Sumiran Mera Hari Kare #9

Dharma Bharati! The fear of death exists because life is unknown. Where there is no light, there is darkness. Where there is light, darkness is not.

We are alive, but not in the true sense—half-dead, corpse-like. Our towns are not much more than cremation grounds—mounds of the dead.

If life is not known, how can one be truly alive? And ignorance of life becomes the fear of death. Naturally, then, there is fear of one’s own death; and fear of the death of those we love. Not only death itself—the very word “death” makes the mind tremble. But this is foolishness.

Death is the greatest untruth. There is no greater untruth than that. There are only two untruths in the world—two sides of the same coin: one is ego, the other is death. Ego is the first untruth; death is the second. Ego means: I am separate from existence, from life. From there the delusion begins—like a wave deciding it is other than the ocean. By deciding, it doesn’t become other; but the very assumption creates fear: “I may be destroyed; I may be lost in the ocean!” So it tries to save itself. That is man’s anxiety and anguish.

The wave is the ocean! Even by “dying” it does not die. By “coming into being,” where did it truly come from? There is no birth, and there is no death. The wave is only a form. That is why the wise have called our so-called existence nama-rupa—name and form. The wave is only a name; in truth it is the ocean. Look a little deeper and you will find only the ocean. Dive a little, and there is only the ocean. And how can the wave be lost? If it never was as a separate entity, how can it be lost?

Ego is our first delusion. Then the chain of obstacles begins. Then anxiety grips: “I might be annihilated!” First you assumed, without looking, without searching, without examining, without testing—without going within—that “I am.” It is only a belief, nothing more. The day you see there is no separate “I,” that day death also disappears. Who then can die? Only the divine is.

We cling to the “I” tightly. The tighter the grip, the thicker the fear—because deep down, somewhere in the unconscious, the sense persists that it must dissolve; what we cling to is only an appearance. One may deceive oneself for a while—leaning on straws—but straws are not supports. You can coax the mind for a little while, but sooner or later illusion breaks. Every day it breaks—someone dies, a funeral passes; and you too see it: “I shall also have to die; my bier will also go like this.” We do not want to die, nor do we want those we love to die. Yet the irony is that no one ever dies at all. So all this anxiety is utterly futile.

Our worry is like a naked man refusing to bathe—for fear that if he bathes, where will he wring his clothes, where will he dry them? He has no clothes, but fear of wringing and drying keeps him from bathing. Naked, he can bathe to his heart’s content—what can he lose?

But we have assumed that we exist as separate egos. This is humanity’s fundamental madness. And you will naturally project it upon me as well. I want you to awaken from this illusion, this dream; but you will project your dream upon me. I want your attachment to break, to wither; but you cast your web of attachment onto me.

We had a friend—Ramlal Rana.
In the machinery of his head,
who knows what went wrong.
He began to take himself
to be a grain of wheat!
Wherever he saw a rooster—he would be afraid:
“This one will eat me”—
and die a thousand deaths while still alive.
Wherever he saw a sack,
he grew nervous, skittish:
“Someone will stuff me into it,
tie it shut.”
And if a flour mill came into view,
Brother Rana would run for his life:
“Here I’ll be ground to powder!”
Well, some well-wishers,
to set his brain right,
filled out a form
and had him admitted to the asylum.
The doctor explained, “Dear Rana!
You have two ears, two eyes,
two legs, two hands,
you walk, you speak—
how can you be a grain of wheat?”
But Rana wouldn’t agree—
simply wouldn’t agree.
He went on believing himself
a grain of wheat.
A year passed in the hospital.
Suddenly one day Rana
said to the doctor:
“Doctor-sahib! How simple I’ve been!
Look—
I have two ears, two eyes,
two legs, two hands,
I walk, I speak, I’m a man.
How could I be a grain of wheat?
And if you still think
I am a grain of wheat,
then it is your brain
that’s gone wrong, sir,
I am not at fault at all!”
The doctor granted him leave.
Half an hour later Rana came back—
drenched in sweat,
trembling, panting!
The doctor asked,
“What happened, Rana?
Have you again begun to think
you are a grain of wheat?”
“I have understood very well,
I’ve become completely a man, sir!
But as yet,
the rooster hasn’t understood.”

