Sumiran Mera Hari Kare #6

Ramdayal Bharti! First, it is essential to understand this: do not call that person a fool. He was unconscious, not a fool. And who is not unconscious! Until you have attained samadhi, you are unconscious. And whatever you do in unconsciousness—even if you think it is auspicious—you will not be able to do the auspicious. In unconsciousness the auspicious is impossible, just as in awareness the inauspicious is impossible. In unconsciousness the thorns of the inauspicious prick; in awareness the flowers of the auspicious bloom.

We call those “fools” who have little information. But the irony is that those with a great deal of information are the real great fools. Those whom you call pandits—their pedantry is more dangerous than the ignorance of the unlettered. The unlettered at least are simple and straightforward; their book is blank—nothing written in it. But the so‑called learned, whose minds are stuffed with borrowed words, who have collected the junk of centuries and turned their memory into a garbage dump—their delusion is even deeper. Their greatest delusion is that they think they know.

Socrates said, “I know only one thing: that I know nothing.” That is the first step toward supreme knowing. The pandit “knows” that he knows everything. The man who threw the dagger would not consider himself a fool; he would consider himself a pandit. He was “defending” the Hindu religion. How could fools defend religion! Poor fools don’t even know what religion is. He is under the delusion that he knows religion. Not only that—he is also deluded that if he does not defend religion, who will? And he believes that whatever is done for the defense of religion is good; that even unwholesome means become wholesome for a wholesome end—this must be his view. Perhaps he recites the Gita. Perhaps he reads the Ramayana. Perhaps he has memorized the sayings of Tukaram, Jnaneshwar, and Eknath—their abhangas stored in his memory. He does not think himself a fool; he thinks himself a pandit. Such an act is the very proclamation of pedantry. And pandits have proved more dangerous than the unlettered ever have.

So first, Ramdayal, do not call him a fool. He was no fool—he was full of information. And what I was saying must have been going against his information. He could not tolerate it. The pandit’s tolerance is very small, because pedantry is shallow; it has no depth. Pedantry is inherently intolerant. That is why the world’s pandits, mullahs, maulvis, and ayatollahs have incited wars and made rivers of blood flow. These are not the works of the unlettered. The poor unlettered—how can they fight, for what, and over what—they do not even know. How can the unlettered have the ego of defending religion? They do not even know what religion is. This is the business of the so‑called learned.

If you must give him a name, call him a pandit—a great pandit—not a fool. For in truth, pandits are the real fools. No one falls farther from the divine than a pandit. The wall of his “knowledge” cuts him off from God. He ceases to be innocent. The ego of knowing envelops his mind; delusions surround him; he gets caught in such hallucinations; a web of doctrines rises around him—how can he then know the divine? Sinners may reach God, but a pandit reaching—this has never been heard of!

So call that poor man a pandit, not a fool.

Second, you say I should stop giving sannyas so that no one can come close and the truth suffers no harm. Truth cannot be harmed. And the truth that can be harmed is not truth. Truth is refined by every assault. My body can be harmed, but truth cannot be harmed by that—because my body is not truth. The body is only a cage; today or tomorrow it will fall. No one needs to push it; it will fall of its own accord. But the unknown bird that dwells within—no one can harm it. Nothing inauspicious can befall it. The more it passes through fire, the more it is purified; as gold passes through the furnace, it becomes pure. So do not be anxious.

I understand your love. And love often becomes entangled with attachment. You are attached to me, and even to my body. But even if you wish to protect this body, it will not be preserved. And even if someone wishes to destroy it, his effort is in vain—this body will disappear by itself.

Had Jesus not been crucified, would there be any Jesus alive today? He might have lived ten or five more years—and who knows even that! Shankaracharya died at thirty‑three without any cross. Jesus was crucified and died at thirty‑three. And what he had to say—he said it in three years. He began his work at thirty; at thirty‑three he was crucified. The message is little—it does not take long to say. And the cross polished that message, flung it to the heights, so that centuries have passed and its imprint on the human soul remains indelible. The cross could not harm it. On the path of truth, the cross becomes a throne; on the path of untruth, even a throne turns into a cross. Understand these mysteries.

Alexander conquered the whole world, but when he died he died weeping; his eyes were wet with tears. And as he was dying, he told his ministers, “When my bier is taken out, let my hands hang outside.” The ministers said, “What is this? This is not a tradition. It has never been done. Hands remain inside the bier; they are not left dangling out.”

Alexander said, “Whether it has been done or not, do as I say. This is my last command. Fulfill my wish.”

The ministers said, “As you wish—your command will surely be carried out. But may we ask the purpose of this strange order?”

Alexander said, “I want to show the world. Thousands will come to see my bier—and they did, hundreds of thousands came. I want them all to see that Alexander the Great is going empty‑handed. All the running and rushing was in vain; my hands are empty. Alexander too dies like a beggar—like a dog. I want to show them: Do not run—it is useless. Even after gaining the throne, what did I gain? After conquering the world, what did I win? I have lost everything.”

And Jesus died on the cross, and in his final moment his eyes were not wet with tears. Prayer was on his lips. In that last moment he prayed to the divine: “Father, forgive them. Do not forget—forgive them, for they do not know what they are doing. They are all unconscious. They are not in awareness. If they were aware, they would never do such a thing. Therefore they are worthy of forgiveness.”

Who won, and who lost? Consider. Alexander lost; Jesus won. Alexander, though seated on a throne, found only a cross; and Jesus, though nailed to a cross, attained the throne.

And such a throne as cannot be taken away!

Your love is right. I thank you for it. But let your love not become attachment—because attachment becomes dangerous.

Attachment becomes dangerous. Forget a sword—don’t even pick up a pebble. If someone raises a sword, offer your neck to him. To speak of taking up the sword is sheer madness. If they act out of madness and you too act out of madness, then how will madness ever end?

