union, through harmony. These walls must fall.

Khalil Gibran’s words are worth pondering—
My friends! My fellow travelers!
Pity the nation
that acclaims bullies as leaders,
that clothes its conquerors
in the garments of generosity.
Shame upon the land
whose leaders are cunning foxes,
whose philosophers are showmen,
whose art is patchwork and crude imitation!
Pity the nation
that wears garments
it did not weave,
that eats bread
it did not harvest.
Shame upon the nation
heavy with ideas,
yet empty of religion and culture.
Pity the land
that hates in its dreams
what it bows to
when awake.
Pity the nation
whose saints are old and mute
and whose great men
are still in their cradles.
Shame upon the land
that is cut into fragments
and each fragment thinks itself
a nation!

Look at our country—within the nation, Maharashtra! Nowhere else such a marvel. A small box within a bigger box! You’ve heard of Chinese boxes, one inside another; but even the Chinese did not put a big box inside a small one. We have done that miracle: Maharashtra inside the nation! No shame. Shame upon such a country.

And everything is fragmented—Bengalis don’t feel one with you. “Banga-bhumi! Sonar Bangla!” Others are “Indians.” How many fragments! How many languages! How many castes! Shame upon such a country! Will it not be enslaved, poor? For the smallest things, endless quarrels. For years Maharashtra and Karnataka have fought over one district—knifings, riots—and the district itself is not going anywhere.

I heard a story: when India and Pakistan were partitioned, there was an insane asylum straddling the border. Neither side was keen to claim it. Officials worried: where shall it go? The border ran through the middle—half in Pakistan, half in India. Finally they said, ask the lunatics where they want to go. Two or three thousand were gathered. Much whispering, giggling. The officials were puzzled—why are you so happy? They replied, “We’re happy because we are mad and don’t understand, but you are sane. You ask whether we want to go to India or Pakistan. We ask, if we go to Pakistan, will our asylum go with us? You say no—the asylum will stay here. If we go to India—same answer. Then why ask where we want to go? That is what makes us laugh. Are we mad, or are you?” After trying to explain from every angle, the officials gave up and built a wall in the middle—half asylum in India, half in Pakistan. I’ve heard that even now, lunatics climb the wall, Pakistani lunatics and Indian lunatics, and giggle: “What a wonder—a wall, and you became Pakistani and we Indian! Old friends, old ties—broken by a wall!” They chat in winter sun, laughing: “We’re the same as before; no one went anywhere. But now you need a visa to come here; we need a visa to come there!” Shame upon such a land.

Pity the nation
that acclaims bullies as leaders.
And those very bullies are your leaders—local dons. The more they threaten and scare you, the more votes land in their pockets.

That clothes its conquerors
in the garments of generosity.
Whoever wins, you sing his praises. Whoever attains power, you make offerings. This you have done for centuries—symptoms of a slave soul.

Shame upon the land
whose philosophers are showmen.
But how will you shame it? You worship Sathya Sai Baba. Who produces watches? A philosopher? A sage? From where—HMT? He produces ash from his hands—and the nation bows in reverence! There is no honor for truth—there is for conjuring. And what will you do with the ash? Is there any shortage of ash? Produce something else! I tell Sathya Sai: if you must produce, produce the Kohinoor! But they don’t. Where will they find it to produce? Ash they can—so many corpses burned over the centuries; only ash remains, no live embers. And we call ash “vibhuti.” We are masters at giving pretty names. Any street juggler can produce ash. If he does it by the roadside, we toss a coin or two. But if a man dressed as a “holy man” does it, the whole nation bows.

Shame upon the land
heavy with ideas,
yet empty of religion and culture.
You are loaded with ideas—so loaded you can hardly walk. But you have neither religion nor culture in practice. You talk of them—that’s all, talk. But in behavior—neither.

Here, thousands of Western sannyasins come every year. The way so-called religious and cultured Indians treat them—what reports they carry back! Their illusions have shattered. They came thinking India is a great cultural and religious land; they leave thinking there is no more vulgar and crude country. It is difficult for a Western sannyasin woman to walk the street. Guardians of “Indian culture” will shove her, pinch her, tug her clothes, ram her with a bicycle or car. So many attempts at rape—and murders.

Just a few days ago, a young German sannyasin was killed—for his guitar. He had come to bid me farewell that night; next morning he was killed—with an axe. This is Indian culture! The “protectors” of Indian culture and religion! And these protectors hurl abuse at me!

