Sumiran Mera Hari Kare #3

Anand Maitreya! No other label has sheltered as many heinous deeds as the label of dharma; none could. Evil always seeks the screen of a good name, a pretty curtain to hide the ugly. In the name of adharma no crime has ever been done; even if someone wanted to, how would he? The very name “adharma” would give the game away. If you want to sell fake ghee you must write “Pure Ghee” on the shop. Write “Fake Ghee” and you won’t be able to sell the fake—nor even the real. Who would buy?

Dharma is a beautiful cover—and behind that cover, what has not been done! Jesus was crucified—under the cover of religion. Socrates was given poison—under the cover of religion. The judges who condemned Socrates charged him with corrupting people, making them irreligious. Strange, isn’t it? On this earth there have been only a few who brought rays into people’s lives, who made flowers of joy bloom; among those few is Socrates. Yet the charge was: you spoil people’s religion, you corrupt them. And in a way those judges were right—for what they called “religion,” Socrates certainly was turning people away from, because it wasn’t religion.

There is the blind man’s notion of religion, and there is the seer’s insight. The blind and the seeing cannot speak the same language. Socrates said, “What I am doing, I will continue to do—because what I am doing is religion; what I am doing is truth.” So they decided such a man should not be allowed to live. The same “crime” was Jesus’, the same was Mansoor’s. Mansoor said only this: “I am God—Ana’l-Haqq! I am the Truth!” This proclamation must be everyone’s. Mansoor was saying only what you too must one day say—what was there to be offended about?

But people were disturbed, people were upset. They cut off Mansoor’s hands and feet—and still Mansoor laughed. People were astonished: while his limbs are being cut, he laughs! Even then those blind ones did not see that if a man can laugh while being dismembered, he must have a secret, a key—“save him, even now!” Someone in the crowd did ask, “Mansoor, why are you laughing?” Mansoor said, “I am laughing because the one you are killing is not me. And the one I am—you will never kill. No one ever can.”

This is what Krishna says: “Nainam chindanti shastrani—no weapon can cleave me. Nainam dahati pavakah—no fire can burn me.”

Mansoor said, “Cut—cut to your heart’s content! I laugh because the culprit commits the crime and someone else is punished! If what I have done you call a crime, then you should punish that—but you are cutting the body. Fools!”

And at the very end, when Mansoor looked to the sky and laughed, someone asked, “Till now it was all right—you were laughing looking at us. But why laugh looking at the sky? Who sits there? If there were a savior there, he would have saved you.” Mansoor said, “I am laughing toward God to say: however you come, I will recognize you. Today you have come in the form of killers—Mansoor will not be deceived. And why should I want to escape His hands? To die at His hands is also good fortune! Poison from His hands is also nectar!”

Still the blind did not awaken. The blind never awaken; if they awakened, they would no longer be blind. They are stupefied.

You ask, Anand Maitreya: “This heinous act—and in the name of religion!”

Only in the name of religion can such acts be done, because “religion” is such a sweet word. What could be more honeyed, more melodious! The very word “dharma” and it is as if a flute begins to sing in the breath, anklets begin to chime, some inner string is plucked! Under that cover anything can happen. For centuries everything has happened under that cover. Priests thrived, pundits thrived. Hindus, Muslims, Christians have killed each other; they have burned temples and mosques—all in the name of religion! And the priests have preached: “Whoever dies in jihad goes straight to heaven. Whoever dies in dharma-yuddha, there is no greater deed. So die—and kill!”

Dharma—the art of living—they turned into the business of dying and killing. Dharma is the science of living—how to live. And dharma is neither Hindu nor Muslim nor Christian. Is love Hindu? Is love Christian? If love is not Hindu, how can prayer be Hindu? For prayer is love at its peak. And when the lotus of prayer fully blossoms, the taste of that experience we call God. Is God Hindu, or Muslim, or Christian? But as long as this earth is divided into fragments, politics will go on in the name of religion.

You say, “A fanatical Hindu youth threw a knife at you.”

No one is, in truth, “religiously blind.” Dharma is the eye. So the word “religiously blind” is used, but it is not precise. One should say “adharmically blind.” It is done in the name of dharma, but it is adharma. How can anyone be blinded by dharma? Dharma is vision—the supreme eye, the eye by which God is seen, by which the truth of life is experienced, by which one sees one’s own innermost radiance, one’s own form, satchidananda.

But we use the conventional word “religious bigot.” The convention is: some Hindu is crazy, some Muslim is crazy, some Christian is crazy—so we call them “religious bigots.” Don’t. They are simply blind—“blind” is enough. Yes, they wear the robe of religion. If a blind man wraps himself in the shawl of Rama’s name, does he become “religiously blind”? If he carries the Quran on his head, does that make him “religiously blind”? Dharma is that which opens the eyes—and whoever’s eyes open sees naturally that dharma can only be one.