Jesus has said: if someone slaps you on one cheek, offer the other as well. Jesus is saying: break the chain. What is the point of continuing the sequence? And if he has given one slap, it may be out of hesitation that he didn’t give the second, so offer the other cheek too. Remove his hesitation as well. Let his mind be satisfied. What will you lose? He will find satisfaction; you will lose nothing. If your body can be of at least this service, what’s wrong in that!

Attachment can raise the sword. But remember, love is not attachment. Love is transcendental; it is not of the earth—it is beyond the earth. Love makes you capable of understanding. It is out of love that Jesus could say: “Forgive them, for they know not what they do.” Had there been even a trace of attachment to his body, to his life, this was the moment he would surely have said to God: “Burn them to ashes—roast them one by one, rot them one by one, hurl them into hell one by one. Look how they are treating your son! Look how they are treating your prophet!”

Diwakar asks: “Should we raise the sword?”
Swords have been raised for centuries upon centuries—but where has anything been solved by the sword? There is no solution in the sword. The solution is in love. And man is so ignorant that he can raise a sword to defend love, he can go to war to defend peace. These are contradictions. To defend peace, only being peaceful is needed. To defend love, only being suffused with love is needed.

No harm can befall the truth. Never has truth been harmed—how will it be now? That is not the law. That is not the dharma. Esho dhammo sanantano! Such is the eternal law: the truth cannot be harmed. Though every effort is made, and will be made, to harm the truth—these challenges polish the truth, refine it, adorn it, deck it; they make it more beautiful, add more sweetness, pour nectar into it.

So I will not stop giving sannyas… because if I stop giving sannyas, then they have succeeded. That is exactly what they want—that I stop giving sannyas.
A friend has advised that I should stop speaking, because if I speak there will be disturbances. I should fall silent. I should just come and sit in silence.
First let me prepare you for silence! If I sit silently right now, you will gain nothing. You will not yet be able to understand my silence. When you are ready, then certainly I must become silent. But not because someone becomes restless from my words. Let their restlessness be. Their restlessness is a good sign. If someone is becoming restless, someone else must be finding rest. If someone is getting upset, somewhere in someone’s life the ambrosia must be raining. It is the fate of people like me that we will have either friends or enemies; no one can stand in between. No one can remain indifferent toward me. The whole world will have to divide: either one will be with me or against me. Naturally, there will be more who are against, because how few have the courage to digest truth! And people have drowned their lives so much in untruth, have invested so many interests in untruth, that they cannot drop it all at once.

But these are good signs, that they are becoming restless. Restlessness shows that a storm has been stirred within them. If someone even comes with a knife to stab, think of his condition. He is taking the risk that if caught he will get a sentence of at least seven or ten years. If someone is ready to throw ten years of his life into prison, then my words must have shaken him somewhere very deep. He cannot ignore me. Surely my words are falling upon his vested interests like axes.

And these are the very people who, if not today then tomorrow, can become friends as well. He who can become an enemy can become a friend; and he who can become a friend can become an enemy. There is no essential difference between friends and enemies; they can transform into each other.

Sannyas will continue. In fact it will have to continue with even more intensity. Ramdayal, you should be saying to me: speed up, give sannyas to as many people as possible; lest someone snatch away your body too soon—before that, color millions! Say that to me. Do not say to me that I should stop giving sannyas. That would be talk born of fear. You fear that someone, by taking sannyas, can come closer. So what will he do? At most he can cut my throat. Then let him cut it. Even without being cut, the throat gets cut. Sooner or later a person has to take leave of this earth. And even otherwise, one should seek a splendid way to die.

When Zen masters die they ask their disciples: tell me, what are your wishes—how should I die? When Bokushu died, thousands of his disciples had gathered. I am fond of Bokushu. He was a very lovable man. He got up from his bed, sat down, and asked his disciples: say, in what manner should I die? The disciples were startled—what kind of talk is that! But they knew Bokushu, that he spoke topsy-turvy. They hesitated—what answer to give! “How should I die?”—is that even a question! Bokushu said: Didn’t you hear? I am asking this: some people die lying down, some people die sitting; what is your opinion? Should I die standing? Have you ever heard of anyone dying standing up?
One man said: There was once—we have heard—one fakir who died standing. Bokushu said: Then forget that. Think of some new way. A way in which no one has ever died.

What way could there be, in which no one has died! Then Bokushu himself said: All right then, if nothing occurs to your cleverness, shall I die in shirshasana, on my head? Standing upside down? I have not heard of anyone dying on his head—otherwise we can devise some other trick.
People said: On your head! We have never heard of it. Not heard of it—even imagined it has never come in a dream.
Bokushu said: Good, that will do. Even dying should be done in one’s own way.

He stood on his head in a headstand. The disciples watched. It seemed he had died. Now what to do? When a person dies we have to make a bier. But here the man is upside down in a headstand—should we bring him down from the headstand or not? There is no rule about it, no precedent—what procedure to follow? Just then someone said: Do this—his sister… in a nearby ashram his elder sister is a nun; call her and ask. They called his elder sister. She came and said: Bokushu, aren’t you ashamed? Will you not give up your mischief even while dying! All your life you have been mischievous. Now stop! Die properly!
And Bokushu laughed and came down from the headstand and sat. He said: Who called my sister? She will not let me die in my own way. Now since she is the elder sister, I must obey her. He asked: What do you want?
She said: Die as people generally die. Lie down on the bed! He lay down and died, just like an obedient child.
This man must have been lovable; his sister too must have been extraordinary. When he died, his sister said: Now I will go; now you finish up. Do whatever last rites you wish.