Between fifty thousand and a hundred thousand Western sannyasins come here each year. Not one Indian woman has been shoved by a Western sannyasin, nor has anyone attempted rape. But how many Indians, throwing all “culture and religion” aside, have misbehaved with Western sannyasinis—if you try to count, it shocks.

Every Indian tries to snatch things from Westerners—watches, radios, tape recorders—whatever they can. Thefts occur daily. The police have accumulated goods worth lakhs. By the time they recover the goods, the sannyasin has gone. They say, “We can’t give it to the ashram. We have to give it to the person.” Who will trace the person—was he from New Zealand, Korea, California, Sweden? Whose watch, whose guitar, whose tape recorder? The police have heaps of stuff—daily asking, “What do we do with it?”

This is your Indian culture! Only hollow ideas remain; inside, filth. And still you want to preserve your “uniqueness.”

Pity the land
that hates in its dreams
what it bows to when awake.
Look closely at your dreams and your waking—as if, in waking, you deny what you worship in dreams.

Mulla Nasruddin’s friend, Chandulal, said, “Last night I had an amazing dream. Don’t tell anyone; and be sure Tillu Guru’s mother doesn’t find out. You are my friend, I can’t keep it in. In my dream, on one side sat Hema Malini, on the other Parveen Babi—both stark naked! And I was boating under a full moon. Such bliss...”

Nasruddin said, “For heaven’s sake! Then what is our friendship for? Why didn’t you call me?”

Chandulal said, “Call you? I went. I asked your wife, Gulbadan, ‘Where is Nasruddin?’ She said, he’s meditating. So I thought it improper to disturb your meditation.”

Nasruddin said, “To hell with meditation! That’s exactly what I was meditating on! You enjoyed, and I only meditated!”

Your outward show is one thing—your piety, hypocrisy; and your sleep-world is another. In dreams you are more authentic. What you deny in waking, you worship in sleep. What you deny in sleep, you worship awake. You are divided, fragmented.

Shame upon the land
whose saints are old and mute.
What are your saints’ qualities? Being mute is essential—if they speak truth, trouble follows. I speak from experience. I prefer to say things as they are; in return come only abuses. So your saints have become mute. They have learned from Gandhi’s three monkeys—though those monkeys are Japanese, with a different meaning there. In Japan: don’t hear evil, don’t speak evil, don’t see evil. In India it becomes: do not hear truth; to hear it is trouble. Do not speak truth; to speak is to invite danger. Do not see truth; if you see it, you may slip and speak. Your saints have become those three monkeys—in the Indian sense. Hear no truth, speak no truth, see no truth—and you will be honored, garlanded. And what else is to be done!

And your saints are old—not merely in age, but in soul. They are decayed—repeating the old, the stale. For them, “eternal-ancient” is synonymous with truth. But truth is ever-new, fresh every moment. He who lives in the present knows truth; he remains ever young. Your saints live in the past—Ramayana tales, Bhagavatam, Puranas—ninety-nine percent trash—mindlessly repeated. The audience listens, the saints recite; both content. Neither cares for truth—truth brings trouble, because truth is rebellion, revolution.

Unfortunate is that land.
Shame upon the land
whose great men are still in the cradle.
But you only rock cradles. On Janmashtami you still rock baby Krishna. How long will you rock him? If Krishna were alive, he would leap out. Dead Krishnas—lay them down, they lie; sit them up, they sit. Try that with a living child—lay him down, sit him up—he will create a ruckus.

A little boy told me, “My mother is mad.” Why? “When I want to be awake, she puts me to sleep; when I want to sleep, she wakes me. At night, when I want to be up, she forces me to sleep—tells ghost stories, wraps me in blankets, shuts the door. In the morning, when sweet sleep comes, she splashes cold water on my eyes, even throws the dog on me.” “Throws the dog?” “Yes, I sleep with my cat. Then the dog and cat fight—scratching and biting—I have to jump out.”

You keep rocking baby Krishna. He must be dizzy by now—centuries of rocking. I dislike swings—even watching someone swing makes me dizzy. I feel pity for Krishna—whether he wishes to swing or not, you keep swinging him. “Rock the cradle, dear Kanhaiya!” Lay him down when you like, sit him up; shut the curtain when you like, open it when you like. Offer food when you like, starve him when you like. What are you doing?

And you ask, “Isn’t blind imitation of the West unhealthy?”

