Sumiran Mera Hari Kare #10

Purnanand! For centuries man has lived under a mistaken notion: that religion is the renunciation of life, an escape from life, a turning away from life. Man has taken religion as negation, as denial. To deny life became sannyas. And the more one denied life, the greater a saint he was considered. The consequences were bound to be disastrous—inevitable. And they were. No other notion has produced as many ill effects as this one. It gripped the human soul the way cancer seizes a body.

The first consequence was that only the wrong people were drawn toward religion—sickly, neurotic people; those who were incapable of living. Those who didn’t know how to dance quickly concluded the courtyard was crooked. It is hard for the ego to admit, “I don’t know how to dance.” It is much easier—ego-nourishing—to say, “What can I do? How can I dance when the courtyard itself is crooked!”

The shape of the courtyard has nothing to do with dancing. If you know how to dance, you can dance even in a crooked courtyard. If you don’t, even a perfectly square courtyard won’t help.

Mulla Nasruddin once went to an eye doctor. “Doctor, you’ll make me a pair of glasses, right? Once I wear them, I’ll be able to read, won’t I?”

“Certainly,” said the doctor.

After a pause Mulla asked again, “Are you sure? Are you confident? Think before you answer—will I be able to read?”

The doctor said, “Once you have your glasses, you’ll definitely read.”

Nasruddin said, “I ask again because I don’t know how to read.”

If you don’t know how to read, a pair of glasses won’t teach you. What has reading to do with spectacles? If you know how to read, glasses will naturally help you read better. But if you know how, you can still make out some of it even without glasses.

People became interested in religion because of this negation-based doctrine—let me say it outright: this atheistic doctrine. For denying life is atheism. Life is God. People denied life and accepted a fanciful God. What dishonesty! Faith for a God sitting far away in the sky, and disbelief toward life spread all around—what a headstand! For centuries religion has stood on its head. Only those who enjoy standing on their heads would be attracted to such a religion. Naturally, the wrong people were drawn to it—losers in life, those who could not win, who lacked the talent and weren’t willing to make the effort; lazy, slothful, inert. All became “religious.” Those whom life had defeated in every way ran away from life. Those who could not face life’s challenge, whose chest was not broad enough, who were weak and cowardly—they all became escapees. And religion gave them a beautiful cover, a lovely curtain, a charming mask. They became saints and mahatmas. In truth they were only tormented, frightened, defeated fugitives—nothing more. But they draped their escapism in philosophical robes, adorned their ugliest notions with such sweet theoretical decorations that what they said began to look like truth. And they made a lot of noise—centuries of noise. The result was that healthy people lost interest in religion. The healthy began to think: religion is not for us. The talented and intelligent moved away. Wherever the wrong crowd gathers, the right people quietly withdraw.

There is a law in economics: bad coins drive good coins out of circulation. If you have two notes in your pocket—one genuine ten-rupee note and one counterfeit—you will, quite naturally, try to spend the fake first. The sooner you get rid of that trouble, the better. The real note will always be accepted, the fake may not. You could get caught. So on any pretext you’ll pass the fake. To pass it you won’t even haggle over a few paise. What difference does it make when the note itself is fake? You’ll run as soon as you can after handing it over. And when someone else realizes he’s got a fake, he too will try to pass it on. In this way counterfeit notes start circulating and the genuine ones get locked in safes.

This rule is important. It applies to many facets of life. It is true of religion as well. When counterfeit passed as religion, the genuine went out of circulation. The fools gathered in crowds; naturally the Buddhas did not care to stand among them. Buddhas remained alone. They became free of the crowd, stood outside it.

The second consequence followed—and don’t take it as a small loss; it was immense. The whole earth could have been filled with the splendor of religion; through religion life could have opened new dimensions of experience; with the realization of religion, life could have soared daily to new heights. The experience of religion could have brought wings and sky to every person, shattered boundaries. This did not happen. The wrong gathered; the right turned away.

When Buddha rejected the Vedas, it was not out of enmity with the Vedas, but because the wrong people had rallied around them. When Mahavira rejected Hinduism, the fault was not in its essence but in the so-called Hindus. When Jesus, born among Jews, rejected Judaism, it was not because of some fundamental flaw in that religion, but because its custodians were the wrong people. Even a right thing goes wrong in wrong hands.

Remember this too: wrong things in right hands can turn right, and right things in wrong hands turn wrong. It’s all in the hands. In a jeweler’s hand even a stone can shine like a diamond; in a fool’s hand even a diamond becomes a stone. What will a fool understand? What will he recognize? What will he do with a diamond?

If you load scriptures on a donkey, the donkey will not become a pundit. Many donkeys carry university degrees on their backs, but they haven’t become wise thereby.

In the wrong person’s hands everything goes wrong. In the right person’s hands everything turns right. A “right” person means one of talent; he can make use even of thorns—what to say of flowers. The wrong person will misuse even flowers—thorns, of course, he’ll misuse.

It’s like putting a sword in a child’s hands—danger is inevitable. He will injure himself or someone else. Blood will be shed.

And how much blood has been shed in the name of religion! If you tally it up, you’ll stop seeing irreligion as irreligion; instead, religion itself will look like irreligion—because blood hasn’t been shed in the name of irreligion.

Jesus separated himself from the Jews.

If I speak today against the dead institutions of Hindus, Christians, Jains, Buddhists, Jews, Parsis, it is not because there is no truth at the roots of those traditions. At the roots there is truth. But the hands they fell into—the fools who got hold of those diamonds—are using them like stones. There is only one way to snatch those diamonds back from the fools: to proclaim that their entire shop is false. This news must be carried to every corner, to every human heart.