Those who have known themselves—for them even death is a play, nothing more. Life is a play, death is a play. A drama—a lovely drama! But no more than an act. For them everything is a joke. Whether the cross or the throne—it makes no difference.
If you can look at life as a play, that is what I call sannyas.
I want to give you every lesson. I will teach you life, I will teach you death. I will show you by living, I will show you by dying—like this! Only then will the education be complete.

You go to watch a play, don’t you! One play happens in front of the curtain and another goes on behind the curtain. What goes on behind is more real. What is in front is only acting. Someone is dressed as Rama, someone as Ravana, someone as Sita, someone as Hanuman.

In a village a troupe was staging the Ram Lila. At Sita’s swayamvara, by mistake, in place of the easily breakable bow, Lakshmanji’s bow was brought. When Rama tried to break it, it just wouldn’t break. Huffing and puffing till sweat poured, but the bow wouldn’t break. “To hell with this bow!” slipped out of his mouth. The audience began to laugh—never in a Ram Lila had anyone seen Rama speak like that! There is no mention anywhere. The old King Janaka sensed the situation. He encouraged Rama: Lord Rama, put in a little more strength; and Lakshman, you also assist Rama. You see, this cannot be broken by one man. Rama tried a little more, looking toward the wings to curse the manager: that bastard has really trapped me; if I catch that fool I will teach him a lesson! The audience was astonished—what kind of Ram Lila is this! Such has never happened. Those who had dozed off also woke up.

In Ram Lilas people often sleep—and what else can they do? They already know how it will go. But this time something new was happening. Children were squealing with delight, people stood up to watch. Women pressed their veils into their mouths: now what to do! What is happening! Neither Tulsidas wrote of this, nor Valmiki. This is a Ram Lila of some entirely new kind. At last Rama put all his strength into the bow. The bow broke—but he himself toppled and fell at the feet of the one playing Ravana. His crown broke, his dhoti came loose, blood trickled from his skull, tears welled in his eyes. And in just such a state Sita garlanded him.

The Ram Lila proceeded. Some people were dressed as monkeys; among them a real monkey joined in. For the war to conquer Lanka, a backdrop with a painting of Lanka had been prepared. The real monkey tugged the rope of the backdrop and the curtain went up. Now, what would a real monkey know what to do and what not to do! A fake monkey would have followed the rules. The real monkey, seeing the crowd of monkeys, thought they were monkeys and came there. The curtain went up—what applause! The clapping went on and on; the whole audience stood up. Because behind the curtain the troupe’s kitchen was revealed. The man playing Mandodari was smoking a bidi. Sita and Lakshman were embracing each other. Ravana and Janaka were eating from the same plate. And Hanuman—who was the village wrestler and the cook—towel on his shoulder, was stirring the lentils on the stove, and in one hand he had a bottle of beer. In the midst of all that, Bharata, who was serving as prompter, stood holding the Ramayana text. As soon as the curtain lifted, they all were exposed to the audience. Each grabbed his plate and ran, and the audience clapped. But Hanuman’s tail got caught somewhere, so he couldn’t run. His condition became very awkward. Rama was dumbfounded; he couldn’t figure out what to do. The arrow nocked on his bow slipped and struck the plates stacked on a ledge. All the plates came crashing down—some onto Hanuman, some into the dal. That was too much for Hanuman, who, being the village wrestler, had little tolerance left. First his tail had been stuck, then the plates fell. He pulled out his tail and whacked Rama across the face. Rama, too, was stung; without thinking he gave Hanuman a slap. Then Hanuman lost his senses entirely and pounced on Rama. Instead of a Rama–Ravana war, a Rama–Hanuman war erupted. Within minutes, Rama was flat on his back. Seeing the cook in a red rage, the whole monkey army fled. In the battle of Rama and Hanuman, Rama kept getting thrashed and Sita stood there laughing. And what else could the poor thing do!
This went on until Ravana came to save Rama and somehow pulled Hanuman off him. As Hanuman left he shouted: “Bastard, I’m going now, but I’ll show you some fun!” And on the way out he dragged Mother Sita by her hair toward his house. Thus the Ram Lila concluded.

There is a play that goes on in front of the curtain, and a play that goes on behind it. If you have seen only the play in front, you have not seen the real play of life. There is a world within you, and there is a world outside you. In the outer world there is birth and death, sickness and old age; thousands of events occur. In the inner world there is nothing—silence, emptiness. In the inner world there is only witnessing.

The sannyasin lives in the inner witnessing. Whatever happens outside, he keeps watching; however it happens, he keeps watching.
Ramdayal, whatever happens on the outside, learn to watch it in the spirit of a witness. Many such incidents will happen. All of them should be seen with witnessing. Do not become anxious, restless, or disturbed by them.

You say: “Or else make sannyas more difficult.”
I have made sannyas as difficult as it can be made. Generally people have the notion that I have simplified sannyas. That notion is completely wrong. Sannyas used to be simple. Escapism is always simple. What difficulty or intelligence is there in running away from the battle! The one who runs away from battle—this is the easiest thing—is a coward; that’s why he runs. He is craven; that’s why he runs. The man who runs from the battlefield we call cowardly—and the man who runs from this battle of life we have so far called a sannyasin! He too is a deserter, not a sannyasin.

This long procession of deserters has given you a wrong idea of sannyas. And you think he is doing something difficult! You are completely mistaken. Someone leaves his wife and runs away, and you think he is doing a hard thing! Who does not want to run away from his wife? The brave stay put and do not run; the weak take to their heels. Anyone can get harried by wives.
If women had courage, they would run too. They too are harried, but they don’t even have that much courage. Not even enough courage to run. Even to show your back you need a little courage—you have to at least walk, to run.
Women did not take much to sannyas. The ancient kind of sannyas did not spread among women. There was a reason. They stayed put; they held their ground. But the men ran away. They didn’t have the courage to stay, but they mustered the courage to run.

