Sumiran Mera Hari Kare #11

Sahajanand! Suffering is self-stupor; unconsciousness toward oneself; not knowing oneself. Bliss is knowing oneself; self-recognition. Just as when light is lit darkness disappears on its own, so when the lamp of self-knowledge is lit, suffering dissolves.

Therefore, except for the buddhas, suffering will harry everyone—sometimes less, sometimes more. What you call happiness is only a lesser dose of suffering. You have never known happiness. When suffering decreases, you call it happiness. When it grows excessive, beyond endurance—then you call it suffering. Between what you call happiness and suffering there is no qualitative difference, only a difference of quantity, of degree.

For those who have known true happiness, suffering simply does not remain—it cannot remain! Nor is it that suffering pounces on you only once in a while. Suffering is riding on your chest. When pain becomes old you grow accustomed to it. When a wound has been there a long time you slowly forget it; you accept it, you assimilate it. A new wound stings.

The first time a particular pain occurs it shakes you; but if it keeps occurring, keeps occurring—how long can it keep shaking you? Not only do you become familiar with it, you even make friends with it. If someday it were to leave you, you would feel miserable.

A friend of mine worked at a railway station. It is hard to sleep at a station: trains coming and going all day, passengers getting on and off, hawkers shouting, porters calling… But in thirty years of service he became so used to it that he couldn’t sleep at home; sleep came only at the station. Even on holidays he went to the station to sleep. I asked him, “Are you mad?” He said, “Not mad. Until this hubbub rises, the right atmosphere for my sleep doesn’t form.”

A similar thing happened in Chicago, America. For years a train used to pass through the middle of Chicago at five in the morning. Railway officials thought people’s sleep must be disturbed at five. Even though no complaint had come, they reasoned that running a train through a metropolis at 5 a.m. needlessly disturbs so many people’s sleep. So they changed the time; the train that used to pass at five started passing at seven. The first day, when it passed at seven, many people in Chicago woke with a start at five. They had become accustomed to the train passing at five. And the next day the railway received several phone calls: “What happened to the train? The one that used to pass at five didn’t pass! What on earth happened? Our sleep was badly disturbed.”

Man even adjusts to suffering; then he cannot let it go. That’s why you say you want to be free from suffering, but if you really look you don’t want to be free of it. If you wanted to, suffering is not holding you—you are holding suffering. You could be free right now, this very moment! What power does suffering have? But you just talk about being free from suffering. Talking feels good. You even grow attached to your wounds.

In the Bastille, when the revolution came in France, the revolutionaries broke the Bastille. That fortress held France’s most heinous criminals—prisoners serving life or under sentence of death. Only two kinds were kept there. The chains they wore had no locks, no keys. They were not made to be opened. The chains would come off only when the man died—by breaking the hands to remove the shackles, breaking the legs to remove the fetters—or at the gallows. While alive, those chains were not going to open; so why bother with locks and keys!

The revolutionaries thought, “First, free the Bastille.” They broke open the gates and freed the prisoners. Some five thousand were confined there. To begin with, the prisoners refused to leave. “We don’t want to be freed. As we are, we are fine. As we are, we’re comfortable. We don’t want to go out. What would we do outside? Here we have all amenities,” they said. “There is a place to sleep. We get food on time. We sleep on time. If we fall ill, we get treatment. What else does a man need? Our friends are here, our loved ones are here. Outside all are strangers.”

Some had been confined twenty years, some thirty; there were even those who had been inside forty and fifty years. They said, “After fifty years, where would we earn a living? We’ve forgotten how to earn. Where would we find our families? Would they even recognize us? We don’t want to go. Please forgive us.”

But revolutionaries are stubborn. They would not listen. They had their chains and handcuffs broken by force and pushed them out into freedom. No one in the world can be freed by being pushed. Freedom cannot be imposed. Imposed freedom is not freedom; it will be a new kind of bondage. And the revolutionaries were astonished when, by evening, prisoners began to return. “We’ve been hungry all day; no one gives us food,” they said.

By night more prisoners came back. “We can’t sleep outside; we need the quiet of our dark cell. Outside there is too much noise.”

Some even said, “Until you give us back our chains and fetters, we won’t be able to sleep. We’ve grown accustomed to them. Without that weight on our hands and feet, we feel naked, uprooted—like a tree whose roots are gone.”

It was a remarkable experience, a profound psychological revelation: a man will not be ready to drop his chains. That is why someone who once goes to prison often goes again and again. The entire system of punishment is unpsychological. Legalists think that by punishing we will deter crime; they are mistaken. They have no sense of psychology, no understanding of man’s inner mechanics, no insight into human life. They just beat on a blind track.

The history of prisons shows that a man who once enters jail tends to return, repeatedly. He becomes habituated to prison; the world outside no longer feels good. His friends are there, his ties are there, his whole world is there. What is he to do outside?

This whole justice system is foolish. People are not reformed this way; they are ruined. Thus, the first-time offender is made a lifelong criminal. A criminal need not be thrown into prison; he needs psychotherapy. He is deranged. He should be treated as we treat the sick. He needs healing; instead we give him punishment. What has punishment to do with awakening? He becomes habituated to punishment; he even learns to enjoy it.

In prison, inmates boast arrogantly to each other about how much time they have served. “How much have you done? You’re still a novice. What’s your standing?”

There are top dogs in prison too! Someone has been in thirty times—what is your standing before him if you’ve only been twice?

A man entered a cell. The inmate already there was lying under a blanket in the afternoon. He asked the newcomer, “Brother, how long are you staying?” He said, “I got ten years.” The man said, “Spread your bedding by the door; you’ll have to leave soon. We have twenty years here! Lay your bed by the door; no need to come further in. What’s your standing? Ten years! We have twenty here. And this is not our first time.”

They are experienced there too.

