Sumiran Mera Hari Kare #5

Atmanand Brahmachari! I am neither Indian nor a guru. To be Indian, Pakistani, Chinese--these are political contrivances; they have nothing to do with religion. They are all games of politics. How can religion be Indian? Religion has no boundary. Religion is the boundless--a search for the boundless, a longing to become one with the boundless.

A drop wants to become the ocean--this is the essence of religion. But the drop that thinks it can remain a drop and still become the ocean is deluded. The one who wants to be religious while remaining Indian cannot be religious. A Hindu cannot be religious, a Jain cannot be religious, a Muslim cannot be religious. To be religious, all these limits, all these conditionings have to be dropped. You have to rise beyond them--into the vast, into the sky! These are petty matters.

And what is India, after all? Until yesterday Karachi was India; now? Now it isn’t. Whoever lives in Karachi is no longer Indian. Until yesterday Dhaka was India; now? Now Dhaka isn’t Indian. Politics keeps changing; countries keep being made and unmade. These are lines drawn on water. Religion is eternal. Until yesterday there was no Pakistan; now there is. Until yesterday there was no Israel; now there is. Some countries were, that now are not. Some were not, that now are.

Religion is neither ever destroyed nor ever created. It has no birth, no death. Religion has neither form nor shape nor color; it cannot be defined. Yet, wonder of wonders, even so-called religious people cling to these delusions--not just the lay followers, but those you call sadhus, mahatmas. They too are bound in these stupidities. The same madness rides on their heads.

You too are a sadhu. Atmanand Brahmachari of Rishikesh--what were you doing in Rishikesh? Swatting flies all this while! What kind of brahmacharya is this? You haven’t yet had even a taste of Brahman, and you have become a brahmachari! You haven’t even taken the first step in the way of Brahman. Brahmacharya does not mean suppressing sex desire. Brahmacharya is a great word, an immense word--among the most beautiful words we have. But what do people take it to mean?

I had a friend--I used to stay at his home in Delhi--Lala Sundarlal. A great devotee of a certain mahatma. Then he fell in love with me. Falling in love with me is troublesome, because once you do, a dilemma arises: what to do with the old mahatma now! He couldn’t quite leave him, couldn’t quite hold on either. Things began to get messy. He was afraid to drop him--it was a thirty- or forty-year-old relationship. He was an old man, Sundarlal. He’s passed away now. For thirty or forty years he had considered that man his guru. I asked him: What was the real hitch? First tell me this, Lala--what did you see in him that made you waste thirty or forty years with the man?

He said: There’s one amazing thing about him--he’s staunch with his loincloth!

I said: What’s this business about a loincloth? Ties it extra tight?

He said: You didn’t understand. “Staunch with his loincloth” means he’s a confirmed celibate.

Look how far the meaning of brahmacharya has fallen--“tight loincloth”! Tie your loincloth tight and that’s brahmacharya!

In the Middle Ages Europe suffered a madness like what still exists here. Husbands were very anxious their wives might fall in love with someone else. So if the husbands went to war, the wives would immolate themselves in fire. It was a trick, a cunning device, so the husband could go assured: now no worry; the wife burned to death--how will she love anyone? In Europe it didn’t go that far, but they invented another device--they have a bit of scientific flair. For protecting women they made locks--they were called chastity belts. They’d strap a belt around the waist with a lock. Once locked, the woman could not have intercourse with anyone. The husband would take the key along.

A general was going off to war. His wife was very beautiful, so he was that much more afraid, more anxious. He didn’t trust anyone. So he bought the strongest lock and had his wife wear it. A “loincloth” made of iron--a brahmacharini! With a lock. But he worried, what if the key gets lost in the war? Better give it to a friend. He had a childhood friend--they’d shared thousands of experiences; he could be trusted. He gave the friend the key and said: I trust you. A month may pass, two or three, keep this key safe. I can’t trust anyone else, but I trust you as much as I trust myself. The friend said: Don’t worry, your wife is safe. The key is in my hand.

The general set off for the battlefield, at ease. He hadn’t even passed beyond the village when his friend came galloping and shouted: Stop! Stop! You gave me the wrong key!

He hadn’t even left the village, and the friend had already gone to open the lock! What reliance can there be on “staunch” loincloths? Even iron loincloths can’t be trusted. And anyway, you tied it yourself--who knows when you’ll open it! And is this what brahmacharya is?

I said: Lala, you remained a lalla--a little boy! You’ve grown old; when will you understand, when will you mature? You’re impressed that he’s “tight with his loincloth.” From this only one thing is evident: that your own loincloth is loose--nothing else is evident.

He said: Amazing--you caught it straightaway! In forty years I’ve told this to countless people, but no one ever told me I’m loose with my loincloth. How did you know?

What is there to know! People pay respect to their opposites. The debauched pay respect to the so-called “tight-loincloth” types. One who has known brahmacharya will consider these “loincloth stalwarts” insane, deranged.

Atmanand Brahmachari, how are you a brahmachari? Have you experienced Brahman--tasted it even a little? Then such a question would not arise--“Indian”! Where would such things stop? How Indian, how non-Indian? Who is Eastern, who is Western? One who has even a glimpse of Brahman--the whole existence becomes his own; all his boundaries fall.

But no--people leave the world, leave wealth, rank, reputation, leave everything, yet these subtle boundaries bind them still. The Jain muni is still a Jain; the Hindu sannyasi still a Hindu; the Muslim fakir still a Muslim; the Christian monk still a Christian! What a joke! At least a monk should not be a Christian, should not be a Hindu. But they are the most Hindu, the most Christian--the very root of the trouble. They have dirtied the whole history of humankind.

You too seem a rigid, antiquated sadhu. Why have you come here? Where have you lost your way?

I am not Indian; I cannot be, even if I wanted to. There is no way for me to be Indian. And I am not a guru either. Because from the day I have known myself, I have known that you are that very same. From your side it may appear that I am your guru, but from my side there is no such sense that I am your guru.

Buddha said, at the very moment of his enlightenment, the first thing he experienced was: Ah, wonder of wonders! Along with me the whole existence has attained Buddhahood! Not just humans--animals and birds too! Not just animals and birds--trees, stones, sun and stars! If I have attained Buddhahood, the whole existence has attained Buddhahood!