This queue of deserters—you have so far taken it to be a difficult thing. If someone eats once a day, you think he is doing something formidable. Suicide is not a very difficult thing—whether you do it quickly or slowly. The truth is, just as there is a relish in tormenting others, there is a similar relish in tormenting oneself.

Among Freud’s greatest findings is also this: that in man there are two basic instincts. He calls one Eros, the life-instinct. And the other he calls Thanatos, the death-instinct. He says: up to the age of thirty-five, the first instinct is dominant; after thirty-five the first grows weaker, the life-instinct weakens, and the second becomes strong. That is why perhaps the Hindus counted it rightly: at fifty take to the forest-dweller stage, and at seventy-five become a renunciate. Because as death draws nearer, if a man lives a hundred years, then by seventy-five he will of himself be so bored with the world, so utterly bored, that he will want to drop it. For this, no great intelligence or great discipline will be needed.

Ranjan, this is a terrific move—go ahead and do it. It will free you from the round of coming and going. Because Ranjan is Gujarati—a Gujarati sister. And if a Sardarji becomes the lover, whatever happens to the Sardarji will happen, but the Gujarati sister’s release from samsara is certain. The Sardarji will hound you in such a way that whatever attachment you still have to life will drop away on its own. He will pounce on you—“Wahe Guruji di Fateh, Wahe Guruji da Khalsa!”—so that you will never again, even by mistake, think of love and such things. You’ve chosen well. There is no more beautiful method than this to be rid of coming and going. So don’t delay—just jump. Say, “Sat Sri Akal!” and jump in. Then whatever happens, we’ll see. There will be plenty of hassle. It’s a tough undertaking. But it is better than running away. Running away is no difficult task.

You say I should make sannyas more difficult. Meaning? That I should make people do yogasanas, headstands—stand on their heads for three hours—eat once a day, don’t take salt, don’t drink this, sleep only three hours, get up at three in the morning; give them techniques to torment themselves? Then be sure: the people gathered around me now are intelligent; but then, the very fools you want to save me from—only they will gather. The intelligent will bow and leave; they’ll say, “Then we’re going.” Because why would an intelligent person get up at three in the night—what for? Has he lost his mind? Even animals and birds don’t get up at three. They too rise when the sun begins to rise. Yes, when the sun rises, life awakens on earth; that’s when one should arise. That is natural and spontaneous. But no animal or bird stays awake late into the night either. There’s no great virtue in that. And what would animals and birds do staying up? They have neither electricity, nor lanterns, nor kerosene oil. Humans themselves hardly have it—how would they! And it’s just as well that horses, donkeys, and buffaloes don’t ask for kerosene; otherwise they too would be standing in line. Then man would scarcely get any—because they would butt with their horns and push ahead: “Fill our lanterns first.” They don’t read scriptures at night, don’t watch films, don’t listen to music, don’t go to weddings. Evening falls—what else should the poor things do but sleep! If you too go to sleep at dusk, you’ll certainly wake at three. There is a limit to sleep.

Man alone has the capacity to be awake in the evening; to use the hush and silence of the night. By day there is much disturbance, much noise. For those who want to study, reflect, meditate, contemplate—the night is the chance. So if you stay up late, it may also happen that you sleep a little longer. No harm.

An intelligent person arranges his life in his own way; he does not walk on someone else’s fixed tracks.

The people gathered around me now are the cream. I do not want fools here. I do not want to collect blockheads here. To stand on your head—do you think that requires any talent? Do you need a high intelligence score to stand on your head? Not at all. Even the dumbest of the dumb can stand on his head; in fact, only the dumbest will be keen on it. And such people—what can’t they do! They do all kinds of things. They drink “panchamrit.” Do you know what they put in their panchamrit? Cow dung, cow urine—such things they call nectar. If I start making people drink such panchamrit, do you think intelligent people will gather around me? Cow-dung Ganeshas will gather.

I could make it hard, but making it hard would only drive away the intelligent. Because what does “hard” mean?—somehow torturing yourself, harassing yourself. To harass yourself requires no brilliance.

I have made sannyas difficult at another depth. That depth is that I want you to live the challenge of life with witnessing—to learn the art of acting.

An actor asked me what I would say about the art of acting. I told him: The essence of acting is—act as if it were real life; and the essence of real life is—live as if it were acting.

The actor who can act with such skill that it seems real life is a consummate actor. And the person who can live life as if it is acting—as if it were a line drawn on water—that one is a sannyasin.

I want to teach you only the art of acting, and that is the hardest of all. Hard, because it will demand the utmost intelligence.

So by your reckoning I cannot make it “hard” by teaching fasting, hunger strikes, teaching you to torture yourself. All that is already going on in the world. I am inaugurating a new sannyas. That is why there is restlessness. Hence Hindus are angry, Jains are angry, Muslims are angry. All those with fixed beliefs are angry. Only those who are thoughtful enough to rise beyond fixed beliefs—who can transcend fixed doctrines—can be in accord with me.

And you say: “All these suggestions so that no attack on truth may succeed.”

All attacks on truth have always failed. Be at ease about that. Every attack only polishes truth more, helps its roots sink deeper. You will see this with your own eyes. Until now you had only heard stories. Socrates is a story to you, and Jesus is a story, and Al-Hallaj Mansur is a story. Now, living with me, before your very eyes, you will understand what those stories mean. You will find Al-Hallaj among you again. You will find Jesus moving and sitting among you. You will hear the truths of Socrates. And you will see what a keen edge comes to truth—how truth is refined—how the sun of truth rises! Nothing has ever been able to defeat truth. What has not happened till now will not happen today, and will not happen ever. Esa dhammo sanantano! Such is the eternal law!