Remember: Buddha was not a Buddhist. Do not forget: Mahavira was not a Jain. Jesus was not a Christian—there is not a shred of room for that delusion. Mohammed was not a Muslim. But those who did not understand Mohammed became Muslims. This miracle happens every day. Those who did not understand Buddha became Buddhists. A “Buddhist” is precisely one who has not understood Buddha. Whoever understands Buddha becomes a Buddha—why would he be a Buddhist? Keep the distinction clear. Whoever understands Mahavira becomes a Jina, not a Jain. Jina means “one who has conquered himself.” Jain means “a follower who accepts the words of the conquerors blindly.” A believer, not an experiencer.

Those who “accepted” Mohammed became Muslims—accepted, not known. Had they known, they too would have been Mohammeds. Had they known, the Quran would descend in their lives just as it descended in Mohammed’s. God is not partial. If the Quran descended in Mohammed’s life, why would it not descend in yours? It needs the same longing, the same thirst, the same blazing passion, the same mad love the moth has for the flame. The day that madness for God is born in someone, the Quran descends into his life; then there is no need to clutch outer Qurans. Outer books are held by those who cannot read the inner book. And if you have not read the inner, you will not understand any outer book. You will memorize the words and miss the meanings. Meanings are not visible to the blind.

A blind man was once brought to Buddha. He was a great logician, a philosopher. He had defeated everyone in the village. The villagers said, “You are blind.” He laughed, “Bring proof that I am blind.” They said, “There is light; you cannot see it.” He said, “Show it to me; I am willing to see. I have no refusal on my side. Show me, and I will accept. All right, if you cannot show it, put it in my hand—let me weigh it, feel it. If that won’t do, at least knock it so I can hear its sound. If that won’t do, let me taste your ‘light.’ My mouth is open—put a spoon of light in my mouth, I will taste it. And if that too won’t do, at least let me smell the fragrance of your light!”

He had those four senses. He said, “I am ready, from every side I am ready—give me the experience of light.” How can anyone give a blind man the experience of light? Can you give light to taste, to smell, to hear, to touch? Light has no sound, no smell, no taste, no texture. He would win; the blind man would win; the seeing would lose. Then Buddha came to that village. They brought the blind man to him. “You have come—our good fortune! Perhaps you can explain to him; we have failed. He is a great logician; he argues like this. What should we do?”

Buddha said, “You are fools! You try to explain to him—that is your mistake. What is this poor fellow’s fault? You know he cannot see—and light can only be seen. You should not have brought him to me. Bring him to Jivaka, my physician. He is with me—find him among the sangha—ten thousand monks traveled with Buddha. Jivaka will treat him. When his eyes are healed, no proof will be needed.”

Jivaka treated him for six months. There was a membrane over his eyes—it was cut. Six months later the man came dancing, fell at Buddha’s feet. Buddha said, “What are you doing?” He said, “I have come to say thank you. If I had gone on arguing with my villagers, I would have remained blind for life. They could never defeat me in debate—and because they could not, I felt I must be right. My arguments were naturally neat. They were simple villagers; how could they argue? But you did not try to convince me; you sent me to the physician—that was auspicious. The film over my eyes has been cut. Today I can see color, form, light, shapes. What good fortune! I would have remained deprived of greenness, of the colors of flowers, of the sun, the moon, the stars—of this supreme experience of life, the very encounter with light and its incomparable glory. So I have come to thank you. And I have also come to ask one more thing. I asked Jivaka: I have heard there is also an inner eye. Now I have the outer eye; I have seen outer light. I have heard there have been people who have seen inner light—heal that too. Jivaka said, if you want healing for that, go to Buddha. He alone is the physician there. I can do nothing in that matter. So I have come—open my inner eye as well.”

Buddha asked, “Won’t you ask for proof?” He said, “Enough proofs! Enough debate! Debate ruined my life. No more debate, no more proof, no more scripture. If there is outer light, there must be inner. If there is an outer eye, there must be an inner. If there is a world spread outside, there must be a world spread within—for nothing exists only outside; without within, how can there be a without? I don’t want debate. Open my inner eye.”

He stayed at Buddha’s feet for years and attained the ultimate knowing. He knew the inner light too.

Those you call “religious bigots” are in truth “sect-blind,” opinion-blind; do not call them religious. “Dharma” is a very dear word. They are doctrinaire, dogmatists. And a dogmatist is not religious. That is why I do not call Hindus, Muslims, Christians, Jains, Buddhists religious. I call Krishna religious, not the Hindu. I call Jesus religious, not the Christian. I call Mohammed religious, not the Muslim. And my reason? Because only the truth that is experienced is proof. How few in this world have truly experienced! Why so few? Because of your dogmatism—each clinging to his own creed.

There are three hundred “religions” in the world, and at least three thousand sects, and at least thirty thousand sub-sects—and between them, swords are always drawn.

Now, about the mad youth who yesterday threw a knife at me: first, I cannot be killed. The body that can be killed is anyway going to die. There is no special need to kill it. Buddha is no more, Mahavira is no more, Krishna is no more—this body too will not remain. No body remains. What was bound to go of itself—why make such an effort? The poor fellow only put himself into trouble, into entanglement.

