Sumiran Mera Hari Kare #8

Krishnatirth Bharti! The truth is never forgiven. To forgive the truth is very difficult, because the crowd lives in untruth. To accept truth is hard. Acceptance of truth means: the courage to change your entire life-arrangement, your way of living, the very foundations of your life.

Each person has built houses of cards. Truth comes like a storm. Those palaces begin to fall. Being of cards, even a small gust topples them. Naturally, their inhabitants will be angry. There is no injustice in it. It is utterly natural, spontaneous.

People have made paper boats. They are sitting with faith in those boats. Truth shakes them and reminds them: these boats are of paper; they will sink; don’t board them. But people have worked hard on those paper boats—prepared over centuries, poured their lives into them, decorated, painted, adorned them. To drop one’s attachment in an instant, to see at once that they are paper and futile—that would be a sign of great intelligence. Such intelligence the crowd does not have. If the crowd had it, it would no longer be a crowd. Yes, such intelligence can occur in an individual.

Therefore, the message of truth is always heard by a few. The rest, even if they hear, they let it slip by. Even if they hear, they hear it in their own way. You say one thing, they hear another; you say one thing, they interpret another. They have vested interests. They want even truth to suit them. But truth suits no one; truth suits itself. Those who want truth must suit themselves to truth. Our desire, however, is that truth suit us.

If we are to suit ourselves to truth, we have to pass through an inner revolution—through fire. Much will break, much will fall. Much will change. Many dreams and hopes will turn to dust. The very foundations upon which you had imposed your whole life will slip from beneath your feet. You will be left hanging in midair. And sometimes it happens that we are so afraid of being suspended in the void that even when the ground is near, we miss it.

I have heard: a traveler lost his way in a forest at night. It was pitch dark. His foot slipped from the path, and he fell into a pit. He thought: My life is over! He hung on to a root. The night was cold; his hands began to turn to ice; the roots started slipping from his grip. He screamed and shouted, but in that desolate forest there was no one to hear. In the end there was no recourse; the blood in his hands seemed to freeze; his grip loosened. At last the roots slipped from his hands. The man thought he was dead—cried “Hey Ram!” and abandoned hope. But then he was startled—he was standing on the ground. The ground was only half a foot below. He had hung for hours, needlessly. He had been hanging because of fear: Who knows how deep the pit is, whether I’ll survive or not! There was no pit. But the fear of a pit kept him in the jaws of death for half the night. It was an imagined death.

People remain with the crowd out of just such fear—that alone they will be left dangling in the void. At least in the crowd there is this assurance: so many are going in one direction, so the direction must be right.

A Christian priest once said to George Bernard Shaw: You will at least concede that half the earth accepts Christianity—half of humanity. Can so many people be wrong?

What Shaw replied deserves deep thought. Shaw gazed at the priest for a moment and said: I ask you—how can such a vast crowd be right?

The priest’s argument was: How can such a large crowd—half of humankind—be wrong? And Shaw’s argument was: How can such a large crowd be right? Truth has come to one or two—to a Buddha, a Krishna, a Lao Tzu, a Jesus. Names countable on the fingers. Crowds have never possessed truth—neither the Hindu crowd nor the Muslim crowd, neither the Christian crowd nor the crowd of theists nor the crowd of atheists. The crowd, as such, has no truth. A crowd is made of sheep. The fearful are those who gather in a crowd; because in a crowd it seems, I am not alone—so why fear?

Man is afraid to be alone. And the search for truth happens in aloneness. By aloneness I do not mean going to caves in the Himalayas. By aloneness I mean: go within. There the One is—and there is solitude. The crowd is outside; solitude is inside. The crowd is extroversion; solitude is introversion. Those who went within, who realized themselves, knew the truth. Naturally, their statements never match the crowd; never did; cannot today; never will.

Krishnatirth Bharti, you ask, “What kind of justice is it that you are distributing nectar and people want to poison you!”

This is what they have always done. This is the justice. This is the rule. If they did not, then know that what I am saying is not truth.

Lao Tzu has a famous saying: If truth is spoken before fools, they do not listen. If truth is spoken before the learned, they fall into thinking.

Thinking too is a device to escape. Instead of seeing truth, they begin to fuss about it—is it right or wrong, in accord with scripture or against it, does it fit the logic, can it harmonize with my prejudices? And if truth is spoken before the crowd, they begin to laugh. They think: what foolishness!

People thought Jesus was mad. They laughed at him. And the statement must have sounded insane: that a man says, “I am the son of God.” But Jesus was not saying it only about himself—he was saying it about everyone, that each person is a son of God. The proclamation was not about his personal self; it was about the innermost self of each. It was not about his ego; it was about everyone’s inner soul. But people laughed.

When they led Jesus to be crucified, they placed the cross on his shoulder and flogged him, for the cross was heavy—and he had to climb a hill carrying it. People laughed. They threw rotten tomatoes, banana peels, stones, and said—here is the son of God! Here is the emperor! They had placed a crown of thorns on his head. Shouldn’t a king be welcomed thus! Even on the cross it was written: This is the only-begotten son of God—now watch the miracle! When he was crucified, multitudes gathered. Not to see—to laugh. When the crucifixion was done, they laughed and gossiped their way home. A spectacle had occurred. They laughed.

Lao Tzu is right: Say truth before the crowd and first they will laugh. And if you continue to speak, the crowd will take revenge. The crowd will begin to fear that if you keep on, some in the crowd may agree with you! It might begin to seem right to a few.

This is the justice of history, because history is made by the blind. Understand the herd-instinct. A schoolteacher asked a small boy, “In your walled garden there are ten sheep. One jumps the wall and goes out. How many are left?” The boy said, “Not one.”

The teacher said, “Do you understand arithmetic or not? When will you get sense? Such a simple question you cannot answer? I’m telling you one went out; how many remain inside—there were ten!”