So one consequence was that the wrong gathered and the right withdrew. The second consequence was that those right people who withdrew also had their minds infected with poison.

Friedrich Nietzsche said this—and he was right. He was not an enlightened man; he knew no samadhi. Yet his insight was sharp, his understanding keen. His talent had an edge. Had he been given the opportunity, he could have stood in the lineage of Buddha, Mahavira, Zarathustra, Lao Tzu. But in the West such opportunities were lacking.

Nietzsche said that religion did not fill people’s lives with escapism—except for a few. But it did fill people’s minds with a sense of guilt toward life. Those who renounced life are few. But those who remained in life, remained as if they were thieves, as if they were criminals. Elation vanished, joy vanished, celebration vanished; the dance was lost. The “ah!” toward life was lost. Those who stayed in life grew bitter and sour. They did not swallow the poison—but they could not spit it out either. They neither drank it nor could they expel it; it stuck in the throat. Those who drank it became saints—hollow saints. Those who did not drink it could not spit it out either. They lacked the courage, because such courage would mean angering the crowd. Then the crowd will crucify you; the crowd will make you drink poison. Better keep silent, keep your mouth shut. But with your mouth shut, the poison you’ve taken in—though it may not go down—still sits in your mouth and ruins your taste. A melancholy settled over everyone’s life. Whether they stayed in the world or fled from it, all became filled with a certain sadness toward life. Life ceased to be auspicious. These were the two consequences.

And now the time has come for the earth to be freed from this epidemic. That is why I say religion is the art of living. Religion is not the renunciation of life. I declare life and God to be synonymous. Even if you drop the word God, it will do; life is enough. “Life” is a sweet enough word. God does not add some new height; to refine life itself is religion.

And life is not obtained by birth in its fullness. If it were given ready-made at birth, it would be easy; no art to learn. You bring home a veena from the market—don’t think that means you can play the veena. Buying a veena only gives you the opportunity to learn; now you must practice, do sustained sadhana; only then will music be born. Don’t imagine that once the veena is in your hands everything is done; now just play Dipak raga and extinguished lamps will light up. Extinguished lamps won’t light; lit ones may go out! If you start playing at once, that will be your Dipak raga—the neighborhood sleepers will wake up. Lamps won’t light; dogs will bark; people will call the police; children will cry, your wife will scream.

Whenever Nasruddin’s wife practiced singing, he would go stand outside the house. I asked him, “Nasruddin, what’s the matter? Why do you stroll outside whenever your wife practices music?”

He said, “So the neighbors know I’m not beating her. Otherwise they think I’m thrashing her. Is that singing?”

And he showed me his ears. He had stuffed them tightly with cotton. “I’m dying listening to it.” When he could bear it no longer, he too bought a veena. And when he started playing, he exhausted his wife and the neighbors as well. He plucked a single string—tun-tun, tun-tun—endlessly. People finally said, “Nasruddin, we’ve seen many players—at least they move their hands over different strings; you pluck only one!”

Nasruddin said, “They’re still searching for the right string—where their note is. I’ve found mine. Why should I search now? Whoever has found doesn’t need to seek. They’re still hunting—so they keep trying. I found it right when I bought it. The string that pleases me, I play. Now it’s me and this string. And there are only benefits. The first is my wife has stopped singing altogether. Others in the neighborhood who played harmoniums, etc., have also stopped. Music has ended in the whole neighborhood. Only my music remains. Earlier everyone was eating my head; now at least I have this comfort that no one does. I’ve suffered plenty; now it’s your turn. I’ll keep doing tun-tun, tun-tun—and at all hours, because sadhana has no fixed time. When the mood comes, when inspiration arises!”

At midnight he’d begin—tun-tun, tun-tun.

Bringing home a veena does not bring music. Music demands sustained practice. Birth is only like buying the veena; life is like music.

This is why I call religion the art of living.

Purnanand, birth is an opportunity. If you choose, it can become a great music. But you must choose! Then the light of buddhahood can arise within you. Then Dipak raga can awaken within you. And if you don’t, there will be noise—only noise. Everywhere there is noise. People take noise to be life. The more noise, the more they think they are alive. Sit silently and people ask, “Why so quiet? What’s wrong?” Create a racket, cause an uproar, then they believe you are alive. And people are imitators—pure mimics. If the person next to you is making a racket, you’ll start making one too.

When I was a child—around 1942, during the freedom movement—I must have been eight, nine, ten years old. If I got annoyed with some village leader... I loved shouting slogans; it gave my throat good exercise—useful to this day—and pranayama too. Early morning I’d take out a flag procession. And I would take my revenge from those I wanted to. I discovered something about the psychology of people.

There were only two or three prominent leaders in my village. They understood too. They would call me, give me sweets, toys. “Brother, what have we done to upset you?” What was my trick? I’d get the people to chant, “British Raj—Down with it!” Five or seven times: British Raj—down! down! And then I’d slip in “Sahibdas...” and the crowd would shout—“Down with him!” That five or seven rounds of “down with, down with” created a habit. So Sahibdas would say, “Whenever the crowd is shouting ‘Long live Mahatma Gandhi! Long live Jawaharlal Nehru!’ you never insert my name. But when they’re shouting ‘Down with the British Raj!’ that’s when you wedge my name in, and the whole crowd shouts ‘Down with him!’ And I’m the one holding the flag there—and you’re getting them to say ‘Down with’ me!”