You hear me, perhaps you even understand intellectually, but the words do not sink to the depth of your very life-breath. Down there many interests are tied to the ego. There, new arrangements are always underway: the ego says, “Adorn me like this, and like that! Such wealth, such position, such prestige...”

“How can I accept that there is no ego?”—because if you accept it, your so-called life-journey collapses at once. You want to avoid death; you want there to be no death—but you cannot drop the ego. That is the irony. And as long as you cling to the ego, you cannot escape death. You cannot drop the ego because you take it to be the very essence, the very thread of your life. Remove the ego and the whole game falls apart. Then there is no choosing, no scramble, no rivalry, no competition, no jealousy, no envy; neither friendship nor enmity—everything falls away. When ego goes, the whole world as you know it vanishes. This world is but the leaves and blossoms on the tree of your ego—the fluttering of ego itself.

And you fear: “If ego is not, what will I do then? What remains to be done?” It seems like falling into a void. “Better to remain entangled in ego.” But you fear death. And death will follow behind the ego—because how long can you hold up the false? One day it will fall, break, scatter.

I want you to understand: I have never been born, nor will I ever die. Birth is an event in life, and death is an event in life—the wave’s rising and the wave’s falling are both events. Before it rose, the wave was; after it falls, the wave is. And what I am saying about myself, I am saying about you as well. I speak from my experience; you still have to experience. If I cannot help you to experience it, my presence is futile; your being with me is futile.

Dharma Bharati, you say: “When you speak of your death I begin to tremble.”

You tremble precisely because you still believe in death. Otherwise you would laugh. What was there to tremble about? Who has ever died? But you feel that you can die; and then we project our own delusions upon others. What we think of ourselves, we extend by the same arithmetic to those we love. It can even happen that we become so attached to our beloveds that we are ready to die for them.

I have received countless letters. Friends have written: “May our years be added to yours. We want to give our life to you. Let your death be our death, and our life be your life.”

I understand your love, your good wishes. But your delusion is there too. We are all eternal, beginningless and endless. You have always been here; I have always been here. No one has gone anywhere; no one has come from anywhere. Break this illusion—and the sooner the better.

You say: “Master, we cannot even bear to hear it. If we cannot bear to hear it, how will we be able to see it?”

Buddha died. In the end his disciples had to witness his death. Mahavira departed; his disciples had to say their farewell. Jesus was crucified; his disciples had to see it—even if through eyes full of tears.

At the time of Buddha’s death there was only one disciple of his—Manjushri—who neither spoke nor wept nor expressed concern. He remained seated under the tree where he was. People said to Manjushri, “Have you gone mad? Is this shock so great? We are weeping—our grief is being lightened. You don’t even cry.”

Manjushri said, “Let those who do not know weep. Why should I weep? No shock has touched me.” And it is not that Manjushri loved Buddha less. Perhaps his love was the greatest. On him Buddha’s compassion poured as on none other. Manjushri was among the first of the bhikkhus to attain samadhi. To see Manjushri made Buddha rejoice. He would often say to people, “Learn from Manjushri. Attain what Manjushri has attained.” In his discourses Buddha often used the phrase “the sword of Manjushri.” You may be surprised reading it—what is this sword of Manjushri? Buddha would say, “If there is to be a sword, let it be like Manjushri’s—one stroke, and your own head is cut off! No delay. Not gradual, not bit by bit—one stroke!”

Buddha told Manjushri, “Be silent; nothing else needs to be done. Let words disappear within you.”

