Sumiran Mera Hari Kare #7

Yog Vidya! Attachment is not inauspicious. Attachment is not ugly. Attachment is like freshly mined gold—yet impure. It will pass through fire, be refined, become pure.
Attachment is love in its impure form. Attachment needs to be transformed, refined.
I am not against attachment. I am not against anything. But every phenomenon has higher possibilities—more auspicious, more beautiful forms.
The seers of the Upanishads prayed: O Lord, lead us from darkness to light. Tamaso ma jyotir gamaya!
If I were to say it, I would say: O Lord, lead us from light to more light. Because darkness too is only a form of light. Light is hidden even in darkness. Morning is born out of the night; the sun rises from it. In the womb of night the sun is nurtured and grows. The whole beauty of the dawn is impossible without the night.
The Upanishadic seers say: O Lord, lead us from death to immortality. Mrityor ma amritam gamaya!
I would like to say: O Lord, lead us from immortality to an even greater immortality. For death simply is not; only the deathless is. All the steps are of the deathless—somewhere dust-besmeared, somewhere gold-adorned; somewhere buried in mud, somewhere freed from mud.
The seers say: O Lord, lead us from the untrue to the true. Asato ma sad gamaya!
I would say: O Lord, lead us from truth to an even greater truth. Because for me, nothing is untrue. I accept life in its totality. My acceptance is ultimate, total. But this does not mean growth is impossible. There is growth—from the perfect to the more perfect, from the more perfect to the most perfect. Nothing is imperfect—yet growth is possible. This is the mystery of existence; this is its magic, its miracle.
Yog Vidya, your attachment to my body is the first step—toward the arising of your love for my soul. I will not say: drop attachment. I will say: deepen attachment—so deep that it becomes love. I will say: give attachment wings; why should it only crawl on the earth—let it fly in the sky! I will say: give attachment eyes; why should it see only the body—why not see the soul? Then attachment is not a bondage. Then attachment too is liberation.
Whoever understands this vision of mine will understand my sannyas. That is why I said yesterday: do not remain under the illusion that I have made sannyas easy. On the surface I have made it absolutely simple; within, I have made it very difficult. On the surface so simple that people feel there is nothing to do: put on ochre robes, wear the mala, change the name—and sannyas is done. No vows, no fasting; no yama, no niyama; no tapas, no austerities; no renunciation, no withdrawing from the world, no dwelling in far-off mountains. On the surface, certainly, I have made it simple—because if the surface is difficult, the outer difficulty devours you; you never get a chance to reach within. Life is spent settling the outer arithmetic; there is no opportunity to take an inner step. So I have made the surface utterly simple, so that the inner challenge can be faced in its fullness.
And the greatest inner challenge is this: when love begins, it begins as attachment. If you insist that love should not begin as attachment, love will never begin. If there is a seed, there will be a tree. The tree begins as a seed. And the lotus will begin in mud. If you try to avoid the mud, you will be deprived of the lotus.
Therefore, for me, the mud too is venerable, sanctified, holy—because the lotus is born from it. Mud is the mother. And that from which the lotus is born—if you call it merely mud, you are not being just. That in which the lotus is hidden is not only mud; it is the lotus in its unmanifest form. So it is with attachment. This too is auspicious, this too is beautiful.
You say, Vidya: “We are attached to your body.”

Subhash! Until you awaken, life will remain an accident. Not just yours—everyone’s life is a mere accident. Because how do you live? You have no sense of direction. Leave direction aside—you don’t even know who you are. You don’t know where you come from, what you are doing, why you are doing it—nothing. You just keep moving, pushed by the crowd. Wherever the crowd goes, you go. Like a log carried away by a current—that’s your life. An accident.

Look back at whatever you have done in life so far. You’ll be astonished. You’ve simply been doing things like leaves blown by a gust of wind. Someone said something—you did it. Someone else said something—you did that. You saw an advertisement in a newspaper—you followed it. Four people were gossiping—you heard them and got busy doing what they said. You don’t know who you are, what you truly want, what is worth doing. Then how are you living? Just like that—buffeted by the crowd. And whichever crowd you fall into—purely by chance… Someone lands in a Hindu crowd and he goes to the temple. If he thinks, “I am going to the temple,” he’s mistaken. The same child, had he been raised in a Muslim home, would never even think of going to a temple—he would go to the mosque. He would burn temples. If he ever went toward a temple, it would be to burn it. The same child, raised in a Christian home, wouldn’t take the mosque’s name; he would go to church. Sunday would be sacred to him. He would read the Bible. He would keep a Bible at home and offer flowers to it. Whether he read it or not, at least he would certainly keep it at home.

