Sumiran Mera Hari Kare #2

Prem Murti! Scriptural knowledge is stale, it is borrowed—you did not understand what I mean. And when I say scriptural knowledge has no purpose for life—even that arrow of yours missed the target a little. But we are asleep, and in sleep such things are only natural.

When I say scriptural knowledge is stale, I mean: do not mistake the knowledge of the scriptures for your own knowing; it is not yours. It may belong to Buddha, to Mahavira, to Krishna, to Christ, to me, to someone—but it is not yours. And the ego has this very natural tendency to claim as its own that which is not its own.

You bring nothing with you into this world, yet how many things you come to call “mine”! Diamonds and jewels were lying here before you were born; they will remain when you are gone. Still you call them your own. Not only your own—you are ready to quarrel, to kill and be killed, to stake your life for stones! An ego that is so foolish as to claim as “mine” that in which there is nothing of “me” at all… And remember, diamonds and jewels do not cling to you; you cling to them. When you die, no tears will fall from the eyes of diamonds and jewels. If the diamonds are lost, you will weep. Who was master of whom? You, the weeping man—were you the master?

A Sufi fakir, Junaid, was passing through a village. He had his own way… Sufis have their ways. His disciples were with him. A man was going by, leading a cow tied by a rope. Junaid said, “Brother, wait—just a moment. Let my disciples understand something.” Then he told the disciples, “Form a circle around them. I will ask a question; answer it.”

Sufis like to ask living questions and want living answers. “You see this man? The rope is in his hand; the cow is tied by the neck. Tell me, who is the master—the cow or the man?” The disciples thought, What is there to learn here? They answered, “Obviously the man is the master; the rope is in his hand.”

Junaid took a pair of scissors from his bag and cut the rope. The cow bolted. The man ran after the cow. Junaid asked his disciples, “Now what do you say? Who is running after whom—the cow after the man, or the man after the cow? The rope had deceived you; that’s why I cut it.”

The man shouted, “You call yourself a fakir! I thought you were doing question-and-answer. Now the cow has run away—who will catch her?”

The fakir said, “Do at least this much yourself. It’s your cow, isn’t it?”

He said, “If not mine, then whose?”

“If she is yours, she will come back. You go home.”

He said, “You are mad, and your disciples too!” and ran after his cow, fearing she would vanish into the distance. He cursed himself for getting entangled in the babble of fakirs. But what Junaid was saying is exactly right: the rope may be in the man’s hand, but it is the man’s neck that is tied, not the cow’s. The cow was instantly free and ran. She wanted to run. The cow had no interest in that man.

You cling to wealth, to position, to prestige in just this way. And you cling to knowledge too. Money at least has other claimants, but with knowledge there is no such hindrance. Anyone can read the Gita, anyone the Qur’an. Whoever wishes can memorize verses. There is no competition. And as many verses as you memorize—you think they have become yours! If only it were that easy! If memorizing the Gita made it yours, then you would become Krishna! What difference would remain between Krishna and you? Krishna’s only distinction was that he spoke the Gita; now you too would speak it. Only Arjuna is missing—and he can be found anywhere; seekers are everywhere. And if no one else is available, there is always your wife and children at home; grab anyone by the neck and pour the Gita down their throat.

But memorizing the Gita does not make you Krishna. This is what I mean when I say scriptural knowledge is stale. Stale means: it belongs to someone else. Krishna said it five thousand years ago—how can it not be stale? How can it be fresh? I am saying it now, but by the time it reaches you, it will have grown stale. Time has passed; even a few moments make things stale. You cannot hear in the very instant. Between my speaking and your hearing there is an interval, a disturbance. That much is already the past. That much has gone by. That much has become stale. Even what I speak and you hear right now becomes stale in the very act of hearing; by the time it reaches you, it has become borrowed. You will start saying things just as I say them. But in me those words are born from experience, and in you there will be no source from which those words arise.

Have you seen a well and a tank? The difference between a well and a tank is the same as between stale, borrowed knowledge and your own knowing. A tank too is filled with water, just like a well, but a tank has no springs. The tank holds water brought from some well; it is stale. If you draw from a tank, it will be depleted; it cannot refill itself. But draw as much as you wish from a well, and fresh springs keep replenishing it. The tank has no relation to the oceans; it is closed in upon itself—hemmed in by its petty walls. The well looks small; the well is only the mouth of the ocean. Far and wide, its springs spread through the earth’s inner womb.

And understand one more delightful point. Draw water from a tank and it will diminish and run out. But if you do not draw water from a well, it will turn foul. If you draw, it remains fresh; it increases; new springs keep bursting forth, new streams keep coming.

Buddha, Krishna, Mahavira are wells; the pandit is a tank. I do not want you to become a pandit. Prem Murti, that is why I say: scriptural knowledge is stale, borrowed. A tank that has stood filled for five thousand years will not only be stale—it will be utterly putrid, full of worms. It will have become poison. Do not drink it. Not even by mistake. Better to stay thirsty than drink it.

That is why I say it has no purpose for life—because you are so ready to cheat yourselves that if you get the slightest prop, support, excuse, you will swallow it whole. If I give you even a small chance, you will seize it. I do not want to give you that chance. This does not mean I say, “Do not read the Gita.” It also does not mean I say, “Do not understand the Gita.” Read, and understand—but never forget this: knowledge that is not your own will not serve. Such knowledge cannot be of any use in bringing revolution to your life.