If so, whom would Buddha become a guru to, even if he wished? I am no one’s guru--from my side. From your side you can be a disciple, because you have come to learn. The one who is learning is a disciple. But the one who is teaching is not thereby necessarily a guru. Understand--it’s a subtle point. And often sadhus lack subtle intelligence; theirs is very coarse. Subtle points slip through; only the gross is grasped. So listen carefully to what I am saying. I am saying: from the disciple’s side, there is discipleship, because he has come to learn; he does not yet know who he is--this is what he has to learn, this is what he has to know. But if the one who is teaching considers himself a guru, then he is not yet fit to teach. He doesn’t yet know himself--what on earth will he teach?

Therefore those who imagine “I am a guru” are not gurus at all. Beware of them, keep your distance. The true teacher knows: How can there be an “I,” how can I be a guru? In the true teacher the “I” is gone--so who is there to be a guru?

Within me there is no one here--only a silence, an emptiness. This voice is of emptiness, these tones are of emptiness. This veena plays by itself; there is no player. I am not present here--not as an “I.” I vanished the day I awoke. I was part of the sleep. When sleep ended, I ended. You still are; so you can be a disciple. When I give you sannyas, I give you the acknowledgement that you are a disciple. But don’t think I am thereby declaring that I am a guru. I cannot be a guru. I cannot be anything at all. I am now a hollow reed; if the divine wishes to flow, let it flow; if not, not. That’s his will! I am a piece of bamboo; if he makes a flute of me, fine; if he leaves me as bamboo, fine. No difference whether I become a flute or remain a stick of bamboo.

So I am neither Indian, nor am I a guru.

And you say: “We have heard you don’t even know Sanskrit.”

What has Sanskrit to do with it? Do you think Mahavira knew Sanskrit? He did not. Yet was there anyone as wise? Anyone so realized? Mahavira spoke in Prakrit.

Buddha did not know Sanskrit. Yet has there ever been another blazing sun like him upon this earth? Such fire! Such light--matchless, incomparable! Buddha spoke in Pali.

Kabir did not know Sanskrit, nor Gorakh, nor Nanak, nor Raidas, nor Maluk, nor Ramakrishna, nor Ram Tirth. What has Sanskrit to do with it? I am no pundit. Yes, if you’re a pundit, you should know Sanskrit. Then you should have the Vedas, Upanishads, Gita by heart.

I have known myself. To know oneself, no language is needed. The self is known in silence, not through language. I have known the divine. To know the divine you don’t have to conduct a conversation, hold an interview! You don’t need to say anything to him--nor does he say anything. He is silent; you are silent. A silence so deep that twoness disappears, duality disappears, conflict disappears. Two silences merge and become one. Two “mouns” cannot remain two.

And do you think the divine knows Sanskrit? Every religion has its pet notion. Ask a Muslim--he will say: God speaks Arabic, because the Quran descended in Arabic; the revelation was in Arabic. But that is not God’s language; that is Muhammad’s language. Had it descended upon him in Sanskrit, you would have to concede that God’s language is Sanskrit. Muhammad knew Arabic, so the divine “descended” in Arabic. The divine descends in silence--but how can Muhammad convey what is known in silence? He will speak in the language he knows. Between him and the divine, no language is needed; but between him and you, language is needed. The humming that arose within him had to arise in the language he knew. Hence Arabic.

Jesus spoke in Aramaic. Now Aramaic itself has vanished--no one in the world speaks Aramaic anymore. What then? Did God speak to Jesus in Aramaic? There are three thousand major languages in this world. If you count dialects, there are about thirty thousand. And scientists say there are at least fifty thousand planets like this one where life exists. Multiply thirty thousand by fifty thousand. Which one would be God’s language? Jews believe God’s language is Hebrew.

After the Second World War a German general was talking with an English general. The German said: I am amazed how we lost. We shouldn’t have. There’s no logic to our defeat. Your victory was impossible. We had more advanced science, more sophisticated bombs, more technical experts. Our soldiers were better trained. There was no reason you should win. How did we lose?

The Englishman smiled: The reason is that every day before going into battle we prayed. God was with us. What use are your technical skills, your training? God was with us; we entered battle with prayer--that’s why we won.

The German said: That won’t do; we too prayed--every day.

The Englishman burst out laughing: That’s just it; you didn’t understand. In what language did you pray?

The German said: Naturally, in German.

The Englishman said: That’s where you erred. Does God understand German? He knows no language but English.

The Englishman’s notion is that English is God’s language. Those who revere Sanskrit think Sanskrit is Devavani, the language of the gods.

I don’t know Sanskrit. What would I do with it? I have no Upanishads to recite. I have to let the divine flow through me--the Upanishads will be born. What have I to do with the Srimad Bhagavad Gita? If I can sing his song, that is the Gita. That is the Quran. That is the Bible. My life-breaths are connected with him. My strings are tuned to him. My melody has become one with his. And you worry whether I know Sanskrit or not!

Sanskrit is now a dead language. Long dead. In truth there is a possibility Sanskrit was never a people’s language at all. It was always the language of pundits. A pundit’s trick. The pundit always wants to use a language the people cannot understand. Because if the people understand, then the rotten stuff the pundit spouts will be exposed. When people don’t understand the language, you can babble anything. In fact, the less they understand the more they “understand”--that something extraordinary, supernatural is being said! Something mysterious! Some great attainment is being demonstrated!

You can verify this: translate a Sanskrit text into Hindi and it turns into trash. You too will be shocked: “Are these the Vedas we thought were filled with all the world’s wisdom? They’re full of all the world’s ignorance.” But if it’s in Sanskrit, what can you do? You place two flowers, smear some sandalwood paste, bang your head a few times--what else can you do? And if you go ask a pundit, his whole art is to create confusion where there is none; to go in circles where the matter is straight, so you become dizzy, bewildered. He’ll offer so many interpretations that your understanding will be blinded.