A priest asked a little boy in church, “Son, do you have a Bible at home?”
He said, “Yes.”
“Do you read it?”
He said, “I don’t read it, sometimes I flip through it.”
“Can you tell what’s written in your Bible—what-all is in it?”
He said, “What’s written, I can’t say; but what-all is in it, that I can say.”
The priest said, “You’re making a miraculous claim! What-all is in it?”
He said, “My daddy’s hair.”
The priest said, “But your daddy is alive. Why keep his hair?”
He said, “Daddy is alive, but his hair has vanished. So Mommy saved two hairs and kept them in the Bible. A talisman given by a baba is in the Bible. The first flower Dad offered Mom during their romance is in the Bible. It’s dried, but still there. All kinds of things are in the Bible.”
“Does anyone else at your home read the Bible?” the priest asked.
“No one reads the Bible. But everyone worships the Bible.”
The Bible isn’t for reading; it’s for worship!

Does any Hindu read the Vedas? Does any Buddhist read the Dhammapada? Who has time? They keep them, they worship them. And what kinds of worship! One funnier than the next.

I stayed in a house once. Early morning, I was going to bathe and passed through the room where they had placed the Guru Granth Sahib. In front of it stood a silver water pot with water, and a tooth-cleaning twig (datun). I asked, “What’s this about?”
They said, “The datun is for the Guru Granth Sahib.” Old habits don’t die. Now even if someone placed a datun before a statue, at least it would make a little sense—though even that is useless, because the statue won’t brush its teeth. But since they feed the statue, offer bhog, they might as well arrange a datun too! Poor Guru Granth Sahib! But that word ‘Sahib’ causes the trouble. Because of ‘Sahib,’ a personality is imagined. Once you imagine a person, you must provide a datun. And if you must, then in a silver pot, of course! No ordinary twig for such a ‘Sahib’!
I said, “You people are mad! Is this an era for datuns? Keep Binaca toothpaste!”
They said, “What you’re saying sounds right!”
I said, “Just think how you’re insulting him! All of you use Binaca toothpaste, and for the Guru Granth Sahib you keep a bitter neem twig! Die of shame—drown yourselves in a palmful of water!”
The poor fellows were very worried. At night, when I was going to sleep, they asked again, “You weren’t joking, were you? You meant it?”
Why would I joke? I’ve never joked in my life. I’m a serious man. Don’t you feel ashamed? Next morning I saw Binaca toothpaste there. I said, “Now at least it looks somewhat sensible! If you’re going to do it, do it modernly. Or do you want to ruin the Guru Granth Sahib’s teeth? And make his mouth bitter first thing in the morning—brushing with neem! The era of neem datuns is gone.”

You are born into a crowd, and you go on doing what that crowd does.

I was born in a Jain home. From childhood, in the very air of the house, among those I sat and stood with, visited temples with, in that society, the feeling in the air was: these—Krishna, Rama—what are they… what standing do they have? If I asked why, first they’d point: “Here stands Mother Sita. She is the whole trouble.” “Look at Lord Mahavira—standing alone! Free of attachment! Beyond bondage! What is this business of man and woman?” “And look at Krishna the cowherd boy—how he’s decked up! What a dandy! Is this how a God should be?” “Look at Lord Mahavira—standing naked. Look at the statue of Bahubali—standing naked, so absorbed in austerity that you can’t tell! Creepers have climbed his legs, and birds have built nests in his ears!”
Jain Tirthankaras are given big ears—mind you. Birds can make nests there; where else could they? Perhaps that’s why their ears are made so big—so birds can find room to build nests if needed. Let them be useful for something at least! And they don’t even know. That is the true image of Godhood. What is this peacock-feather crown? Is there some kind of play going on? A traveling show?