The boy said, “You may know arithmetic, but we keep sheep at home. I am a shepherd’s son; I know sheep—and sheep don’t know arithmetic either. If one gets out, the rest will follow; none will remain behind.”

Sheep move as a herd. If one falls into a ditch, the rest will. If one falls into a well, the rest will.

You see this all around. The crowd has no insight of its own. No one in a crowd has their own seeing. That is precisely why they gather in a crowd. They think others will have the insight; the others think they will. No one has it.

Kabir says: “The blind push the blind; both fall into the well.” The blind are shoving the blind. The blind have become leaders of the blind—and then all fall into the well. And you can see that every person has fallen into a well. In whose eyes is there a ray of joy? In whose being are the songs of love? Upon whose lips is the taste of nectar? Who has recognized God? Who has had a glimpse of the eternal life? Whose feet are ankleted with the eternal—whose life is a dance, a song, a celebration? All are sad—utterly sad. Everyone’s life is a burden. People carry it like a load—dragging, crawling. How talk of dance—walking itself is difficult. Not even walking—dragging on their knees. In their eyes nothing but tears. Look within and no flowers bloom—only thorns. Only sorrow, only melancholy, only anguish.

People come and ask me: Is there a hell?

I ask them: Have you gone crazy? You ask whether there is a hell! You are living in hell—and ask whether it exists! Just open your eyes and look around—where else would hell be?

A man from New Delhi died. He knocked at the gate of hell. The devil opened it—asked his name and address. When he said he came from New Delhi, the devil said, “You have lived quite enough in hell; there is no need to come here. We have nothing more to show you than what you have already seen. Now go to heaven. You have become worthy. You have suffered enough—what more is there to suffer? Why have you come here? Still not satisfied?”

People are living in hell. But we forget the medium in which we live—just as a fish forgets the ocean. She is born in the ocean, lives in it, dies in it. They say the philosophical fish ponder where the ocean is—think, reflect, study scriptures, ask the knowledgeable, the experienced, the elders—“Where is the ocean?” A fish knows the ocean only when a fisherman pulls her out and throws her on the shore; writhing on the sunlit sand, she realizes—Ah, where I was—that was the ocean.

Where you are living is hell. But whatever you are living—even if it is hell—is your life. And you cling to your life. This clinging to life is very deep.

In Egypt, a thousand years ago, a real incident occurred. There was an ancient Christian monastery far out in the desert. Their rule was: once a monk entered, he never left. There was an entrance, but no exit. Whoever went in, went in. Such monasteries still exist, where once you go in, you cannot come out again. Only a corpse comes out. But in that monastery even the corpse did not come out. When someone died, they had dug a cavern beneath the monastery; the body was lowered there and the cave sealed with a stone.

A Christian fakir died. He was lowered and the stone sealed. By chance, he had not died—only fallen into coma. Ten or twelve hours later he regained consciousness. You can imagine his ordeal. He shouted, but the gate of the crypt had been shut; the stone had been put back. His voice could not reach outside. He was in the city of the dead—corpses all around; rotting; worms; unbearable stench. For hundreds of years, who knows how many monks had died there. At first he was terrified. You might think he would commit suicide—bash his head with stones. No. The will-to-live is powerful. For two or four days he suffered, cried, screamed; then slowly he reconciled himself to his new situation. Man’s capacity to adapt is infinite. He settled in. And his settling may disturb you; but if you think about it, perhaps you too would settle—after all, most people in the world have. He did not wish to die. He thought: Who knows—in a few days some monk will die; so many are old; someone will die; when they open the stone I will get out. Why waste my life? Why such haste? And besides, what great bliss was there in the monastery that I should be so frantic?

As for the stench—within a few days the nostrils adjusted. But there was thirst and hunger. Waste water from the monastery seeped through the walls of that cavern. At first the thought of licking that water brought disgust—but what else could he do! How long could he remain thirsty! He began to lick that water to quench his thirst. But hunger? And you will be astonished: he began to eat the rotting flesh of the corpses. Man can do anything to survive. Days passed, weeks passed, months passed. He prayed—five times a day was the rule in the monastery, but here there was no other work, so whenever he had time he prayed. And he had only one prayer: “O Lord, quickly kill someone—kill anyone! Once this stone is lifted, I will get out.” Is this the prayer of a religious man—that someone be killed? Yet this was his only prayer. Years went by; gradually even that became a routine—formal, mechanical. He began to eat flesh—and even relish it: the rotten flesh.

After ten years someone died; the stone was opened. The man’s beard had grown to the ground; his eyes had gone blind from the darkness. But he had grown fat and sturdy—he was eating only meat, and had nothing to do but eat and rest. When he came out he carried a bundle with him. The whole monastery gathered: What is in the bundle! They could hardly believe their eyes. They had forgotten him. Ten years earlier—the dead, who remembers! There were a thousand monks. Then memory returned. The man said, “By mistake you buried me; I was alive. I survived—with the Lord’s grace. It was hard, but I survived.”

“What is in this bundle?”

It was the custom there that when anyone died, two sets of clothes and some money were buried with him. Even today in some lands it is customary to throw coins and place clothes in the grave—for the journey beyond. He had collected all the money and all the clothes of those who had died before him, tied them into a bundle, and was bringing them out. Not only did he live; he amassed; he acquired. He said, “Why should I go out empty-handed? After these ten years of hardship, let me take something along.”

It seems unbelievable. When I first read this story in the histories of Christian monasteries, I thought it was only a tale. But then I realized—that is how millions live. A man without legs or hands, blind, begging on the street, a leper whose body is decaying—he too wants to live; he too does not want to die; he too wants you to bless him: “May you live long!” What is there in his living? But what is there in the living of others who are not lepers, whose eyes, hands, feet are fine, who are not beggars? Still, we clutch whatever we have. And this is the difficulty with truth: truth opens your fists. Truth says: open your hands and see—they are empty. You are only imagining that you hold something.