There is so much suffering in the world; ninety-nine percent of the reason is that you cling to suffering. You cannot let go. If you drop it you will feel emptiness. You will become vacant. You will panic, as if hanging in mid-air—like Trishanku. Thorns are thorns, granted, but one wants something in the hands. Faced with empty hands, we prefer hands full of trash. What man fears most is emptiness. Let it be anything—pebbles and stones—but something! Some kind of stuffing.

Psychologists say that people who feel meaninglessness in their lives start eating more. They start filling themselves with food. If nothing else, then fill with food! Beyond a point, food becomes poison. When you eat more than you need, it is poison; it will kill you. And that which kills is poison. Yet people keep filling with food. Emptiness creates panic.

People pile up all sorts of junk in their homes. Anything! They’ll go to the flea market and buy useless things, just to keep the house full. An empty house gnaws at you. In an empty house there is fear. So keep it full. When the house outside is full, an illusion arises that inside we too are full. And then, who cares with what it’s filled! Diamonds and jewels are not available to everyone; so they fill with pebbles and stones.

You have filled yourself with suffering.

Sahajanand, you ask: “What is suffering?”

Suffering is self-ignorance. You don’t know who abides within you. Therefore you labor under the illusion that you are empty inside. Feeling empty within, you try to fill yourself with anything whatsoever. And whatever you fill yourself with is futile—it is suffering. The day you know the inner flame, there is no need to fill yourself with anything.

An emperor grew old. He had three sons. He had to decide to whom he would give the kingdom. The three were born together—triplets. Equally capable, equally handsome, equally educated. Same age. Otherwise there would be a way out: give it to the eldest, or to the cleverest, or the strongest. But they were born together, alike in every respect—so alike it was hard to tell who was who. He asked a Sufi fakir, “What should I do? No old rule applies. To whom shall I give my kingdom?”

The fakir said, “Do this: give each the same sum of money and tell them—each has his own palace—‘With this money, fill your palace.’ But the palace must be full. On such-and-such day I will come to see. Whoever has filled his palace most completely, whoever fills it to the brim, will be the owner of my empire.”

The first son wondered, “With what to fill the palace? Gold and silver can’t be bought with so little money. And without gold and silver, what is the point of filling! But fill it I must—one way or another.” He bought cheap things, whatever was available—trash and junk. He filled the house. But it was garbage! When the emperor came to see, such a stench rose from the house that he panicked and stepped out. He said, “Is this called filling?” The Sufi, who had come along, said, “This son of yours is a perfect worldly son. This is what the worldly people are doing. There is empty space, and emptiness hurts.”

Have you seen—when one of your teeth falls out, your tongue goes there again and again the whole day? It never went there before. While the tooth was there, it never went. Once the tooth falls, the tongue goes there incessantly; it goes crazy. That empty spot starts pricking.

What you have, you never remember; what you lose, you remember.

The fakir said, “This son of yours is worldly. Don’t be annoyed; this is what people everywhere have done. That’s why a stench rises from every life.”

They came to the second son’s door. He apologized. “I tried to fill it, but how could I with so little money? I brought gold and silver—but they didn’t even fill a corner, not even one corner. I failed. I thought hard but found no way. So the house is empty—only a little bit filled.”

The emperor asked the fakir, “What to do?” The fakir said, “This son is more intelligent than the first, but not very intelligent. Let’s see the third, then decide.”

The third had done something marvelous. As they approached his house, they were surprised. From afar a fragrance rose from his house! He had adorned it with flowers, lit incense, and filled it with the light of lamps. Rows of lamps were burning. The house was empty. There were garlands of flowers, incense was burning, lamps were lit—but the house was empty. The emperor entered and said, “The house is not filled; he has not met the condition.”

The fakir said, “Don’t be hasty. This boy is truly wise. Look closely.” The emperor looked again. The house was empty. He said, “It is empty!”

The fakir said, “You are in truth a worldly man; you won’t understand this son. See—he has filled the house with light! The light has reached every corner. He has lit ghee lamps. But your eyes are blind. The house is filled with light and you call it empty. It is filled with the fragrance of flowers and you call it empty. It is filled with the sweet smoke of incense and you call it empty!

“And he has also called a flautist, who sits in the garden playing his flute. The notes of the flute are resonating in the palace. And look—he has filled the house with sound! This boy has fulfilled the condition in four ways, not just one. He filled it with light—that alone was enough. He filled it with the fragrance of flowers—that too was enough. He filled it with the aroma and smoke of incense—that too was enough. Then he filled it with the notes of the flute, with music, with celebration—that too was enough. You asked to fill the house with one thing; he has filled it in four ways. One house—and he has created a miracle, as if there were four houses. He has filled four houses in one! He has filled all four dimensions. This son is worthy to be emperor. But he is not worldly; he has inner sight—beyond, far, otherworldly.”

There is suffering in your life because you have not found the lamp within. It is burning there; it has never gone out—if it went out you could not live. Your very life is that lamp. The flute is playing there; it does not stop for a moment—that is the anahata nad, the unstruck sound the saints speak of. At every moment fragrance arises there; incense is burning there. In that sense we light incense in temples and at shrines—the outer incense is only a symbol of the inner. And there within is only fragrance upon fragrance, the blossoms of the thousand-petaled lotus! In the lake of your consciousness miraculous flowers are in bloom! But you must look there! You do not look there—you have turned your back. Your eyes are fixed outside.

Naturally, if you look outside you will live in darkness—living in darkness is suffering. Looking outside you will feel empty—emptiness is suffering. Remaining outside you will find life meaningless—meaninglessness is suffering. Then you will try to fill this meaninglessness, this emptiness, this void with something—money, position, prestige. But you will never fill it. Filling it that way, a stench will arise in your life. That is why there is a stench in the lives of politicians like in few others—the race for position is an extremely low race; it is the race of ego. And the filth that accumulates in the lives of money-mad people—there is nothing like it, because the race for wealth is derangement.