Yog Manik! When there is trust in existence, existence itself is protection. Then whatever happens is auspicious.

The Sufi fakir Junayd was once walking along a road when a stone struck his foot. Junayd had the habit of always walking with his eyes turned to the sky, as if the call of the faraway unknown were forever in his ears. He is one of the most remarkable of the Sufis—he was the master of Al-Hallaj Mansoor. The sharp edge of a stone lying in the road cut his foot; it bled. Junayd bent down, kneeling, tears of joy flowing from his eyes. He began thanking God: “O Lord, how can I thank you enough? However much I thank you, it is too little!”

His disciples were astonished. They said, “We see nothing here worth thanking for. If God had saved you and your foot had not been hurt, even then we might think there was some reason to give thanks! But your foot is bleeding, and still you are thanking—why?”

Junayd said, “Fools, you don’t understand. What I deserved was the gallows; but by his compassion, only my foot was hurt and the gallows were averted.”

And this turned out to be true, because the capital he had just left—within an hour of his departure the inn where he had been staying was surrounded by the police. The king of that city arrived a little late. He wanted to capture Junayd and kill him, for Junayd spoke in a way that the ignorant felt was against the Koran. The ignorant always feel that way. They suffer the delusion that they understand what is in the Koran. A man like Junayd can seem wrong to them, because he lives the Koran; his interpretation is living, not merely literal.

Later the disciples learned that Junayd had been right. The noose would have been around his neck, but a mere injury to his foot saved him.

Yet even that is not the essential point. Once, Junayd set out on a journey to the Kaaba. It was his habit to give thanks every day; he would pray five times, and five times he would thank God: “O Lord, your grace is immense; how much care you take of us! You run this vast world, and still you care for me, a poor man. What love, that you do not forget me even for a moment! I may forget you, but you do not forget me.”

On that journey there came a time when for three days he found no shelter in any village. In every village people told him, “Go away—you will find no place here.” They were tightly orthodox people. They considered Sufis to be rebels, corrupt—much as my sannyasins are considered. No bread, no water; for three days, thirsty and hungry, exhausted, with no place to sleep, they lay in the desert. Yet on the third evening too, as he prayed with upraised hands to the star-filled sky, tears of joy were flowing as he said, “O Lord, thank you; you take such care of us!”

The disciples could not bear it. One shook him and said, “Enough, stop it. Whom are you thanking? For three days we have been hungry, no bread, no water, nowhere to stay—and still you go on saying, ‘O God, thank you, you take such care of us’!”

Junayd said, “You don’t understand. He gives us what we need. Just now our need was to be hungry for three days, to be without water for three days, to endure insult for three days. He fulfills our need. Understand it this way: whatever he does is our very need. There is no difference between the two.”

Yog Manik, there is nothing miraculous here. It is a simple secret, an open secret; nothing hidden. Whatever his will is—whatever the will of this perfect existence is—that is what will be. As long as he wants to keep this flute to sing his song, this flute will remain. The day there is no need, that day the flute will break. On that day, a thousand measures to save it will be of no avail. And until then—as long as he wants these songs to flow, this dance to rise, these notes to resound, this veena to go on playing—then even if there are a thousand attempts to break it, nothing will break.

I remember well the events you recalled. A truck struck the car, and all the glass was ground to powder and fell over me. For a moment I too thought... I had never seen glass shatter like that—quite like dust! It filled my hair, my eyes; my whole body was covered with glass. I thought at least my eyes might have been injured. But I was amazed—there wasn’t even a scratch. A mere speck of dust can make the eyes red, yet even with glass fragments, my eyes were not reddened. It was his will. He still had some work to do.

And the incident coming from Nasik to Poona was much more dangerous. The car fell into a dry riverbed. It rolled over three or four times. When it landed, it was upside down, wheels up. We too had gone round inside a couple of times. But the astonishing and delightful thing was that when we came to rest, the car was upside down, yet we were sitting upright. The seats had come above our heads, and because of those seats even our heads were protected; otherwise at least our skulls would have been smashed. For a moment it seemed everyone should have been finished—there was no reason to expect anyone to survive. The car was completely crushed. We had to leave it there; it was utterly wrecked. Nothing of the car remained.

For a while we all sat quietly, thinking the matter was over—what was there left to say? Then I had to say to Pungaliya-ji, “Pungaliya-ji, shall we get out now? It seems we are alive.” We got out, expecting to find injuries—but there wasn’t even a scratch. Poor Pungaliya-ji began running about to arrange another car, phoned Manik Babu: “Bring another vehicle.” And I went comfortably to a house and took a nap. I have the habit of sleeping in the afternoon; I do not forsake my habits. I said, “Since we have survived, we should sleep now. Either we would have slept forever, in which case there’d be no need to sleep separately; and since we did survive, it is not right to give up sleep.”

To anyone it would look like a miracle, but there is nothing miraculous in it. If, in a single stroke, we drop the ego and accept our oneness with existence, then let existence decide. This is what I call theism. If we are saved, fine; if not, fine. Do not think it is right only if we are saved.

Yog Manik, keep this in mind. Do not think, “Because we were saved, therefore it is right.” Had we not been saved, it would have been equally right.

Here, the knife that was thrown passed over the heads of many. It passed right in front of me and fell on the ground between Chaitanya and Gayan’s feet. Extraordinary job by the knife! The knife proved very clever—more clever than the thrower! Otherwise, with people packed so densely here, to fall in an empty spot would have required great intelligence on the knife’s part. But it fell to the ground, in an empty place. No one received even a scratch.