Hearing this from childhood, how could my hands fold before Krishna’s temple? The question never arose. From childhood I heard that Krishna went to hell—he has to! Look at his deeds! Women are bathing, and he steals their clothes and climbs a tree. Is that a way to behave? Not even the ways of a gentleman—let alone a saint. And God! If God too starts doing such things, what will be left for goons to do? It’s absurd. Not only that, he tempts those women. Like when you tease a little child: “Come, take it”—and when the child steps forward, you pull your hand back. Those poor women, somehow hiding their modesty in water—though water hides nothing; it reveals more—he is out to expose them further. He dangles their clothes, and when they reach up he lifts his hand higher. Not until they stand up! To make women stand naked on the riverbank—and an Indian riverbank, where the whole village gathers—is this correct?

And then, poor Arjuna wanted to renounce and become a sannyasin; this very man provoked and confused him. Arjuna tried his best to avoid fighting, but Krishna wore him down. Out of that pestering, the Gita was born. He digested Arjuna’s head so thoroughly that Arjuna finally said, “All right, brother, all our doubts are destroyed; now we agree to fight! Better to fight than suffer your harangue. Let come what may.”
So the sin of those who died—more than a billion, according to the Mahabharata—on whose head does it lie? Krishna went to hell. The seventh hell. And he won’t be getting out anytime soon. An entire kalpa will pass, this creation will dissolve, a deluge will come, then a new creation will arise—only then will he be released.

When you hear such things from childhood, how can reverence arise for Krishna? And I saw Hindu children laughing at Mahavira’s statue: “Standing naked—have they no shame? Have some sense of public decorum! Is this any way to be? At least wear a loincloth! What will it cost you?” But no, standing naked. “What kind of God is this?”

Everyone has their notions—but they are the crowd’s notions. Whichever crowd you are born into, you inherit that crowd’s notions. That is an accident. Then your parents want to make you something—some into doctors, some into engineers—they make you doctors and engineers. No one asks what your capacity, your calling is. A man who could have been a musician is forced to sit as a doctor. He weeps. There is no juice in his life. How can there be? He wasn’t made to feel patients’ pulses. Had he plucked the strings of a veena, a stream of rasa would have flowed through his life. But playing the veena doesn’t bring bread; you’ll starve. What parent wants his child to starve? Who will throw his son into such trouble? “Become a doctor.” So he is made a doctor. He will remain sad and troubled all his life.

That’s why you see troubled people everywhere. These are accidents. The one who should have been something else is not that. And the one who is where he is shouldn’t be there; he should be somewhere else. But no person is given the opportunity to be himself.

A right humanity will arise only when we give each child the chance to be himself, whatever he wishes to be. We will support him in being that. If he wants to be a painter, we will support him in becoming a painter. And remember: if his individuality blossoms by becoming a painter, he will be happy even if he dies hungry; he will be delighted even in tattered clothes. And if you force him to become an emperor, and if his being does not harmonize with that, he will weep on the throne—harassed and unhappy. The throne cannot give him joy.

That is why there is so much suffering in the world. And your saints exploit this suffering. They say, “We have been telling you all along—there is suffering in life. See for yourself.”
Life doesn’t have as much suffering as you see. Ninety-nine percent of it is man-made. It is our doing—because we won’t allow a person to be what he is. We tell the rose to become champa; we tell champa to become jasmine; and jasmine to become something else. Champa tries to become jasmine; but she can’t become jasmine, and in trying she fails to be champa as well. Her life remains incomplete, crippled.

You ask rightly, Subhash. You say, “I feel my life is just an accident. What do you say?”
You are perceiving rightly. This is the beginning. A good beginning—a sign of grace. After such an insight, accidents can disappear from your life; a sense of direction can arise. A movement can arise. A right balance can arise. But you’ll have to stake much. Many things will have to be put at stake.

In a hospital’s maternity ward, twenty-eight women were admitted—all from the same neighborhood. This happened here in Poona, and they were all members of a ladies’ Lions Club. The lady doctor was astonished to discover that all of them delivered on the same day—except one woman, who delivered a day later. Surprised, the doctor asked her, “How is it that twenty-seven women from your neighborhood delivered on the same day, but your child was born a day later?” The woman replied, “Last summer all these friends went together to Mahabaleshwar for a picnic, but I fell ill and reached a day late.”
And life goes on like that. Here children are accidents. Marriages are accidents. Friendships and lifelong relationships are accidents. And on this basis you expect bliss to flower—how will it? You expect meaning to arise in life—how is that possible? You are asking the impossible. It cannot be.