Yes, if you hear the voice of a true living master, it can be of this much help—remember, his voice; not the scriptures. If the master is alive, his voice can draw you to him; his voice can pull you, awaken thirst, create a longing within you.

You say, “It was by reading your literature that I was inspired to take sannyas.”

Because I was alive, you took sannyas. Had I not been alive, you would have carried my literature on your head—or you would have taken sannyas from others who carry even bigger piles of scriptures on their heads than you, like a mountain. They too are borrowed, and you too would be borrowed.

A living guru speaks only for this: speech is merely an invitation. It is a love letter. Reading Krishna’s Gita—what will you do then? Where will you look for Krishna? In temples there are stone images of Krishna. If you get intoxicated by the Gita, you will go and sit with folded hands before those idols. If those idols could laugh, they would laugh at your foolishness. But they cannot laugh; they are only stone. There is no life in them. Krishna is long gone. Arjuna may have benefited. Face-to-face—meeting a living master—is satsang. There must be a direct encounter.

And this is the danger of old knowledge: it prevents you from going to new, living masters. By the time a new master’s words begin to appeal to you, it is already so late that by then the master has gone. By the time the words appeal, the one who owned those words is no longer present. Then you fall into the hands of the pandits.

I have heard: One of the devil’s disciples came running to him and said, “Do something quickly—someone has found the Truth. There is danger to our whole trade. If he has found Truth and shows the way, others will find it too. What will become of us?”

The devil said, “Don’t worry. You are new, inexperienced. No need to be anxious. Let him find the Truth. We have our men in place.”

The disciple said, “I went there and saw none of our men.”

The devil replied, “You won’t recognize them yet—you are too new. Those pandits sitting there with tilak marks on their foreheads are our men. Before his words can reach the people, they will make sure they never reach; and if they do, they will twist and distort them and mix in their own rubbish.”

When I used to go to Amritsar, my friends would bring a scholar who knew the Guru Granth Sahib. They would say, “Gyaniji is a great devotee of yours! He is devoted to your service.”

“What service does he do?”

They said, “His service is this: whatever you say, he finds it in the Guru Granth Sahib and shows where it is. And he has great prestige among Sikhs, so Sikhs too are beginning to accept you.”

I said, “The Sikhs are not accepting me. They are accepting only the Guru Granth Sahib. And this man is manipulating. He is deceiving me and deceiving the Guru Granth Sahib as well. There are five hundred years between the Guru Granth Sahib and me. How can the thing be exactly the same? The Guru Granth had its own manner of saying; that era has passed, that wind is gone, that season is no more. People have changed. Circumstances have changed. Needs have changed. This man is deluding the Sikhs, and he is deluding you too. You love me, so you think he is a good man because he explains my words to the Sikhs. And the Sikhs think he is a good man because he explains the Guru Granth Sahib to my devotees. But he is only a pandit. He is a disciple of the devil. He cares neither for me nor for the Guru Granth Sahib. He is feeding his ego on the respect he gets from both sides… This is what he is doing.”

Gyaniji was immediately offended and stood up. I said, “Now explain this in the Guru Granth Sahib—is anything I just said to be found there?”

After that I never saw him. Whenever I went again, I would ask, “Where is Gyaniji?”

They said, “Since that day he has become your enemy. Now he proves that whatever you say is against the Guru Granth Sahib.”

I said, “See! This is the same man who used to prove that what I say is in support of the Guru Granth Sahib. Now the same man proves that what I say is opposed to it. The same man has done both jobs.”

Pandits are like prostitutes. They have no devotion, no love. Wherever they get a few coins, they sell their services. Wherever their ego will be honored, there they attach themselves. Because I did not pat him on the back—if I had said, “Bravo, you are doing a great work,” he would still be at it. You would have given him banquets; you would have draped shawls over his shoulders; and the Sikhs would have done the same. Now that you stopped honoring him, he began inciting the Sikhs; he began fomenting trouble.

They started creating disturbances at my meetings. They would bring Sikhs to shout and throw stones. While one of my talks was going on, there was a small gurdwara nearby; they started an akhand paath of the Japji there—on loudspeakers—so that I could not speak. Ten or fifteen Sikhs began reciting the Japji. Now, ten or fifteen Sikhs right next door, shouting into a microphone… first Sikhs, and then a microphone! Ten thousand people had gathered to hear me. I said, “Do this instead—do not waste this good opportunity. All of you close your eyes and listen to the Japji attentively, with awareness. Use it for meditation. They are working so hard! And since Gyaniji has arranged it with such care, let us take advantage of it.”

So ten thousand people sat absolutely silent. For a while the recitation and the uproar continued; then slowly the enthusiasm cooled—what was the point? One or two of them came over to look and saw ten thousand people sitting silently with eyes closed, listening. They felt, We are making fools of ourselves. They stopped the recitation, turned off the microphones, and ran away. After about fifteen minutes I said, “Now let us begin our own work. It turned out well—an auspicious beginning…”

(Meanwhile a man stood up in anger and shouted, “Bhagwan Rajneesh, you are working against our religion—we will not tolerate it!” Saying this, he threw a knife toward Osho. Fortunately, it hit no one. A deep hush fell over the assembly. Two or three sannyasins gently took hold of the man and led him out of Buddha Hall. Osho’s nectar-like voice continued to flow: “Sit down… please take your seats… sit in your places. Do not worry… One of the devil’s disciples must have turned up. No need to be concerned.”)