The one who has clutched wealth—what has he clutched? At death it will be known that it was nothing—a dream. The one who has clutched position—what has he clutched? Yet once people sit on a chair, see how they cling! They do not let go. How much tugging and scuffling—but they won’t release it. Whatever is grabbed is gripped tight.

Therefore, Krishnatirth Bharti, do not say, “What kind of justice is this!” This is how it has always been. This is the justice of history—of the blind. This is a town of the blind. In this town of the blind, this is what can happen to truth. Truth can be crucified here; it cannot be enthroned. Here untruth sits on the throne. And untruth has many companions, because untruth is cheap—free—you need do nothing. Did you have to do anything to be a Hindu? To be a Muslim? To be a Christian or a Jain? These are matters of birth—given at birth. What madness!

Can religion be received by birth? A process as precious as religion has to be attained. For it one must endure a thousand pains, climb unknown peaks. It is a difficult path, thorny. Thousands set out; then perhaps one or two arrive. It is like climbing Everest. But you got it free: you were born, someone put a sacred thread on you—you became a Hindu, a dvija. So cheaply—dvija! Do you know the meaning of dvija? Twice-born. And the second birth happens through samadhi, not by wearing a thread. Not every Brahmin is dvija, though every dvija is a Brahmin—whoever he may be. Jesus is a Brahmin. Buddha is a Brahmin. Muhammad is a Brahmin. Bahauddin is a Brahmin. They are dvija. They attained the second birth through samadhi.

From mother and father the body is born. Then there is another birth, which must be gained by oneself. But you made no attempt for the second birth. A Christian priest came, sprinkled water—baptized you—and your second birth was done; you became a Christian! Just by sprinkling water! Or a Jewish priest came and performed circumcision—you became a Jew! By cutting a bit of skin—you became a Jew! If only matters were so cheap! If only religion were so easy! But we have invented cheap tricks. We have made plastic flowers. Real flowers have to be grown: prepare the soil, remove weeds, clear stones, bring manure, set a fence, plant the rose; then protect it, water it, care for sun and shade—then, perhaps, real roses will bloom. And they have fragrance.

And those who live with fake flowers will not like real ones, because the presence of the real appears to insult their fake. That is the snag. Hence this is history’s justice—this is the blind man’s justice: when truth appears, kill it—poison it, hang it—so that your world of untruth continues undisturbed, with no hindrance.

You ask: “You want to give humankind a new life, and they want to snatch yours.”

Natural. I too want to snatch their life; only then can I give them a new one. The life they are living—I want to take it away. What they consider life, I do not call life; I consider it worse than death. It is not life; it is a counterfeit of life. I too want to take their life; naturally they get offended, enraged. They may not be able to forgive me—I can forgive them. I perfectly understand their trouble. I am taking away their life. What seems wrong to me seems right to them.

Take a toy from a small child, and you will see—he will cry, shout, make a scene. For you it is a toy; for him it is very real. And here there are small children and big children—what is the difference? A little child sleeps with his doll or teddy. In Bengal there is a sect of Krishna devotees who sleep with Krishna’s idol. What difference is there between them and small children? The little child talks to his toy, “Dear prince, how are you? Did you sleep well?” You laugh—what madness! But what are you doing? You rock Krishna’s cradle. Krishna departed five thousand years ago—whom are you rocking? A statue is seated; it too is a toy—albeit a religious one. You put Krishna to sleep at night, seat him by day.

What fun—you would have done such things to a living Krishna? Whenever your whim, you lay him down; whenever your whim, you seat him up? You offer delicacies in Krishna’s name—but you are the one who eats them. You even converse—and call it prayer, worship! And not just small people—Martin Buber, a very great thinker of this century, wrote in his famous book I and Thou that the dialogue between God and the person is called prayer. Such a limit of misunderstanding! Leave aside the small; but Martin Buber is among the foremost thinkers of this century; among Jews, none greater. Yet what is he saying! That there is dialogue with God.

With whom will you have dialogue? Is God a person with whom you will converse, to whom you will make pleas and prayers? God is not a person. God is another name for existence. There can be no prayer to God. There is no way of prayer. All prayers are childish. With God there can only be meditation, not prayer.

And meditation means simply this: you become empty, quiet, silent. In your utter silence existence begins to throb within you. In your emptiness, existence dances; existence’s flute begins to play. You dissolve, and existence fills you—to the brim, overflowing—spilling out of you. But there can be no dialogue; dialogue is childish.

In the name of religion we have done all these cheap things. You go to church on Sunday and think the matter finished—religion accomplished, you are a Christian. Jesus was crucified, and you went to church for an hour to observe a formality. Buddha undertook six years of deep meditation, and what do you have to do? Nothing. When you decide to become a Buddhist, you become one. Ambedkar became Buddhist with millions. Neither was Ambedkar a Buddhist, nor is there a single Buddhist among those millions. Pure politics—sheer politics. All his life Ambedkar sometimes thought to become a Muslim, sometimes a Christian; finally he decided to become a Buddhist. Are these ways? But once he became Buddhist, his followers began to call him a bodhisattva. Had he become a Christian instead? There was no obstacle to that either—the same followers would have become Christians with him, or Muslims. All political maneuvers—nothing to do with religion.

Did you earn your religion—or did you get it free? There is no testament for religion. A father, dying, can leave you money—but not religion. Religion is non-transferable; it cannot be handed from one to another. Each person has to discover his own nature by himself; to find his own truth by himself.

Therefore, whenever someone speaks truth, countless people will become restless. It is difficult to tolerate the presence of one who has attained truth, because his very presence will tell you that you are untrue. His presence will make you uneasy, will trouble you. You will want to silence his voice, cut off his head, finish him. If he is finished, our bother ends—then we can go on living as we are, undisturbed; no one to obstruct our way of life.