Manjushri said, “Good!” He sat beneath a tree and did not rise until words were lost. And when all words disappeared—the story says, very sweetly—flowers began to shower from the sky. Manjushri asked—not in words, certainly; the asking was of the heart. With gods there is no need for words; heart speaks to heart. In silence he asked the gods, “Why are you showering flowers? What festival is being celebrated today? Which holi, which diwali?”

The gods said, “We shower flowers for the discourse you have given on dharma.”

Manjushri laughed heartily. “But I have not spoken—what discourse on dharma?”

The gods said, “This is precisely the discourse: that you did not speak. You fell so silent that not even a ripple of word remained within you.”

This is how dharma speaks—through silence it becomes eloquent. In emptiness the music of dharma plays. Emptiness is its veena; upon its strings the melody arises. This ultimate state of meditation, this samadhi, is the flute. In it the song arises—the unstruck sound—that Nanak calls “Ek Omkar Satnam.” That sound of Omkar resounds of itself in this emptiness; it is not done. It begins to arise from every pore. The whole personality is transformed into a rhythmic music.

The gods said, “Precisely because you did not speak, we shower flowers. Such silence happens only rarely; after Buddha, it has happened to you.”

Returning to Buddha, Manjushri said, “These gods are quite mad! I simply sat silently, and they say, ‘You have given a discourse on dharma!’”

Buddha said, “They are right, not mad. You are new to this emptiness, so you do not yet know. Gradually you will experience it. As the emptiness deepens, more and more flowers will shower. Only flowers will remain; all thorns will be lost. Only feeling will remain; only fragrance.”

This Manjushri sat quietly at Buddha’s death—made no statement. He joined neither the bier nor the last rites. Many said to him, “Manjushri, this does not befit you.” Manjushri said, “He was never born; how can he die? I know him. He is exactly where he was.”

Dharma Bharati, that is what I would wish: that the sword of Manjushri be in the hands of many of you! That flowers shower upon you! That within you, too, the unstruck sound of silence arise!

Then if I do not speak to you of death, who will? On one side I must say to you, “Drop the ego,” and on the other, “Death is a lie.” By my own life I have to teach you life, and by my own death I have to give you the message of death. There is no other way. These events are existential.

Your pain comes from attachment, not from death. From clinging. Lift this attachment a little higher; let it become love, let it become prayer; give it wings. Let it fly into the open sky.

Attachment is like a seed—closed. Love is like blossoms on a tree—the fragrance set free, diffused in the winds.

Rise above attachment. I cannot remain in the body forever. And it is good that I prepare you to relate to me in my disembodied form as well—now, while I am still in the body. Slowly you must become skilled, trained. Make use of every challenge, every opportunity—use it so that even gold begins to carry a fragrance.

There will be sorrow and pain for you—I know it, I acknowledge it. But even your tears are auspicious, because they will cleanse your eyes. Your eyes will be able to see more clearly.

Mohan Vedant! Never before has man slept as deeply as he sleeps today. So the shaking has to be stronger. Man has assembled every facility, every arrangement for sleep. Such comforts never existed before, such devices never existed before. Today you can sleep more deeply than anyone could ever sleep in the past. Life used to be thorny, full of suffering. Science, new technologies, new discoveries have removed much suffering from human life. Superficially, on the circumference, yes—but they have given man many arrangements for comfort, many toys to keep him engrossed. To wake him up, many of those toys will have to be broken. People never had so many toys before. What could Buddha break? What could Mahavira break?

In the days of Mahavira and Buddha, it was easy to grasp that life is suffering. Even today, in the Eastern countries where life is still great suffering, a kind of hell, their statement is easily understood. But in the West life is not suffering, not hell. And even in the East, those with a little intelligence have reduced suffering in life. Soon suffering will diminish across the earth. And I am not against diminishing suffering or increasing prosperity. I am not a worshipper of “holy poverty.” I welcome prosperity.