But the one who goes within finds the doors of a new world opening. Doors of mystery open. There is light there. And there is such fullness that nothing more is to be asked for. Where asking ends, suffering ends.

You ask, Sahajanand: “What is suffering?”
Desire is suffering. Demanding is suffering. Lust is suffering. Craving is suffering. And the day you know yourself, all craving will drop, all wanting will fall away—because the Lord of lords abides there, the Emperor of emperors abides there! Within you is the greatest treasure of this existence—the kingdom of God!

Therefore only the buddhas cannot be attacked by suffering. Why? There is just one small, simple reason: they have become acquainted with their inner bliss. How can suffering attack them?

Have you ever seen darkness attack a lamp? Even if you wanted to, you could not contrive a way. Explain to darkness as much as you like: “Attack! Go on, lay hold of it!” Bribe it, tell darkness, “We’ll feed you malpua, give you rabri, serve you forever—just once, attack this lamp. It’s only a tiny flame; push it down, throw it flat!” But darkness can do nothing. Darkness will remain far away from the lamp. You cannot persuade darkness to attack a lamp, nor has darkness any capacity.

Darkness has no existence of its own. In the same way, suffering has no existence of its own.

Buddha means one who has awakened; who is filled with awareness; who has become self-possessed; who is meditative; who has tasted samadhi; who has recognized that “the Divine is within me.” Then the matter is finished. All suffering ends. No attack will ever happen again. There will be no return to the world. Your very grip will loosen.

It is craving that brings you into the world. When there is no craving, there remains no reason to come. You will dissolve into the Vast. That dissolving we have called moksha, nirvana.

Prem Vikram! Sit in this satsang and poetry does not arise—this is impossible. Sit in this satsang and the anklets within you do not begin to jingle—this is impossible. Yes, if you sit here only like a body while your soul is somewhere else, then you are not sitting here at all; then you have not come here. Whoever truly comes here, whose tuning aligns with me, within him songs upon songs will be born. They must be born. And at first it will feel exactly as if you have gone mad. It is not only you who feel this; even Muhammad felt the same.

When, for the first time, the Qur’an arose within Muhammad, he too felt, “Perhaps I have gone mad.” His words then are very endearing—the words he spoke to his wife when he came home. He had been on the mountain when, in his first state of meditation, the verses of the Qur’an began to descend. He was frightened. He was an unlettered man—black letters were all the same as a buffalo to him, as we say. And such astonishing songs began to pour down; it was obvious they were not his. Existence seemed to be speaking from within him. These utterances were not his own. They were coming from somewhere else; they were descending from another realm. This light was not his own; he had never had such light. Nor these words, nor these songs; he had never sung, nor was he a master of words. What was happening!

He got scared. He thought, “Have I gone mad?” He ran home, lay down on the bed and said to his wife, “Pile on me all the quilts and blankets there are in the house; I feel very cold.” And surely he was trembling, as if a high fever had come on. His wife covered him with quilts, but the trembling would not stop. His teeth were chattering. She asked, “All of a sudden—you left the house perfectly fine—what has happened? What is it?”

Muhammad said, “How can I hide it from you? If I tell you, perhaps my heart will feel lighter. Something strange is happening. Wondrous songs are descending within me. Either I have gone mad or I have become a poet.”

And when he recited the first verses to his wife… she was educated, older than him—older by fourteen years—experienced and cultured. She said, “Drop your fear. God has chosen you. You have become his vehicle. A message has come within you. You have received ilhām, revelation. This is no derangement. Throw off these blankets, remove these quilts! You have no fever. You have not gone mad. Within you, God has plucked the strings of your heart’s veena. I can see it clearly. These words are not yours, and a madman cannot speak such words. An epic is being born within you.”

The verses of the Qur’an are wondrous—their melody! One who can sing them finds their stroke very deep. If someone can hum them with his very life, with his heart, his own veena will begin to resonate.

No, this is a matter of a different kind of scripture. Other scriptures are scholastic, but the Qur’an is unique—and the reason for its uniqueness is that Muhammad was not learned; otherwise he would have mixed into it some of his own knowledge-rubbish. He had nothing to mix. He was a blank man, simple and straight. Had he been a pundit, things would never have flowed so plainly; commentary would have crept in. But he had nothing of his own to add. He was like a blank sheet of paper. So whatever God wanted to write was written; whatever God wanted to speak was spoken. And therefore the verses… the whole Qur’an was not written in a month or two; it took years. Sometimes a single verse descended, sometimes ten. Whenever and as many as came, came. Mind the word: “descended.” As many as were revealed, that many were revealed. Then, for months, everything would fall silent. People would even ask Muhammad, “It’s been long; no verse has been said?”

He would say, “What can I do? For a long time he has not said. When he speaks, I will speak. When he says, I will speak.”

Hence the Qur’an descended over a very long time. It is not like the Gita, which Krishna spoke in a short span. The Qur’an took years in descending. Therefore, the Qur’an has no continuous sequence, no system. It is completely unsystematic. There is no chain in it. One flower bloomed today, another tomorrow, another after months, another after years—how can there be sequence? There is a kind of anarchy in the Qur’an. Yet in that anarchy there is a beauty. Man’s hand is not in it—not at all!

You say, Prem Vikram, “I never knew how to compose poetry, but having met you, perhaps I have gone mad.”

Good. Poetry will be born.

My sannyas is not a renunciate sannyas, not an escape from life. I accept only one definition of God: “Raso vai sah”—God is rasa, essence, juice. And when that rasa begins to trickle within you, when it surges in waves, songs will arise, dance will arise.

This is good. Do not hold it back. The world may perhaps call you mad; pay it no mind. My blessings are with you. And it is not necessary that poetry take the form of words. Life itself can become poetry. Your getting up and sitting down can be poetry. Your walking, your conduct can be a mahakavya, a great epic. Poetry can take many forms.