All blind imitation is unhealthy—of Krishna, Rama, Buddha, Mahavira, of me—every blind imitation. And not only blind imitation—if you ask me, even imitation is unhealthy. The adjective “blind” is a trap—you’ll say imitation and blind imitation differ; one should imitate, but not blindly. I tell you: all imitation is blind. One who has eyes does not imitate. He lives with understanding; he walks, sits, stands in awareness. He has his own lamp within; by its light he moves.

One who has his own lamp follows no one—not Manu, Moses, Mohammed, Christ, Krishna, Confucius. He understands all, chooses flowers from all, but walks by his own light—and chooses by his own light.

So do not imitate West or East, past or anyone. Do not imitate at all—live by understanding. If only we can create an atmosphere of awareness in the world—that is my effort. If only we can honor awareness—then there will be no West or East, no Muslims, Hindus, Christians, Jains, Buddhists—only awareness, and those who have attained it. Such people give the world its dignity. Such people are the salt of the earth.

Drink this wine of awareness. You may be surprised that I call it wine. Usually people think awareness and intoxication are opposites. I do not. There is no wine greater than awareness—for it awakens and brings a deep ecstasy; it awakens and yet gives a delicious sway.

From the tavern lift me a cup, O cupbearer,
My breath is stifled in the tavern, O cupbearer.
From the tavern lift me a cup, O cupbearer.
Do not lift the veil from your face, O cupbearer—
It is enough I am yours—just tell me that, O cupbearer.
From the tavern lift me a cup, O cupbearer.
I do not trust my own eyes—
Come close and hold me, O cupbearer.
From the tavern lift me a cup, O cupbearer.
I am but a tear in your eye,
But do not let me fall from your gaze, O cupbearer.
From the tavern lift me a cup, O cupbearer.

Pray to the divine for this alone: pour into me the wine of awareness; fill me so full of awareness that awareness itself becomes my ecstasy; so full that even unconsciousness cannot make me unconscious; that I sway and stagger—and yet walk as a drunkard walks, and also as a Buddha walks.

I find a slight lack in Buddha; I find a slight lack in Meera—Meera lacks awareness, Buddha lacks intoxication. I find a lack in West and a lack in East. People choose half—because half seems logical; the whole appears illogical, inconsistent. I want a being on this earth in whom there is Buddha’s awakening and Meera’s intoxication; Buddha’s emptiness and Meera’s song. When Buddha’s emptiness becomes Meera’s veena, then know that religion has descended upon the earth.

One more cup, O cupbearer—one more cup, one more cup.
We drink day after day yet never have our fill.
The more we drink, the more the thirst grows.
Some wine is bitter, and we do not know how to drink.
The cup trembles and the wine spills.
Now pour so that intoxication never leaves again.
A bed of the gallows becomes a couch; poison turns to nectar.
Let Meeras and Mansurs join—one more Name, one more Name.
When the eyes are deeply soaked with wine’s rapture,
The feet may stagger, yet the traveler of the heart stands still.
The alphabets of reference and meaning are changed.
In Rama’s face appear many Ravan-faces,
And yet on those heads are garlands of propriety.
In Ravan I have seen—another Rama, another Rama.
At the tavern door the robe of Rama is for sale,
At which every customer’s gaze has slipped.
Every thread of that robe is soaked in Rama-essence;
It cannot be bought with wealth or position.
Those who live by ledgers cannot buy it.
Only he can bid who has a gambler’s heart.
Give yourself—one more price, one more price.
All the mirrors of relationship are shattered;
At home and outside, strangeness everywhere.
A little broken body, a little scattered mind.
A marketplace at home, a jungle of crowds outside.
Even one’s own are no longer close.
Let the inner Gautam meet a bamboo grove;
Let the outer Kanha find one more abode, one more abode.
Parroted names worn threadbare—
They confuse themselves and confuse others,
Missing here, missing there.
But some birds that no cage can bind,
They sip Rama’s essence and sing in the sky.
Let names find one more meaning,
And give meanings—one more name, one more name.
Who knows to which land milky brightness flew,
Leaving the earth to the custody of night?
The moon turned blind, the sun went black.
All are trapped; who can free whom?
Death’s spider spins new webs daily.
Yet each holds a pen-ray in his hand—
Come, let us inscribe the mornings—one more evening, one more evening.
One more cup, O cupbearer—one more cup, one more cup.

Enough for today.