Still, do not think—therefore, miracle. Had someone died, that too would have been a miracle. Had I gone, that too would have been a miracle. It makes no difference to miracle.

The day we accept the grace of God with equal heart in life and in death, in pleasure and in pain, on that day theism is born within us.

And this is a gathering of theists—an assembly of the faithful. So events like this will keep on happening here. The knife came like a flower and fell.

Often knives are more sensible than men, because knives are neither Hindu nor Muslim nor Christian. What do knives care whose religion is to be saved and whose not! A knife is simply a knife—impartial, neutral. What has a knife to do with any of it!

Once, someone pushed a boulder down upon Buddha—a whole rock. He was meditating below; from the hillside someone rolled a rock. It is said the boulder was measured and released so precisely that it would catch Buddha in its sweep and crush him. But who knows what happened—what happened to the boulder—that it came exactly as those who sent it had imagined, up to the very place where Buddha sat, and then it took a slight turn. Just a little turn! And it left Buddha aside and went on along the path it should have taken. As if the boulder were more intelligent than those who had dislodged it.

Someone let loose a mad elephant upon Buddha. That elephant had killed many people. He came and sat down with his head bowed at Buddha’s feet. Those who had released him were astonished—what happened to this mad elephant! The disciples asked Buddha, “What happened to him? He is mad.”

Buddha said, “He may be mad, but he is not a man. He is not blinded by doctrines. He is an elephant; he has no attachment to scriptures, Vedas and the like. Those who released him are attached to the Vedas; they think I speak against the Vedas, so I should be killed. What has this elephant to do with the Vedas! He may be mad, but not as mad as a man can be.”

Remember, as low as man can fall, none in the world can fall so low—because as high as man can rise, none can rise so high. Man can fall far below the animals and rise far above the gods. Man is a ladder, one end set in hell and the other in heaven. Only man is a ladder; all other animals are as they are. But man is a ladder—evolving, moving. He can fall or he can climb. It is the same ladder—by the same ladder one goes up and down; only the direction differs.

The secret is no hidden secret. It is small and clear. When a drop falls into the ocean, what worry can the drop have? It has become the ocean. Then let the ocean decide: if it wants to save, it saves; if not, not. If it saves, fine; if not, fine.

So it is with me: I am not; the ocean is. Call that ocean God, moksha, nirvana, Buddhahood, Jina-hood—whatever you wish. Only this much: the drop is no more; the ocean is. And those who join with me are not joining me, because I am not. I am only a pretext. Through me, they are joining the ocean itself.

Therefore many miracles will keep happening. These are the real miracles. Pulling ash out of the hand is not a miracle; producing watches from the hand is not a miracle. These are juggler’s tricks. These are street-conjurers. They are no different from the tricks performed by roadside magicians. But these miracles that happen by themselves—born of trust, of faith—these are the real miracles.

And whoever gives you an opportunity to experience such miracles—thank him. The man who threw the knife gave you an opportunity. Do not be angry with him. Harbor no ill will toward him. He needlessly entangled himself in trouble and gave you a chance—he gave you a moment of vision, opened a window.

Yog Manik, many such windows will open. This is what satsang is.

Satsang is not only that I speak and you listen. Satsang has many facets, many dimensions. You will hear what I do not say. You will hear what can never be said. And you will see what happens. Here, mysteries will open. And behind each mystery, more mysteries are hidden—an infinite chain. The search for this whole chain is sannyas. The name of this search is religion. If a single thread is placed in your hand, you will set out on the infinite journey. By any pretext, catch hold of the thread and set out.

Atmanand Brahmachari! You too are a man of grit. However much I hammer, you don’t budge an inch. You are fixed in your spot—utterly still!

Are countries ever enlightened? And if they were, it would be a “Brahman-country.” How can a country be enlightened? Societies are not enlightened, groups are not enlightened. Enlightenment happens in the innermost heart of an individual. Yes—one Buddha, one Mahavira, one Krishna, one Gorakh, Kabir, Nanak, Dadu, Maluk, Farid—individuals! But nations are not enlightened. Does a country have a soul? What is a country anyway? A bare name, a mere label! What do you call “India”? The Himalayas? Ganga, Yamuna, Narmada, Godavari, Satpura, Vindhyachal? The earth? The sky? What do you call a country?

When the soul knows itself, the light of Brahma-knowledge flares up—like a lamp’s flame. But the soul is the wealth of the individual, not of the collective. Nothing acts more foolishly than a crowd. An individual never does what a crowd does. The crowd has committed more sins on this earth than anything else. If you want sin, you need a crowd—Hindu crowd, Muslim crowd, Christian crowd. A crowd makes sin possible because the crowd has one secret: the individual does not feel responsible. If a mob is burning a mosque, you too get inflamed. You too start pulling it down, setting it on fire. Ask yourself if you could have done this alone, and your chest would throb, your conscience would bite. You would say, “No, alone I could not.” Why? Because alone you would feel, “What am I doing? Is this right? This too is God’s house! People gather here to pray—even if their way is different, it is prayer all the same. The remembrance is of the same One. The name may not be Ram, it may be Allah; but a name is only a pointer—the Nameless is invoked by any pointer. What am I doing!”

If an individual had to set fire to a temple or a mosque, or thrust a knife into someone’s chest merely because he is Hindu or Muslim, he would start, he would hesitate, he would think a thousand times: “What am I doing! I will be responsible for this!” But when a crowd sins, your responsibility is lost in it. You say, “I didn’t really do anything—people were already torching it, I just went along. If I hadn’t been there the mosque would still have burned, the temple would still have fallen, the idol would still have been smashed. People would have been killed anyway. My presence didn’t kill them.” So you wash your hands of it. No responsibility.

That’s why sin needs big names—nation, caste, religion. It needs lofty slogans.