I have observed since childhood how people behave. They don’t care about “down with” or “long live,” about who is being praised or condemned. They catch a rhythm and follow. People are imitators.

So I would say, “If you want your name at the right place, arrangements must be made. You have to offer something to the deity.”

Sahibdas would say, “We’ll do it. What do you want? Take sweets, take fruit. Our whole orchard is yours. But don’t put my name in the wrong place. If you must, put Shrinath Bhatt’s...” He was the other leader. Then I’d insert Shrinath Bhatt’s name at the wrong place. He’d call me, “What’s going on? Take sweets...” I’d say, “Sahibdas is offering more. If you can outdo him, say so; otherwise ‘down with’ will continue.”

Rivalry among leaders is natural—their trade is competition.

Wherever the crowd goes, you drift along. You never look to see what you are doing. Everyone is chasing money—you join in. Everyone goes to Hanuman’s temple—you go. Everyone goes for a Ganges bath—you go. Your religion, your life, your philosophy—what is it besides mimicry? Living like carbon copies, will music arise in your life? Only noise will be there. Your children will copy you, and theirs will copy them. Centuries pass; diseases repeat, repeat—and with repetition they only strengthen, gain publicity.

People say, “Our forefathers did this.” As if their doing it makes it true! Ask their forefathers and they would say, “Our forefathers did it.” No one cares who started it, why it was started, which fool began it and for what reason. People just go on.

In the five thousand years of known history man has been sipping poison in the name of religion. But because it’s five thousand years old, it gains prestige, authority. So many have repeated it that you lack the courage to separate yourself from that ancient crowd. Your very life trembles.

The religious person is the one who proclaims his own individuality. The declaration of one’s ownness is the beginning of religion. To live your life—not someone else’s. This is the first sutra of the art of living. We will live our life in our own way, whatever the consequences; we will stake ourselves. If we lose, even that is a joy; if we win, of course it is a joy.

I want to tell you: when a person declares his individuality, there is no defeat in his life, because even loss there is victory. And by going with the crowd, even if you “win,” it is not a win; there the victory is defeat. The crowd wins—you don’t. You go with the crowd and lose your soul. And one who loses his soul loses everything. If religion is denial, it becomes easy—no talent is needed. Run away, sit in a cave. Does sitting in a cave require an Einstein, a Newton, an Eddington, some great talent? To sit in caves, being a fool is enough. Who else will sit in caves, and for what? God—blossoming in flowers, rising in the stars, spread through all of life, in so many colors and forms, in rainbows—and someone leaves all this and sits in caves? Only a fool.

Those who sit in Himalayan caves—I have no reverence for them. I know them; I have wandered from cave to cave. I have seen them. I have not found any sparkle of intelligence in their eyes. Having examined your great men thoroughly, I say: they are inert. Their only excellence is that they are a little more inert than you. Thus they are ahead of you; they become your leaders. They are fools—a little more foolish than you. Since they are more, naturally you must follow behind; they walk in front. They are rigid, tradition-bound. You have a little freedom; they have not even that much. They live by the line; they live mechanically—like a corpse lives. And the more corpse-like a person lives, the greater a saint we call him.

Make an accounting of your saints—why do you call so-and-so a saint? Because he fasts so much. Fasting is a symptom of dying, not of living. He is a saint because he goes naked. All animals go naked. It is man’s distinction that he devised clothing—animals do not have that capacity. There is no art in being naked.

What is your saint’s greatness, his specialness? He sleeps on a bed of thorns. That is a sign of stupidity. Intelligence would create a beautiful bed—pleasing, tasteful. Why would anyone sleep on thorns? It is self-destruction. These are small steps toward suicide. But we honor them; we call it “tapascharya,” austerity. Any kind of foolishness we start calling austerity. Whoever torments himself we take to be a tapasvi, an ascetic.

One who tortures himself is only destructive—violent, filled with self-violence. All these people are filled with repression; repression breeds anger and violence. Where will that violence be released? It must come out somewhere; it will find some avenue. If they express it on others their saintliness would wobble; so they turn it upon themselves. There is no one in this world more defenseless than oneself. If you won’t protect yourself, who will—and why would they? Others will only enjoy the spectacle.

Jain monks pluck out their hair—and crowds gather to watch and clap. People watch the show. They say, “Ah, what renunciation!” Plucking your hair is sheer boorishness—a kind of madness. Women have had this madness forever; when they are enraged they pull their hair, they tear at it. Hair-plucking is not a sign of great intelligence; it is a sign of hysteria. But nobody tells women, “Ah, what renunciation, what austerity!” People say, “Don’t be foolish!” When women get angry, they stop eating; they fast. Women have been Gandhian long before Gandhi—satyagrahis from way back! Gandhi merely magnified women’s habits onto a mass scale. And because of such habits he is called a mahatma. When all these disorders pile up, they must find an outlet.

I have heard: a prostitute invited a Sarvodaya leader. You may be surprised—a prostitute inviting a Sarvodaya leader! Sarvodaya leaders preach brahmacharya. Those who preach brahmacharya are precisely the ones who create prostitutes. Prostitutes exist in the world because of them. And they will remain as long as people impose unnatural repression. There is an inner alliance between prostitutes and Sarvodaya leaders and mahatmas. The Sarvodaya organization is called the Sarva Seva Sangh—the Association for Service to All. I sometimes think if prostitutes ever form an all-India union, they will also call it Sarva Seva Sangh. What better name? To serve all is their aim—and they serve with body and soul, wholeheartedly.