Krishnatirth Bharti, I want to give man a new life—but I will first take away his old one. Space must be cleared first. If I take away their old life, what is their fault if they become eager to take mine? So what they do—in their stupor, in their sleep—is understandable. I will keep doing my work; they will keep doing theirs. It has been this way; it will remain this way. History will keep repeating its mistakes until all human beings attain Buddhahood. But when will that be? That hope is a false hope. When will the entire human race attain Buddhahood? It cannot happen.

I do not like living in imagination. I am a realist. I accept: only a few have attained Buddhahood; only a few will. Their number will grow. As humankind becomes more mature, their number will grow. The more Buddhas there are in the world, the more fragrance there will be, the more aroma, the more light, the more lamps. Yet darkness will remain. There is much darkness—and many are its partisans.

Krishnakant! Who isn’t eager about politics? You are not unique. You will become unique the day you can become eager about religion. Everyone is eager about politics. Politics is a game for the blind—a chessboard of the blind.

What does politics mean? Politics means the race of the ego. And religion means the dissolution of the ego. Politics and religion are opposites, fundamentally opposed. And you are trained in politics. We pour this poison even into little children: the race to be first! We tell a small child, “Come first in class, come first in school, first in the college, first in the university.” Why? Leave others behind and you be first.

But remember the words of Jesus. He said: “Blessed are those who are last, for those who are last will, in truth, be the first in the Kingdom of my Lord.” That is a formula of religion. No one ever expressed religion more sweetly: Blessed are those who are last!

Politics is the game of being first—be the president, be the prime minister. Ahead, ahead! Leave everyone behind. “I must become special, distinguished; I must proclaim the ‘I’!” But why this frantic chase for the “I”? Why is a man so mad after it? The reason is an inferiority complex. Politics is a disease born of the inferiority complex. Each person feels, “I am inferior. I must prove that I am something.” If I can’t prove it, my life will have been wasted. “I will prove it—by wealth, by position, by fame, by a Nobel Prize—but I will prove that I am special. I am not ordinary; I am extraordinary, eminent, distinguished!”

But no matter how big a chair you sit on—sit on an elephant if you like—if you’re a fool, you’re a fool. On an elephant you’ll look an even bigger fool. Your foolishness will be visible far and wide, nothing else. A big chair will only let you announce your foolishness more easily. What else will happen? If you have money you can give practical shape to your foolishness—something hard to do without money. But you will not change.

In politics, the person doesn’t change; only the power in his hands increases. And that is what each person wants.

Krishnakant, you are not afflicted with some special disease; it is a common disease. Everyone suffers from it—the whole society, the whole culture, the whole education. We pour this poison into every child. And if you keep at this race you will reach somewhere. Just keep jostling and shoving; it is a matter of patience. Get beaten, be thrashed, but don’t give up; stick it out and you will arrive. You need a thick skin—take a hundred blows and still push in to watch the show! With that kind of nerve, it isn’t difficult to become a prime minister or a president. Your curiosity will be fulfilled—but not only that, your life will be spent as well. In the end you’ll be left with a rattle in your hand, and you’ll go on shaking it until you die. It’s a rattle, nothing more.

During election days,
at the turn of a lane,
an aspirant asked a dog
sitting silently,
“Friend!
These days why don’t you bark?”
The dog snapped back,
“Yes!
Because now barking
counts as a speech.”

Keep barking; slowly people will think you’re delivering speeches. Even dogs feel ashamed. In election days even dogs become completely quiet. Have you noticed? Perhaps you haven’t. Even dogs feel ashamed; they lower their heads: What is the point of barking now? Humans are doing our job for us.

A clerk’s son, Nachiketa,
seeing the sorrows of countless homes,
recalling the Upanishadic tale,
went to Yama’s abode.
Yama said: “Child! Your wish
shall be fulfilled now.
For three days you stayed
hungry and thirsty in my house.
Ask, my son! I grant you
three boons.”
Nachiketa shouted, “Bread,
clothes, and a house.”

A modern Nachiketa! And even if God were to appear to you, Krishnakant, and ask, “Speak, my child, what do you desire?”—what would you ask? Something petty, something futile, worth two pennies. And if you persist, such two-penny things will be obtained.

At noon a thief was breaking
the lock upon a door.
A policeman stood upon the road;
someone told him, “Sir,
why are you just watching?
Catch him, constable!”
The constable replied, “I won’t
catch him, brother.
Later this might cost me
my service.
He steals so brazenly
he could become a minister.”

You ask: “I cannot take the least interest in religion, but I have great eagerness for politics.” Your eagerness is for the ego. Politics is the expansion, the trade, the business of the ego. And religion is exactly the opposite.

Defeated politicians start taking interest in religion: they think, “I’ve lost the game here; now let me take care of the next world.” Meaning, “Let me carry on politics there.” Even in the hereafter they want to be ahead. The net of politics is very deep.

On the day Jesus was crucified—his last day—he was taking leave of the disciples. Do you know what they asked? And it was these very disciples who later erected Christianity. They said, “Master, you are departing now; resolve one question for us, for then whom shall we ask? Our question is this: in the hereafter, in the Kingdom of God that you spoke of all your life and which so influenced us that we followed you”—it seems that the word “kingdom” deceived them—“‘Kingdom of God!’ They thought: this worldly kingdom is transient; the sages explain the other is eternal, everlasting—the very thing Jesus has been explaining. In that eternal kingdom you will sit right next to God; you will have the number two seat. But we, your twelve special disciples—please tell us in what order we shall sit!”

You will be astonished to know: on the last day, at his farewell, Jesus is about to be crucified, and these dullards ask this question! Krishnakant, they were people like you. Still politics! Now they worry which of the twelve will be first, second, third. All twelve cannot be number three. They concede Jesus: “All right, we accept that you will be number two—God first, you second—but who will be number three? Tell us that before you go.”