Second, he acted in the hope that he was defending religion—as if he knew anything of religion! As if he had experienced dharma! He thinks what I am doing is against his religion—as if there were different religions! Mine different, yours different, someone else’s different! Dharma is one, as science is one; as light is one; as the moon is one. However many lakes reflect it, however many ponds, tanks, seas hold its image—millions of reflections may appear in the night, but the moon is one. Buddha is one reflection, Mahavira another, Mohammed a third, Jesus a fourth, Zarathustra a fifth. They are lakes. I too am a lake; one reflection of the moon is forming in me as well.

But that youth thought I was speaking against his religion. Religion belongs to no one; it is no one’s property. Do you even know what “dharma” means? Dharma means “that which holds us all”—our very nature. Mahavira defined it precisely: vathu-sahavo dhammo—the nature of a thing is its dharma.

The inmost nature of this existence is dharma. Our nature is our dharma. To become acquainted with one’s own nature is to become acquainted with dharma.

But he must have been possessed by notions. Mad he certainly was—and he did not even know how to aim! At least learn to aim well; he could have asked me—there are young men here who could have trained him how to throw a knife, how to kill. If you must kill, at least take some training!

And look where he aimed! Even if it had struck, it could not have taken life. The knife was as old as the “Hindu religion”—as old as Adam! And he was a complete miser! He had a fine sword on his belt too—hidden. What was it for? He must have thought, “If it works cheaply first, good.” Was he a Maratha, or a Marwari?

There was a case against a Marwari youth that he had tried to shoot Chandulal in a dark lane. In court the defense lawyer said, “It is true the accused took aim at Chandulal’s head. It is true there is an old family enmity. But the accused did not pull the trigger.” The judge asked, “Strange! When you had fixed your aim on the head, why didn’t you shoot?” The Marwari youth, bristling with anger, said, “What could I do, Your Honor? I was just about to pull the trigger when that scoundrel Chandulal asked, ‘How much will you sell this gun for?’ Now you tell me—when a man starts talking business, how can you kill him?”

That man had brought two knives. He threw the cheap one first. Surely a fool! Whatever you do, do it with a little intelligence, a little skill. He never even drew the real thing—the real one stayed on his belt.

But whenever someone goes to do a wrong act, this is how it goes—everything goes awry. He is not in his senses; the mind is tense, disturbed. In panic and restlessness, whatever happens, happens. He himself may not even know what he is doing, why he is doing it. And who has given him the contract to protect the Hindu religion? Is he the only contractor left among two hundred million Hindus?

People of Poona (Pune) have a certain knack. There is some strange intoxication here about protecting the Hindu religion. Mahatma Gandhi was shot—by a youth of Poona. They too went to protect Hindu religion! The word “Poona” comes from punya—merit. The city of merit! Blessed city! Very meritorious souls are born here! They keep showing their “merit”!

But from the sect-blind we can expect exactly this. Nothing unprecedented has happened, nothing extraordinary. For people like me these things are to be expected; they will be—one must take them as natural. They are an inevitable part of the life of people like me.

You ask, “In this matter, please give us direction.”

Only remember this much: do not become sect-blind yourselves, that’s all. I want to give you dharma, not a creed. I want to give you light, not theories of light. I want to give you experience, not scripture. I do not want to make you members of any religion; I want to make you religious.

The future is not of religions; the future is of religiousness. If dharma is to survive on this earth, it will have to be freed from religions. Those days are over—of Christians, of Hindus, of Muslims. Enough stupidity has been done in those names. The time has come—man has matured enough—that the days of religiousness are dawning. The end of this century will see the rise of religiousness. People will be religious as one is scientific.

Therefore my sannyasins do not belong to any religion. They are religion-free religious people. They have no dogma. They are bound by no doctrine.

So keep this in mind, because the mistake happens easily: we forget the real and clutch the false. Do not become dogmatic.

Second: such an incident has happened; others may happen. Think of it as a series, a beginning. Do not think it will be only a stray madman—there will be others too. But in your heart let there be neither anger nor any spirit of retaliation.

I am delighted that none of you hurt that youth—not even a slap. What he did is worth two pennies, but what you did is of great value. You delighted me. You lifted him with love; you led him away with love. Even the police officers were surprised; they thought you would beat him. But far from beating, you did not so much as slap him.

Keep just this much awareness. Keep it in the future too. If such a thing happens again, remember this much. And not only because he failed this time—if someone succeeds some day, even takes this body, let there still be from your side the same love, the same joy. Do not forget my declaration that the divine abides in everyone. He abides in that person too—he is a little deluded, a little in darkness, in a state of unawareness. But he is the divine all the same. Let there be no difference in your respect. Treat him with respect. If anger arises in you, that will pain me more. If retaliation arises in you, that will wound me more.

So I thank you that you ran, and you lifted him as one lifts a fallen man from the road; you welcomed him with love, with respect, with hospitality. This is the hallmark of a sannyasin. This is the hallmark of religiousness.

Atmanand Brahmachari! In this Kali Yuga you look like a sage from the Golden Age. Why blame poor Indra? The fault is yours. If you force things, impose something unnatural upon yourself, then sooner or later there will be an explosion. And when it happens, you need someone to curse, someone to hold guilty—so you pin it on poor Indra. There is no Indra anywhere, nor any throne of Indra anywhere. Those stories in your scriptures that Indra’s throne begins to wobble—they’re inventions of the rishis. It was the rishis who were wobbling, wobbling because of their own repression.