Stale knowledge will only be stale. The results of stale knowledge can only be a bad odor. Such stench is all that can come from it—there is no other possibility.

I want the energy of knowing to awaken within you. I want a direct seeing to arise in you. Literature can help only this much. But that literature can help only if the master is alive. If the master is alive, his voice can draw you—like rays, like fragrance, it will surround you.

That is what brought you here, Prem Murti; you became a sannyasin. But do not conclude from this that it proves any usefulness of scriptural knowledge.

Is this what you call the usefulness of scriptural knowledge? Look at this poor fellow—he has no idea what he is doing. He is unconscious, in a swoon. He thinks he is protecting religion. Will religion protect you, or do you protect religion? He thinks, “Our religion!”—as if religion were a family inheritance! Religion is neither mine nor yours. Religion is that which holds us all together. Religion is our breath, our very life, our foundation. How can it belong to anyone? It can belong to no one. There can be no claimant to it.

For nearly twenty years across this country I had the darshan of such foolish and mad people. Then I grew tired of them. I saw it was meaningless to bang my head against them; there was no point. No revolution is going to happen in their lives. They are carrying the rot of centuries, such stale garbage, that even if you wish to give them diamonds, they cannot recognize or value them. Their eyes have gone blind. They have become accustomed to darkness. Darkness alone appeals to them.

Naresh Singh! This is the mind-state of most people; there’s nothing special about you. Most people live exactly like this—afraid of others, worried that someone might think ill of them. The ones you fear are afraid of you; it’s a very astonishing world. You’re scared of them, they’re scared of you. Out of fear you move according to them, and out of fear they move according to you. Neither you nor they live naturally. Neither do you grant yourself the freedom to live, nor do you grant it to others.

And naturally, if you keep being afraid of others, you will also make others afraid—because you will take your revenge. A fire of retaliation will burn within you.

Mulla Nasruddin was passing by a cremation ground at dusk. In the half-light he saw some people approaching—there was band and music, a man mounted on a horse, guns being fired. He thought, Oh—this is it! The enemy has attacked! Where should I hide? He vaulted over the wall and dropped into the cemetery. There was a freshly dug grave; people had dug it and gone to fetch the corpse. He thought, I’ll lie in this. So he lay down in it.

They weren’t enemies at all—it was a wedding party coming. The guns were being fired as welcome. The groom sat on the horse with dagger and sword. The wedding party was arriving; bands were playing. They had seen a man standing by the wall suddenly jump over into the cemetery. They thought, Could he be a troublemaker, maybe throwing a bomb from inside? An enemy hiding there? The band stopped. When the band stopped, Mulla Nasruddin’s breath stopped too. He thought, I’m finished—they’ve seen me! Now there’s nowhere to run. He decided: I’ll close my eyes, hold my breath, and play dead. Nobody kills the dead. They’ll see a corpse lying in the cemetery and leave me alone.

The baraatis stopped by the wall, nervous. They climbed up quietly and peered around. In the dim light they spotted a man lying in a fresh grave. Do corpses lie like that? Corpses are covered. And no matter how long you hold your breath, a living man looks living. They grew even more alarmed: This isn’t a dead man, this is some devil; he’s up to something for sure.

Mulla cracked one eye open and saw several men peering over the wall. He thought, I was right: enemies! I’m done for! He began praying: O God, it’s my last hour—take care of my wife, take care of my children; get my eldest boy married, get my daughter married; do this, do that… he made his last will and testament to God. There was nothing else left to do.

The men climbed down softly and surrounded the grave. The ones with guns prodded him with the butt to see if he was alive or dead. When someone pokes you with a gun butt, how long can you hold your breath? He exhaled all at once and they jumped. Finally they asked, What are you doing here?

Mulla said, Whatever happens now, happens—but first tell me: what are you doing here?

They said, And who are you to ask?

Mulla said, And who are you to ask?

They said, What kind of fellow are you—why are you lying in a cremation ground? By then Mulla also began to sense something amiss. They looked like wedding guests. He peered carefully; the groom was standing there with a peacock-plumed turban, there were no enemies anywhere—people were perfumed and adorned. Mulla said, You’re asking me why I’m lying here? Because of you! Why are you standing here?

They said, That’s rich—because of you!

Mulla sat up. He said, It’s all foolishness. I’m lying here because of you, scared that enemies have come; and you’re standing here scared that some enemy is hiding. You go your way, I’ll go home. And O God, I take back the will I just made to you. Don’t bother about any of it. What was said in a mistake is withdrawn.

You say, Naresh Singh, “I am always afraid that people might think badly of me.” Why be afraid? Suppose they do think badly—what real harm will it do? And do you imagine they think well of you anyway? What people say behind each other’s backs—if they said it to faces, there wouldn’t be two friends left in the world.