You’ve seen doctors do the same. When a doctor writes a prescription, he does not write it in your language. Because if he writes in your language, “ajwain extract,” you’ll go to the shop and buy it for twenty rupees--or you’ll say, “Do you take me for a fool? For twenty rupees I’ll bring home a whole sack of ajwain and extract as much as I want. It will serve seven generations. What do you think?” But he writes it in Latin. You don’t understand it; he understands, and the pharmacist understands. Then whether he asks twenty or fifty rupees, the more he asks, the more valuable the medicine is--the more “effective” it becomes; remember that. Cheap medicines don’t work. If you get it free, it has no effect at all. The more your pocket is cut, the more the effect. Because the bigger the doctor, the costlier the drug. If it’s made in India, it doesn’t “work” as well; if it’s made in Germany or America--what to say! That’s why even in India people make medicines but write “Made in U.S.A.” “Made in U.S.A.” means “Made in Ulhasnagar Sindhi Association.” They’re all made in Ulhasnagar. Ulhasnagar is a formidable place. And Sindhis--what to say of them! Even God has lost to them. There’s nothing they can’t make. Doctors cannot write in the language you speak. Nor can pundits. Pundits and priests need dead languages--long dead, or never spoken by the people at all.

It’s likely Sanskrit was never a people’s language: the very word means “refined.” Mahavira spoke in Prakrit--“natural,” the speech people use. And “Sanskrit” means “refined”--not what people speak, but what pundits have purified, strained, sharpened, grammar-fitted, pushed so far away it’s beyond ordinary reach. Otherwise Mahavira wasn’t a fool. If people understood Sanskrit, he would have spoken Sanskrit. He spoke Prakrit--the tongue people understood. Prakrit’s grammar isn’t as pure as Sanskrit’s. Sanskrit is all grammar, all purity.

When a pundit manufactures a language, manufactured languages are perfectly pure, because they haven’t been worn by use. Languages that people speak get worn smooth. Naturally. And worn languages carry a certain beauty--they are people’s.

Buddha used Pali--the language of common folk. Anyone could understand it, because Buddha did not want to entangle, he wanted to untangle. In Buddha’s day too, people like this Atmanand Brahmachari came and asked: Why don’t you speak in Sanskrit? Buddha said: Am I mad? Who would I be speaking to in Sanskrit? A handful of pundits might understand. I want to speak to those spread out on all sides--the common person, the ordinary person--to connect with him.

Pali’s grammar isn’t that pure; it cannot be. No people’s language can be pure. The people’s tongue moves, and in moving it gets worn smooth. Then a beauty arises in it.

Here, you saw, Dr. Raghuvira tried to fabricate a language; because it was manufactured, it didn’t catch on--the people would not accept it. No one could swallow it. He worked very hard. I met Dr. Raghuvira. I told him: You’re wasting your labor. Your life is being squandered. He worked continuously for fifteen years; not alone--he engaged a hundred or more researchers. A huge labor. But the language he made will never take root. Manufactured languages in the world have never taken root. They cannot. They are cumbersome, difficult. Pure, yes--but so pure they’re of no use to people. “Railgadi” everyone understands, but Dr. Raghuvira had a problem with “railgadi”! What’s the problem? The word is from English--that was his problem. If everyone understands, what does it matter whether it’s English or anything else? A living language digests words from everywhere--that’s what it means to be alive.

English, therefore, is the most alive language on earth today--every year it digests eight thousand new words. No other language has such digestive power. It digests everything. You’ll be surprised: English even digested the Sanskrit word “pandit.” “Pandit” is used in English; the meaning is the same as in Hindi--a pompous pundit, hollow, stuffed with cow-dung. Digestive power is the mark of a living being.

They can’t even digest “railgadi,” though it has caught on! Millions use it. The whole country understands “railgadi.” Neither Tamil nor Marathi nor Gujarati nor Punjabi nor Hindi has any difficulty with it. But he coined a word, and it didn’t fly. He tried very hard to make it fly--“lohpathgamini” (iron-path-goer)! It just doesn’t sit right; it sounds stupid. You’re going to the station, someone asks, “Where are you going?” You say, “I’m going to catch the lohpathgamini!” He’ll think your wife has run away or what? Is that your wife’s name--Lohpathgamini? What kind of creature is that? You’ll first have to explain its meaning. And to explain, you’ll have to say: “Lohpathgamini means railgadi.” Otherwise you can’t make yourself understood. Yes, it’s “pure,” because “rail” means “iron path,” and “gadi” means “that which moves”--so lohpath-gamini!

I told him: Villagers show more intelligence. Words get worn smooth in their mouths. Go ask someone in a village. Someone is going somewhere; “Where are you going?” He says: “To file a rappat.” “Rappat” from “report.” It makes sense. The word’s been worn smooth; it’s rounded off. It’s more endearing than “report.” No one fabricated it; it arose on its own in use--rappat! Instead of “station,” “tesan.” Every villager understands--“Going to the tesan!” “Station” has a small snag; they made it “tesan”--it became clear by itself; no one had to do anything--it happened in the doing.

Languages are made by popular usage. Many times people have tried otherwise. In the West they made Esperanto, hoping it would become a world language. But it didn’t catch on. Much effort was made--in vain. How could it? It was beautiful, its grammar pure, designed to be a world language. But contrivances are futile. You can’t force such things. Languages cannot be imposed. They evolve over centuries. Slowly, slowly, slowly--millions use them--then life enters them.

I am speaking what people can understand. And my experience is my own--not scriptural.

And Atmanand--a name so sweet… Who gave it to you? Which unknowing soul bestowed it? But you have no experience of “Atmanand.” Otherwise you wouldn’t ask this question. You seem a hollow pundit, carrying dead languages on your back. Seek the living.

Mulla Nasruddin’s wife, Guljaan, asked him: “Nasruddin, how much do you love me! Old age has come; all my teeth are gone, all my hair has turned white, bones and ribs stick out; I’m a skeleton. But your love is immortal--you love me just as you did before. Do I still look young to you? Am I still beautiful to you?”

Nasruddin said: “Guljaan, my life! Listen--your evergreen youth reminds me of a couplet:

The hookah of your beauty has long gone out;
it’s only I who keep on puffing it.”