Bertrand Russell has said: If man becomes perfectly happy—as science one day will be able to make him—then no one will need to be religious. There is some truth in that—up to a point. If your life is full of comforts, how will Buddha’s statement sound right to you: that life is suffering, birth is suffering, life is suffering, old age is suffering, death is suffering—suffering and only suffering?

Thousands of diseases have been banished. So many epidemics have ended. Plague used to strike every so often—half of countries would die. Now plague is hardly heard of, a matter of history. Black fever killed millions; now it is rarely heard of. Only in the East will you sometimes see smallpox scars on a child’s face; in the West you will not. Smallpox has bid farewell there, and is departing here. Illness has decreased, health has become more available.

From skeletons five thousand years old a surprising fact is known: no skeleton found has been older than forty years. You have heard that in ancient times people lived very long; it does not seem to be true, for no skeleton older than forty has been found—so far. But it may be that forty felt long. In suffering, time feels long. And most could not count. Even today in remote villages where people cannot count, if you ask their age they cannot tell. They do not know when they were born or how many years have passed—only a rough guess. And the most primitive tribes do not even have a guess. Forty years was about the limit.

Today things are different. To reach eighty is quite simple. Ninety is not very difficult. There are many people on earth who are a hundred. In countries like Russia, where health has greatly advanced, there are said to be thousands who are a hundred and fifty, and people even reaching a hundred and seventy-five or two hundred. And not bedridden, not in hospitals—working in fields and orchards like the young.

Scientists say this human body has such capacity that it can easily be kept alive for three hundred years—and, with greater facilities, even longer. The body can be prolonged because it has the capacity to renew itself again and again.

So there is some truth in Russell’s statement. If all diseases vanish, if old age itself is removed—which is possible—then in the coming century old age will become a thing of the past. Many of us will live to see it. Old age depends on a particular mechanism. When a child is born, the germ cells from mother and father that combine to form the child already carry a programmed span. If that program can be changed, the lifespan can be extended. Science is gradually learning to alter that intrinsic process. Old age can be cut out. Then who will accept Buddha’s statement that old age is suffering—when there will be no old age? Then who will believe that life is pain—when life can be very pleasant? Ninety percent of our pains are created by us; they are not intrinsic to life.

And yet I do not agree fully with Russell, because I say: however pleasant life becomes, religion will not disappear. Yes, the master’s work will become a little more complex, more difficult. The old primitive methods of waking people will not work; new methods will be needed. As science uses methods to lull man into comfort, so religion will have to use methods to awaken him. I am experimenting with those very methods. My concern is not only with you; I am concerned with those who will come after you. My concern is with the future.

That is why I do not have much interest in the religions of the past. Their day is over. Their language has become outdated—and all languages will become outdated. Their doctrines too have become old. We have to discover new processes. Life itself has changed—utterly. We need new arrangements to awaken people.

That is why this ashram is unique on this earth. The processes my sannyasins pass through here are not found anywhere else. At least in India, the ashrams are still walking the well-worn tracks; they appeal only to the old.

Here visitors are startled. Seeing so many young men and women, they cannot believe it. They ask me: How can so many young people be interested in religion? In churches and temples one sees only old men and old women. There is a reason: the language of churches and temples has become utterly antiquated; it reaches only the old—who are no longer contemporary. The language I speak may not reach the old; it will reach the young.

So I no longer say: life is suffering, renounce it. I say: life is supreme joy. Live it, drink it to your heart’s content. Squeeze out all its juice—do not leave a single drop. Only then will you know: if life itself is so juicy, how much more juice will there be in the Great Life!

The old religion said: life is suffering; therefore seek God, for God is bliss. I say: life is bliss; therefore seek God, for God is the supreme bliss. Understand this difference. It is fundamental. So if the old-fashioned are angry with me, it is no wonder. They are not to blame. I can understand their annoyance, because I am changing all the measures, establishing new concepts, setting new values. I am saying: life is bliss. Do not be satisfied with that—supreme bliss is still possible. Make life a ladder. If life in the body can be so blissful, imagine how much bliss there will be in the life of the soul!