Psychologists say if everyone spoke nothing but the naked truth for twenty-four hours—exactly what they think about one another, without sugarcoating or dilution—there wouldn’t be a single friendship left; all friendships would end, every husband and wife would divorce. If husbands told their wives the whole truth, and wives told husbands the whole truth; if children told parents and parents told children the whole truth—every family would fall apart. But no one speaks truthfully to anyone.

Friedrich Nietzsche said: Don’t speak truth to people, otherwise their lives will fall to pieces. Let them live in lies. They are soaked in lies. The lie is their refuge, their support, their life. Don’t take it away, or they will die.

In one sense he was right. To take away people’s lies is very hard on them; lies have become their very life-breath.

What are you afraid of? Do you think people secretly think good thoughts about you? The way they speak ill of others to you, they speak ill of you to others. And the way you speak ill of others… The relish people take in slander! I don’t know why those who catalogued the rasas never listed the rasa of slander. All the other rasas feel insipid by comparison. In other rasas someone may occasionally write a poem; but in the slander-rasa, every person is a master. It’s hard to find someone who doesn’t indulge in it.

But why does it frighten you? Look within. There can be only one reason: you don’t know who you are. You’ve constructed your identity out of other people’s opinions. When people say you are beautiful, you think you are beautiful. When they say you are intelligent, you believe you are intelligent. Then fear arises—because your whole existence stands on others’ judgments. If they pull out the bricks of their opinions—if they start saying you’re not beautiful—what then? You yourself have no living sense of your own beauty.

And sannyas is precisely the process by which you come to experience your own beauty firsthand, so you no longer depend on others; to experience your own intelligence firsthand, so you no longer depend on others. Then let others say what they will—what does it change? Why fear others? There is fear only because we have laid the foundation stone of our lives on others. We’ve had others do the groundbreaking for our very being. So we live anxious that they might remove their bricks, and our building will collapse—what will happen to our temple?

And the whole meaning of sannyas—at least my sannyas—is that I want you to build the temple of your life with your own hands, so it depends on no one. Then there is no fear, no worry, no pain. Then what people say makes no difference. I don’t care what people say about me. The amount of abuse hurled at me—perhaps no one on Earth right now gets as much. But what difference does it make?

So first, you are afraid for this reason. Second, you are afraid because you are doing some things you yourself feel are wrong—but you are doing them secretly. Hide as you may, in this life a secret leaks out sooner or later. You can’t do anything entirely alone, in absolute isolation. If you’ve fallen in love with the neighbor’s wife, at least the neighbor’s wife knows. And if not today then tomorrow the neighbor will know. And if not today then tomorrow your wife will know. It is very hard to hide things from wives. What will you hide? They know you hair by hair. If they see you unusually cheerful, they’ll know something is up. And someone or other will see, someday—then what will you do?

When I was a boy, I loved to climb down into wells and bathe. A well isn’t meant for bathing, and if you bathe in someone’s well, the owner is bound to be upset—it is for drinking. But I enjoyed leaping in. The Kabir Panthis had an ashram just behind our house. They had a fine well and a splendid garden. I had a special fondness for that well. It was deep, outside the village, no one came by—only the mahant of the monastery, Sahibdas, lived there; one or two gardeners worked. A big garden—gardeners busy here and there. A couple of other servants. Not much crowd. The well was very deep, the water crystal clear. And there was another convenience: a chain ladder hung down into the well, for men to descend for cleaning. So it was easy to climb out. I would jump in whenever I saw a chance. But how long could this remain a secret? There’s a splash when you jump. One day Sahibdas came and caught me. I was still in the well. He was an accomplished man. He saw his chance; otherwise he couldn’t have trapped me.

He said, Today you’re caught! He pulled up the chain: I’m calling your father. He was a friend of my father; they used to meet in satsang. He said, I had heard reports many times—people told me, the gardeners told me—you steal fruit from my trees, you climb my fences, you cut my wires to get in. And you jump into my well to bathe! We have only one well, and that’s for drinking! But today you’re caught—you can’t run anywhere.

I said, You’re making a mistake. Lower the chain quickly, or you’ll be in trouble. He said, What! How will I be in trouble? He brought a bamboo pole. I’ll beat you with this from up here. Truly, I was in a fix—down in the well, with a bamboo thrashing from above, and no way to climb out. I said, Beat me if you must—but you’ll regret it. He said, What will you do?

I said, First, I’ll defile your well. I need to urinate. Are you lowering the chain or not? I can’t hold it much longer.

He said, Brother, wait—don’t spoil the well! We’re lowering the chain!

I said, And the gardener you sent to fetch my father—send another to stop him; don’t let my father be brought here. He said, Why?

I put a finger to one eye and signaled. He understood at once. He quickly sent a man after the first. Two servants standing there didn’t understand what that one-eyed signal meant. Their housekeeper—the maharajin—had only one eye, and the mahant was having an affair with her. I said, Be careful—I know. I’ll tell everyone. He hastily lowered the chain, pulled me out, took me inside. The mangoes were ripe—he fed me mangoes; the jamuns were ripe—he fed me jamuns. He said, This is your garden, your home! Come whenever you like. The well? It’s yours! Bathe, jump—do what you please. But don’t tell anyone. How did you find out?