And the whole personality of a sannyasin should become poetic—not by contrivance, not imposed, not by practice—spontaneously.

There is nothing to get from the world—but the world is not all there is. A greater world is hidden within this world. The world is only a covering, a curtain. Behind this curtain the real secret lies concealed. Those who get entangled in the curtain, who keep worrying about the curtain and never lift it to look—are mad, utterly mad. Like going to see a painting and staring only at the frame. However beautiful the frame, what has it to do with the real thing? The question is the painting. Yet many such mad ones have become caught in frames; they went to seek truth and got tangled in words and scriptures.

There is nothing in the world. But that does not mean there is nothing anywhere. The world is only the circumference. If the circumference seems empty, do not conclude that the center is empty too. Hidden within the circumference is the center. Dig a little, Ranjan, and fountains of nectar will burst forth.

Both your experiences are moving rightly. You say: When I feel there is nothing to gain in the world, a kind of dispassion arises. I don’t feel like forming relationships. And yet by evening I dance and celebrate.

In the beginning both will happen. On one side, dispassion toward what is futile; on the other, the stirring of celebration for what is meaningful. Then gradually, even the “futile” will stop appearing futile; a new vision will come—that the futile is a protection for the meaningful. As we fence a garden to keep it safe. A fence bears no flowers; it is made of thorns. How will flowers bloom on a fence? But the fence is needed. The fence is not the garden, but without the fence there can be no garden.

So this dispassion now arising is preliminary. It too will pass. Slowly you will see that to protect that dance, that celebration, there is a fence all around; that fence is the world.

The world is God’s house. Do not get entangled in the house. Recognize the Owner. And once you recognize the Owner, what need is there for dispassion toward the house? Neither attachment to the house is needed, nor renunciation.

There are two kinds of foolishness in the world. One—those who are attached to the house; who love the walls; who clutch bricks to their chest. The other—those who have become disenchanted with the walls; who, frightened of the walls, run away; who are busy freeing themselves from bricks. Both are equally mad; there is no difference. Both are entangled with bricks. Neither has seen the Owner. The one who sees the Owner will accept these bricks too: after all, it is the Owner’s dwelling! Then every brick of this house will seem dear. Neither attachment nor aversion; for the place the Owner has chosen to dwell in has become sacred.

It is said in the life of Moses that when he went up the mountain to behold God, he saw a wondrous sight: a green bush—likely a rose bush—with flowers in bloom. It was green, yet from within it flames were rising. But the flame was extraordinary! The fire was mysterious! The bush was not burning. Far from burning, the leaves were not even withering. The flowers were fresh, dancing in the flames. The tongues of fire had deepened the color of the flowers and given the greenery a brighter sheen, an aura. Moses trembled a little, felt a little fear, yet, drawn by an irresistible pull, moved toward the bush. From the bush a voice came—as if the flame spoke, as if the fire spoke: Moses, remove your sandals, for you are on holy ground! Wherever I am, that ground is sacred.

At once Moses removed his sandals. When he went near, he saw that the flame was God, the very form of God. It was fire, yet cool and soothing.

God is a cool fire. In that fire, flowers bloom more; they do not burn. The words Moses heard from that fire—Moses, remove your sandals, for you are on holy ground. Wherever I am, that ground is sacred. But where is God not? God is everywhere. He is in every bush. Whether you see him or not is another matter; it depends on your eyes. I have seen him in every bush. I have seen him in you. I am seeing him in you now. I am seeing him in bush after bush. In every flower his flame is. Life itself is his flame. And what a cool flame—fire that does not burn! Fire that, far from burning, gives life. This whole earth, this whole life is sacred, a place of pilgrimage. Do not go to Kaaba, do not go to Kashi, do not go to Kailash. Wherever you are, experience the presence of this God. That is Kaaba, that is Kashi, that is Kailash. Wherever someone becomes silent, still, blissful, Ranjan, absorbed in celebration—there a shrine is born.

Dancing is one of the ways of being with me; celebration is a method of coming near me. This is a madhushala, a tavern, a wine-house.

The first happening is taking place now in your life: the world appears futile. This is natural. The first time the meaningful is glimpsed, the futile stands out. But soon, in the second step, it will be seen that the meaningful has the futile arranged all around it. There is a reason, a secret in this. Without the futile, the meaningful cannot be. Then the world too becomes worthy of respect. Then neither attachment nor renunciation. Wherever God dwells, every single thing is sacred.

And now you say, “I don’t feel like forming relationships.”

Naturally—relationship means the world: make friendships, weave affections, fall in love—this is how the world is constructed. Seeing that there is nothing to gain in the world, naturally one thinks: what friendships, what bonds? Ranjan left all relationships, affections, family, and came here. Her husband is in America—established, respected, in a good business. Ranjan came here and simply did not go back; as if she forgot the family altogether. The poor fellow waited long to see what had happened to his wife. After a year of waiting, he himself came—to see what the matter was. He came—and being a good man—he was swept away; he took sannyas. He has now gone back to settle everything and will return. A lovely man.

But Ranjan has seen there is no essence there. When the ready-made relationships showed no essence, what essence will new relationships have? However, when celebration arises in life, when joy arises, a new kind of relating begins—qualitatively different. It is not right to call them relationships, because that word misleads. They are not relationships. Then one simply shares love. Love no longer becomes a bondage; love liberates. One begins to share: there is so much within—what to do with it! So much wells up within—what to do! Flowers will blossom, songs will arise. They will have to be shared. And whoever opens their bag and receives them with love, you will even feel grateful to them.

Love has two states: one is relationship—out of which the world is made. And there is another: a state of being, not a relationship. A person becomes loveful. Then whomever he is with, wherever he sits—beside someone, by a tree or by a rock—love radiates from within toward them. As fragrance flows from a flower and light streams from a lamp, so love flows from a loveful person; relationships do not form.