All his life this man taught: Blessed are those who are last! And at his death his own disciples ask him to tell them who will be first! If blood-tears fell from Jesus’ eyes, it would not be surprising. And then these very disciples founded Christianity. It’s astonishing that Buddha did not found Buddhism; it was founded by those fools who never understood him. Christianity too was built by those who never understood Jesus. And that is the state of all religions. Buddha, Jesus, Zarathustra speak from the mountaintops. Those who gather around them come for their own reasons—their own ambitions draw them.

A Christian fakir was once slapped by a man. The fakir used to say in his talks, “Jesus said: if someone strikes your left cheek, offer him the right.” The man was an atheist. He thought, “He talks nonsense; today I’ll see.” He slapped the fakir on the left cheek and was astonished to see the fakir instantly offer his right cheek. But the fellow was not one to give up so easily; he slapped the right cheek even harder. After that the fakir pounced on him and gave him a thorough beating. Fakirs live carefreely! The atheist was thin from overthinking. The fakir—what thinking for a theist? He lives in trust. He ate well, was sturdy. He repaired that fellow so thoroughly that when he sat on the atheist’s chest pounding him, the atheist said, “Listen! Have you forgotten what Jesus said?” The fakir replied, “I haven’t forgotten. Jesus said, ‘If someone strikes your left cheek, offer the right.’ But there is no third cheek. Now I am free. Now I’ll teach you a lesson. As far as Jesus spoke, I obeyed. Now the matter ends. Now I am my own master; we are outside the rule. Beyond this Jesus said nothing.”

Someone asked Buddha, “You speak much of forgiveness. How many times? Everything has a limit.” Buddha said, “Forgive seven times.” The man said, “Very good.” From the way he said “very good,” Buddha saw he was dangerous: on the eighth time he would take revenge—like a hundred blows of the coppersmith and one of the blacksmith! Buddha said, “Wait, seventy-seven times.” The man said, “You changed so quickly! Why?” Buddha said, “From the way you said ‘very good,’ it’s clear you’ll endure seven times waiting for the eighth. The truth is, when someone asks ‘How many times should I forgive?’ he is already asking a wrong question. Is forgiveness a matter of counting? Will you forgive by measure and weight? Then you have not understood forgiveness at all.

When someone asks, ‘How much love—an ounce, a quarter-pound, a yard, a meter?’—whenever someone asks for quantity about qualities, know that he asks wrongly. Whatever you say will lead to a bad result; he will find in your answer a way to justify himself.

If you are eager about politics, understand the root: you are eager about your ego. You still want to inflate the balloon of the ego. Then inflate it—inflate it well! Blow it up thoroughly, because only a well-inflated balloon bursts. And only by experience does one learn. Don’t drop politics on my advice—otherwise you will start playing politics here. The net of politics is so deep that wherever you go, you will carry it.

Politics runs even in religion—very much so! There too: who is above, who is below. Stairs appear; hierarchy appears. Only when you become absolutely, clearly aware of politics can there be movement in religion. For the entire dimension of religion is different: here one has to disappear, to lose, to end, to become a zero. Only the zero can be filled by God.

The languages of politics and religion are entirely different.

A man came and knocked at a politician’s house.
The servant asked, “What is it, sir?”
The visitor said, “Is your master at home? I have a bill.”
The servant at once said, “Sir went out of town only yesterday evening.”
The visitor said, “I had come to collect his bill.”
The servant said, “Don’t worry, he returned this morning. I’ll call him; please sit down.”

Politics is a different world. Everything there is trickery, dishonesty, deceit. Looking at a politician you can’t even tell whether he is going east or west: he looks east while walking west—or one eye east, one west; one leg north, one south—depending on how the wind blows. A “real” politician is one who sees which way the public is moving and, before the public reaches there, leaps ahead to stand in front. Those who miss this leap meet misfortune.

You see such misfortunes daily—for instance, Babu Jagjivan Ram, now “Jaggu-bhaiya.” He missed his leap this time; last time he sprang at just the right moment to be in front of the crowd.

People usually think the leader is ahead. Remember: a leader is also a follower of his followers. He keeps watching which way they are going—where the wind is.

Politics is the world of the crowd. Whatever the crowd believes, you cajole that, you butter that, you sing its praises. Religion is revolution. Here there is no praise or possibility for anything except truth and God. Religion stands opposed to the crowd. Politics is in step with the crowd.

If you are eager about politics, fulfill that eagerness completely. Don’t become half-cooked after hearing me. Ripen fully, then fall. If not in this life, then in the next. But falling half-cooked is not right; otherwise one keeps returning. Over your countless births you have often been curious about religion, but it didn’t bear fruit because you were unripe. You returned again and again; the old pits attracted you. Once, fulfill that eagerness completely. I trust experience.

And the experience of politics is deeply tragic. If you go through politics with awareness, no one will need to explain anything to you. One doesn’t need to be told that poison is bitter. But if, without experience, you listen to me and renounce—drop politics saying, “There is nothing in it”—it will be like the fox saying the grapes are sour because she couldn’t reach them. Taste the grapes. They are neither sour nor sweet—there are no grapes at all! They only appear from afar; the closer you get, the more they vanish. Mirages.

The day politics collapses defeated in your life, that day the true beginning of religion will be. And don’t understand politics only in the way politics is commonly understood. Its net is vast. A husband plays politics with his wife—exerts control. That too is politics, only on a small scale. The wife plays politics with the husband and with the children.