I said, There’s hardly a day I don’t come—sometimes on this tree, sometimes on that. I’ve watched your ras-leela; so I know. From that day he used to call me in and feed me fruit. My father was puzzled: These days Sahibdas is very pleased with you—what’s going on? He even sends fruit home. I said, Don’t ask. That’s between me and him.

But he grew so frightened of me you can’t imagine. If I brought friends to the garden there was no obstacle; we began entering by the main gate—no more cutting wires and sneaking in. He told all the gardeners: He’s like a son of the house; let him come and go; don’t obstruct him; let him do what he wants. What’s a few fruits eaten or given to friends? It’s a big garden. After all, this is a religious place! I asked him one day, Why did you get so scared? He said, How could I not? If you tell anyone, my whole prestige goes down the drain!

I said, What is the worth of a prestige that’s afraid of a child? What use is such prestige? How strong can it be?

But he had a prick inside, an inner sting. His conscience itself was accusing him that he was doing wrong. I said, You aren’t doing wrong at all.

He said, What do you mean?

I said, This is what rishis have always done. The Vedas mention it.

That one-eyed housekeeper of his was also a widow and childless. The Vedas discuss that if a woman is childless and widowed—or even not widowed—if widowed she may on her own seek niyoga with a rishi; if her husband is alive, then with his permission. Niyoga means begetting a child through a rishi.

You give so much respect to the Vedas; if you look closely, you’ll be shocked. You’ll be stunned whether there is anything respectable there, or whether all kinds of wrong acts have been cloaked with religion. It gave convenience to rishis—rishis are siring children, and a beautiful name is given: niyoga.

So I said: This is niyoga. She’s a widow and childless; consider yourself a restorer of Vedic religion.

He said, Brother, don’t you dare tell anyone. Who knows where you dig up such things!

I said, If you like, I’ll bring you the Vedas and show you. I study the Vedas for precisely such deep points—if something useful to you turns up, I’ll bring it. Niyoga is a deep point there.

You have revered the rishis greatly. But if you look carefully, you’ll be astonished—there’s nothing there worthy of reverence. We keep beating the same old tracks. As centuries pass, our ego gets attached to them. If I say today that this niyoga arrangement was unethical—a contrivance to cover the licentiousness of rishis—Hindus will be angry at once: their religion has been attacked, I am speaking against their faith! So be quiet—say nothing! Don’t hurt religious feelings! And all the hypocrisy in the name of religion—let it go on! Because if you speak truth, someone’s religious feelings get hurt.

I will speak the truth. As it is, so I will say it. If it hurts religious feelings, then you should make your religious feelings a little stronger. Or make some reforms, some revisions in your religion. Or fashion your religion so that there is no place left to be hurt.

Becoming my sannyasin, Naresh Singh, is indeed dangerous. You will get into trouble, because to stand with me is risky—it is rebellion, it is revolt. Your social prestige—finished. People will think you’ve gone mad. People will also think you’ve become irreligious—because what they call religion, I call irreligion. And what I call religion is naturally beyond their understanding and their grasp.

But if the urge for sannyas is arising in you—you say you’re missing sannyas because of this fear—then it must be arising. For whose sake are you missing it? Will these people be of any use to you? When death stands at your door tomorrow, will they help you? Will their respect help you? Their honor? At that moment only if meditation has blossomed within you will it be of any use.

And my sannyas is a process toward samadhi. My sannyas is religion in a contemporary form. It is an effort to sift out of religion the junk that accumulates over centuries. Every age must burn the rubbish of religion anew—just as each year you burn Holi—so that the pure gold remains. Naturally, those attached to the old, who have become obsessed with it, feel hurt. They feel deep pain and distress. I understand their distress; I feel compassion for them. They don’t know what they are doing.

Just now, the person who threw a stone here—he doesn’t know what he is doing. He is merely defaming his own religion and displaying his stupidity and ignorance. This will not defend his religion. He only proclaims its impotence. He only announces that we have nothing else left—no intellectual response remains. What I am saying is straightforward. If you have something contrary, write it, say it. But the things said against me never refute my arguments. They are irrelevant, silly things that have nothing to do with me. What I say, people don’t even touch. There is no critique of my ideas. I invite critique—good, critique will refine them. But they talk petty talk: which car I sit in, which house I live in; there is luxury in my ashram. What has that to do with my words?

I favor luxury. I am not an upholder of poverty. I do not call the poor “Daridra Narayan,” the poor-as-God; because if the poor are God, then God must be preserved! You don’t annihilate God. Then the poor must be preserved—the more poor, the better, because there will be that many more “Gods,” and religion will expand!

I do not call the poor God. I call poverty a great disease—a disease of the soul—to be destroyed at the root. I am not an opponent of materialism.

Those who criticize should criticize my ideas. I say: I am not against materialism. I say: at the very pinnacle of materialism, the true spire of religion arises. Build the temple of materialism, and the golden pinnacles of religion will appear.

Therefore I am no believer in mortification, no enemy of the body—lying on thorns, roasting in the sun, starving to death. I have no faith in such foolishness.

So those who talk about luxury in the ashram—this is nothing; it is only the beginning, just a pilot. I am preparing a much larger ashram—the most luxurious ashram on Earth—where you will find materialism and spirituality arm-in-arm, embracing; where both are at their peaks in harmony.