This Sanskrit hookah has long been extinguished! It’s doubtful it ever burned. But some fools keep puffing away. I don’t puff such hookahs. There’s no juice in them for me.

I am not a pundit; I am not a scholar. I am fortunate not to be a pundit or a scholar--otherwise I would have met the same fate that is befalling you, Atmanand. I have dived within, not into scriptures. Having dived within and found, I have become a witness to the scriptures. But what I found, I found within.

Today when I speak on Buddha, it is not to support Buddha; rather, I find that Buddha stands in support of me. If I speak on Mahavira, it is not to interpret Mahavira--what have I to do with Mahavira?--but because what I have found is exactly what Mahavira said. My own experience is primary; all else is secondary. I am a witness. I myself am the sakshi.

Anand Mohammed! Dharma cannot be known by hearing; it can only be known by seeing. Dharma is a direct encounter. You were fortunate to be present here. And that man too was very lovable, for he created that situation. Otherwise you might not have seen what you saw. So thank him. His throwing the knife, his attempt at murder... even those who were asleep here woke up in that moment. For a moment your mind must have stopped—indeed, it does stop. In such moments the mind does not move; thoughts come to a halt.
And if thoughts stop, then you can see me. If thoughts stop, you can recognize me. If thoughts stop, then instantly there is a meeting between you and me, a communion, a union.
That man provided this opportunity, Anand Mohammed, so that you could see. He startled you, woke you up; you were left speechless. A veil was lifted from your eyes. Much happened in that small instant. In that brief moment you had a glimpse of the eternal.
And dharma is an experience. Sitting in satsang, one cannot say when the opportunity will arise. One cannot say at what moment real satsang will happen. Therefore disciples keep sitting in satsang, keep coming, sitting, coming, sitting... Who knows in which unprecedented moment, in what situation, in what challenge, you suddenly stop, come to a halt.
His shouting, his throwing the knife, naturally deepened the silence. There is silence here anyway, but in that moment the silence attained an extraordinary depth. You could look at me unblinking. Not even your eyelids would have lowered then. When my life is in danger, in that moment you cannot postpone to tomorrow. You cannot say, “We will see tomorrow; we see every day, we listen every day—we’ll listen tomorrow. What’s the hurry today? Let us take a little nap today!”
No, he gave a new opportunity. You were shaken—shaken from within. He shook off your dust. That is why I say it is difficult to say in what form the divine works. Therefore, in every way, always give thanks to it. Whatever it does, however it does it, there will certainly be benefit, welfare, benediction in it.
Satya Vedant has put his experience of that day into these words... Anand Mohammed, those words will be of use to you. Satya Vedant has written—