Someone asked Mulla Nasruddin, “Who runs things in your home?” He said, “Everyone—appropriately, in their place.” The questioner said, “I don’t understand; your answer is rather philosophical. Explain a little—appropriately, in their place?” Nasruddin said, “For instance, my wife runs me; she runs the children. The children also run me. But over my dog only I run! I scold and dominate him. I twist his tail when I’m angry. I take him for a walk in the morning. No matter how he tries to get near the trees, I don’t let him—I drag him along. As much as they make me suffer, I make him suffer. And the dog—he runs the cat in the house, and how! And the cat runs the mice. Everyone, in their place, appropriately. Everyone runs someone.”

If you look closely, everyone is doing politics—some small, some large. It isn’t only politicians who do it. Wherever you declare authority, wherever you establish ownership over another, wherever you want the other to move by your will, under your discipline, as you say—there politics has entered. To own another is to murder the other.

Politics is violence. Politics cannot be nonviolent. Even Mahatma Gandhi’s politics was not nonviolent—only the appearance was. For example, in Gandhi’s ashram someone drank tea—sin! Tea is an innocent thing; no great sin. There is a little nicotine, very little—and it doesn’t take anyone’s life; if you drink ten cups a day for twenty years and the nicotine is extracted and given to you at once, you might die. There is no need to panic so much about nicotine. But tea was forbidden in Gandhi’s ashram. Only one person had exemption—Rajaji, because he was the in-law. With in-laws you must behave as in-laws; rules can’t run with them. But an ashramite was caught drinking tea.

Now see the fun: wherever force is imposed, small things become sins. The man became filled with guilt. First he denied it: “I didn’t drink; I was only making it.” Why were you making it? Does anyone make tea without drinking it? “No, I was only making it to see.” To see what? “What it’s like!” But people said, “We have seen him drinking as well. Why do you have cups and saucers there?” The cups and saucers were also caught. When he was scolded and shamed a lot, he admitted he had drunk tea—but only once. Then why keep cups and saucers? For once, a person can drink from a glass. You have cups, saucers, a kettle—your arrangement is complete. And not a small pouch of tea, but a whole Brooke Bond tin!

Gandhi went on a three-day fast: until this man admits his mistake and asks forgiveness, he would fast. What will you call this? It looks nonviolent, but it is violence—indirect violence. Don’t allow a poor man even tea and threaten, “I’ll kill myself!” This is a threat, pure threat—only rhetoric about nonviolence. He fasted for three days; now the whole ashram turned against that man. Everyone taunted him, cursed him: “Have some shame! You sinner! Don’t you see how you torment the old master? For a sip of rotten tea? What did you gain? And if he dies?” The insults and humiliation heaped on him—this is violence.

I have heard: in a village a young man spread his bedding in a family’s veranda at night. The owner asked, “Why are you laying your bed here?” He said, “I am doing satyagraha.” “For what? What have I done to you?” “You did nothing. I want to marry your daughter. Until you marry her to me I will fast unto death. I will do satyagraha.” The news spread; a crowd gathered. Naturally, people side with satyagraha. “He is nonviolent, good, in khadi.” People garlanded him. First two or four of his friends did, then imitative people joined. Flags appeared. The poor father panicked. He did not want to marry his daughter to that loafer. What to do? The whole village condemned him: “What are you doing? Will you take his life? You’ll regret it all your life! See his love—this is love. Even Majnu didn’t do this. He has surpassed even Farhad.” In two days the man’s disgrace was complete—though at night his friends fed him. Noise rose; photos came in the newspapers; the father was defamed. In desperation he went to a village Gandhian elder and asked, “Tell me what to do now.” The elder said, “There is only one way. I know a prostitute—old, terrifying, leprosy-ridden, body wasted, teeth all gone. At first sight one suspects a witch. Persuade her. Tell her to lay her bed there too.” She did. As she began to lay her bedding beside him, the youth asked, “Mother, why are you laying your bed here?” She said, “I will marry you. Otherwise I will fast unto death. I am doing satyagraha.” That very night the youth packed up and ran away: “Who will marry her!” This is how one satyagraha cut another. But is this nonviolence? It is violence. Whenever you impose yourself on another—it is violence. And whenever you impose yourself—it is politics. So even if you avoid politics—don’t become a communist, a socialist, a Congressman—you will still do small-time politics: become a husband, a father. That’s why there is such relish in being a husband. A man suffers so many hardships yet wants to be a husband—if nowhere else, at least over the wife. He wants to be a father—if nowhere else, at least over the son! Fathers run their sons; when they grow old, sons run the fathers. Everyone gets their fill; everyone completes their politics.

But observe closely: politics is a subtle matter. As long as the ego is, politics will be. Politics is the shadow of the ego. Be free of ego—only then can one be free of politics. And only then is there entry into religion.

Banarsi Das! I can’t really blame your family and acquaintances. It’s your very first time here and you’re taking a long jump—all the way to nirvana at once! Start with A-B-C. Ask about meditation. You’re setting out to cross the ocean! If they call you dull-witted, they must be right. You revealed your wits yourself the moment you arrived. I haven’t even seen you yet, don’t know you at all. How can I say whether you will attain nirvana or not?

A long, hefty, very fat man went to a tailor. After great difficulty the tailor took his measurements and, panting, said, “Sir, the stitching for this sherwani will be a hundred rupees.”
“But on the telephone you quoted fifty!”
Wiping his sweat, the tailor replied, “Yes, I did—but that was for a sherwani, not for a shamiana.” (A sherwani is a coat; a shamiana is a marquee tent.)

First let me see you—are we making a sherwani or a shamiana? What’s the real situation? I haven’t had a look at you yet; let there be a meeting of eyes, then we’ll think about nirvana—what’s the hurry? And do you understand the meaning of “nirvana”? Perhaps you don’t. The word is dangerous. Nirvana means: the lamp being extinguished—the lamp of ego burning within you goes out.