...The Sarvodaya mahatma ate two whole chickens. You may say, “A Sarvodaya mahatma and chickens!” Don’t be shocked. Loknayak Jayaprakash Narayan loved chicken and eggs—and still he was the people’s leader, still the beloved disciple of Mahatma Gandhi and Vinoba Bhave—their legatee. Outwardly talk of nonviolence; inwardly violence.

That huge upheaval Jayaprakash caused in this country—utterly meaningless, from which the country gained nothing but harm—behind it there was no grand principle. A small, petty thing: Indira asked Jayaprakash, “How do you meet your expenses?” It stung him. It touched a sore wound. It was wounding—because all his life his expenses were paid by the Birla family. A monthly stipend, a salary.

This world is strange! What strange arrangements go on here! The Birlas pay the salaries of all the so-called Sarvodaya people in this country; on the first of the month their pay arrives. And the money Jayaprakash received was given with Mahatma Gandhi’s blessing. But Jayaprakash did not want to say where his expenses came from. How could he take Birla’s name! A servant of the poor, enemy of the rich—and living on the rich man’s payroll, taking his money! On the outside, talk of nonviolence; inside, violence. Outward humility; inside, ego.

...The Sarvodaya mahatma ate two whole chickens. After eating, he saw an old rooster strutting in the courtyard. “Look how proudly that rooster walks!” said the mahatma.

The prostitute snapped back, “Why wouldn’t he? Two of his sons have already served a mahatma!”

Whenever you impose something forcibly, trouble will flow in from the back door; pus will ooze. Life becomes inauthentic; it becomes a lie. Life splits in two—one face for display and one for living.

If you want to learn the art of living, the second sutra is: authenticity. Live as you are. No need to wear two faces. Why be afraid? Of whom? From whom will you hide, and what?

I tell my sannyasins only this: do not be hypocrites. Till now, all the so-called mahatmas have been engaged in some kind of hypocrisy. Hypocrisy means saying one thing and doing another.

I say to you: what you say should be exactly what you do. There is no need to say otherwise, because what you are doing is natural—so why speak otherwise? But when you are taught that celibacy is life while sexual energy surges within you, what will you do? You will be in trouble. Hypocrisy is preordained. There is no way to avoid it. The doctrine says, “Only celibacy is life.” But what will you do with your sexual energy? It is rising in waves, pushing, surging.

Sexual desire is Punjabi. It will throw its weight around. Everyone’s lust is Punjabi—it will keep jumping up.
You are right when you say, “It keeps leaping and surging.”

Saint Maharaj is speaking absolute truth. That’s why I call him Maharaj. He speaks the truth; he doesn’t hide or prettify. He is right to say, “Love is taking waves in my heart.” Now if celibacy alone is proclaimed to be life, while in your heart love is swelling and “leaping and surging,” what will you do? Then you’ll put on a mask on the outside—the shawl of God’s name—and inside you’ll have to find some secret outlet. And then deception will happen. You will be dishonest with yourself.

No—accept this love, embrace it. It is your life-energy. And don’t be afraid, Saint.

You say: “Whoever I offer it to, they won’t take it.”
People have become frightened; they’ve been taught against love. No one wants to receive; no one wants to give. Yet receiving has to happen, giving has to happen. But no one wants to take, no one wants to give. Man has been thrust into a great tangle—put on the gallows. To live is difficult, not to live is difficult. Human life has been flooded with needless crisis—pointlessly.

You say: “I’ve become very helpless!”
Helpless you will feel. But don’t worry. Embrace yourself. Accept yourself. Keep searching. Someone will be found—who will receive. And if you can’t find someone here, you won’t find them anywhere on the whole earth. And it’s not only in you that it “keeps leaping and surging”; in others too it leaps and surges. But they have it seated down inside. It leaps and surges—they keep pushing it down. In the end they too will understand. If they remain here, they will have to understand, because here my fundamental sutra is that whatever is in life is auspicious. That auspiciousness is to be made even more auspicious; that pure is to be made even purer. But whatever is, is not sin; it is the possibility of virtue, the seed of virtue. The seed has to be sown; labor will be needed. If the seed is to be brought to fruit, to flowers, then patience will also be needed.

The second sutra in the art of living is: authenticity. You should have a single personality, not a double one.
The first sutra is: individuality. Live in your own way, in your own color, in your own delight. I call that sannyas. And the second sutra is: authenticity. And the third sutra is: do not, even by mistake, allow the notion to settle that there is something in your life that is wrong. Even if something seems wrong, know that within it the right is hidden. This “wrong” holds the “right” within it—just as within the hard shell of a seed how many flowers are hidden! Millions of flowers are hidden. Do not get stuck at the hard shell of the seed. The flowers are not yet visible. Sow it in the earth; the sapling will grow, it will become a tree; thousands of birds will dwell in it, hundreds of people will rest in its shade—then the sky will be filled with flowers.

Scientists say a single seed has enough potential to make the whole earth green, because from one seed come millions of seeds, and from each seed millions upon millions more. In this way the whole earth, by a single seed... The first time on this earth there must have come just one seed, and the result of that one seed is that the whole earth is green.

So keep the third sutra in mind: whatever life has given you is auspicious. Honor it, revere it—do not condemn it.

And then the fourth and final sutra is: whatever is within you, like an unhewn stone, must be carved—its statue must be shaped. Through meditation that wondrous work is completed. Meditation is the art of inner statue-making: to chip away the rough parts in the stone, as a sculptor chips with his chisel. Then, slowly, the unshaped stone that lay by the roadside becomes such a beautiful statue—of Buddha, of Mahavira, of Krishna, of Christ—that you could never have imagined it. Meditation is the chisel. Meditation is the sole means to shape the unshaped within.