What relationship do I have with you? But that does not mean I do not love you. It is my love for you. Only the awakened have truly loved; who else can love! What do others have to give! They are beggars; they themselves are asking—what will they give? They sit with their bowls outstretched, begging that someone give. And wherever a bowl is stretched out, one says: move along! For those before whom you spread your bowl are beggars too. The whole world is full of beggars.

Ranjan, soon an emperor will be born. These are the very first rays, the first arrival of dawn. For a while you will feel dispassion toward relationships. That is fine. But the birth of celebration is the more important thing. When celebration is born, relationships will bid farewell and love will remain—love free of relationship, love that transcends relationship. Your own state of being. A sound humming day and night within you. Whoever sits near you will hear it—like the gurgling song of a river. Whether anyone sits near or not, the river dances and sings. This is what I call living life as poetry. This is my message.

Sheela! Chinmaya, the poor fellow, is also right. But it’s not that only to give respect and love to women you need an enlightened man; that’s only half the story. Tell Chinmaya the other half as well: to give love and respect to men too, an enlightened person is needed. Only a buddha can give love—or a woman who has attained buddhahood. Only if there is love within you can you give it, isn’t it!

Everyone makes promises, but where are promises ever fulfilled—and how could they be? Who doesn’t want to create heaven! Everyone walks along brimming with hope that they will create heaven, but what gets created is hell. The real question is not what you intended; the real question is what ultimately happened. Trees are known by their fruits. What is the final outcome of your life? From that alone it is known what hope you were actually moving with. What value have your hopes? Everyone beautifies their hopes.

There is a saying that the road to hell is paved with good intentions—indeed, it is made of good intentions. Just as roads are laid with stones, so the road to hell is laid with good intentions. Walking along them, people reach hell.

A taxi driver stopped his cab and asked a passerby, “Where to?”
The passerby was a bit irritable. He was coming from a quarrel at home—a spat with his wife. He had no desire to talk to anyone. And this pesky taxi driver stops and asks, “Where to!” So in anger he said, “To hell!”
The taxi driver said, “Then do one thing, brother—get married! The taxi doesn’t go that far. A taxi has its limits. If you want to go to hell, only marriage can take you there.”

Chinmaya, the poor fellow, is right that to give love and respect to women an enlightened man is needed. But Sheela, you tell Chinmaya that to give respect to men too, an enlightened woman is needed. Otherwise, how will you respect men? I do not see in any woman a feeling of respect for her husband. And even if it were there, how could it be? Nor do I see in husbands any feeling of respect toward their wives. Yes, they put on a show. In every possible way they put on a show.

Beloved friend, rest assured—your name will not be mentioned. But you have already revealed more than your name. Your letter itself is your introduction.

You call marriage “sacred, religious and blissful,” and in the same breath you call your wife a she-devil and threaten divorce if I tell a joke. This is exactly what I am laughing at: the hypocrisy, the borrowed words, the painted smile that hides a wounded heart.

I am not against love; I am against the institution that strangles love. If your marriage is a celebration, my jokes will not hurt—you will laugh first and loudest. Only a wound feels the needle. If a few jokes can destroy your marriage, it was already a corpse; I am only ringing the bell.

My jokes are not against you; they are for you. Laughter is surgery without anesthesia. I am pricking the balloon so that truth can breathe. Marriage as a legal, social contract has become a prison for millions. Love is a meeting of two freedoms; marriage, as it is lived, is often the collision of two prisons.

Do not threaten me—you are threatening your wife. Take responsibility. If there is love, nourish it: drop possessiveness, throw away expectations, stop calling names, give each other space; meditate together. Let friendship be the foundation, not duty. If there is no love, be courageous enough to part in friendliness rather than go on poisoning each other and calling it holiness. A clean separation is more religious than a dirty togetherness.

You say you are burning with anger and revenge. How can love grow in such a climate? Anger is the smoke of an extinguished flame. Either light the flame again with awareness, or open the windows and let the smoke out. But don’t use me as an excuse. Whether you stay together or separate, let it be your conscious choice.

A small story. Mulla Nasruddin said, “I and my wife were very happy for twenty years—then we met.” Understand it: people live with pictures in their heads, not with real persons by their side. When the picture breaks, they blame the person. Drop the picture and look again with fresh eyes.

I will go on telling jokes about anything that has become false and heavy on the human spirit. I hit institutions so that individuals may be free. Either you will learn to laugh, and your marriage may begin to breathe, or you will gather courage to change what is rotten. In both cases, you win.

My blessings are with you—and a little extra for your wife; she will need it to live with a man who writes letters like this. And remember, I keep your name; I only reveal your truth.

Ranjan Bharati! Do you think I’ve changed now? I don’t see any difference at all.

I’ve told you the Zen story many times; let me tell it again. A man once went to the Zen Master Rinzai and asked, “Before you attained enlightenment, before you became a buddha, what did you do?” Rinzai said, “I drew water from the well, I chopped wood in the forest. When I was hungry, I ate; when I was sleepy, I slept.” The man said, “Fine—and after you attained buddhahood, what do you do?” Rinzai said, “I draw water from the well, I chop wood in the forest. When I’m hungry, I eat; when I’m sleepy, I sleep.” The man said, “That’s astonishing. What is the difference between the two?” Rinzai said, “That’s exactly what I have wondered—what is the difference! The only difference is: back then everything happened in sleep; now everything happens in wakefulness.”

Outwardly, it all looks the same. Even in childhood, what I was doing were not “mischiefs”; what I do today were the preliminaries back then—groping in sleep. Now I do it in the light—yet it is the same thing. Naturally, the expanse has grown. Whatever I do today, I do it with total awareness. And when I look back, it doesn’t feel as if I did any mischief in childhood. Even there I see the probing gaze of an explorer feeling his way through the dark. Yes, looking back I can see the approach was messy, chaotic—but the search was moving in the right direction.