The man who dropped the atom bomb on Hiroshima—one man’s act turned a hundred and twenty thousand people into ash. Imagine someone telling you, “Your single action will burn a hundred and twenty thousand people to cinders”—could you do it? To do it you would need a big name—country, humanity, the protection of peace! When journalists asked him the next morning, “Did you sleep well?” he said, “I slept perfectly. I fulfilled my duty. I obeyed orders. I did what needed to be done to protect my country. And not only my country—this is a way to save the world from war. This protects man, protects humanity. They are fiends, monsters.”

Thus every person calls his enemy a demon. Ravana was no demon. But those who wrote on Rama’s side call Ravana a demon. In the South, books were written calling Ravana a great man. They do not call him a demon.

When India and China were friends, it was “Hindi-Chini bhai-bhai”—Indians and Chinese are brothers. When China attacked, the Chinese became demons. Poems were written in India saying the Chinese are demons. The enemy becomes a demon—why? Because calling him a demon makes it easy to kill him. Call him a man, and killing becomes hard. What’s wrong in killing a demon! He is a great sinner—wipe him out; that much less burden on the earth!

Hide yourself behind fine words, and bury the other in ugly words—then it all becomes convenient, very easy.

Atmanand Brahmachari, talk of nation, caste, group, sect—these are not the talks of the enlightened. Enlightenment is a private, intimate event.

In a school a Brahmin pandit asked the students: “Tell me, which ‘mats’—faiths or doctrines—are prevalent in India?”
One student said, “Panditji, Congress-ism, Janata-ism, etc., etc.”
The pandit got angry. He was talking religion, and the boy brought up politics! In anger he snapped, “Don’t babble!”
The student said, “Oh yes, I forgot—‘Don’t-babble-ism’ is also very prevalent.”

In a crowd it is always “Don’t-babble-ism”—where is Brahmavad! It’s all babble, empty babble. People talk of God, of the soul—as if they know. They know nothing, but they have learned words and parrot them. Those words do no work. They bring no revolution in their lives. If you call such talk enlightenment, then yes, India is an enlightened country, because nowhere else is enlightenment discussed so much. And frankly, that’s about all we have left—discussion.

Every country has its habits and customs. In England people constantly talk about the weather—for a reason: weather is a topic that requires no argument. The English dislike debate, consider it uncouth to bring up subjects that lead to argument. Weather is safely indisputable. If clouds have gathered, an Englishman will say, “Heavily overcast today.” Naturally the other will say, “Yes, very overcast—so humid, so restless.” What is there to argue!

Mulla Nasruddin goes to get a haircut. I’ve seen him many times: whenever he’s in the barber’s chair he talks only about the weather—“The sun is out today, such a lovely sun!” Or, “It rained today, such a gentle drizzle—so delightful!” I asked him, “Nasruddin, you never talk about the weather otherwise, but with the barber you always do—why?”
He said, “Do you think I’m crazy? The man has a razor at my throat—should I start politics or religion? Who knows when the barber might get angry and—slice! So I talk weather—no chance of quarrels there.”

The English talk weather—no debate. In fact they avoid talk altogether if they can. If two Englishmen are in a train compartment, they may sit for hours without a word, because unless a third person introduces them, how can they speak? There’s no introduction…so they sit quietly, reading their newspapers.

Two Indians meet and Vedanta is off and running. Indian habit, Indian custom—our old rut. It has no more value than the weather talk in England. Two Indians meet and immediately Vedanta erupts. Each tries to outdo the other—if it’s Vedanta, why hold back? They shoot long, tall tales. And with enlightenment, anything you say is “right,” because there’s no proof either for or against; proof is not the point at all.

A gentleman from the Radhasoami sect came to me and asked, “How many planes of existence do you accept? Our master accepts fourteen planes; the fourteenth is called Sach Khand!” He had even brought a chart—fourteen planes. And the chart was quite a provocation: Mohammed, Moses, etc., are in the fifth plane—stuck there. Jesus and Zarathustra a bit farther—sixth. Mahavira and Buddha a little higher—seventh. Great kindness on their part! Then Kabir, Nanak, etc., a little higher still—eighth. But only their own guru reached the fourteenth—Sach Khand! He asked me, “How many planes do you accept? What do you think of our guru? Are these planes real?”
I said, “Absolutely real—because I have seen your guru stuck in the fourteenth.”
He said, “What do you mean?”
“I’m in the fifteenth—Mahasach Khand!”
“What are you saying! Never heard of that.”
“How would you? Your guru didn’t know it, so how could you!”
“No, no—how can it be that our guru didn’t know?”
“How would he, being stuck in the fourteenth! When you have the right to stick others at seven or eight, what shall I do? I’m at fifteen!”
He hasn’t come back since—left in a huff. I told him, “Drop by for satsang sometimes. Your guru also prays hard to be taken out of the fourteenth. I’m trying to help him out.” He got even angrier: “Now you’re speaking against our guru!” But what you say against the other gurus is perfectly fine! Mahavira and Buddha are pinned by them at seven, not even allowed to reach fourteen. Great kindness to Kabir and Nanak—placed them at eight! I said, “At least appreciate my compassion—I place your guru as high as fourteen. I can see him there; he’s telling the truth. Now he needs someone to pull him out. I’ll do what I can. He’s clinging hard to the fourteenth because he thinks Sach Khand is the ultimate. How can Sach Khand be ultimate? What about Mahasach Khand?”

If you want to chatter about enlightenment, then say whatever your heart fancies—make fourteen planes, sixteen planes, eighteen planes. Temples hang charts of hell and heaven. Mahavira said there is one hell. His disciple Goshal became rebellious. He thought, “This Brahma-knowledge that Mahavira proclaims—I can proclaim it too.” After staying with him for days, he felt he understood it all. He started speaking—and added a few twists. He declared there are three hells and three heavens. What will you do with that? There is no real dispute possible. People said, “But Mahavira says there is one,” and he replied, “He knows only of one; he hasn’t seen beyond.”