Let these four sutras sink into your awareness and you will know the art of living. And the one who has known life has known God.
Purnananda, the one who has known life has known bliss. The one who has known life has known liberation—because life is eternal. Once it is known, it is seen: Ah, I was never born and I will never die. I was before birth; I will remain even after death. The experience of this nectar is the essence-sutra of religion.

Manisha! A husband may, in his mind, feel his wife is a shoe, he may strut about the bazaar saying so; but the moment he reaches home he forgets his swagger. Just seeing his wife, his wits desert him. He goes around proclaiming, “I am the pati—pati means master!” But wives know perfectly well who is master and who is slave. Even if they write letters beginning “O Master!” and sign off “Your maid at your feet,” it’s pure formality. There’s no truth in it. A wife knows exactly whose head is at whose feet. The husband is in such a fix that he consoles himself with such talk: “She’s a shoe! She’s the gateway to hell! She’s nothing!” “Only men attain liberation, not women”—go on, write such things in your scriptures, keep trying to convince yourself. All such efforts only show the reality is just the opposite. The wife has no problem signing, “Your maid.” She knows signatures change nothing. She signs with complete ease because she knows who the slave really is. She is so assured of her ownership she doesn’t even bother. If it gives you pleasure that she writes “your maid,” let it be written. It’s paper talk. Reality is entirely reversed.

This happened in Akbar’s court. One day Birbal said, “Every single man in your court is henpecked.” Akbar said, “Impossible. My courtiers, my brave warriors, victors of many battles—henpecked? What nonsense!”

Right then he ordered his courtiers: “All who are henpecked, stand in a line. And don’t lie. If a lie is found, your head will roll.” He told the guards: “Draw your naked swords.” “We’ll ask your wives, your neighbors, your children. If we find even a small proof that you’re henpecked and you lied, off goes your head!”

Who would risk that? Neighbors would expose you instantly, servants would expose you instantly, and children—what do they know? They would blurt the truth: “Daddy tucks his tail the moment he sees Mommy. He comes home as if he’s about to be thrashed. Mommy is afraid of a mouse, but not of Daddy; Daddy is afraid of Mommy!” The evidence would be obvious. Better not get into this mess. And besides, all the courtiers knew each other’s secrets; they’d expose each other.

Hesitating and stammering, they all went and stood in line—except one man. No one expected it, not even Akbar; even Birbal was surprised. He was known to be thoroughly henpecked, beyond doubt, and yet he stood apart.

Akbar said, “Well, no matter—at least there is one man in my court who is not henpecked.” The man said, “Wait, don’t jump to conclusions. When I was leaving home my wife said, ‘Listen, don’t stand in a crowd!’ So I cannot stand in that crowd. No other reason. If she finds out I stood in a crowd, no food or water for me—there’ll be trouble.”

Akbar said, “All right, Birbal, perhaps you were right about the court. But is this true of the whole capital?”

Birbal said, “Absolutely. To be a husband and not be henpecked—that’s rare. Such men never become husbands; if you don’t intend to be henpecked, why become a husband at all?”

Akbar said, “You’re talking nonsense. The whole capital?”

Birbal said, “You didn’t believe me about the courtiers, and now you don’t believe me about the capital.” So Akbar said, “Take my two finest horses—Arabians, one white, one black; I love them dearly. Go through the city. Any man who can prove he is not henpecked—give him whichever horse he chooses.”

Birbal set out with a man and the two horses. They visited house after house—no one could prove it. Only at one house… Early morning sun, a cold winter light. A man sat massaging himself, a wrestler, seven feet tall—magnificent. One punch and you’d never get up again.

Birbal said, “Brother, I have a question. You won’t be angry, will you?” (Birbal too was a little scared: the man looked dangerous.) “I have to ask; the emperor has sent me.”

The man said, “Ask. What do you want?”

“Nothing for myself. I’ve brought two horses. If you can prove who is the master in your home—you or your wife…” The man burst into laughter, a laugh so loud the horses shied. Even Birbal’s chest trembled. The man brought his bulging muscles close to Birbal: “See these?” He said, “Put your hand in mine.” He squeezed—Birbal cried, “Hey! Do you want to kill me? Leave my hand!”

The man said, “Me—henpecked? You won’t leave here alive! Look at this body. And there’s my wife.” Inside, a thin, frail woman was sorting wheat. If he clenched his fist around her, she’d be gone. He said, “That hen, my master? Shall I wring her neck? Shall I finish her? Or finish the fellow with the horses? Say, whom shall I finish?”

“Brother,” Birbal said, “no finishing anyone! We accept—you’re the master. It’s obvious. Even Akbar would agree. You’re not just master of your house—practically the emperor of the capital. Now tell me, which horse do you want?”

The man called, “Jumman’s mother! Which horse shall I take, the white or the black?” Jumman’s mother said, “If you take the black one, I’ll teach you such a lesson you’ll remember it for life! Take the white.”

He said, “We’ll take the white.” Birbal said, “Enough. No horse for you. Case closed. We’ve seen who the master is. Keep those muscles to yourself. You can beat me, you can beat the horse—but listen to what Jumman’s mother says!”

Manisha, don’t worry. I simply give the poor husbands a little air. They come to satsang bruised and battered; let them get a little benefit! They come completely deflated; I pump them a bit so there’s some air in the balloon. They strut home at least till the door—“We’re coming from satsang! What words he spoke!”—and then the repairs happen at home.