Rabindranath Tagore was traveling on a barge. It was midnight, a full moon! In his little cabin on the boat he had been reading late into the night a book by the great Western aesthetician Croce—on what aesthetics is. By midnight he was exhausted. Even what he had previously understood about beauty got muddled. Croce is a tangled philosopher; don’t expect to get untangled by him. Whoever reads Croce, if he was clear before, will get confused. Philosophers are, after all, tangled people. They raise questions you never even dreamed of. For example, philosophers ask whether two and two really make four. You’ll say, “Is that even a question?” But philosophers ponder it. Some claim that two and two can never be four, because no two things are ever exactly alike. Then how can four things be exactly alike? So it would be either just under four or just over four, but never exactly four. And why do two and two make four anyway? What is the reason? In nature there is no arithmetic; it is a human invention, imaginary.

You may never have thought about it. We take two plus two equals four for granted. When we want to say something is absolutely clear, we say, “As clear as two and two make four.” Meaning, nothing could be clearer. But no, for a philosopher even two and two being four is not so clear; it’s quite complicated.

All of human counting is built on ten. The reason is that humans have ten fingers. Now when you see a rustic counting on his fingers you laugh. Don’t. You’re doing the same thing. The world’s arithmetic is built on ten; those are all the villager’s ten fingers. Over thousands of years the fingers have gone out of sight, but the ten-base remains. There is no necessity about ten.

A great Western philosopher—Leibniz—accepted only three digits: 1, 2, 3. He said three are enough; no need to accept ten digits, no necessity. If you accept only 1, 2, 3, then two and two cannot be four—because four doesn’t even exist in Leibniz’s scheme. So how much would two and two be? They would be 10, because after 3 comes 10, then 11, then 12, then 13, and then 20.

Albert Einstein even broke the 3; Einstein held that two are enough—1 and 2. With Einstein the difference becomes even greater. He said you can’t have fewer than two digits; at least two are necessary, and two will do.

So “two and two are four” is not such a straightforward matter for philosophers.

Rabindranath thought beauty was simple. He was a poet; he had experienced beauty. But reading Croce got him entangled; he was tired and confused. He was reading by a small candle. He blew out the candle, closed the book, wiped the sweat from his brow. And the moment he opened his eyes after wiping the sweat, he was astonished—utterly astonished, speechless. Through every slit and chink of the barge, moonlight streamed in and began to dance. He opened the door; the moon was standing right there and entered within. He went out—an incomparable night! The whole sky was drenched in gentle moonlight. The entire river was a sheet of silver. Rabindranath’s eyes grew wet with tears of joy. He wrote in his diary, “How foolish I am—looking into a book to find what aesthetics is when beauty is spread all around me! And today I had a strange experience: my little yellow candle, its flickering, smoky light—it was because of that that the moon could not enter! The moment I put out that flickering candle, the moon came right in.”

He wrote: “I feel our ego is just like that—flickering. If we extinguish it, infinite beauty will shower upon us right now.”

Nirvana means the going out of the lamp. The ego is extinguished.

You ask: “Can I attain nirvana?”
You think nirvana is something to attain. It is a matter of losing, brother! It’s a business of dissolving. It’s work for gamblers. But you disclosed the secret the moment you arrived. Even if you hadn’t said that your family and acquaintances consider you dull-witted, I would have understood.

An army officer’s wife was poorly educated. He felt embarrassed taking her to parties. Once, at friends’ strong insistence, he took her along after much coaching. The wife kept quiet the whole time—smiled when others smiled, laughed when they laughed, put on a serious face when they were serious—and carried it off fine till the end. But her farewell was strange. She said, “Horn, please!” Everyone was startled, the husband too. Later he asked, “Why on earth did you say ‘Horn please’?” She said, “Well, everyone was saying ‘ta-ta,’ ‘bye-bye,’ ‘see you again’—the sort of things written on the backs of trucks. But no one said ‘Horn please’! So I thought I should say the one thing they were leaving out. ‘Ta-ta,’ ‘bye-bye,’ ‘see you’—everyone had covered those.”

How long can you hide? How will you hide? Somehow the truth will show. You made it obvious from the outset. But no harm done. It’s good, in fact. If a person can acknowledge himself as dull-witted, the beginning of wisdom has arrived. Thank your friends, your family, your acquaintances. And you too accept it: you are dull-witted. They too will be dull-witted, because in the world there are only two kinds of minds: either dull-minded or Buddha-minded. There is no third. They may be under the illusion that they are not dull-witted. But at least they are jolting you—let’s say they are being gracious to you! If you accept that you are dull-witted, the first ray will enter your life. That will be the first step toward nirvana. From today, don’t say, “My acquaintances and family say so.” From today say, “I know I am dull-witted.”

Naturally, right now we are in a stupor, unconscious. We don’t know who we are, where we’ve come from, where we’re going. If not dull-witted, then what? And that’s why you ask: Can I attain nirvana? But nirvana is not a goal, not an object of desire. You cannot make it an ambition. Nirvana is not “obtained.” Nirvana comes—when you disappear. As long as the one who wants to obtain remains, it doesn’t come.

Kabir has said: “As long as I was, there was no Hari. And since I have disappeared, there is only Hari, everywhere.”

Herat herat he sakhi, rahya Kabir herai.
Boond samani samund mein, so kat heri jai.
Herat herat he sakhi, rahya Kabir herai.
Samund samana boond mein, so kat heri jai.

Wondering and wondering, O friend, Kabir was lost in wonder.
A drop merged into the ocean—where could it be sought?
Wondering and wondering, O friend, Kabir was lost in wonder.
The ocean merged into the drop—how could it be distinguished?

Nirvana is the name of that ultimate state of disappearing. If you disappear, the divine is—already, here and now!

But Banarsi Das, don’t rush. Patience. Great patience is needed—infinite patience.

Virendra Singh! You seem a brave man—at least by your name! Don’t miss, Chauhan! Jump in! Is this how one gets scared? Let me say it a thousand times, let a thousand awakened ones keep saying that getting entangled in marriage is not without danger—let them say it. A brave man is not shaken by what others say.