I want to refine your imagination. I want new suns of hope to rise within you. I want to kindle a new longing within. I do not want to make you escapists.

Naturally then, to wake you I will have to shake you hard. Because I say life is bliss, and in bliss man falls asleep; in suffering, sleep becomes difficult. With a headache, sleep is hard. Take a pill—an aspirin—and sleep returns. If a thorn pricks the foot, sleep is hard. A little pain and wakefulness becomes easy, sleep difficult. With pleasure, wakefulness is difficult, sleep easy.

And since I am not against life—I am for it—and I say life and God are synonymous; God is the Great Life, life is the doorway; if God is the temple, then life is the steps to that temple—then of course I must shake you thoroughly to wake you. Suffering itself wakes people: one cannot sleep, and even if one sleeps one wants to wake. But pleasure brings deeper sleep—and the sleeper does not want to wake at all.

You have seen: a nightmare breaks sleep by itself. You dream you are falling from a mountain, hurtling toward the rock, about to be smashed into pieces—and your sleep breaks. Or you dream a lion leaps upon your chest, claws poised, roaring—will you remain asleep? You wake. But if you are dreaming of a palace, beautiful queens, a great kingdom—pleasure alone, how will you wake? Even if someone tries to wake you, it will be difficult. The one who tries will seem an enemy. You will scold him: Let me sleep, don’t disturb me. If you had set an alarm yourself, you will switch it off and roll over.

You ask, Vedant: “I wonder that the earlier masters did not beat so much.” There was no need. Man was already beaten by life, crushed under suffering. He needed consolation, comfort. Today the situation has changed completely. Life has taken a new turn. We have passed through a revolution and are still passing through one: human life is being filled more and more with comfort. So a thorough shaking is needed. Strong arrangements are required to wake you. Therefore I will thump you and pound you. I will splash cold water—icy water—on your eyes. If you don’t get up, I will pull you out of bed, snatch away your blanket. That is why you get upset.

Why did that man throw a knife at me? For four days he had been listening. He must have felt I was snatching away his blanket: I am sleeping so nicely and you are spoiling my sleep! You are tearing my cherished notions to pieces. My religion is being attacked. You don’t say plainly that your sleep is being attacked—you say religion is being attacked. But the truth is only your sleep is being attacked. You have become used to hiding behind fine words—hiding your stupor, your sleep, your unconsciousness.

You ask, Vedant: “Still we do not wake and go on asking question after question.” The old masters did not want you to ask questions. In fact, asking questions was forbidden. To question was considered irreligious. Their insistence was: Believe what we say. Trust. Have faith.

My case is different. The language of belief will no longer work. The old masters did not know that one day the language of belief would die. Science has taken the life out of it. Science stands on doubt. It questions, investigates, experiments—and does not accept until results are certain. The very air of the world is filled with science. Those unfamiliar with science are also being molded by the scientific spirit. Every child is being shaped that way. There is no alternative: science is the foundation of the modern world. You cannot refute it.

If you tell a scientist: Believe what I say—this goes against his whole education. If my words are understood better by educated people, there is a reason. The uneducated cannot understand me. If the West understands me more, there is a reason: the West is dyed in the color of science. In the East too, those who are intellectually developed will understand. My rapport will be with the intellectual elite, East or West.

I am not speaking a rustic language. The rustic language says: Believe what is said—do not question; to question is irreligious. In my understanding, irreligion is the staircase to religion. One who has never been truly irreligious can never be truly religious. His religiosity will remain flabby, limp, impotent—without vitality, without soul. Somewhere it will be hollow. He will always be afraid that a doubt may arise. He has not resolved his doubts, only suppressed them.