So I blow into them as much as I can, without any worry. The women listen with relish; they don’t worry. You are the first to worry—you sound unmarried. If you were married, you wouldn’t say such things. Women sit here laughing, more than the men—even when I make fun of them.

As for the poor men, what more mockery can I add? Their mockery is already complete. Out of compassion I don’t mock them further. It’s not that I’m feeding their egos. I’ve tried raising them up in every way; the moment they see the wife, they collapse. I’m not speaking from one or two experiences—I’ve tested many. Alone they stand tall, do push-ups; the moment they see the wife, they ask, “Jumman’s mother, shall we take the black horse or the white?” Finished!

Don’t worry. Someone asked Mulla Nasruddin, “After marriage, who sleeps peacefully—the husband or the wife?” “Both,” said Nasruddin. “The only difference is: the wife sleeps at home, the husband sleeps at the office.”

How can the poor fellow sleep at home! He somehow passes the time he gets. All over the world there’s this idea that men are the stronger sex and women the weaker. It’s a complete illusion—propaganda spread by men for self-defense. Men talk among men; women sit quietly smiling: “Fine, talk away, puff your hookahs, amuse yourselves!”

A child asked his mother, “Mommy, did you ever work in a circus?” “No, why?” “Because the lady next door says you make Daddy dance on your fingers.” Which woman doesn’t?

A woman had a car accident and lost a finger. She claimed fifty thousand rupees from the insurance company. The manager called her in, amazed: “Fifty thousand for one finger?” She said, “That’s nothing. It was the very finger on which I made my husband dance. It wasn’t an ordinary finger. What do you think my husband is worth? That’s the value of this finger. How will I make him dance now?” The manager agreed—his own experience was the same: his wife too made him dance on her fingers.

Husbands are almost like puppets. You’ve seen puppet shows? The puppeteer hides behind, strings in hand; the puppets dance as he wishes, go where he sends them.

Mulla Nasruddin was in court. The magistrate asked, “Weren’t you ashamed to hit your wife with a broom?” Nasruddin said, “Sir, it depends on the occasion.” “I don’t understand,” said the magistrate. “I mean it was morning; her hands were occupied, her back was to me, the broom lay nearby, the back door was open—so I hit her and ran. I’d been waiting for such an opportunity. Fine me whatever you want.” The magistrate said, “Fine? Not at all. You’ve revealed a secret. I’ll practice it myself.” The logic is tempting—if such an opportunity arises, one should use it!

Manisha, don’t worry. Inflating husbands is nothing special; they need a little life, so their souls don’t entirely leave. I have to find sannyasins among them too.

You’ll be surprised: women take sannyas first; husbands follow. If a husband wants to take it first, the wife won’t allow it. Husbands come to me saying, “I want to, but Jumman’s mother doesn’t agree; she’ll make life hell. And what a kind of sannyas you’ve devised! If you told us to leave home, it would be understandable—we’d run away today. That’s the same ‘opportunity’—the back door open, run!” That’s the old kind of sannyas. My sannyasin must not run away. So people tell me, “You’ve made such a sannyas that puts us in trouble! The wife says, ‘Go there if you like, but don’t come home in ochre.’ And you say, ‘Don’t leave home.’ If you gave permission to leave, I’d run from here and not go back at all. But you don’t— you call that escapism. You say, ‘Go home.’ And there she is sitting, saying, ‘Don’t enter the house in ochre robes.’”

But wives don’t worry. Not a single woman comes saying, “I want sannyas but my husband is blocking me.” She says, “I’ll handle my husband—don’t worry.” I ask, “Won’t he be upset?” She says, “Forget him. I know him. I’ll manage. Who can stop me?” If a wife wants sannyas, not only does she take it, she eventually makes the husband take it too. He has to.

In a coffee house a few intellectuals were debating self-reliance. One proudly gave an example: “Look at me—how self-reliant I am. I get up at five, finish my ablutions, make tea and breakfast, get the kids ready for school. Before leaving for the office I wake my wife—she’s used to bed-tea. Then I leave precisely at 7:30. Yet people call me henpecked. They don’t understand what self-reliance is!” People find nice words—this is called self-reliance!

Manisha, you ask, “You speak daily in favor of husbands…” They need it—consider them poor fellows. I’m not taking their side; I just hand them a few crutches: “Brother, your legs are broken, your arms are cut—take these crutches; somehow hobble along.” That’s all. And I know even these won’t last long—wives will snatch them away. With the same crutches, they’ll thrash them.

No woman gets upset at these jokes. In truth, I see women more pleased. When I try to inflate husbands, they know: “Fine, inflate him—no problem. He’s a balloon; one prick of a needle and pop!” I don’t joke at women’s expense. Why beat the victorious? Husbands are already bruised; they need a little balm and bandage. Women don’t. In truth, husbands need to become soulful again. Women are already sufficiently self-possessed and strong. Their strength is of another kind, hence not visible. Men’s strength is external—muscle, body, height, bone and flesh, physical. A woman’s strength is of the heart, deeper, more invisible. But women have always been stronger, and will remain so.

Know this: women live about five years longer than men. Why? Also, 115 boys are born for every 100 girls; by marriageable age the numbers equalize—the extra fifteen boys are gone. Even Nature keeps a margin: it produces fifteen more because it knows they are the weaker creatures; fifteen percent will drop before fourteen. Later more will drop—that’s another story. Up to fourteen they won’t even make it.