Religion is neither a matter of understanding nor of explaining—it is a matter of seeing, and of helping others to see. Religion is not in the scriptures, not in words; yet in certain moments the doors open—onto that infinite mystery. For a moment all your knowledge drops; you become as small children again—innocent, wonderstruck, speechless. Just then wings grow on you; just then the whole sky becomes yours.
That moment was auspicious. All moments are auspicious. You were blessed to be present in that moment.
In this world there is light and there is darkness. Remember: even if darkness is ages old, the newest lamp still shatters it. However ancient the darkness, however many layers have settled upon it, even a small lamp of light, a small clay lamp, is capable of breaking it. Light is filled with an extraordinary power. Extinguished again and again, it still does not go out. It has been put out thousands of times, yet it cannot be extinguished. Truth, losing a thousand times, still does not lose; and untruth, winning again and again, still loses.
Do not worry over little victories, and do not sink into gloom over little defeats. The final victory always belongs to truth and to light, because the final victory always belongs to the divine. The new moon may try a thousand times; the final victory is the full moon’s.
But the attempts will go on. They will go on because what I am saying, what I am doing, naturally strikes at vested interests. They will smart and burn. How else will their agitation show itself? What else do they have? They have no answer. To the challenge I am giving, they have no strength to stand. Is throwing a knife any reply to what I say? It only proves my point. A knife is merely a sign of weakness. It only shows that you have no argument left, no thought left, no way left. It is a sign of unmanliness, not of courage.
And such occasions will come again—and again. After this incident many letters have arrived from Poona—certainly posted from Poona, though those who wrote them are utterly impotent, unmanly. Some did not sign their names; some signed with false names. They gave addresses—one in Haryana, one in Himachal Pradesh, one in Kashmir—yet all bear the same Poona postmark. They were all written and posted in Poona. And all the letters have the same refrain: “We will not let you live. Your end will be the same as Jesus, the same as Mansoor. We warn you. Either stop your work—stop saying what you are saying—or we will silence your tongue.”
As if anyone has ever silenced the tongue of the divine! If my tongue is silenced, the divine will speak through the tongues of my hundreds of thousands of sannyasins. It will be a gain, not a loss. If one tongue is silenced, a thousand will speak. So long as I am here, no one else needs to speak. If I am not here, then hundreds of thousands will have to speak. The word will spread like fire. My absence will bring no harm. In not being, I will become even more pervasive.
And who would not wish to die a death like Jesus, like Mansoor? I too have no special attraction to dying on a cot. Anyway, ninety-nine percent of people die on cots. What juice is there in dying on a cot; what meaning? Better that my name be counted with Jesus, Socrates, and Mansoor. I will only thank the one who does it; I will be grateful.
But this is the language of the unmanly. If what I am saying is wrong, then answer it. You too have a voice. And you have so many pandits, Shankaracharyas, sadhus, sannyasins, mahatmas, munis—use them all. Why should so many—Hindus, Muslims, Christians, Jains, Buddhists—feel troubled and tormented by a single man? Answer.
But they have no answers. They stand speechless. Each word shakes their roots. Panic spreads among them. And then only one option remains for the weak: to descend into their own lowness, into their animality—to declare themselves animals.
Yet their animality has never harmed anything. Just as his knife-throwing, Anand Mohammed, gave you a glimpse of religion—if such people, together, crucify me or kill me as they killed Mansoor, I will leave on your life-breaths such an indelible imprint that that very imprint will become your nirvana, your moksha, your liberation. And then I will speak through all of you. Right now I am confined in this one body; then I will be spread through your bodies. Then thousands of throats will be mine. In this I see no harm—only gain. This is a matter in which harm simply does not occur; there is only gain.
A Zen master named Bokuju had been working with a disciple for twenty years, yet realization did not happen. And the disciple was not at fault. He was not lazy. He sat in meditation day in and day out. He remained engaged in continuous effort. He was not sluggish. He did not protect himself. He was no cheat. He was deeply intent. But there was some snag, some obstruction; at the very point of happening, he would miss. One day he had gone to the market on an errand and returned dancing. It happened thus: he strayed into a bazaar he need not have crossed. He did not know he had taken the wrong street. It was a lane of the meat-sellers. For a Buddhist monk it was not proper to pass that way. Passing by mistake, he hurried to get out—there was stench everywhere: fish, meat—who knows what all! Just then he overheard a shopkeeper and a customer. He stopped in his tracks. The customer was asking, “Is this meat the best in your shop? I want only the best, for today I have invited the emperor to a feast.”
The shopkeeper said, “Never say such a thing again. In my shop only the best is sold. If it is here, it is the best. If it is not the best, it is not in my shop. Whatever is here is the best.”
Now what has such talk to do with nirvana? Yet something happened. The man who had labored for twenty years, and no curtain had lifted, suddenly the curtain lifted. He came dancing. Seeing him from afar, the master said, “Come, come, let me embrace you. I have waited twenty years for this day. How did it happen?”
He said, “How can I say how it happened! It happened in the strangest way. I was passing—by mistake—through the meat-sellers’ lane. Had I known, I would never have gone that way. And today I would have missed an extraordinary moment. I heard a conversation: to the customer the shopkeeper said—‘Whatever is in this shop is the best.’ Immediately I remembered you, and everything you have given me in these twenty years is the best—this remembered itself. Each thing came back. The twenty years passed before my eyes, and a curtain lifted. I have come to touch your feet.”
Bokuju said, “Fool! This is what I have been telling you for twenty years—that our business is such that whatever is here is the best. But you would not listen. Still, all is well; everything ripens in its own time. No worry. Good it happened. Even by mistake you passed that way. Who can say when and where the happening will take place?”
Anand Mohammed, his throwing the dagger—and your having a precise vision of me, your experiencing a oneness with my life-breaths—when would you have thought that if someone threw a dagger, this would happen? Never would you have thought it. Never even imagined it. And had you thought it, some guilt would have arisen: “What am I thinking—that someone throw a knife!” But when, in which moment, the event will occur is hard to say.
Yet whatever happens in this world is auspicious. In the divine’s shop, everything is the best. What perhaps cannot be accomplished by my life may be accomplished by my death. Do not be frightened, do not worry. Do not lose your trust in life. Keep your trust in life, and you will find that if you trust life, life will surely fill you with nectar through a thousand thousand doors. Your lap will be filled with countless diamonds. Your life will be illumined—it must be.
In my view, given the kind of talented people who have gathered around me, I can declare that thousands will attain the supreme knowing. This is not an easy declaration. But I can make it, because third-rate people are not gathering here. The third-rate will do another kind of work—they will be used thus: someone will throw a knife; someone will issue a death threat; someone will try to poison. They will do that work. We will make use of them too. If there are useless stones, we will lay them in the foundation—somewhere they will be of use. But around me the most beautiful people on this earth have gathered.
This very morning Vivek told me that yesterday an Italian photographer came to take pictures—for a big Italian magazine. He said, “The kind of faces I look to photograph—one finds one in thousands, if that. But this ashram is the first experience of my life where whichever face I see, I feel: Ah! This face too should be taken! I have never seen so many joyous faces in my life. I am interested only in photographing joyous faces. I do not want sad faces, long and gloomy faces.
“For years I take only a few photographs. Among thousands I may photograph one or two people, because I rarely find human beings! But here I am going crazy—whom should I catch, whom should I let go; whom should I take, whom should I not take! I brought only a limited number of rolls with me, as per my old habit—and here every face is worth photographing. On every face there is a joy. On every face there is a brilliance, a radiance, a flavor.”
Each sannyasin is slowly, slowly moving toward the divine. And as one moves, joy will increase within, juice will increase, sensitivity will increase. When whose spring will arrive—hard to say. But everyone’s spring will come. Be prepared. From your side, only readiness is needed.

Yogeshwar! Love is blind. Who keeps accounts of age! Age and such calculations are for marriage. But you seem to be doing a little accounting. Are you truly in love, or has the fancy just arisen from watching films?

Because of male ego, man has carried this delusion for centuries that the man should be older and the woman younger. If the man is twenty-five, the woman should be twenty. Why? It’s unscientific. Women live five years longer than men. If you live to seventy-five, Yogeshwar, a woman your age will likely live to eighty. If you marry a woman of your own age, you will leave her a widow for five years. And one needs the other more in old age than in youth. In youth, companions abound; in old age, if one’s own husband is of use, fine—others won’t even look your way. Even one’s own turn into outsiders in old age.

And this is a very unscientific custom—prevalent all over the world—that one should marry a woman five years younger. That builds in a ten-year gap. When you die, you’ll leave a woman widowed for ten years. That’s why the world has so many widows and far fewer widowers. The root cause is this unscientific notion. The truth is, each man should marry a woman five years older, so both will die more or less together; no need for anyone to be “sati” and such—nature will arrange a near-simultaneous farewell.

But the male ego is peculiar: he must be “bigger” in everything. If the woman is tall, a short man avoids her: “No, I won’t marry. Who will marry that tall woman! She’s like a bamboo, like an electric pole!” And women are delighted if they get a groom like an electric pole—they say, “Look at our groom—an electric pole! So wonderfully tall!” Men have trained women to believe the man must be bigger and the woman smaller—in height, in age, in education. If the man is a B.A., he doesn’t want to marry an M.A. girl. Pure male ego. Why? What fault is it to be an M.A.? Because she’ll embarrass you everywhere: someone asks, “Education?” and your head drops—“I’m just a B.A. pass—well, practically a B.A. fail—and my wife is an M.A. pass.” Who wants to be humiliated again and again! So the man wants the woman smaller in every way.

Yogeshwar, what is there to worry about her being eleven years older?