Criticize this if you like—my view. I hold that the twenty-four Jain tirthankaras were princes, the Buddha was a prince, Rama and Krishna were princes—for a reason: only in princes was there the possibility to rise high enough for the religious impulse to blossom. If a man’s belly is empty, what music will he hear? And one who has not heard music, tasted art, hummed a song—how will he meditate? Human growth is sequential: first body, then mind, then soul—and then the Divine. The Divine is the fourth, the turiya state. Before that, three steps must be climbed.

But no one critiques my arguments. They prefer to criticize that in my ashram men and women walk hand in hand. I have never denied it—so there is nothing to criticize. I hold that love must have freedom of expression. What a strange world! Two people can brawl on the street—no problem. But two people walking hand in hand is a problem. Two people embracing in love—an immoral act! And two men grappling and punching—high morality! Here war is praised and love is condemned.

If I were doing the opposite of what I say, you could criticize me. But I do what I say—though not fully yet, because I am surrounded by madmen. Let my full commune arise, then see its color, its melody, its joy—its festival, its songs! There the flute will truly play! There will be dance! The drum will resound! Anklets will ring! For now, we have to live with constraints.

Whatever “critique” is offered is no critique, because it is what I advocate. I want this. There should be freedom for love and its expression. The more love spreads in the world, the less hatred there will be. It is the same energy that becomes love or hatred. If we want to abolish war, there is only one way: let there be such a tidal wave of love that it sweeps all wars away. The explosion of love must be as vast as the nuclear explosion—only then can we save the Earth; otherwise, there is no hope.

Naresh Singh, if you take sannyas you will face difficulty, because my sannyas is not old-fashioned. My sannyas has little to do with the old sannyas. You might ask, then why keep the name sannyas at all? Only so I can take the glory of that old word away from the old sannyasins. That is why I chose ochre robes—so the glory of ochre is not wasted in old hands. Whatever was best in the old I will preserve; and whatever new is possible, I will add.

You will face difficulties. People will say all sorts of things. But there is a joy even in being maligned with me. Otherwise so many wouldn’t agree to be maligned—and their numbers grow every day. And your name is Naresh Singh! Have a little lion’s courage. Why are you bleating like sheep? Sheep fear the herd; lions walk alone. Lions do not fear. Free yourself from this herd-instinct.

My sannyasin is seeking individuality, personhood, privacy of being. Yes, there will be ordeals. Without fire, gold is never purified. You will have to pass through many fires to become pure gold.

You ask: “What should I do?”
Be brave! Take courage! Don’t be afraid. Life is but four days long—whom and what will you fear? At the very worst, you may die. Death will come anyway. So put death entirely aside—give it no value. What must happen, must happen—why fret? Why miss the joy of living? Why miss the fullness of life? If you could escape death forever, then it would be something to ponder. But you will not—this way or that way, you will die; you will fall back into dust. Before you fall into dust, find the nectar within.

Ramdas! That’s a good one! If you truly don’t suspect, why this curiosity at all? Surely a little worm of doubt must be wriggling somewhere. Perhaps very deep, not reaching consciousness, kept suppressed. And why worry about why others do? Let everyone mind their own business, carry their own concerns.

Men suspect their wives primarily because they don’t trust themselves. They are dishonest within, they know their own glance wanders here and there. Naturally the thought arises: maybe my wife’s eyes wander too. And there’s nothing unnatural about that. If it’s natural for you, it’s natural for her. We should simply accept it. There’s no need to turn it into a problem. It is perfectly natural. If a handsome man is walking by and a woman feels nothing at all on seeing him, then either she is dead, or inert, or deranged—or already enlightened. Otherwise, for at least a moment her eyes will be caught. The same is true for men. It’s natural, instinctive. A beautiful woman passes by, flowers bloom, the sun rises—and you don’t look? A beautiful woman walks past and your eyes don’t fill for a moment with her form?

But it doesn’t mean a sin has occurred. It doesn’t mean you are running after that woman. It doesn’t mean you have betrayed or deceived your wife. It only means: this is natural. And it happens to your wife as well—no problem there.

If the world were healthier and people honestly accepted things, they could even tell each other, and it wouldn’t cause trouble. They would laugh about it. If a husband and wife truly love each other, the husband could say, “Did you see, on the road today, that woman who passed by? For a moment I was mesmerized!” And the wife could say, “When those guests came over today, my mind wavered.” But right now we don’t accept such things; to speak like this only invites quarrels and commotion. So people hide. And what is hidden turns into wounds. Hidden, these things become pathological. Hidden, they create inner pain, a sense of sin, needless pricking of the conscience. And we have made everyone miserable like this. Everyone carries guilt—women and men alike—when in fact there is no need for guilt at all.

Ramdas, if you understand me, I will say it is absolutely natural. Nothing unnatural in it. Until you attain Buddhahood, it will happen. Yes, when you do attain Buddhahood, then there is neither woman nor man, neither beautiful nor ugly. A revolution happens. You begin to see consciousness; your eyes rise above the body. But until that happens, don’t call what is happening a sin.

Then why worry about what others think? They have their own experiences. Each person’s experience is different. Every person is unique, incomparable.