What does it mean to believe? I myself have never believed anything. How can I ask you to believe? I reached truth by the path of disbelief. I can invite you onto the path I myself have known. I cannot conceive how any intelligent person can “believe.” It is impossible for me even to imagine it. You have not seen God—how will you believe? And if you “believe” anyway, you are being dishonest. Can a dishonest person be religious? A religious person must at least be honest enough to say: I do not know; how can I believe? But you are cowards.

People tell you to believe—and such people hold power. You bow before power. You believe in the rule of the stick. “Whoever holds the staff owns the buffalo”—that is your faith. In Russia the stick is in the hands of atheists, so the whole country is atheist. The same people, before the revolution of 1917, were believers because the stick was in believers’ hands. Do you see the miracle? Russia was among the most religious, most orthodox, most old-fashioned countries. From the commoner to the czar, all were superstitious. Yet within ten years after the revolution Russia became atheist. Its religion was hollow. They were “religious” because those with the stick were religious and imposed religion. Then when the stick changed hands—into the hands of atheists—they imposed atheism.

You think you are religious? You are not. Your parents were religious and imposed it on you. They too were not; their parents imposed it on them. Such diseases pass generation to generation. Priests, pundits, teachers, politicians—“religious”? They too are not; it was imposed on them.

An honest person will first clear away this rubbish. He will say: What I do not know, how can I believe?

A religious person will be inquisitive, eager for truth—not a believer. And the one who believes will never grow real trust. Having settled for a counterfeit coin, why search for the real? Why take the trouble—when you already think you have it?

For centuries you have been told: to find God, first believe. What kind of talk is that? It insults your intelligence. It insults your soul.

I tell you: If you want to know God, never believe—otherwise you will never know. If you want to know God, search. Do not believe—experiment. Meditation is an experiment, not a belief. As science experiments outside, religion experiments inside. Both experiment. Scientific experiments are objective; religious experiments are subjective. Science experiments on matter; religion experiments on consciousness. But both experiment.

For me one word is enough: science. In the future there will be no need to keep the word “religion.” There will be two branches of science—one outward, one inward. The outward branch will explore matter; the inward branch will explore consciousness. Only one standpoint will remain: scientific.

And you see, a scientist—Hindu, Muslim, Christian—it makes no difference; his science is one. Whether a Hindu heats water or a Muslim does, water turns to steam at a hundred degrees—at a hundred degrees it turns, regardless of who heats it. Does water care whether the person reads the Quran, the Gita, or the Bible?

Just as science has made all scientists one, the day religion becomes the science of the inner, these hundreds of religions—about three hundred—will all bid farewell. Their mischiefs will also end.

I am laying the foundation of a scientific religion—the science of the inner. Here, ask—ask to your heart’s content. When you ask, it means you are searching. Be inquisitive, and do not be stingy. I want to impose nothing on you. I am not against your questions—I want to awaken them. For centuries your questions have slept under the ash of belief; I want to clear the ash and fan the embers until they glow again. With their glow, a glow will arise in you.

So, Vedant, never say: Why do we keep asking question after question? If not here, where will you ask? Anywhere else and your mouth will be shut at once. You can ask only within the circle of belief—and is that asking? Real inquiry begins beyond belief’s boundary. Leave aside the petty preachers spread across villages, even your “great” saints are not much different—differences of quantity perhaps, not of quality.

In the Upanishads there is a story: King Janaka organized a grand assembly, inviting knowers of Brahman. Two remarkable events occurred there. First, concerning Yajnavalkya, a very celebrated so-called knower of the time—so-called, at least then; later he may have become real—certainly he was arrogant. Janaka had a thousand cows standing outside the palace, their horns sheathed in gold—prize for whoever proved victor in knowledge of Brahman. Now, would a knower of Brahman go after prizes? It is childish—like entering a debating contest to win a silver cup or golden shield. All the “Brahman-knowers” gathered—who would leave a thousand cows? Cows were great wealth then; these were the finest from Janaka’s royal herd.