Let me give you an example. In high school my biggest irritation was the cap. Wearing a cap never suited me. I had no enmity with caps as such. In fact, I have a fondness for caps of all kinds. These days they come to me from almost all over the world—friends bring them because they know I like caps. I liked them then too. But there was one snag: at school a cap was enforced. You had to wear it. That’s where my opposition was. Naturally, my teachers, the headmaster, my family, my village—everyone thought: this is mischief. Anyone would say so. I took a lot for it, but I simply wouldn’t wear the cap. Many days I was made to stand outside the class. Many times they said, “Go take seven rounds of the school.” I took seventeen instead of seven. The teachers would hold their heads: “We told you seven, why did you take seventeen?” I said, “There’s no harm in extra exercise. I also like being outside. You get fresh air, you make friends with animals, birds, and plants—and you’re spared the thousand kinds of useless chatter you people do inside.”

In the end they started letting me sit inside: what’s the point of keeping such a fellow outside! When they punished me with squats and push-ups, I would just keep going. They would say, “Now stop!” I’d say, “Let me do a few more; I didn’t exercise this morning.” They’d say, “What kind of man are you! Don’t you understand we’re punishing you!” “You may be giving punishment,” I’d say, “but we accept it only if we take it as punishment. We take whatever benefit we can from everything. We won’t wear the cap—unless you can prove its scientific basis. Will it increase intelligence? If it does, why a cap—why not a turban like the Sardars? If it truly increases intelligence, then a turban should increase it even more. Then Sardars should possess an intelligence unmatched by anyone. So why a cap? We’ll come wearing a turban.”

My headmaster would clutch his head. He’d say, “Who can argue with you! Either wear a turban, or don’t wear anything at all!” I said, “I want a straightforward, reasoned answer. If the cap increases intelligence, the turban will increase it more—and the longer the turban, the greater the intelligence. Then Sardars would perform miracles! All the jokes about Sardars would be wrong.”

Only Bengalis had permission in our school to wear a cap or not as they wished—because Bengalis don’t like wearing caps. And I’d say to them, “You see—Bengalis in this country have much more intelligence than Sardars. Surely not wearing a cap gives intelligence some openness; it lets the windows open.” They would say, “What nonsense is this!” I said, “Then how is it that Bengalis have such intelligence? And the Sardars, with their tightly wound turbans, are always ready to fight. The turban is wound so tight they’re sitting ready—come on, let’s have a go; at least it will give some relief. Wahe Guruji ka Khalsa, Wahe Guruji ki Fateh—let’s get it done! The turban was wound precisely so that the hand instantly goes to the kirpan.” I said, “I don’t want to wield a sword—why should I wear a cap? Make the reason clear to me.”

They couldn’t explain a reason, so they gave me as much punishment as they could. I said, “I’ll endure the punishment, but until you give me a reason, you too will carry the pang in your conscience for punishing without cause.” And they did have that pain—because it was a silly thing, this cap. But then, this one is obstinate. If they allowed one person to go without a cap, the whole order would collapse. And whatever my stance was about the cap, the same stance I had about everything. Drill—why turn left, why turn right? What’s the point of left-right?

Almost daily I had to go to the headmaster’s room—to be caned. I got used to it. He got used to it too. In the beginning they would ask, “What has he done?” Then, “What now today?” Slowly they thought, “What’s the point of asking? He does something or other every day.” So I would arrive, hold out my hands, he would cane me, I would take leave. One day, by chance, the strongest boy in the class—the one the teacher trusted to take me to the headmaster—he was the one who had done something wrong. The teacher said, “Good, here’s a fine opportunity. Today you take him. He takes you every day; today you take him.” I was delighted. I took him along. I entered the room and the headmaster, as usual, swung the cane and brought it down on my hands. I said, “Today you’ll have to apologize.” He said, “Why?” I said, “Today I’ve brought him here; I haven’t come for punishment. Give me the cane. Today I will cane you. At least you should have asked—basic courtesy demands you ask who has brought whom!” I said, “I won’t move from here. Hand me the cane. I will strike you gently, though you have never shown me any leniency.”

Later, whenever that principal met me he would say, “Remember—you once caned me? No one in my life has ever caned me! A student caning a headmaster!” And he’d add, “But it did strike me you were right—that I should at least have asked. I had stopped asking altogether. It had become a fixed routine—you come every day, I cane you every day. What was the point of asking what the offense was—there would be some offense or other.”

Still, I never wore the cap. Sometimes outside the school I did wear one. One day the headmaster met me on the road. I was walking with a cap on. He said, “Listen! Why are you wearing a cap now?” I said, “I am my own master. Where I wish to wear it, I will; where I don’t, I won’t. There, no one is forcing me; I’m wearing it by myself.”

Today it may seem like mischief, but I know it wasn’t. I was in search of my ownness, my individuality. That same search has only grown. That search has not changed. I never did it to harass anyone. I simply wanted to see how much freedom the society I was born into gives, how much intelligence it fosters, how many opportunities it gives intelligence to grow. But no—this society beats intelligence down, erases it, destroys it.

When I graduated and stood first in my M.A., my teachers, professors, the head of my department, the vice-chancellor—they were all very proud. Then came convocation. Naturally, I was placed first. I didn’t miss the occasion. I stood and said, “Before you give me your blessings, I want to ask a few things—because I’m taking leave; this is my last day in this university. Why have you draped me in this black gown? And all you deans and the chancellor and the vice-chancellor and the honored guests who have been invited and are to receive D.Litt.—why are all of you wearing black gowns? Black is the color of mourning. Are you declaring that we are dead?”