But the basic tendency of the human mind is never to accept its own fault. We want to put the blame on someone else; the moment we do, we feel relieved. You may do the worst thing, yet still want to throw the blame elsewhere. As soon as you have dumped the blame on someone else, you feel weightless. So no one in the world thinks themselves guilty; everyone holds someone else guilty. And when no one is left to blame… Now, in this case of “unbroken celibacy,” whom will you blame? The first move is to blame women. But the rishis used to flee from women and go deep into the forest—there, where were the women? Whom could they blame then? In the villages and towns they would say, “Women are the gate to hell!”

The words used for women in the scriptures are so vulgar that one is amazed even to think of it. These scriptures are still held sacred! And if you question what they contain, someone is ready to throw a knife at you for insulting their religion. The irony is that these knife-throwers have never even opened their scriptures. If only they would! But they neither have the time nor the desire—they merely worship. How many Hindus have read the Vedas? You will hardly find a Hindu who has read them. When I read the Vedas—and I am not a Hindu; I don’t belong to such collective madness—I was shocked. I was shocked that people have worshipped these Vedas for centuries—does anyone even open them? And when I opened them, I thought, “People are right not to open them.” Then I understood the secret of not opening them: ninety-nine percent is trash. What am I to do with that—or anyone else? Open and see for yourself; you will find rubbish. And this rubbish is called apaurusheya—authored by God Himself, not by man. If God writes trash that even a third-rate newspaper wouldn’t agree to print—would toss straight into the wastebasket—or, if it came with return postage, would send it back with thanks and keep the stamps at least… Is this what God wrote? Why would God need to write such things?

And what sort of things! If you look for yourself, no woman would allow the Vedas to stay in her house, because the obscenities about women found there are impossible to find anywhere else. The Vedas say women are so bestial that they shouldn’t even be counted among humans—they are worse than animals. The descriptions about women are so ugly that you will be astonished: what were these rishis writing! Such vile portrayals, such obscene stuff you don’t find even in the most obscene literature today.

Just yesterday I was reading the account of the ashvamedha sacrifice. The patron’s wife would be laid naked beside the horse, and then she would pray to the horse: “O Ashva, I spread my thighs. You also enlarge your organ and enter my womb. We women get greater pleasure from intercourse with you.”

These are God-authored texts! And if you say this to someone, they are ready to stab you—rather than look and see how much truth there is. And it’s not just one stray passage; such references are scattered all over.

So first of all, the rishis abused women as much as they could—women are vulgar, indecent, the gate to hell! They say women are eager to commit bestiality; their promiscuity knows no bounds. Not just with men, they invite animals: “Come, copulate with us. We get great relish!” So if they corrupt the poor rishis, what’s so surprising?

But the man who ran away into the forest couldn’t even do that—there were no women there to blame. Then nets of imagination arose within. The tide of sexuality he had suppressed in himself began to thrash, to assert, to surge into dreams.

Psychologists say that if you live in solitude for three weeks and suppress any one thing, then after three weeks you will begin to dream with open eyes while awake. This is a psychological truth, verified by experiment. What you see at night with closed eyes in sleep, you begin to see in the day with open eyes—so palpably that it appears right in front of you. Hallucinations arise. And this is not a matter of three days.

Atmanand Brahmachari, you say, “I am a thirty-five-year-old celibate since boyhood.”

If for thirty-five years you have been imposing celibacy upon yourself, it’s no surprise if women begin to appear before you. You’ve been fighting women, avoiding women, running from women, and your imagination about them has only grown more intense within. So now whom will you blame? Sitting in the forest, the rishis blamed Indra; they imagined some Indra up in heaven whose throne was shaking. Why would his throne shake? So he sends Menaka, sends Urvashi—to trip up the rishis.

There is no Menaka, no Urvashi, no Indra anywhere. This is a web of the rishis’ own imagination—a web spun of their own repressed desires. Beautiful women appear standing there.

But someone must be blamed. So they invented Indra for that purpose. Had Indra been real, the poor fellow could have spoken in his defense: “Brother, I have no hand in this.” But for Indra to speak, he’d have to exist! He doesn’t. The Vedas say that when Indra gets angry he flashes lightning, thunders clouds, hurls bolts, kills his enemies. We now know why thunder rolls. And we know that the god Indra is locked in electric meters in every house. Press a button and run the fan—Indra is running the fan for you! Now Indra fans you. Earlier he used to strike enemies and frighten people. Today Indra grinds flour—there are no watermills now; all the mills run on electricity. What is Indra not doing? Just take a count. Is there any job that Indra won’t do? Even tasks a shudra might refuse—Indra is ready! No one inquires after Indra anymore.