When Mohammed married, he was only twenty-six and his wife was forty. Go on, at least do one thing that a Prophet did! Though the gap there was fourteen years, and here just eleven—who knows… as for a woman’s age, there’s never any certainty!

One day Nasruddin asked Fazlu, “Tell me, someone born in 1950—how old would they be now?”
Fazlu said, “Papa, first tell me—female or male?”
The year is not the real question; the real question is, is it a man or a woman. Men usually go by the calendar; they trust it. Women don’t believe in calendars at all. Every two or three years they age by only one year. Sometimes they stop altogether—until they get a real jolt, they don’t age at all. They’re in no hurry to grow older. They do everything to keep up the miracle that their age is less. If this woman you love—if she herself told you she’s eleven years older—do a little investigating. She might be fourteen years older. Then at least you’d have one prophetic credential!

Also remember, Mohammed had nine marriages. That would be your step two, Yogeshwar. And Mohammed rode a horse—that’s step three. Buy a horse. And you know the story says: Mohammed went straight to heaven sitting on a horse. No one can tell the secret of this, except me. The secret is clear. There were nine wives, so the nine directions were blocked. There was no way to run—so he took the tenth direction! There are ten directions. And those nine didn’t even give him time to dismount, so he took the horse along too—body-and-horse together. He didn’t stop anywhere in between—stopped only upon reaching paradise. No one has ever told this secret. I’m telling you—the reason he went straight to heaven still seated on the horse.

So if you’re moving in that direction—of becoming a prophet—then be brave. What are you trembling for? Troubles will come, but do men ever get scared of troubles?

At the bride’s send-off,
she kept trying,
again and again,
to cry on cue.
At her first fake sob
the bride’s mother said, “Silly girl,
if you start crying here, your makeup will run,
and all the secret of your beauty will be exposed.”
“Then what should I do, Ma?” the girl asked.
The mother offered this solution:
“Ah, your wits are still thick, my darling.
Let your groom weep—why should you?”

Keep your courage. Start doing push-ups and squats. Troubles will come; it’s wise to prepare in advance.

A heaven-dweller
peeped out of a window of heaven
and saw, at a rakish angle,
on the third floor of hell,
what a sight!
More beautiful than Menaka and Urvashi,
a naked young woman stood there,
flicking her long hair,
swaying them,
shaking the tambourine of her beauty.
At first sight the heaven-dweller’s heart skipped a beat.
He ran straight to Yama, Lord of Death, and said:
“Here, take your staff and satchel—
I am bored of heaven.
Please send me to hell, Sir!”
Yama explained at length,
displayed heaven’s unearthly delights,
but that fool could not be taught.
Yama said, “As you wish.”
In the blink of an eye he reached hell.
What he had seen before and what he now saw
were worlds apart:
boiling cauldrons of hot oil,
and nowhere the young beauty.
He began to wail, “Ah! A total fraud!”
Just then a minion of Yama,
pushing him toward a cauldron, said:
“Hey mister,
where is your attention?
On our third floor is the advertising center.
What’s wrong if we advertise?
That’s how heaven-dwellers like you
come here and die a dog’s death.”

So tread with a little caution. But love is mad. Don’t be afraid. One thing you didn’t mention: is the woman married or unmarried? Think about that too. Don’t get yourself into a mess.

Chandulal’s wife complained, “Now you don’t love me at all. Look at your friend Dhabboo-ji next door. He’s a man too, like you. It’s been twenty-five years since his wedding, yet such love—every day he puts his arm around his wife’s waist and they stroll on the seashore!”
Chandulal twirled his moustache and said, “I’m a man’s son too! What do you think of me? Let me tell you plainly: I love you many times more than Dhabboo-ji loves his wife. And let me also say, I too want to put my arm around a waist and stroll the seashore every day—but only your and Dhabboo-ji’s fear stops me. Otherwise you two together would take my life.”

So first check that she isn’t a married woman. Whether she’s eleven years older or fourteen—it’ll do. But make sure she isn’t someone’s wife, else you’ll land in trouble. You didn’t reveal that.

And remember: trouble never comes alone. The sages have said so—trouble never comes alone.

Mulla Nasruddin said to a friend, “The day my wife returned from her mother’s place, that very night there was a burglary at my home.”
Another friend said, “Buddy, a proverb of a sage comes to mind.”
Nasruddin asked, “Which one?”
The friend said, “That trouble never comes alone.”

Now this “wife” you’re thinking of—will she come alone, or bring more trouble along? Will she bring her mother? And how many kids does she have? When you write a question, write the whole thing, so I also know—otherwise I’ll give some answer and you’ll get stuck, and then you’ll hold me responsible: “You said so.” In brief, write it all. No need to be so shy. Once you’ve spoken, why hide?

Mulla Nasruddin was very shy. Once he gifted his beloved a beautiful bouquet. Overjoyed, she embraced him and kissed him. Nasruddin immediately wriggled free and bolted. The beloved panicked: “What happened, Nasruddin? Were you offended by my kiss? Where are you running?”
Nasruddin said, “Offended by the kiss? No, no—I’m going to get more flowers.”

You seem a shy fellow, Yogeshwar. You could have given the full details. Describe her a bit—how does she look? You didn’t even write your age. I understand she is eleven years older; but are you sixty or seventy? Why put me in a bind?

Nasruddin was eighty when he fell in love. Everyone explained, “Nasruddin, this is not right.” Sons explained, grandsons explained, great-grandsons explained—he wouldn’t listen. They brought him to me. I said, “Old man, at this age marrying an eighteen-year-old girl could be an expensive bargain. It could be dangerous for your health.”
Nasruddin said, “Don’t worry at all—if she dies, I’ll marry again.”

No one thinks of himself! You could at least tell me your age.