They were startled. For a moment, a hush fell across the hall—a disturbance, they thought: he has done something again. But I wasn’t creating a disturbance; I was only asking: black is always worn for mourning. Is this a celebration or a funeral—that’s what I wanted to know. These black robes, this black color, this is the sign of death. At least today you could have treated us with courtesy. And here you stand dressed like ghosts and goblins—aren’t you ashamed? Are you going to bless us? You are dead, and now you proclaim that we too are dead? I am alive!” And I took off the gown and flung it aside, and I flung the cap too.

They quickly escorted me out of the hall: “Come, step outside. We’ll talk later. You will be given an answer later.” Afterward I went daily to the vice-chancellor’s house: “The answer?” He said, “What answer can we give you! You are, in fact, right. We admit it—you are right. But this was not the occasion to raise it. You embarrassed us in front of everyone. We have no answer; indeed black is the color of mourning—the world over.”

Black is the color of ghosts and goblins, the color of the messengers of death. The messengers of Yama also come clad in black and ride a black buffalo. “So what is this color you have chosen?” I said. “But I understand its meaning. Whether you know it or not, within it is the message that the university has succeeded in killing these people, in ruining their lives, in flattening their intelligence. I want to declare: I am not dead; I am alive—and I will remain alive! And I throw away your black gown as a declaration of that.”

Naturally, it will be called mischief. But it was not mischief. It is all imitation. Because the West uses the black gown, India does too. Neither the West has any argument for it, nor India. What is the black gown for? If any color is to be worn at convocation, it should be pure white—because white is the symbol of all colors. White means the sum of all colors, the rainbow. If you mix all colors together, you get white. White is a symbol of life, a symbol of innocence, a symbol of intelligence, a symbol of simplicity, of cleanliness. Black is the symbol of dirt—of death, of mourning. Why are you loading it on our heads?

I only wanted an answer, but naturally it was taken as mischief. It was not mischief. Even today I say it was not mischief; I had no wish to harass anyone. I can, of course, understand the situation of those who sit in positions of power and prestige. They will feel that I am harassing, that I am making trouble.

Ranjan, you ask, “You must have been very troublesome in childhood.” Yes, from others’ point of view it can be called trouble; from my side, I have never done mischief. And what I did then, I am doing now—the same thing. Only its dimension has deepened, its expanse widened. That thing has gained more force. I am still teaching the same rebellion. I am still teaching the same life. I am still engaged in trying to kindle the same search for truth in thousands of people’s hearts.

For me, sannyas is rebellion, it is revolt. For me, sannyas is exploration, not obedience. Sannyas is the greatest revolution on this earth. But revolution will appear as mischief to vested interests.

What I was doing since childhood was also revolution—though done by a child. So one must concede it was revolution groping in the dark. Those steps were not clear; they could not be clear. But slowly they became clearer.

I don’t know from how many universities and colleges I was expelled—simply because I created restlessness in teachers. I did not want to make anyone restless. I was only in search of peace. I wanted answers to life’s questions. After all, what are universities for? To rust your intelligence? To dull the edge of your intelligence, to make it blunt—or to sharpen it? If they are to sharpen it, what I was doing was not mischief. That is exactly what should happen. And if the measures are to kill the edge of your sword, then naturally it was mischief—but in that case I maintain that such mischief is honorable, worthy of respect.

I have never done a single thing in life for which I have had to repent—not for a moment. Even today I have no regret about anything. Whatever I did, the way I did it—I did it according to whatever understanding I had at the time. I have no regret at all. I had no more understanding then, so I could not have done more. But I never went against my understanding. I never followed blindly. And the fruit of all that is that I am what I am today; as I am, so I am. All that has given my life a force, a center, roots.

My theism is not hollow. My theism has passed through the fire of atheism. My answers are not bookish, not scriptural. I have asked for myself, for years. I have searched for myself, tested and examined from all sides. And whatever I had to endure in that testing and examining, I never compromised. If a university expelled me, I did not compromise. I left quietly—proudly, with dignity. Those who expelled me carried a sense of guilt. They said to me, “We are sorry we have to separate you from the university because there are so many complaints—what can we do! And we know that perhaps what you say is right: that the university should try to bring out the best in talent. But what can we do—we have an institution to run.” I said, “Run your institution. I will not compromise. I am taking leave with pride. I’m honored that you have expelled me.”

When my words began to appeal to hundreds of thousands, and when crowds came eagerly to listen, my old teachers, my vice-chancellor, my former professors would sometimes meet me and say, “We never imagined—we could never have believed—that someone like you could be religious!” I said, “I was religious even then. It was the seed—today the flowers have blossomed. You were not religious then, nor are you religious now. You have no strength. You are emasculated.”

I became a professor in a university. The vice-chancellor there was Pandit Kunji Lal Dubey. He had neither the intelligence to be a vice-chancellor nor the learning. He was a politician—a clever one. The whole state called him Pandit Chabilal Dubey. Kunji Lal was his name, but people called him Chabilal—because he held the keys of big leaders in his hands. He was highly skilled at flattery. He could open anyone’s lock. Riding on flattery he climbed and climbed. His law practice had never taken off—he didn’t even have the competence of a lawyer; he never won a case. Slowly no one came to him with cases. Then he entered politics and found success. He became Speaker of the Assembly in Madhya Pradesh. Then a vice-chancellor—without qualification, without any capacity.

Once we were speaking at the same function. He spoke before me; I spoke after. I said, “You have just heard Pandit Chabilal Dubey.” There was instant pin-drop silence—people were alarmed. I said, “Don’t be alarmed, the truth slipped out of my mouth by mistake.” Chabilal was furious. He stood to leave. I said, “Sit down! Don’t get up and go anywhere. What I am saying is what every person in this state says—they just don’t say it in front of you. It isn’t my fault. This is your real name—and your real work. You know it very well too. Where are you going? Sit down!” He, flustered, sat—where could he go? And the audience burst into applause. People said, “It is true.” I said, “So many people—let me ask for a show of hands: did the truth slip out of my mouth by mistake or not?” And hands went up: “It’s true—everyone calls him Chabilal; no one calls him Kunji Lal.”