Notice—Indra has departed. Except for a few like this Atmanand Brahmachari, for whom Indra is still alive because they need him, and so must keep him alive—otherwise, in whose life does Indra have any value now? Do you pray to Indra nowadays? The Rig Veda is filled with Indra; the Vedas are full of him. Among those who worship the Vedas, how many Hindus worship Indra today? No one has any dealing with him; that connection is broken. The secret is out. Indra lost everything—lightning, clouds. In our country the clouds are still in his hands, and so the crowds of priests and their followers still do sacrifices and fire oblations. But in a country like Russia, even the clouds are no longer in Indra’s hands! Russia makes them rain wherever it wants. They fly planes above the clouds and spray fine ice to cool them and coax rain—one can make any cloud rain. Poor Indra must stand agape: “My cloud—and these Russian rascals, what do they think I am—Afghanistan? And they’re making me rain, and I have to do it!” And wherever the Russians want to drive the clouds, there they go.

In Russia, deserts that existed sixty years ago are now green gardens. The deserts have vanished. Where not a blade grew, beautiful flowers bloom today. The trick? A small secret: to bring clouds, create heat where you want rain. The heated air becomes rarefied, a vacuum arises; the surrounding clouds rush in to fill the space. So wherever you want rain, create rarefied air; the clouds come running and rain. And where you want to drive clouds away, you can. No sacrifices are needed in Russia.

We are still doing sacrifices. But Indra, as such, has died. No one cares about him; his power has drained away. Whatever little remained will also go. Yet the so-called rishis still sit in caves; when harassed by women—in their minds—they remember Indra.

Atmanand Brahmachari, you are certainly a man of the Golden Age. Blessed indeed! How did you stray into the Kali Yuga? This age is not for you. In Satya Yuga you might have been a Vashishtha or a Vishwamitra. As for now, because of people like me, you are fit to be admitted to a psychiatric hospital—and nothing else. It’s good you came here. We have arrangements for therapy; you can be treated. There is no need of Indra. No one’s throne is shaking. Not even my chair is shaking—why would Indra’s throne wobble! Indra is the one running this fan.

But this is the outcome of repression.

There is a famous Zen story, very dear to me. The more I tell it, the dearer it becomes. Two Buddhist monks were returning to their monastery after alms-round. Evening was falling, the sun setting. They came to a riverside. The elder monk was ahead. On the bank stood a young woman—very beautiful! Note well, she needn’t have been as beautiful as she appeared to the elder. Women appear more beautiful to monks than to others. To a hungry man, food tastes more delicious than to one whose belly is full—that’s a simple rule. Fast for two, three days and you will be amazed; wherever you go, your nostrils will fill with the fragrance of food. If fritters are being fried in a neighbor’s house, you will smell them—you never did before. Your nostrils will come alive. Walking down the street you won’t even notice the shoe shop; you will see only restaurants, hotels, sweet shops, ice-cream stalls. The world will fade. What is lacking inside appears outside.

The elder saw the beautiful young woman. He instantly lowered his gaze and began to remember the Buddha—Buddham sharanam gachhami! Mantras are for such moments; they are supposed to protect. He began to recite the refuge. And the Buddha had said, “Do not look beyond four feet ahead.” Now he understood why! Had he kept his eyes within four feet, why would he have fallen into this mess? He had already seen the beautiful woman; now he could chant “Buddham sharanam gachhami; sangham sharanam gachhami; dhammam sharanam gachhami” all he liked, but his heart was caught by that woman. And she grew ever more beautiful. He quickened his pace to cross the river quickly—lest something happen! In such solitude, a monk cannot trust himself—perhaps he was like Atmanand Brahmachari. He hurried across. The river wasn’t very deep, but the water came up to the neck. He reached the other bank. Then it struck him: my young fellow monk is behind me. He is newly initiated, naive—who knows, he might get trapped! He too will see the girl.

The old man grew very uneasy. Those who repress sexuality burn with jealousy as well. Though he cloaked it in religion—he told himself he was worried about the young monk lest he be corrupted. “I am old and wise; somehow, chanting refuge, I got across; but he might get entangled. It’s quieter now, the sun is about to set; darkness is near. He must be approaching the bank.”

Just then the young monk reached the bank. Seeing the young woman standing there, he asked, “What’s the matter? Night is falling. Do you intend to stay alone in this dark place?” She said, “I am afraid to cross. The water is deep; I might be swept away. The current is strong.” The young monk said, “Climb on my shoulders; I’ll carry you across.” He hoisted her up and set off. When he reached the other side and the elder saw this scene, you can imagine—his heart turned to ice! Whether or not Indra’s throne shook, the elder’s certainly did. Deep inside, jealousy arose: “If only I had carried her! Those lovely thighs, that tender body, that soft skin, that young woman!” But on the surface he thought, “This foolish novice! Doesn’t he know the Buddha said, ‘Don’t touch women, don’t look at them, don’t talk to them’?”

I don’t think the Buddha said that. It was added by the Buddhoos—“Buddha-fans”—who came after him. A man like the Buddha doesn’t say such things—can’t say them. If he did, what difference would remain between him and fools?

The young monk set the woman down on the bank. She thanked him; he walked on. The elder too walked on, burning with anger. He was so scorched he couldn’t speak. Two miles later, when they were climbing the monastery steps, at the gate the elder halted, eyes blazing, and said, “Listen! What you did is a great sin!”

The youth said, “What great sin? What did I do? We haven’t even spoken for two miles—we’ve been completely silent.”