Sanjaya Belatthiputta heard that Goshal says three hells. He said, “Nonsense—how can three suffice? Without seven it’s impossible. Seven hells and seven heavens.”

And Purana Kassapa—another teacher of that time, truly a lovable rogue—said, “What petty babble! Seven hundred hells and seven hundred heavens!”

If this is what you call Brahma-knowledge, then enjoy yourselves—say whatever you like. Everyone can take off on their private flights of fancy.

But no country is enlightened, has been, or ever can be. Drop this ego. Enlightenment has nothing to do with nation and the like. These are indirect routes to fatten one’s ego. Clean your own eyes. A country has no eyes; how will you clean them? Suppose someone says, “Let’s put spectacles on the country’s eyes so everyone sees clearly.” But a country has no eyes—where will you place the spectacles? “Let’s open the country’s inner vision!” But where is a country’s inner vision? A country is not a person, not a soul—it’s only a term, a hollow word.

Be a little wary of words. Don’t get entangled in them.

In old age Mulla Nasruddin’s eyesight weakened. When an elephant began to look like a mouse to him, he went to an eye specialist. The doctor examined him and put a pair of quite thick lenses on him. Mulla came out delighted. On the way home he passed through the market and thought, “I have received new light today; let me buy the children some toys to celebrate.” He walked into a grape seller’s shop and asked, “Brother, what do you charge for these balloons?”

Sometimes when people “fix” their eyes, they over-fix them. Either an elephant looks like a mouse, or a mouse looks like an elephant. Hence the Buddha said: right vision—balanced sight.

What does a person want? One thing: somehow to give the ego new ornaments, fresh adornment. So—“My country is great!” Why? Because you, Atmanand Brahmachari, were born here! If it weren’t great, would you have been born here? It must be great—since even you chose it! This is an indirect way of declaring your own greatness.

At the University of Paris there was a head of philosophy who announced one day to his students, “I am the greatest man on earth.” The students were startled. Philosophy chair! Who values philosophy! It’s the last choice in the university—no one goes to study it. In India mostly girls study it—since they’re going to marry, why get into unnecessary hassle; philosophy is fine. And besides, Brahma-knowledge is in Indian blood anyway. Departments of philosophy lie empty in hundreds of universities. But for the sake of prestige they keep them, otherwise it would look bad to have one less department.

And this poor philosophy professor! If a math or physics professor said it—someone who invented the atom bomb perhaps—it would be different. This one has neither made nor unmade anything—only high-flying talk. Yet he says, “No one is greater than I.” A student asked, “Sir, you’re a philosopher—can you prove it?”
He said, “I never say anything without proof. Listen!” He pulled out a world map, hung it on the board, and asked, “Tell me, which is the greatest country in the world?” Naturally the students said, “France.” “And which is the greatest city in France?” “Paris.” “And in Paris, which is the greatest and holiest place?” “Naturally the temple of Saraswati—the university.” Now the boys began to worry; he was leading them step by step. “And in this university, which is the supreme subject?” Now they were on the noose—philosophy students had to say “Philosophy.” “So,” he said, “what remains to prove? And I am the head of philosophy—I am the greatest man in the world! Q.E.D.”

“India is enlightened! Even gods long to be born here!” Sugar is not to be found, yet gods long to be born here! Tell those gods to bring sugar along. Kerosene is not available—tell them to bring a few drums of kerosene as well. If they long to come, fine—come along, there’s already a crowd; a little more crowding will do. You are welcome. We even call a guest a god—so if a god wants to be a guest, what can we do! But bring a few things with you. Bring a little space to live in, bring a house, bring provisions, bring some furniture.

“Gods long to be born here!” Why would they—either they’ve gone mad or they’ve drunk too much soma; perhaps it’s the hemp. They long to be born in India—no other place available?

But the Indian mind, the Indian ego, is gratified: “Gods long to be born here! This is a land of merit! The land of the enlightened!”

Drop this madness. You yourself become enlightened—that is enough. Don’t waste time in useless talk.

Mulla Nasruddin had a terrible earache for four months. He went to the ear specialist. The doctor peered inside and within half a minute pulled out a one-rupee coin with tweezers, placed it on Nasruddin’s palm and said, “See—this was the root of the problem.”
Breathing with relief, Nasruddin said, “Doctor, it almost cost me my life. It’s been four full months—couldn’t sleep, couldn’t eat or drink properly. Day and night my ear cracked with pain and I writhed like a fish. You’ve been very kind—I’ll never forget the favor.”
The doctor said, “But I don’t understand why you didn’t come earlier! Why suffer this hell for four months? You could have come any time—it was a half-minute job to take this coin out.”
“Actually, doctor,” Nasruddin replied, “until today I didn’t need the coin.”

Atmanand Brahmachari, do you need enlightenment or not? If the need has arisen, don’t get caught in these futile nets. Don’t get lost in useless talk. Go within, dig. The diamond is there. The mine of diamonds is there. Then whether you are Indian, Japanese, Chinese, Afghan—what difference does it make? In each is the indwelling God. In each is the capacity to find oneself, to become acquainted with oneself.

But we don’t really need enlightenment. We want to keep busy with other babble—“Is India enlightened or not?” Even if it is, what will you do? You won’t become enlightened by that. You will have to become it. So talk to the point, to the root of the matter. Catch the real issue—and it is simple: descend into your consciousness. Awaken your witnessing.

Atmanand Brahmachari, wake up! You have slept enough. Dawn has come.

Enough for today.