You’ll have noticed boys fall ill more than girls. You’ll have seen that women physically endure adversity, difficulty, hardship better than men. Men shatter at the slightest thing. Their strength is superficial; inside they are weak. Men go mad more, commit suicide more. Women talk more about suicide, but do not do it. And when they do, it’s calculated: a few pills, measured so that in the morning they’ll sleep an hour longer—enough to make the husband sweat. His life will be on edge—police may come, call the doctor! And all it would have taken was a sari—she wouldn’t have attempted anything. Often she hasn’t done it at all—maybe only pretended to swallow pills and lies with eyes closed, fully conscious, while the husband shakes her hand and it drops limply. Women have their own logic.

Two childhood friends met in the market after many years. One said, “Oh! You’ve changed so much—I couldn’t recognize you at all!” The other said, “Ah, you too have changed so much. Good thing I recognized you instantly by your sari and sandals.” Women live in saris and sandals—otherwise, life is ready to be laid down: “I’ll jump, I’ll hang!” The husband thinks, “Better to buy a sari than create an uproar, gather the entire neighborhood, face disgrace. What will the kids say? What will people say? What will the doctor say? If the police get involved—if it appears in the newspaper!” “Take the sari, take the sandals, take whatever you want.”

Women’s reasons for “dying” are higher, beyond a husband’s understanding—and they don’t die either. Women are stronger—by my reckoning and by scientists’. Nature made them strong because it has a significant work for them. For the male, Nature has no special important work. The husband is almost irrelevant. In Nature there is no husband and wife—that is a human invention, artificial, and one day it will go. Its days are ending; it’s rotten. In Nature there is a mother; there is no father. The mother is necessary—without her the flow of life stops. Who will carry a child for nine months? Let a man try just once to carry a child for nine months! Not carry inside—just keep the baby on his belly! He’ll either kill the child or die himself. Let him try one night in bed with a baby—the baby will torment him: “I need to pee, I’m hungry, I want this, I want that.” Babies sleep by day and torment by night! Women endure. If a man’s sleep breaks a few times, by morning he’s a corpse. A woman’s sleep can break many times—she sleeps again, rises fresh, changes the child, does everything. Her patience is vast. Nature has made her capable.

A man is not. His job is tiny—a mere injection at most. And now any injection can do. You see artificial insemination in animals. A vet gives the cow a shot—enough. No need to bring the bull. The bull may live in England—often they do, the English bulls are strong. Their semen arrives in vials; inject it here. And Hindus aren’t even ashamed: English bulls with Hindu cows—what a combination! No modesty, no shame! At least blush! Think what you’re doing! What greater sign of cultural decline do you want?

In a village, a father had to go out. He told his rustic daughter, “The doctor is coming to get the cow pregnant. Heat some water in a bucket and keep it ready, and arrange whatever else the doctor needs. I must go; you’ll have to manage.” She said, “I’ll manage.” He added, “We have several cows. I’ve driven a nail into the post of the cow that needs the procedure, so you’ll remember which one.” “All right,” she said. The doctor arrived. She took him to the cow with the nail on the post and set the bucket of hot water there. The doctor asked, “What’s the nail for?” She said, “Where else will you hang your pants? And can I stand here and watch?” The poor girl had no idea the doctor was going to inject. She thought, “Father put the nail there so the doctor can hang his pants.” Naturally she was curious: “Let me also see the man who can behave like that with a cow and feel no shame!” The doctor said, “Run along, girl! Do you have any sense? Go do your work!”

What’s happening with animals today will happen among humans tomorrow. It’s scientific. Rather than every scrawny man producing scrawny children, it’s better that the semen of beautiful, superior, talented men be available. What happens with animals can happen with humans. In the future, remember, the father will have no place. No need of nails and pegs for hanging pants. Don’t hammer any pegs. The father’s day is done. Sooner or later, the world will be matriarchal again. The human journey began with a matriarchy, then came patriarchy—father’s rule—because a father’s pride arose: “My children alone should inherit my property.”

Karl Marx is right: monogamy and the wife’s confinement began because of private property. The father feared: if the wife is free, whose children are these? “I earn my whole life, and whose children will inherit? Then my whole life’s work goes to waste!” It would go to waste anyway—what does it matter whose children inherit? Yours or someone else’s—what difference does it make? You’ll be gone. Someone or other will be the owner. But the male ego: “My own branch must inherit!” Therefore, confine the wife. Therefore the girl must be a virgin at marriage. As for men—no problem. “Men are men.” But the girl must be a virgin—lest she already be pregnant, bring someone else’s seedling into the home, give birth, and that child inherit the property!

When Nasruddin married for the first time, a child was born in six months. He was worried. The neighborhood mocked him. People said, “Elder, do you understand?” Nasruddin said, “Understand what?” He went to the doctor: “Explain. People ask if I understand; I don’t.” The doctor said, “Don’t worry. The first time it often happens. But never again. The first time women have no practice—sometimes they deliver in six months, sometimes in seven.” The doctor was wise, old, experienced. “I speak from experience,” he said. “The first time it often happens—no practice, no sense of timing. Later, with practice, it will always be nine months. Don’t fret. It won’t happen again.” And when the second child came in nine months, Nasruddin went around the neighborhood saying, “Understood? Do you understand now?” They said, “What is there to understand?” He said, “If you don’t, go ask the doctor. The first time it’s always like this. The girl was a virgin—no experience!”

Man seized possession of woman and declared ownership for only one reason: to secure the inheritance. But property too will become society’s, sooner or later. The father will become an unscientific notion. The mother will not. The matriarchal world is near.