You say, “What should I do, what should I not do? Nothing makes sense.”
Get married—then your wife will decide; you won’t have to decide a thing about what to do and what not to do!

One day a policeman stopped Mulla Nasruddin on the road because he was tearing along—in a zone where the speed limit was twenty miles an hour, he was doing at least eighty. The officer said, “Hey, old man, are you in your senses? The speed limit is twenty. I’m writing you up. You’ll have to pay a fine.”
Nasruddin said, “What’s the use of hiding it from you! My headlights are shot and night is falling. So I’m rushing to get home before it gets dark.”
The officer said, “Oh, so the lights are broken too! Then the fine will be heavier.”
Nasruddin said, “What to do! You can’t find a good mechanic in this village. I’d gone to get the lights fixed; that fool messed up the brakes as well.”
The officer said, “This is the limit! So the brakes are gone too!”
Just then the wife shouted from the back seat, “How many times have I told you, Abu Fazlu, speak carefully! Whenever you drink too much you start babbling nonsense.”
The officer said, “So you’re drunk as well? Then who’s driving the car?”
Nasruddin said, “Ever since I got a wife, the wife drives the car. I only hold the steering wheel. From the back she tells me—turn left, turn right, do this, do that—and that’s what I do. See for yourself how she’s snapping at me; imagine my fate when we get home!”
The officer peered at the wife and said, “Brother, go home! No need for a fine; your fine has already been levied. You’ve suffered enough—and will suffer more. Go! What’s your fault! If I had such a wife, I’d drink more too.”

You ask, “What should I do, what should I not do?”
It’s precisely in such a state that people get married. A wife won’t ever give you this chance again—to wonder what to do and what not to do. Wives are very certain. In this matter their minds never fall into doubt. They don’t get into this-and-that. Their direction is perfectly clear—and they’ll have you walk in that direction. If you don’t, you’ll regret it.

You say, “I understand that getting into the loop of marriage is not free of danger.”
What on earth do you understand! If you truly understood, would you be asking? You’re hearing; you’re not understanding. You will understand by experience. You’ll understand when you become a dizzy whirligig yourself—then you’ll know what a “loop” it is.

A man went to the village pundit and asked, “Is it right that someone should take advantage of another’s mistake?”
“Not at all,” said the pundit.
“Then please return the money I paid you when you performed my wedding.”

I was sitting at Mulla Nasruddin’s house. His son was playing nearby. Suddenly he said, “Someone’s come into the room downstairs.”
I asked, “Amazing—how do you know from the room upstairs? I can’t tell; how do you know, Fazlu, that someone’s come into the room downstairs?”
He said, “Don’t you see? Until now Mommy was talking; now Mommy is silent and Daddy is talking. Someone must have arrived.”

If there’s a wife, she won’t give you a chance to speak—thinking and such is a far-off thing. She won’t even let your speech open.

Nasruddin’s father died. I asked him, “Your father passed away—did he say anything at the very end?”
He said, “What could he possibly say! Mother was with him till the end. He never got the opportunity to speak.”

Is it that your voice is truly so full of thunder,
or are you roaring just to frighten me?
When you look at me with those sidelong eyes,
is it a brow’s sharp dart, or are you sizing me up?

Again and again you seize me and shake me—
are you touching me, or tearing my clothes?
What kind of love is this, that you’ve raked my whole body?
Are you pinching me, or hammering in a peg?

Experience! Have a little experience, Virendra Singh; any woman will leave even a lion a house-cat. You’ll forget all about being a “Singh” and such.

But people learn only through experience. Some are so dull that they don’t learn even from experience. If they do learn from experience, know that they are intelligent.

I once saw Mulla Nasruddin sitting very dejected. I asked him, “Nasruddin, what’s the matter? Why so glum? Has some great calamity befallen you?”
Mulla said, “Yes. Don’t you know—Chandulal’s wife passed away the day before yesterday evening?”
I said, “But you’ve been at odds with Chandulal for years; you should be happy.”
Mulla flared up, “Happy! Are you out of your mind? Why, just last night Dhannalal’s wife also died, and Dhabbuji’s wife was carried off by bandits.” As he spoke, tears began to fall from Nasruddin’s eyes. I consoled him, “Don’t grieve so much, my brother—one day or another everyone has to leave this world.”
Mulla said, “That’s exactly what’s driving me mad—that friends’, enemies’, everyone’s wives keep dying; I don’t know what sin I’ve committed that God won’t show such grace to me!”

Virendra Singh, let it happen. Life is only four days long—will you squander it like this? Go with some experience. Leave with some bruises. Now you say your mind won’t agree. Don’t coax it either—because if you cajole it, that will be force; if you cajole it, it will keep slipping and sliding and nagging you. Pass through this experience.

I am always on the side that whatever it is your mind is seized by, go through that experience—yes, go consciously, alertly, so that you don’t repeat the same mistake.

A man died and reached heaven. He knocked at the gate. The gatekeeper asked, “Are you married?”
The man said, “Yes.”
The gatekeeper said, “Come in, brother, come inside. You don’t need to go to hell. You’ve already suffered hell.”
Right behind him another man came along. He heard this. He knocked too. The gatekeeper asked, “Married?”
He said, “Not once—three times.”
The gatekeeper shut the door and said, “There’s room here for the miserable, not for the insane.”

If a person passes through any experience attentively, once is enough. And if we understand any process of life attentively, we are freed from it. Otherwise the mind will keep deluding and leading you astray.

I’m not saying don’t marry. I never put obstacles in anything. I say: whatever you’re going to do, do it. Don’t put it off till tomorrow. Who can trust tomorrow! If you’re going to do it tomorrow, do it today. Go through the experience. Experience brings maturity; it ripens you. Experience is liberation. Sorrow will come from it, pain will come. But who has learned without pain?

That’s all for today.