The elder said, “Not two miles—think back two miles ago. What you did was a great sin. I shall tell the Master. I cannot remain silent. This is intolerable.”

The youth said, “I don’t recall—what did I do two miles ago? Please say it clearly.”

The elder said, “Don’t you understand clearly? You carried that beautiful young woman on your shoulders across the river. Does that befit a Buddhist monk? Your restraint is broken.”

The young monk laughed. “Revered sir, may I submit one thing? I set that woman down on the riverbank two miles back, but you are still carrying her on your shoulders!”

Atmanand Brahmachari, for thirty-five years who knows how many young women you have been carrying on your shoulders. They are the very ones harassing you. Indra is not at fault. Forgive Indra; find the fault within.

And often, when a man is young, he can suppress any desire, because he has strength.

You say, “I am a thirty-five-year-old celibate since boyhood—unbroken!”

With what pride you say it! With what flourish you declare it! While writing the question you must have felt very pleased that everyone will come to know that an unbroken celibate has arrived here. It is not difficult to maintain celibacy till thirty-five, because until then a man has strength; at thirty-five we reach the peak. Then the descent begins. If one dies at seventy, then thirty-five years are ascent, and thirty-five descent. You are now on the slope. Your energy will begin to wane. The very force with which you pressed down your desire will diminish, while desire remains pressed down—just as inflamed as before. The hand that suppresses grows weaker. Now you will be in trouble; each day it will increase. You will begin to look for Indra. But Indra has no hand in it.

And if, whenever you sit for practice, women manifest all around you, what kind of “unbroken celibacy” is this? Women surround you—it’s a raas-leela you’re in, where is celibacy in that?

Understand the word brahmacharya. It is a beautiful, wondrous word, full of mystery. Those who coined it were remarkable. Brahmacharya means: conduct like Brahman—the Divine way of living. Simply, godly behavior, a divine manner of being. But it doesn’t come by repression. It is the final fruit of meditation. Have you meditated? Have you known the void? Have you tasted within that absolute silence where everything disappears—thoughts recede far, very far, and are no longer heard; the mind vanishes and you don’t know where it went? Have you experienced that no-mind state? If you had, the fragrance of brahmacharya would arise in your life. What you are calling “unbroken celibacy” is an empty boast.

I know a brahmachari much like you, Matkanath Brahmachari. One morning, returning from the temple, he saw a crowd of children by the roadside. He went over. In the middle stood a tiny puppy—a beautiful little dog. Thinking the children must be teasing this innocent creature, Matkanath shouted, “Go on, get out of here! Scatter, or I’ll thrash you. Why are you troubling this little puppy?”

“We aren’t troubling him,” one child replied. “We’re having a contest: whoever tells the biggest lie wins the puppy.”

The brahmachari said, “This is the limit! Is lying fit for a contest? Hold a contest for some good thing! But how would you—no fault of yours, it’s Kali Yuga. So young, and you’ve learned to lie? When I was your age, I didn’t even know what lying was.”

“Here, the puppy is yours,” said a child, placing it into Matkanath’s hands. All the children clapped and cried, “You’ve outdone us! You didn’t even take a minute—you’ve won the prize!”

If it were you, Atmanand Brahmachari, you too could win the prize. “Unbroken celibacy!” In your dreams sexuality will slip and slide—whether you admit it or not. In your thoughts, in your imaginings, there will be the poison of lust—whether you admit it or not. This is completely natural. Nothing surprising in it. But when there is youth and energy, one can keep oneself down with push-ups and discipline. How long will energy last? Now the days of decline have begun. There is no hand of Indra here. Your descent has begun. The real trouble will start after forty-five.

That is why your so-called lifelong celibates usually “fall” between forty-five and fifty. One elopes with someone’s wife; another creates some scandal. Who knows what they’ll do.

Yesterday I read a news item from New Delhi. A seventy-year-old man tried to molest an eight-year-old girl—lured her away. Astonishing! What an inspiration for the old man—seeing far in the dark, as they say! If you like, you can take it as a good sign: in India even seventy-year-olds are turning “young.” But an eight-year-old child! People caught him; he was molesting her in a secluded spot. Who knows how long he had been suppressing; that story no one will know—neither the world nor the court. Perhaps he had been repressing it for a lifetime, and now such misery has arisen.

In the name of character, you are taught repression.

When Mulla Nasruddin came of age and started flirting with neighborhood girls, an elderly maulvi called him home one day and lovingly advised, “Listen, son, you have crossed the threshold of childhood. This is the time that makes or breaks a man. So listen carefully and act accordingly. At this age, the most important thing for building character is: treat every girl you meet as your mother.”

Nasruddin thought for a moment and replied, “Maulvi Sahib, if I follow your advice, my character will certainly improve. But just think what will happen to my father’s character! And if you start considering your wife your mother, what will become of the saying, ‘Owls died but left offspring’? Then the owls will die and leave no offspring!”