He summoned me home and asked, “Are you angry with me? Why did you create such a disturbance?” I said, “I made no disturbance. I’m not angry. And keep in mind—your ‘keys’ won’t work on me. Reserve them for politicians.” He said, “Then you will have to leave this university.” I said, “I can leave with honor. This is a two-penny job; it has no value. I cannot hide the truth for a salary. And I cannot take back what I said there. Not only you—every politician in this country is a chamcha, a hanger-on. That is their trade. In truth, if you had even a little sense you would resign from the vice-chancellorship.”

A story was current in the whole town about this gentleman: once, inaugurating a tournament, he said, “You all must know there are three kinds of games—football, volleyball, and tournament.” This was the vice-chancellor of a university!

He did not have the courage to expel me, because he knew I would make an uproar; something more would happen. Often we would end up on the same platforms by coincidence—religious gatherings—where I was speaking and he too. To flatter me, he began calling me “Panditji—do come, Panditji!” I said, “Listen: the word ‘pandit’ is an insult to me. Don’t you dare call me ‘Panditji.’” “Arrey,” he said, “what kind of man are you! I say it out of respect.” I said, “It is not respect for me. I am not a pandit, and I regard it as disrespect. Call me anything else, but don’t call me ‘pandit.’ You think you’ll flatter me by saying, ‘Please come, Panditji!’”

Once he was so enraged he was speaking at the microphone and, seeing me arrive, lost his wits. He forgot the microphone was on and blurted, “Only one of us two can be at this meeting. Either I will speak or he will.” Later he realized the mic was on—the whole audience had heard! I said, “In private you call me ‘Panditji.’ You flatter me. And here, by mistake, the truth slipped out—the truth hidden in your heart. You forgot there was a mic.” He was actually telling the organizer, “If this gentleman speaks, then I won’t. We two can’t speak together; we don’t match.” But it all went out over the loudspeaker. I said, “Speak the truth.”

Just seeing me, he would start trembling; he’d be feverish. A great leader! I told him, “People like you are leading this country—into which pits will you hurl it!” And hurled it has been—this is how such people have dragged this nation into ditches. Two-bit people sit on the country’s chest—people with neither qualification nor capacity.

But our habits are wrong. Our ways of thinking and understanding are wrong.

My words may feel like troublemaking. But I am a straightforward man. What I have to say, I say exactly as it is. I cannot lie in the name of etiquette. In the name of civility and formality, I cannot lie. If etiquette aligns with truth, fine; if not, etiquette can go to hell. Truth will remain where it is and speak its word.

And we need this: that more people like this exist on earth. Only then will we be able to change this hypocritical society; otherwise we won’t.

Ranjan, in others’ eyes, what I did then was troublemaking; what I am doing now is also troublemaking. Ask the Shankaracharya of Puri—he will say exactly that. My sannyas is troublemaking for him. He feels that by giving sannyas I am corrupting the entire tradition of sannyas. He feels I am destroying Indian culture. He is the protector and nurturer of Indian culture—and I, the destroyer of Indian culture! He feels I am making people atheists, materialists, hedonists. Naturally he is angry with me.

It would not be surprising if some fanatic came and threw a knife to kill me. It is entirely natural. They can’t think of anything else. They have no answers. I haven’t found answers from anyone since childhood. Now it is even less likely that they have any answers. Even when I was young I did not find answers; even then I was astonished, bewildered—what kind of people are riding on our chests—people who have no answers! But they have drugged people with such lessons in slavery, such poison, that today if you speak of freedom it appears to be troublemaking; if you speak of truth it appears to be rebellion.

But I love rebellion. I call rebellion my religion.

Rashmi Bharti! The question is certainly important, because we have talked quite a bit about Mulla Nasruddin’s son, Fazlu. And you are right that if Mulla has a daughter, she too must be something extraordinary. She is indeed extraordinary!

One day Mulla Nasruddin was asking Farida... Farida is her name. You have to keep a rhyme in children’s names—Fazlu, Farida. ...He was asking Farida, “All right, tell me, ‘Dhabbu-ji stole’—what will be its future tense?”

Farida replied, “Its future tense will be: Dhabbu-ji will go to jail.”

Ramzan said to his beloved Farida, “Farida, forgive me. Yesterday I promised to meet you, but I completely forgot where I had promised to meet.”

“No problem. I also forgot. I only remembered that someone had promised to meet me, but I forgot who had promised,” Farida replied.

While giving her statement in court to obtain a divorce from her husband, Farida argued: “I am convinced my husband is not faithful to me. One of my children does not even resemble him.”

Ramzan was asking his beloved Farida, “Am I the man whose kiss you took first?”

Farida said, “Yes, yes, it was your kiss that I took first, and you are the man who took my kiss first. And let me also tell you that this very kiss felt the sweetest to me.”

Ramzan fell deeply in love with Farida. He would present her with new things—such as expensive clothes, costly saris, perfume, shampoo, wristwatches, and so on. In the end he promised to marry Farida. Even the date was fixed. Unfortunately, Farida suddenly fell ill and had to be admitted to the hospital. The tests began. The doctors said she would need blood; then she would recover quickly. Her lover Ramzan agreed to donate blood. The blood was given, and gradually she began to improve. What happened thereafter, who knows? But their love kept waning. Quarrels and squabbles started. One day Ramzan got so angry that he said to Farida, “What a dishonest girl you are! I loved you so much, gave you valuable things! Return all those things to me.”

The poor girl returned everything. Still Ramzan said, “I also gave you my blood—return that too.”

Farida was a little nonplussed. Then after a short while she thought and said, “Every month I will repay you a little blood.”

That’s all for today.