He didn’t listen and got married. Everyone feared something would happen. I too was concerned. After the wedding night was over, I met Nasruddin and asked, “Well, how did it go?”
He said, “All went fine, just one hassle: the bed we got in dowry is very high. My boy had to lift me up onto it. And I’m eighty—walking is hard.”
“Never mind,” I said, “at least you got onto the bed!”
“Got onto the bed.”
“Then what happened?”
“What happened! In the morning, all four of my boys had to lift me down.”
I said, “That’s surprising—one lifted you up, four took you down!”
He said, “I didn’t want to get down. The rascals started tugging at me. I screamed and yelled—still they didn’t listen and took me down. Now I fear: will they lift me up again or not? That’s what I’ve come to ask—what should I do?”
So I said, “Get a little staircase made, or keep a chair or a stool. Or forget the bed. Or bring a carpenter and have him cut the legs of the bed.”
Nasruddin said, “That’s sensible—cutting the legs is best. Then when I want to get on, I get on; when I want to get off, I get off.”

Now he’s dying—needs someone else even to lift him up. But foolishness won’t leave, the swoon won’t pass.

How old are you? When will you drop your swoon? At a certain age these things fit. And it’s true: love is mad.

I once went to Udaipur to lead a camp. Sohan and Manik were with me. The organizer then—Hiralal Kothari, now Swami Jinraj Das—asked, “Who are these two?”
I said, “This is Sohan, my sister. And this is Manik Bafna—Sohan’s husband.”
He was astonished. Bafna means Marwari. And I’m no Marwari. I said Sohan is my sister, and she’s married to a Bafna. He said nothing in public, but met me alone at night and said, “All day one thing has troubled me. You said Sohan is your sister, and you say she married Manik Bafna—a Marwari.”
I said, “Love is blind, after all. Does it check Marwari or not?”
He said, “Yes, that’s true—love is blind.”
I said, “Then why fret for so long over nothing! Love neither checks Marwari nor Hindustani. It’s enough if it can tell the living from the dead. Love is blind.”
And then I added, “Manik Bafna is only ‘Bafna’ by name—he’s not really Marwari at all.”

You are getting swept up in love’s blindness. Just consider your age. If you’re on this side of thirty, I say fine—one should do a little madness. Even up to thirty-five—give a little margin, okay. Not ideal, but okay. But if you have crossed forty-two, then think a bit. A wise person should be free of lust by forty-two. Just as at fourteen one becomes sexually mature—give or take: thirteen, twelve, fifteen—so too, around forty-two to forty-five one should be free of sexual craving. Before that, commit whatever errors you must; then don’t keep accounts of age and such. If you’re going to make mistakes anyway, what difference does the age make? If you are going to fall into a pit, what does it matter whether the pit had red or yellow soil, whether it lay to the east or west? A pit is a pit—you’ll break your arms and legs—then break them! You’ll end up in the hospital anyway—fall into any pit you like.

Those who have fallen into pits and come here—I find them easier to treat. Those who haven’t—like these “Atmanand Brahmachari” types who have landed here—tight-lungot fellows—now their loincloths are tied so tight their lives must be in distress. They’ll attain Brahman only if they loosen the loincloth a bit—get some relief. In this heat, with the loincloth cinched tight! Who knows what their condition is!

One day I saw Mulla Nasruddin walking along—dragging his feet and hurling a torrent of gorgeously flavored abuses. What varieties—only worth hearing from Mulla’s own mouth. There is an art to everything. His wife, plagued by those abuses, tried for years to reform him. One morning she too began to abuse, “Let’s see.” Mulla started, listened a bit, and said, “All right, your abuses are okay, but you lack the flavor! Learn the style, the tone, bring the relish. If everyone starts singing, does it become music? Crows try to become cuckoos, but a cuckoo’s savor is something else!”

I said, “Nasruddin, what happened? What’s gone wrong this morning?”
He said, “Nothing—shoes. These shoes bite me badly.”
I looked: at least two sizes too small. I said, “They’ll bite—why not change them?”
He said, “I can never change them. I’ve made a firm resolve—I won’t change them.”
“Your wish! Then why the abuse?”
“I’ll abuse too—because I have to bear the pain. Who else will curse? The one whose feet are bitten knows.”
I said, “This is rich. You refuse to change the shoes and you also abuse! What’s the matter? Why such attachment to these shoes?”
He said, “There’s a secret. At the end of the day, exhausted by all the world’s hassles, when I return home, listen to my wife, suffer it all, and then fling off these shoes and fall on the bed—ah, what relief! As if heaven has descended! It’s the only joy of my life—when I take these shoes off. Now you say change them too—then even that joy is gone.”

Now these Atmanand Brahmacharis—their tight loincloth is like a shoe two sizes too small. Their life is being squeezed out. Naturally they’ll chant “Ram, Ram”—“O Lord, save me! Rescue me!” In the golden age you arrived to save devotees; why not in this dark age, when a devotee is in loincloth-distress!

But this trouble you’ve created yourself.

If you’re over forty-five, Yogeshwar, then whether she’s eleven years older or eleven years younger, it’s time to do something else with life. And if you still have the license to be foolish—still time to fall into some pits, to wander here and there—then don’t worry; don’t do so much accounting. Why come to ask me? You didn’t ask before falling in love; now you say, “I’ve fallen in love and she’s eleven years older—what should I do?” It’s like putting the noose around your neck and saying, “I’ve tied the noose and I’m hanging—now what should I do?”

Now die, brother! What can anyone do now? We’ll see next birth. I won’t be here; go chase some other wise one—harass him. Ask him these spiritual questions.

Gurudatt! If you can go to the root of a problem, the solution happens by itself. That much capacity for observation brings the solution. People don’t want to go to the roots of a problem. They whitewash the surface. They apply ointments and bandages on top. They treat symptoms. They don’t bother to go to the root. If you reach the root, the very journey there makes the problem evaporate.

But keep in mind, many times it happens that a problem has no root at all. And if you start searching for roots, you will get into trouble. So first understand whether the problem even has a root. Many problems are like dodder—rootless parasitic vines that spread over other plants.

For example, a man kept going to doctors; all the doctors got tired and perplexed. No one could figure out what his illness was. He was deeply restless—couldn’t sit still even for a moment. He kept saying, “I feel suffocated.” They did an ECG, checked his blood pressure, blood tests, urine tests, stool tests... a thousand tests—no result. The doctors were exhausted with him. He had plenty of money, that wasn’t the issue. Finally the most prominent doctor said, “Listen, the kind of disease you have has not yet been identified. Its treatment is impossible. I can only tell you that you won’t live more than six months. Whatever you want to do, do it—six months are in your hands.”