People ask me, “Why have you given all the important work in the ashram to women?” This ashram is a pointer to the future. What will happen tomorrow is happening here today. I have done this knowingly. I want the ashram to be a symbol of the future. And naturally, the skill with which women work—men cannot match it. Men’s work is a bit rough. It lacks clarity, beauty, grace. The beauty and grace you see here—women are the cause. So whatever work can be done by women, I first give it to women. I hold a deep respect for women.

So Manisha, if I sometimes joke and tease you, don’t worry. It changes nothing in my respect. My reverence for women is perhaps greater than any man’s has ever been in all of history.

Harikrishna! Even God lost to a Marwari. For you there is only hope. Don’t worry. Wherever you go, you will succeed. Whatever you do, you will succeed. If anyone wants to learn the secret of success, let them learn it from you. A Marwari doesn’t know how to lose. A Marwari doesn’t know how to be disheartened. Why do you worry?

A prisoner asked another Marwari prisoner, “How did you land up here?”
The Marwari said, “I was in a stubborn standoff with the government.”
The first asked, “What do you mean?”
The Marwari replied, “I, too, used to print notes—just like the government.”
A standoff with the government! A Marwari’s stubbornness goes even with God—and God has to give in. So don’t you worry at all.

There was a man who printed counterfeit notes. Once, by mistake, he printed a fifteen-rupee note. He thought, In the city no one will be fooled, so he went to a village, bought one rupee’s worth of goods from a Marwari and asked for fourteen rupees in change. The Marwari handed him two seven-rupee notes! The counterfeiter thought, Well, even if the fifteen-rupee note isn’t right, at least I’ve made a profit of one rupee! After all, the Marwari did give one rupee’s worth of goods! He was pleased. When he got home and opened the packet, there was only a slip inside: “We do the same business.”

Being a Marwari and talking of losing! Never even by mistake. Talk of despair does not befit a Marwari.

Chandulal, the Marwari, once went to a feast with his son. As was his old habit, he ate to his heart’s content—puris upon puris, rasgullas upon rasgullas—he just wouldn’t stop! Then he noticed his son sipping water in between bites. He grew furious. He thought, What a fool I’ve brought along! Who drinks water at a feast? If you want to drink water, go home and drink—here you should just eat as much as you possibly can! He couldn’t exactly scold him there, but kept giving the boy digs in the ribs. The boy, however, wouldn’t understand and kept sipping water. As soon as they reached home, Chandulal gave him a loud slap and said, “Good-for-nothing! Why on earth did you drink water at the feast? Is water something to be drinking there? And I kept poking you—enemy of intelligence! You didn’t even understand what those jabs meant!”

The son said, “You’re beating me for nothing. Look, I’ll demonstrate right now that by drinking water a person can eat even more.”
Saying this, he brought a vessel, filled it with ash, and poured a glass of water into it. As soon as he poured, the ash settled down and space opened up in the vessel.
Seeing this, Chandulal delivered another slap. The boy protested, “Why are you hitting me again? I’ve even demonstrated it to you!”
Chandulal said, “You fool, why didn’t you tell me this before? If you’d told me earlier, I too would have drunk water to make room.”
And the boy said, “That’s why I wasn’t bothered by your jabs—because the more you jabbed me, the more everything inside was settling down, making room. I was thinking, Wow, what a jab—one more rasgulla found its way in!”

You ask, Harikrishna: “Is there any hope for me?”
There is hope—but you will have to drop being a Marwari. And being a Marwari is not a characteristic of the soul. I haven’t seen in any scripture that “Marwari” is an attribute of the soul. The soul is neither Marwari nor Madrasi. Marwari and Madrasi, Chinese and Japanese, Indian and Pakistani—all are games of the mind. Sannyas is to rise beyond the mind. Meditation is to go beyond the mind. Once you go beyond the mind, where is Marwar, where is Madras? Once you go beyond the mind, everything is left behind—“Mharo desh Marwar!”—all that is left far, far behind. There, only pure conscious witnessing remains.

Don’t worry. You haven’t taken sannyas yet, but being a Marwari you’re doing your accounting—whether to take it or not, what will be the profit, what will be the loss, is there hope or not? If you keep accounts, you will miss. This is not a world for bookkeepers. Here it belongs to those who can lose their accounting—who can drop calculation. Don’t be afraid; take the leap! There is only hope. There is no reason for despair, because the Divine himself dwells within you.

But how long will you hesitate? You’ve come here three or four times. Again and again you come, thinking—Should I take sannyas or not? You come and you go. If this habit of coming and going sets in, then despair will come to hand. If you come here and go away like a spectator, nothing will be gained. Take the plunge here. Enter this ocean. And to enter an ocean, courage is needed! Those who keep accounts don’t enter oceans. To enter oceans one needs courage—daring.

Sannyas is the greatest act of courage in this world. May the Divine give you courage! Your name is very lovely—Harikrishna! Make this name meaningful. Take the leap. Why get entangled in such small things—Marwari, non-Marwari! Here, no one is anything. There are so many Marwaris here—don’t you see how many have gotten immersed? Once immersed, immersed—what Marwari remains then?

All kinds of people are here. Jews are here—what comparison will Marwaris make with them? Marwaris, poor fellows, are like small-scale, Indian-style Jews. Jews are the global Marwaris—but here Jews are immersed—so immersed they have forgotten completely—all accounts, all multiplication tables, all webs of logic... This is not the work of mathematics. This is the work of love. And where there is love, there is hope. Where there is love, there is sunrise.

That’s all for today.