You have to give your life a little awareness. Add a note of meditation to it. Create a little wakefulness. Every step needs to be taken consciously. Then, slowly, clarity will arise in your life—discernment will arise. Then you will move by your inner prompting. Then outer things won’t influence you. You will begin to live from within. You won’t depend on the winds outside. Your inner spontaneity will become the ruler and the decider of your life. And such decision fills one with supreme bliss.

Subhash, it is not too late, because it is never too late. Whenever you wake up, it is morning. One who loses his way in the morning but comes home by evening is not called lost. It’s good that remembrance has begun—that your whole life seems an accident. From just here a revolution can happen. Don’t drop this insight; pick up this thread now, and begin to walk thoughtfully. Now take steps deliberately. Now, with awareness—seeing clearly—whatever you want to do, do it in such a way as if your whole life depends on it. Because life is made of small things. There are no big things in life; life is composed of very small things. The intelligent one gathers these in such a way that a beauty arises in his life.

An American millionairess commissioned Picasso to paint her portrait. He asked for one hundred thousand rupees. The lady said, “Don’t worry—one hundred thousand is nothing. I’ll give one hundred and twenty-five thousand, but the painting must be beautiful.”
Picasso said, “If ‘beautiful’ is a condition, then don’t fix the fee now. We’ll fix it only when the painting is finished.”
She was fabulously rich. She thought, “He might ask two hundred thousand—what more?” When the painting was ready—Picasso took six months—she came to collect it. Picasso asked for ten lakhs—one million rupees. She was startled. Though very rich, for a small piece of canvas, with paint worth a few rupees, a canvas worth a few rupees, a frame worth a few rupees—add this man’s little labor—twenty-five rupees in all. One million rupees!
She said, “What are you saying—one million rupees? For this small piece of canvas and a little paint?”
Picasso said, “Wait.” He told his assistant, “Go bring a piece of canvas, a frame, and paints.” The assistant brought them. Picasso handed them to the lady and said, “Here—now pay whatever you like.” The lady said, “What will I do with this?” Picasso said, “I wasn’t charging for the paint, or the frame, or the canvas. I was charging for the arrangement of colors—Picasso’s art of this age. Only I can arrange them this way. If someone else can do it the way I have, I’ll pay him one million.”
In that instant, the lady understood: the question isn’t the cost of paint; it is the placement of color.

In a huge company, a computer-driven factory suddenly shut down. Losses of lakhs per day began. They searched and probed—no clue. An expert could come—from faraway America. He demanded an outrageous fee, but there was no alternative; the factory had to run. The plant was fully automatic, not dependent on workers. The expert came, went inside, took a small hammer from his kit, gave one slight tap at a single spot—just a gentle “khataak”—put the hammer back. The factory started. And he demanded what he had quoted—thousands of dollars! The wealthy owner stood watching. He said, “Aren’t you ashamed to demand thousands of dollars for a little tap of a hammer?”
The expert said, “The issue isn’t tapping with a hammer. The issue is—where to tap. No one else in the world knows that but me. That’s what I’m charging for.”

Everyone has been given life, but where to tap so that life starts running? Everyone has colors and a canvas, but only a Picasso, a Van Gogh, can make colors come alive. Otherwise we just get by: we carry the canvas, the frame hangs around our neck, the colors sit in their tins, and we somehow live. And if life ends like that—petering out with a whimper—there’s nothing surprising in it: no meaning, no grace, no splendor, no taste of joy, no glimpse of samadhi, no vision of the divine. We never created meaning; never orchestrated the music; the song never came together; the strings were never tuned—how could music arise?

Subhash, now that you have come here, learn the art of living. I call religion the art of living. For centuries people have called religion the renunciation of life, and let me be clear: I do not agree. Religion is the art of living. It is the science of drawing music from the veena of life. It is the way to color life. It is the key to open the secrets hidden in life.

But this is possible only if you polish your own intelligence. People live stupidly. And they defend their stupidity. Draw a sword against their stupidity, and they cry, “Our sentiments are hurt.” Their stupidity is their sentiment. Their life is futility. They are rotting. They have never tasted joy. Not a single drop of nectar has touched their tongue. But if you strike their beliefs—“Our sentiments are hurt!” They are ready to fight and die. Ready to kill and be killed. They have no taste for living. There is nothing in their living. How could there be any taste in such living?