Guljan, Mulla Nasruddin’s wife, was reading the newspaper and said to her husband: “Listen, what a story! A thug broke into a house at two in the morning and tried to run away after abducting the wife. The husband woke up, bravely faced the pistol-wielding rascal, and thrashed him soundly. If such a thief broke into our house and tried to carry me off, what would you do?” Nasruddin said, “I’d tell that fool, ‘Idiot, why are you running? Whatever you want to do, do it at leisure!’”

Different people will have different ways, different lives, different thinking.

Nasruddin used to walk with me. At the sight of any truck or bus he would panic. I asked him, “The road is so wide—why panic at a truck or bus? You start trembling as if it’s coming right at you! Did you have some tragic experience—an accident, fractures, months in the hospital? What’s the matter?” He said, “Since you ask, I’ll tell you. It’s been twenty years since my wife ran away with a truck driver. I keep fearing she might be on her way back. So the moment I see a truck or bus, my heart starts pounding—Oh Lord, is Guljan returning?”

People have their own experiences.

One day Chandulal slipped into his lover’s house. No one was home. He took her in his arms and began to kiss her. Just then her ten-year-old brother appeared from nowhere and threatened, “I’ll tell Mom and Dad that this crusty old codger from our neighborhood comes to see my sister—and not just see her, but smooches her too!” Chandulal panicked and said, “Son, don’t say such filthy things. Here, take five rupees and go see a movie.” The boy said, “Only five rupees? Hey, others give at least ten!”

Now, Ramdas, you ask: “Why do others…?” Ask others. Each has his own story.

Dhabbu-ji was drunk and tried to make love to his wife. She was pregnant and didn’t want it—she feared harm to the baby. When Dhabbu-ji wouldn’t listen, she gave him a ten-rupee note and said, “Go love some courtesan. For God’s sake, spare me for now.” Dhabbu-ji left and came back in fifteen minutes. His wife was surprised. “So soon?” He replied, “As I stepped out, Chandulal’s wife asked where I was going. I told her everything. She said, ‘Why go so far? Give the ten rupees to me!’” Dhabbu-ji’s wife flared up: “What! She took ten rupees from you—and you gave them, you fool! When she was pregnant, I didn’t take a single paisa from her husband.”

Now tell me—who knows what experiences people have! Thousands of people, thousands of stories. If you want to collect experiences—do research—go meet people. Ask, “Brother, why do you suspect your wife? I don’t suspect mine at all.” First they will all say, “Suspect? Never! Me, suspect my wife? Aren’t you ashamed to talk like that? My wife is as chaste as Sita-Savitri.” But if you keep at it, coax them, take them to a hotel, give them tea and snacks, show them a movie—slowly they will melt, and perhaps the secrets will come out.

In this country it’s difficult. In the West it’s easy. In America a certain authenticity has begun. You can ask any woman, “How many men did you love before marriage?” and if you say you’re doing research, she will answer honestly—four, three, five, seven, whatever. In India it’s very difficult—who will ruin her reputation forever by admitting such things? Here virginity is prized; authenticity is not. There’s such a craze for premarital virginity that even modern, educated women don’t dare say they ever loved anyone. Leave women aside—even men don’t have the courage to be honest. So we don’t get statistics in India. And our saints benefit from this; since there are no figures, it must mean all sins happen in the West, and none in India. If there were data, sin would be visible. In the West data are available, so sin is evident. The truth is, more “sins” happen here; but because we label them sins, we hide them.

In the West, life is accepted more naturally. Nobody treats these things as sin. It’s perfectly natural that a girl who marries at twenty-four or twenty-five—whom nature made capable of love and motherhood at fourteen—if she waits ten years for marriage, something will happen in those ten years. Will the clock simply stop? Will the calendar not turn a single page? And note this: one can try to hold everything down for ten years—and it can be held. But the one who froze everything for ten years will, at twenty-five after marriage, no longer be capable of love; everything will have gone numb. The grip she formed in those ten years won’t easily loosen.

That’s why something striking is seen in India: even with their husbands, women feel they are committing a sin. They see the husband as a sinner—“this wretch keeps pestering me; but I’m helpless, I’m married, I must endure.” I can’t tell you how many Indian women have come to me saying, “We want to be free of this sex-impulse, but those ‘husband-gods’ won’t let us! Because of them we can’t be rid of it.”

And what juice will such women find in love? If they see it as sin, if they’re trying to dodge the husband, if they’re dragging the burden under compulsion—then there can be no love, no joy, no music in it.

Imagine a musician forced to play the veena—compelled, as if someone stands behind him with a sword saying, “We’ll cut off your head if you don’t play!” He will play, but no melody will arise from the strings; the strings will snap, music will not come. That is why in this country the notes of love do not arise. And when love’s music is absent, naturally the saints’ words sound right: “There’s nothing in life; it’s all pointless.” Of course they seem right—because you too have known no joy or bliss in life.

I say something entirely different. I say life has been given to you by the Divine as a gift; it holds great secrets, deep mysteries, abundant ecstasies. Recognize them. The old sannyas saw life as suffering and arose from renunciation. My sannyas sees life as joy and arises from “aho!”—from wonder and gratitude. The old was renunciatory; this is celebratory. The old fled—escapist; this is sannyas of love, delight, and grace toward life.