Who knows how many people told that old fellow, “Build your character! See every woman as your mother or sister.” He must have repeated it to himself. Now death stands at the door—how long can he keep seeing mother and sister everywhere! And now he won’t have the courage to tease a young woman; she’ll thrash him. So the old man goes and harasses a child. Who inflicted such bad days? Your so-called moralists and character-builders—this is the result of their teachings. Life should be natural. If you make it unnatural, you will land yourself in trouble.

Atmanand, if you had the courage to come this far… and it does take courage for old-style celibates to come here. It’s a big step for brahmacharis, because here there are Menakas and Urvashis, too. Still, nothing is lost. Be simple in life. Don’t impose celibacy. I value brahmacharya greatly—but it should come, not be forced. It should blossom, not be hammered in.

My understanding is: if one lives naturally, simply, with awareness, brahmacharya arises on its own—like fragrance arises in a flower. You don’t sprinkle Revlon from a bottle; the scent comes from within. The very soil contains it. From the same soil where there is no scent, the flower draws aroma. From that very soil, the flower distills fragrance.

The secret is hidden in your body. Your body is the greatest mystery of this existence. In it is hidden heaven, in it is hidden nirvana; in it God dwells. Where Brahman dwells, brahmacharya will also come. But understand the alchemy. Brahmacharya is the result of meditation. You have been taught the exact opposite for centuries: “Practice celibacy and meditation will happen.” This is wrong. By practicing celibacy, neither celibacy will happen nor meditation. And whenever you sit to meditate, desire will trouble you.

I say to you: practice meditation; forget about celibacy. You have nothing to do with it. Don’t worry about it.

But strange, strange things have been taught!

Why call it a perversion? If your father had not been “afflicted” with sex-perversion, where would you be? And if Buddha’s father had not been “afflicted,” the world would have been deprived of Buddha. From this so-called sex-perversion Buddha was born, Mahavira was born. Can such wondrous miracles arise out of a perversion? It is not a perversion—you have announced too soon: “sex-perversion!” And then you ask how to be free of it.

It is not a perversion; sex is energy. Sex is your intrinsic potential. Right now it is like a raw diamond straight from the mine—still a diamond, but only a jeweler will recognize it. Let it fall into a jeweler’s hands: he will cut it, clean it, facet it, polish it—and one day even a blind man will know its worth.

Sex is not a perversion; sex is the very energy of your life. Through this same energy children are born—and through this same energy your rebirth is possible. This is power: if it flows downward it becomes progeny; if it rises upward it becomes samadhi. Do not call it a perversion.

But you have been taught to condemn. Remember: whatever you condemn, you will not be able to understand. Condemnation won’t allow understanding.

Do not jump to conclusions. Without conclusions, dive attentively into understanding all the energies of your life. Nothing is lost yet. Let this foolish notion of “lifelong celibacy” go—bid it farewell. Be simple and natural. It isn’t too late: thirty-five is not very late. You can live at least another thirty-five years. And even if not thirty-five—if you live rightly for five years, even five days—it is possible to attain nirvana. But the question is of the right way. If you continue like this, you will be in trouble. Even at the moment of death you will be filled with thoughts of women. At the last moment, you will be thinking of women.

At death a man thinks what he has thought all his life. At death he thinks it even more intensely.

Atmanand Brahmachari, turn your energy toward meditation. Free your ideas and notions from all sides. Make life natural. As food is, so is sex—nothing to worry about. It is natural. Do not raise barriers between you and your energy by condemning it. Repression is very dangerous.

I have heard: In a hotel a man came to stay. The manager was unwilling to give him a room. “We have no vacancy,” he said. “There is one room, but I cannot give it to you.” “Why?” asked the traveler. “Because directly below that room a big politician is staying—quick-tempered. Since he got power he has gone a bit mad. If there’s any noise upstairs, he creates an uproar. If you drop a utensil, or even walk too heavily and the sound reaches him, he will raise the whole hotel.”

The man said, “Don’t worry. I’ll be in the market all day, and return at midnight. I only need four hours’ sleep; I have a 4 a.m. train. How would I make trouble? I will be careful even in my sleep.”

The manager thought it would be all right and gave him the room. The man returned at midnight, exhausted. He sat on the bed, took off one shoe, and let it drop. The moment it thudded he remembered the politician below and, fearing to wake him, he placed the second shoe down very gently. One mistake had happened—let there not be another. He fell asleep.

Two hours later someone banged loudly on the door. He woke with a start. Standing there was the politician, fuming: “What do you think you’re doing? What happened to the other shoe?”

“The other shoe?” the man asked, and then recalled. “Oh! I dropped the first one by mistake—”

“I know about the first one,” the politician said, “because I heard it. That didn’t bother me. Then I began waiting for the second. What kind of man are you—did you go to sleep with one shoe on? I told myself, ‘What is it to me? Let him sleep with one shoe if he wants.’ Still, I couldn’t sleep. The thought kept tormenting me: a man sleeping with one shoe on! At last, seeing there was no way to sleep, I came to ask—what happened to the other shoe?”

Now the “other shoe” was hanging over the man’s head. Suppress a trivial thing, and you can’t sleep for two hours—indeed, you could be sleepless all night. And what you are suppressing is something profoundly natural. You will not be able to escape it. Till your dying breath you will be filled with women; even on your deathbed you will see only women. Then you will imagine that Indra is disturbed and sending Menaka and Urvashi. There is no Indra, no Menaka, no Urvashi—these are the games of repressed desire. There is still time—wake up, be aware.