Now that you have come here, learn the art of living. The first sutra of the art of living is: meditation. Because meditation will polish your intelligence. Meditation will keep the edge on the sword of your talent. Meditation will make you intelligent. And ordinarily, what you call religion makes you dumb, not intelligent. Because beliefs are imposed upon you—believe this, believe that. Don’t even talk of knowing—just believe! If you talk of knowing, you are an atheist! Believe—quietly believe! Don’t ask questions. Don’t be curious. There is no question of inquiry. The forefathers have already inquired. They settled truth for you once and for all. Your job is merely to ruminate—chew the cud. Chew what has already been chewed. There is nothing left in it; all the juice dried long ago. It’s garbage. Yet keep chewing. Dry grass. You’ll get nothing from it. But it is ancient. Rotten, but very ancient. Enjoy its antiquity. Live among the dead. And if you live among the dead—what else can you become but dead?

I do not call religion the renunciation of life—I call it the art of life. Not escape from life, but immersion in life. Dive so deeply that all the secrets of life open before you. Love life. Rejoice that God has given you this rare opportunity of life.

I call those people atheists who run away from life—because what does that mean? God offered the gift of life and you fled from it. That is an insult to God. So far, the so-called sannyasins have insulted God. I teach you to honor God.

But begin with meditation and perfect it in love. Meditation will make your intelligence shine, and love will fill your heart with nectar. If these two are complete, you have two wings—and then you can fly into the sky. The infinite sky is yours!

Sahajanand! I can tell you what I had for breakfast on the morning of 12 February 1974, or what I ate in the morning in 1977, or what I had for my evening meal on 15 March 1978. And the reason is not that my memory is good. The only reason is that I eat the same breakfast every day and the same meals every day; I make no distinction. You can ask me about any date—I can answer. There is simply no room for error. Nothing miraculous about it. If a person has been eating the same breakfast every day for years, even if he wants to forget, how could he? The miracle would not be in remembering, it would be in forgetting—you simply cannot forget.

I also eat the same food—regularly. The same in the morning, the same in the evening. I drink the same number of cups of tea every day. Whatever the date, the day, the year. Whether I am healthy or ill, it makes no difference. In every condition I let things continue as they do. There is nothing of memory’s prowess in this.

Secondly, whatever I say to you is my experience, not my memory. Therefore there is no reason for error in it either. You could wake me up at midnight and ask, and I would still say the same—because it is my experience. Yes, if it is not your own experience, then trouble begins. To rely on memory means you are relying on the experience of others. If you want to remember what is written in the Gita, you need memory. If you want to remember what is written in the Koran, you need memory. I do not bother about the Gita or the Koran. And even if I mention them, I do not bother whether what I am saying is actually written there or not.

I was in Nagpur and told a story from the life of Buddha: Buddha was walking along a road—this is from before his attainment of Buddhahood—talking with a disciple. A fly landed on his face. He continued talking and, as we usually do, he brushed the fly off mechanically. Then he stopped short; immediately he remembered that he had not brushed the fly away consciously. And this was precisely his practice—to perform every act consciously, not mechanically. Now the fly was gone; it had flown away. What does it matter to the fly whether you brushed it away mechanically or consciously? The fly has nothing to do with it; it flies at the sight of a hand. But Buddha raised his hand again as if the fly were there. The disciple stood watching, bewildered. Buddha brought his hand up to his head and brushed away the fly—which wasn’t there—then lowered his hand again. And he resumed the conversation at the point where it had broken off. The disciple said, “I have forgotten the conversation. I want to ask—what did you just do? The fly flew away long ago, you had already brushed it off; what were you brushing away now?”

Buddha said, “Now I was brushing it away the way I should have brushed it away before. A mistake happened; I was correcting it and seeing how it ought to be done—experiencing it rightly.”

A Buddhist monk heard this. He came to see me at night. He said, “You told a marvelous story! But I have read the entire Tripitaka, all the Buddhist scriptures—this story is nowhere.”

I said, “Then add it. It must have been left out; the writers must have forgotten.” He stared at me, astonished. He said, “What are you saying? How can you correct the scriptures twenty-five hundred years later?”