He said, “Only six months?” He ran home. At once he bought the grandest cars. He bought an airplane—he’d always wished to fly around the world; now with only six months left, better finish the business. Money wasn’t lacking. He went to a tailor and ordered a hundred suits of the finest cloth. When all the measurements were taken, the collar...
The tailor asked, “What collar size do you prefer?”
He said, “Exactly what it is now.”
The tailor said, “If you keep that collar, you will always feel as if you’re choking, you’ll feel restless, always uncomfortable—you won’t be able to sit properly. That tight cinch! I’m telling you, this collar isn’t right for you. You need at least two inches more. Your neck is thick and this collar sits like a noose.”

The man said, “What are you saying!”
The tailor said, “Exactly that.”

Because those were all his symptoms. And when the tailor made the new clothes and the man put on the new shirt, the ‘disease’ disappeared. He said, “Unbelievable! For years I went round and round to doctors. I should have gone to the tailor.” In that problem there was no root at all—and he was hunting for roots. If there is no root, there will be no solution that way—you’ll only get stuck.

So first, see whether the problem has any root. In my view, ninety out of a hundred problems have no root. They are superficial. Two-penny problems. Don’t waste time on them. But some problems do have roots.

First make it clear for yourself which problem has a root and which doesn’t. Otherwise you’ll invent some random ‘root,’ and nothing will be solved.

I’ve heard: At the village well, the Chaudharain, drawing water, taunted the Thakur standing on the roof of his manor, who was staring at her and twirling his moustaches, “Thakur, enough now, or these moustaches will end up in my hands!”
The Thakur kept on twirling and twirling. The Chaudharain was right: at this rate, the moustaches would come off! “Stop it now,” she said, “enough twirling.” But the Thakur was the Thakur. With a flourish he flicked open his dhoti—upping the ante—and said, “Don’t worry, Chaudharain, the moustaches won’t end up in your hands, their roots run right down below. See for yourself.”

Don’t go searching for that kind of ‘root’! Otherwise—what have moustaches to do with those roots!

Certainly, Gurudatt, if a problem has a root, you should go to it. But there must be a root. People usually don’t go to roots; they go hunting for solutions. They don’t ask, “How do I understand my problem?” They ask, “Give me the solution.” They want a solution quickly, cheaply—someone else should hand it over. They won’t even do this much labor? If only you would at least sit attentively and peel your problem layer by layer, and see where its root lies! If there is a root, you will surely find it. And the moment you find the root, the problem vanishes—like dewdrops evaporating when the sun rises. And if there is no root, even then the problem is resolved, because you see that there is no root, it’s purely superficial, hollow. There is no depth in it. There is nothing to be bothered about.

But people often get entangled in useless things. Someone asks me, “If I don’t wake up at brahma-muhurta, will I attain Brahma-knowledge or not?”
What nonsense! Brahma-knowledge can happen anytime—wake up whenever you wake up. What has waking up to do with Brahma-knowledge? All twenty-four hours belong to Brahman. Is there some special “brahma-muhurta”? That poor fellow is troubled because he cannot wake up at four a.m.; and if he does, he feels drowsy all day—now this has become his problem. And now he worries how to solve it. If he asks fools you take to be ‘great saints,’ they’ll say, “You are tamasic by nature. Purify your diet! Your food must be tamasic. Drink pure milk. Become a milk-drinker. Drink the milk of a white cow—then tamas will be dispelled. And when sattva arises, you will naturally wake at brahma-muhurta.”
Now he’ll land in trouble—he’s found mischief-makers. Whereas the truth is: whenever your sleep naturally breaks, that is the right time for you. Don’t create such pointless problems. They have no value.

Someone else frets, “What should I eat, what not? Should I eat potatoes or not? Will eating potatoes cause trouble? Will it obstruct Self-knowledge?”
Such a two-penny Self-knowledge that collapses over a potato—what will you do with it? Even if you get it, its worth will be no more than a potato’s. Take your pick: potatoes or Self-knowledge! In that case, potatoes are better. What is the value of such Self-knowledge?

But people worry. I have wandered through this country’s villages for twenty years. People ask such questions that one is left astonished. And they imagine these are their ‘problems.’ They aren’t problems at all; they’re simply foolishness, empty chatter—worthless. The real problems lie elsewhere, deeper.

People don’t ask, “What should I do about lust?” No, they ask, “How do I practice celibacy?” Understand the difference. If you try to understand what lust is, you will be going to the root—because apart from meditation, there is no other way to enter the root of lust. But you ask for solutions: “How do I practice celibacy?” Then someone says, “Tighten your loincloth!” Someone says, “Drink pure milk.” Someone says, “Do push-ups and squats.” Someone says, “Stand on your head—then the semen will rise upward toward the head.”

Utter bumpkin talk! There is no device within you by which semen can go to your head. And if it did, your skull would rot. Beware! If it starts to go up, immediately jump and stand on your feet—otherwise your skull will be ruined completely. You should know that sperm cells die within two hours of leaving the seminal sac. If they climb into your skull, it will become a cremation ground—only corpses piled up. Then such a stench will rise from your skull... and where will intelligence remain? There won’t be any room left for intelligence.

Yet you’ll find plenty of people telling you, “Do asanas, do pranayama!” And such things appeal to you because they’ve been repeated for centuries. There’s a curious fact: repeat any lie for centuries and it begins to feel like truth. But a lie is a lie, however much you repeat it.

I certainly want, Gurudatt, that you learn the art of arriving at the solution of problems. I call that art meditation. Now that you are here, learn Vipassana. Vipassana is an art—the art of seeing, of witnessing. The very word Vipassana means seeing, vision. Sit within yourself and look at your problem. Keep looking, keep looking. At first the surface trash will appear; then deeper, and deeper. In the end you will find the roots.

And a miracle occurs: the very moment the roots are in your hands, the problem vanishes. Therefore I am not in favor of repression in your life; I am in favor of transformation. The alchemy of transformation is meditation. And when meditation transforms you, the state that arises is samadhi—and samadhi is the solution.

That’s all for today.