Yajnavalkya arrived late; his ashram was far, and he came with disciples. The cows stood in the sun, sweating. He said to his disciples: Drive the cows to our ashram; I will win the debate. Such arrogance! Janaka was startled, and the assembled “knowers” were upset, but knowing Yajnavalkya’s scholarship, none spoke. His disciples drove the cows away—before he had even won, they took the prize. What greater declaration of ego? A true knower would be humble, not so conceited.

Then he defeated the assembly—by logic and scriptural quotations. No one matched his scholarship. Then a woman—a Brahmavadini, a seer—Gargi—stood up. She asked him three or four questions—and Yajnavalkya began to sweat like those cows in the sun.

I have great respect for Gargi. Since then India’s so-called knowers have been angry with women and forbade them the Vedas. Even otherwise, men know it is hard to win an argument with a woman—every husband knows. Yajnavalkya knew too; he had two wives, Maitreyi and Katyayani. From experience he must have known. When Gargi asked, “On what is this earth supported?” Yajnavalkya was startled—the question was not from a text. But there was no rule it had to be textual. He had to answer—and answered foolishly: “On a tortoise.” The so-called knowers believed then that the earth rests on a tortoise. But Gargi was not one to be put off. “On what does the tortoise rest?” she asked. For the tortoise too must rest on something.

“On an elephant.”

“And the elephant—on what?”

Then Yajnavalkya realized this woman would trap him. Whatever he said, she would ask what that rests on, and then on what that rests, and so on. She had raised a question that would expose him.

He thought it better to give a straight answer: “There is no need for so many questions. Everything rests on Brahman.”

“Then I will ask only one,” said Gargi. “On what does Brahman rest?”

Yajnavalkya flared up: “Gargi, this is an improper question. If you go further with this nonsense, your head will fall from your shoulders.”

The scriptures do not tell what happened next. But this is no answer. Why did he panic? She asked rightly: On what does Brahman rest? Either say from the outset that nothing rests on anything. If you are ready to answer, why later declare a question “improper”? What does “improper” mean? A question not to be asked. Why not? Because the “knower” has no answer? Improper—because the “knower” will be embarrassed? Improper—because the thousand cows will have to be returned? A poor show! And is that a response—threatening to cut off her head? That is not dialogue; that is the stick.

From then on women were excluded from Brahma-knowledge. In my view Gargi asked rightly. If Yajnavalkya did not have an answer, he should have apologized—bowed at Gargi’s feet and said: “I have no answer. If you do, please give it. I ask you now. I am defeated.”

But will ego accept defeat—especially a man before a woman? Impossible! So better close the door on women; after all, women are “earthy,” their questions more concrete, real, less airy. They have little taste for empty talk.

The second event in that great assembly: the arrival of Ashtavakra. His father, a knower himself, had also gone to compete. When he did not return, Ashtavakra’s mother said, “It’s getting late. Go and bring your father.” Ashtavakra was named so because his body was crooked in eight places—poor boy, very ugly; with eight twists a man looks less like a man and more like a camel; even camels might laugh.

As soon as Ashtavakra entered, the assembled “knowers” burst into laughter. Ashtavakra clapped and laughed even louder—so loud that a hush fell. Gargi had already caused embarrassment; and now this! Janaka asked, “Ashtavakra, I understand why they laughed. But why did you clap and laugh?”

He said, “Because I thought this was an assembly of Brahman-knowers. What are these skinners doing here?”

“Skinners?” asked Janaka.

“Of course—skinners! Those who see only the skin are skinners. My soul is the same as theirs. There is no difference between their soul and mine. My soul is not crooked—only my skin. If skinners laugh at skin, it is forgivable—but ‘knowers’ laugh?”

And you will be surprised: Janaka became the disciple of Ashtavakra—not of Yajnavalkya, remember. He said to Ashtavakra, “Give me illumination. I feel you know that which is beyond the body. You have spoken to the point. And you did not even come to compete—you only came to fetch your father. I too wondered how these ‘knowers’ could be knowers, having come for a thousand cows, craving prizes—fit for children. You speak to the point.”