I said, “I have nothing to do with scriptures. I know the taste of Buddhahood. This story must happen in the life of one devoted to the practice of Buddhahood. It may happen like this, or in some other form—but the event must occur. It can manifest in many ways.”

He said, “What you say really fits. It makes sense that Buddha’s whole practice is awareness.”

I said, “Then it’s enough that it fits. It’s enough that it is understood. It is not contrary to Buddha’s inner stream, is it?”

He said, “No, it is not contrary. It is entirely in accord with his inner stream.”

“So then,” I said, “my concern is with the inner stream. What have I to do with scriptures? If it appears in scripture, fine; if not, fine. I am no scriptural scholar, nor am I interested in being one.”

Therefore, when I give quotations, do not assume you will surely find the exact citation. You may find it—or you may not. But the listener will certainly feel that I speak with such force that it must be so. The force is not because it is in scripture; the force is because I know from my own experience that this is the truth. Whether it is in the scriptures or not, it is so. Even if all the scriptures were destroyed, what I am saying would still be true. Even if all the scriptures were opposed, what I am saying would still be true. And even if all the scriptures were in agreement, what I am saying would still be true. This is not a matter of memory—it is a matter of my awakening.

And do not ask me for the trick of memory. Ask me for the knack of awakening. I am not here to teach memory. If you want to learn memory, it is not a difficult business. There is only one way: cram it hard. There is no other way to memory. Whatever you want to remember, keep cramming it. Repeat it again and again so that a groove is made. You must have heard the saying: “The rope, by coming and going, carves a mark in the stone.” Even a stone gets marked if the rope keeps rubbing—coming and going. “By constant practice even the dull-witted become clever”—but mark this well: they do not become wise. The dull remain dull, however much they practice. Yes, their memory improves. They become pundits—scholars—not wise. Wisdom is a different matter. And if someone is thoroughly dull, even that saying will not apply to him: the rope may keep coming and going till it frays and breaks; his stone will show no mark. If the stone itself is hard enough, what can the rope do?

Sahajanand, if you want to remember something, repeat it. Keep repeating it. That is how people recite the Gita or the Koran every morning—repeating and repeating. Say to a parrot every day, “Mithu, say ‘Ram Ram, Ram Ram.’” The parrot gets so harassed by hearing “Ram Ram, Ram Ram” that it starts saying “Ram Ram, Ram Ram.” Even parrots can acquire memory. But no parrot becomes wise.

Ask me the knack of awakening, the secret of Buddhahood. That is why scholars are annoyed with me—because it creates difficulties for them. They live by the fixed lines of scripture.

When I spoke on Kabir, the head of the Kabirpanthis wrote me a long letter: “You said many good things, but at one place you interpreted Kabir in a way that is not scriptural.”

I had a reply sent to him: “That is the misfortune of the scriptures. What can I do about it? I will say what I have to say. I neither expect nor need nor require the support of scripture.”

I myself am the evidence for what I am saying. The proof is not elsewhere. Therefore I can speak on everything with force. Such force does not belong to memory. It cannot arise from memory. And there is simply no question of forgetting. If it is my own experience, how can I forget it? Ask from this side or that, in a thousand ways—I will say what I have to say.

Many people have sent me remarks: “You are amazing—when you speak on Kabir it feels as if Kabir is right; when you speak on Mira it feels as if Mira is right; on Raidas, as if Raidas is right; on Farid, as if Farid is right; on Nanak, as if Nanak is right!” I want to tell them that I have nothing to do with whether they are right or wrong. I simply speak what is right. They are bottles—I pour my own wine into them. And what difference does the bottle make to the wine? Whether it is Nanak’s bottle or Kabir’s bottle. Whatever the pitcher, I pour in my own experience. That is why scholars are annoyed. The pundit of the Kabirpanthis will be upset. Those who are moving in the direction of experience will be delighted by what I have said about Kabir. But the man who clings to Kabir in a pedant’s way will be angry. If even a man like Kabir is grasped in pedantry, that is the limit—then whom will you spare?