I want love to deepen in your life, joy to deepen—so deep that you can thank God. That very thankfulness will become your prayer, your worship, your pilgrimage. And the fragrance of that pilgrimage will be altogether different. One who flees life in dejection and sorrow carries bitterness in his mouth, not sweetness. How can he thank the Divine? His heart has complaints, grievances—not gratitude. And how can complaints become prayer?

My teachings are altogether different. So if you find them hard to understand, don’t be surprised. Only those with a certain level of intelligence will be able to understand.

The secret is straightforward. The Maharshi Sant Mehilal you speak of—I know him. He is neither a maharshi nor a saint; he is simply Mehilal. He is a hidebound, old-fashioned type of man, so hidebound people gather around him. To be old-fashioned requires no talent. So rustic simpletons will collect around him. Third-rate people will assemble there—that’s natural. His talk will appeal to them.

With me there is no place for third-rate people. What I am saying is not archaic. To understand it, you need intelligence; a kind of aristocracy of being, a certain insight; a certain sharpness, a luminosity. That’s why bright people from all over the world will come, and my delight is in them—because through them alone can a revolution happen in this world. Through them alone can this world be transformed. These so-called maharshis and saints are spread in village after village across this country. And what is their “meditation”? One teaches a mantra and whispers it into your ear. Another hands you a sound and says: keep repeating this; by chanting it everything will happen. Certainly, if you keep droning a word or a mantra, you will get a little consolation and a little peace. But that peace is like the peace that comes from sleep, from stupor. It is not real peace.

The meditation I speak of is a very scientific process. And there are so many kinds of people in the world that I am arranging meditations for every type of person. Here, in this field—this Buddha-field—the most excellent processes of all the religions, their very cream, have been gathered together. Here all the flowers have been pressed into perfume. Here we are not leaving out any method by which anyone has ever attained to Buddhahood. Therefore you are being given all the options.
Now, the gentleman who has asked is stuck on this: “Just tell us one thing, so we can do only that.” He doesn’t even wish to make the small effort of trying five or ten methods to see which one fits him. He doesn’t want to take even that much responsibility for himself. Let someone else tell him; then whether it suits him or not, whether it works for him or not—let it be imposed. Let someone hand over something ready-made. Not only ready-made—if someone would hand it over pre-chewed, even better, so he needn’t chew at all, he can simply gulp it down. Even if it happens to be poison.
Keep this in mind: what is nectar for one can be poison for another, and what is poison for one can be nectar for another. Some people will awaken through nonactive meditation—like Buddha, who attained through passive, silent watching. Here we work with Vipassana, with zazen. These are for those who can arrive by simply sitting silently.

But Jalaluddin Rumi, the Sufi fakir, arrived by dancing. He danced in such a way that he didn’t stop for thirty-six hours. Days came and went, night came and went, and thousands gathered: “What is happening?” The dance was such that even those who wanted to leave could not go. They stood there as if hypnotized. For thirty-six hours Jalaluddin danced and danced—until he arrived. Just as Buddha sat until he arrived—sat unmoving for seven days, neither stirred nor trembled—reached by remaining utterly still. Jalaluddin arrived by dancing. Both reached the same place.

Some will arrive by Jalaluddin’s path. And in my view, in this century more people will arrive by Jalaluddin’s path than by Buddha’s, because this is an active century. People are more active now. The lazy days are over. That indolent age has passed, when people were content just to sit.

So here there will be Sufi dance, there will be dervish dance. Here Buddha’s Vipassana will also be practiced. Here all kinds of experiments will be tried. You are being given every opportunity. I am saying: pass through all the opportunities and see—what resonates with you, what clicks for you, what attunes with your inner being—choose that.

But you don’t even want to do that much. You don’t want to work. You say: “You just tell us!” You’ve fallen into a bad habit. Then go—to Maharshi Saint Mehilal! There are plenty of such maharshis in every village. They’ll tell you one mantra, whisper it in your ear. And what they’ll whisper has no intrinsic value. You’ll just keep repeating it.

And let me tell you: start repeating any word and you’ll get the same result. Keep saying “Coca-Cola, Coca-Cola,” or “Ram-Ram, Ram-Ram”—there’s no difference. Or recite the Namokar—no difference. Everything is made from the same twenty-six letters. The same alphabet, the same ABC, the same ka-kha-ga. From the same letters comes “Coca-Cola.” Choose whatever you fancy; make your own mantra. If you sit and keep repeating even your own name continuously, a trance will descend. Like a mother who sits by her child and sings a lullaby—“Sleep, little prince, sleep; sleep, little prince, sleep.” If the “little prince” doesn’t sleep, what can he do? She’s sitting on his chest, crooning, “Sleep, little prince, sleep.” If she sat by the boy’s father and sang, “Sleep, little prince, sleep...” he would also fall asleep. Sleep he must. The boy can’t run; the blanket’s tucked in tight, he’s pinned on all sides—where can he go? Only one escape remains: he slips into sleep. Sleep too is a way of escape.

The secret behind lullabies is the same secret behind these mantras. But the people who prescribe such mantras become maharshis.

I have no great faith in these things. My commitment is scientific. If you are here, then think, inquire, and move in my way—the scientific way. I can take you as far as anyone has ever gone. If you truly want to arrive, be ready to work. And if you don’t want to arrive—if you only want consolation, a bit of relief, a lullaby—then go somewhere else; this place is not for you.

That’s all for today.