And you have come to the right place, where one can be freed of such futile nonsense. I can free you from the “second shoe.” Not only the second—I can free you from the first as well. But you will have to drop this delusion and this stiffness. This “lifelong celibacy,” this “child-celibacy”—all futile twaddle. Try to be a natural human being. Give yourself the inner permission to be ordinary.

The most extraordinary people in this world are those who accept themselves as ordinary. Those who have truly known themselves to be simply ordinary—divinity blossoms within them.

All this chatter about celibacy appeals to certain people. Do you know to whom? Either to naïve children—because they have no understanding or experience yet—or to the married, because the bitter experience of marriage makes celibacy look right: “It must be right, given the suffering we are going through...” But the secret of this world is that the married think the unmarried are enjoying themselves, and the unmarried think the married are enjoying themselves. Everyone thinks the other is better off. The neighbor’s grass looks greener; the neighbor’s wife more beautiful. Because when people step out, they put on masks, beautiful faces.

Once, a big quarrel broke out between Chandulal and his wife about writing. Chandulal told her, “I’ve told you many times: when you write ‘pati’ (husband), always use the long ‘ee’ sound; the scriptures call the husband God. The short ‘i’ doesn’t suit ‘pati.’ And for ‘patni’ (wife), use the short ‘i.’ But you—whenever you write—you give ‘patni’ the long ‘ee’ and ‘pati’ the short ‘i.’ This is beyond tolerance. It’s sheer insult to me—everywhere you’re insulting me.”

So worked up was Chandulal that he said, “This must be settled today—or divorce!”

“Enough is enough,” he said, “and yet not even a louse stirs in your ear!” To this the wife muttered, “Be quiet first—and look in the dictionary. Even there ‘pati’ is with the short ‘i’ and ‘patni’ with the long ‘ee.’”

At this Chandulal snapped, “I don’t accept any dictionary. Some henpecked husband must have compiled it! If you want to live here, you will write ‘husband’ big and ‘wife’ small.”

Watch husbands’ and wives’ quarrels—but those are inner matters; only the two of them know. Outside, they smile as if all is bliss, as if they’ve just come from heaven! A guest arrives and they instantly stop fighting, begin to speak sweetly; as soon as the guest leaves, the saga resumes—sweet words end and the real colors return.

So celibacy talk appeals either to husbands and wives—“The sages told the secret right. If only we’d understood earlier, why would we have got into this mess? But now we’re trapped”—or it is stuffed into children’s heads. Children are helpless; you can fill their heads with anything. Their minds are blank pages—write what you will; the poor things will cram it and repeat it.

But now you are thirty-five. Speak with a little sense! Think a little, reflect a little. If this were a perversion, why would God give it? It is energy—your great power. Yes, as it is now, it is not to be left just as it is. It can be raised to great heights; it can be purified so much that from it your thousand-petaled lotus can bloom. It is mud right now, but the lotus can bloom only in this mud. Yet the lotus will not bloom on its own—you must sow the seeds of meditation. Otherwise you will remain stuck in the mud, fighting with it, wrestling with it—keeping on abusing Indra. Abusing Indra will achieve nothing. It is good to wake up in time. There is still time—even now.

Yog Pritam! He alone is—only he. “Tat tvam asi,” the Upanishads say of him: Thou art That. It is him whom Mansur al-Hallaj declares: “Ana’l-Haqq! I am the Truth!” It is him whom those who have seen, who have known, proclaim: “Aham Brahmasmi! I am Brahman!” Say “I am,” or say “Thou art”—it is the same. In me too he is; in you too he is. In every leaf he is, in every flower he is.

You sit by me, Yog Pritam. You listen to my words. These words are not mine—they are his. And the one within you who listens is not you either—that too is he! This flute is his, these words are his, the listener too is he. The moment such identity happens between you and me, when unity is forged, when the same flavor rises; the moment this bridge of love forms between us—just that moment satsang bears fruit.

So that satsang may bear fruit, there is sannyas. Sannyas is only a device to make satsang fruitful. Therefore those who come to me merely as onlookers come empty-handed and go empty-handed. Those who come as satsangis become, in one sense, utterly empty—empty of ego; and in another sense, complete—filled to the brim with the divine, so much so that the divine begins to overflow from them!

If you have listened to me in oneness, you will not find the slightest distinction. It will seem that I am not speaking—you are speaking. It will seem that you are not listening—I am listening. The distinction between the listener and the speaker dissolves very quickly. And where these distinctions dissolve, there is bliss; there the stream of rasa flows. “Raso vai sah!” That is the very nature of the divine. Rasa is the nature of the divine.

This is a tavern, Yog Pritam. Drink, and pour for others. Wine is being handed out; it is for the drinkers, for the revelers. But the measure must be the heart. I am ready to fill—if you are empty. If you are already full, it becomes difficult.

Blessed are those who are empty. And you are one of the blessed. It is your good fortune!
Enough for today.