Kabir said, “I have not touched ink and paper!” And Kabir said, “This is not a matter of writing and reading; it is a matter of seeing.” Yet the great mahants who claim to follow Kabir wrote me an angry letter: “What you have said goes against the scripture.” And Kabir says, “This is not a matter of writing and reading; it is a matter of seeing.” I am speaking from seeing, and they are dragging in writing and reading. Now with whom is Kabir—me or these mahants? People have even bound a man like Kabir, who said, “Two and a half letters of love—whoever reads them becomes a pundit,” in their books and shackled him in scriptures!

My memory is nothing special. Nor do I bother about it. If you bother, it becomes a hindrance. That is why it will often happen that I tell the same story sometimes in the name of Bokuju, sometimes Rinzai, sometimes Bodhidharma. Who cares! To me they are all bottles. I had a story to tell. Any pretext will do—they are pegs. I had to hang my coat; I hung it. Should I go around inspecting the pegs before I hang the coat? If there are no pegs, one hangs it on nails; if there are no nails, on doors; and if there is nothing, on one’s own shoulder. What else can one do!

This is not memory; this is my experience.

Narayan Datt Tiwari! Brother, it seems your wife has come here with you as well. Speak the truth, honestly.

In court the public prosecutor charged Mulla Nasruddin, saying, “My Lord, this is the man who pushed his wife into the deep pond at the zoo, and the crocodiles ate her.”
A wave of joy rose in the judge’s heart. But unfortunately, that day his wife was also present in court, just to watch the proceedings. So the judge said, “But did this scoundrel not know that it is forbidden to feed the animals in the zoo?”

Chandulal was telling his friend Nasruddin one day, “I doubt anyone has a wife as obedient as mine.” The wife was there too, knitting a sweater and listening to what was being said. Wives can do four or five things at once: knit a sweater, rock the baby’s cradle with their foot, keep an ear on what the husband is discussing... and the softer the whisper, the more clearly they hear it. If you speak loudly, there’s no need; they don’t have to listen then.
Hearing Chandulal say this, Nasruddin was startled. He asked, “What do you mean?” Chandulal said, “Why, whenever I say I need hot water, she brings it immediately. If I say it every day, she brings it every day.”
Nasruddin said, “But one thing I can’t understand: what on earth do you do with hot water every day? Looking at you, it doesn’t seem as if you even know how to bathe!”
Chandulal replied, “Arre, man, you’re being absurd! In such cold weather, can anyone wash dishes with cold water? You need hot water to wash the utensils, don’t you!”

Brother Narayan Datt Tiwari, come alone sometime. Then what I say will make sense. Right now your wife must be sitting right next to you, looking at your face.

Mulla Nasruddin and his wife had gone out for a walk. They were talking when suddenly, getting heated over something, the wife gave Nasruddin a hard slap. Nasruddin buzzed with anger. He said, “Did you slap me seriously, or in jest?”
Guljaan, angry too, said, “I slapped you seriously. Say, what will you do?”
Nasruddin softened and said, “Nothing—only this, that I don’t like jokes of this kind at all. If you did it seriously, then there’s no problem.”

You say, “I am a married man.” Of course you are! You say, “I don’t see any suffering in married life. Then why do you make fun of marriage?”
You are fortunate. If you don’t see any suffering in marriage, then why have you come here? Why are you wasting your time here? Enjoy the bliss of marriage. But there are teeth for eating and other teeth for showing. People say one thing; the reality is another. No one says it openly. How could they? Tongues are tied. And besides, what is the point of inviting embarrassment?

All stories, old or new, end with marriage. Films too end with marriage: the shehnai plays, garlands are exchanged, the rounds around the fire are taken—and the story ends! Because what happens afterward is neither fit to show, nor to tell, nor to share with anyone. In stories they say, “They were married, and then they lived happily.” Have you ever seen even one story in which it says, “They were married, and then they lived unhappily”? No such story has ever been written. If it were true that after marriage both live happily, then this life, this world, should be filled with unparalleled joy. But that is not what we see anywhere. And the cornerstone of this society, this arrangement, this life, is marriage. Yet we hide; we keep wearing masks.

The fun I make is only of your masks. Now, it may be, by chance, that you are an exception: perhaps you have found an apsara—or perhaps you yourself are some god—and the life of both of you truly passes in happiness. I do not deny it; who am I to doubt you? I keep faith. You know your truth. Only this much I request: next time, come alone. Then things will be clearer to you, and in the right way.

Avinash! Why wouldn’t there be a way? There’s a remedy for everything. Where there is illness, there is some medicine too.

Dhabbuji had three girlfriends. When he finally married, he chose the shortest one—three and a half feet tall. A friend asked, “What’s the secret? Two healthy, beautiful, educated, tall girls were after you—why pick this skinny, frail, stumpy one?” Dhabbuji said, “No secret—just plain common sense. The smaller the trouble, the better, the more auspicious, the more beautiful.”

Now you’re saying you want at least less suffering. Some way can be found. Choose your trouble consciously. It’s in your hands to choose your trouble.

When Mulla Nasruddin got married, he married the ugliest woman in the village—no one else was willing to marry her. The whole village was shocked. No one could believe it—that anyone would marry this woman. Her looks were so—so terrifying—that if someone saw her even once, they’d either run to the hills, hide in caves, renounce the world altogether, or commit suicide by jumping in the river. He married her. Among Muslims there’s a custom: when the wife comes home after the wedding, she asks in front of whom she may lift her burqa, her veil—she seeks her husband’s permission. Nasruddin said, “Goddess, everyone except me! Anyway, I won’t come home during the day. I’ll come at night, in the dark. And one request: the moment I knock, please switch off the light.”

People asked, “Nasruddin, why did you choose such an ugly woman?” He said, “For several reasons. First, she’ll never cheat. How could she? I’ll never even have to suspect her. My mind will always have faith. She won’t run away with anyone. The home is safe in her hands. She’ll always serve me. A beautiful woman makes others serve her. And she’ll always feel grateful. A beautiful woman says, ‘I’ve bestowed a favor on you—who else would have chosen you!’”

Avinash, you ask: “Is there no way?”
Why wouldn’t there be ways?

Poor Dhabbuji is a very busy man. From six in the morning he’s doing housework. Then from eight to six he works like a mule in the office. In the evening he returns home and again dives into household chores. So he doesn’t get much time to focus on his child’s studies. Just last Sunday, in the afternoon, he felt like inquiring about his son’s studies—exams were near. He started with language questions, then moved to arithmetic. A disaster was narrowly averted when he asked, “Tell me, son, what comes after eight?” The innocent boy promptly answered, “After eight, every day your friend Chandulal comes—to meet Mommy. Except on Sundays.”

A blow-up was about to happen, but Dhabbuji started doing Vipassana meditation. That’s the very significance of Vipassana!

Avinash, learn Vipassana first; marry later. Because many situations will arise where only Vipassana can save you. And with meditation a person becomes even-sighted, holds equanimity in pleasure and pain.

Nasruddin and his wife were busy with love-play at night when suddenly someone shone a torch on their faces. They saw it was their son, Fazlu, watching them in the beam. Nasruddin barked, “Hey, you little fool, what are you doing?” Fazlu said, “Papa, I’m checking whether the one with Mommy is you or some other scoundrel!” Nasruddin said, “Fazlu, son, we are very proud of your cleverness!”

Then you have to act with understanding. The essence lies in wisdom. And if nothing else works, what are the police for? What are the courts for? For those who can’t protect themselves, the police are there.

The phone rang at the police station. The inspector picked up. A voice said, “Hello, I’m calling from Ganesh Bhavan opposite the post office. On the fourth floor, flat number five, a ferocious woman is screaming at her feeble husband, Chandulal, and beating him mercilessly. The whole neighborhood’s sleep is ruined. Please do something.” The inspector said, “All right, sir, I’ll send someone right away. But do tell me—who are you?” The reply came, “Who am I? Why, I’m that dangerous woman’s scrawny husband, Chandulal—who else!”

If nothing else can be managed, there’s always the police. But Avinash, do get married. Great experiences come through marriage. Without the experience of marriage, life remains incomplete. Without that experience… haven’t you seen just now—Narayan Dutt Tiwari—how else will you attain such heavenly bliss! First, taste the heavenly bliss. Though all heavens and hells eventually prove themselves. But only when all heavens and hells are proven does a person enter within. First he gropes outside, searches—in others. That is what marriage is—what else? Some marry money, some position; some a woman, some a man; some marry ambition, some fame. All these are marriages. First a person seeks his happiness in the other. When he finds it nowhere, only then—defeated and tired—does he finally turn within.

That’s all for today.