Those two events occurred in that extraordinary assembly. In India and outside, for centuries we have made Brahma-knowledge a forbidden question. Do not ask the real thing. People are entangled in trifles. In medieval Europe, priests debated how many angels can dance on the point of a needle. Open your scriptures and you will find them filled with such inanities.

Inquiry is auspicious. In my view, first comes no, then yes. One who has not said no cannot say a powerful yes. So say no as fully as you can. I am not here to impose anything. Ask—ask to your heart’s content. For I reached the ultimate acceptance by asking, by searching, by denying. So will you.

Do not think asking is improper or expresses lack of reverence. Not at all. Asking expresses reverence. By asking you show that you consider me worthy to be asked. It is your respect. The more you ask, the more you say you have hope, expectation, longing, thirst.

So, Vedant, keep asking. Do not hesitate. Your habits are old; many of you think: Why do people ask so many questions? Why not quietly believe? Believe, and be done. These are the signs of the weak, of cowards—not of seekers, not of explorers, not of the brave.

My call is for the courageous, the daring, the gamblers.

For me, religion is ultimate inquiry. No question is forbidden. Though I know some questions have no answers. My answers will not give you the final answer; they will slowly dissolve your questions. The answer you will find in your own experience. When no question remains, no words remain. In that wordlessness, that questionless state, the flower of samadhi blossoms. That is the supreme experience—the liberating one.

Drop the old habit, Vedant. You live in Varanasi—a dangerous place; think of Poona as number two, Maharashtra’s Varanasi. These are strongholds of pundits—pundit meaning dull-minded, mechanical repeaters of scripture, for whom “knowledge of Brahman” becomes a stock phrase.

I have heard: Chandulal had the habit of ending every remark with “in your mouth”—his stock phrase. One morning Mulla Nasruddin met him: “Chandulal, where are you off to so early?”

Chandulal said, “Oh, just to the corner—in your mouth!”

Nasruddin said, “Fine, go wherever you please—what is it to me?” He was annoyed: What nonsense is this “in your mouth”—the street corner “in my mouth”! But he still had something to say: “Listen, go wherever you want—but do explain to your son. Just yesterday, playing cricket in the field, he broke my windowpane.”

Chandulal said, “Brother, whatever loss occurred—in your mouth! We’ll get it repaired—in your mouth! What is the big deal—in your mouth! Only a pane broke, no—in your mouth!”

Hearing this, Nasruddin went mad. “You fool, you simpleton! What is this again and again—‘in your mouth’? If you say ‘in your mouth’ once more, I’ll punch you in your mouth so hard all your teeth will fly out—into your mouth! And you’ll remember it all your life—in your mouth!”

In this country “knowledge of Brahman” has become a stock phrase. Everyone is parroting Tulsidas’s quatrains; chanting quatrains, they have turned into quadrupeds. So ingrained that even in sleep they mutter—quatrains, words of “wisdom”—while in life there is no sign. Life runs exactly the opposite. But no one cares about life.

Life is transformed by experiment, experience, search—not by believing, by knowing. My whole emphasis is on knowing. I know God—and I want you to know God too. I did not know by believing—so how can I tell you to believe and know? No one has ever known by believing. Those who “believed” lived and died in delusion. I do not want any of my sannyasins to live or die in delusion. I want you alert, showered with flowers, a lamp lit within—radiant with your inner light.

Sahajanand! Buddhahood means going beyond ladders and gradations, crossing all categories—where all boundaries end, where all measures drop, where the immeasurable begins—that is Buddhahood. Therefore between two Buddhas no one is smaller and no one is greater.

But all these gradings are not made by the enlightened; they are made by the buddhus—the fools. And buddhus will do it in their own way! They will search for categories in everything; they will put everything on a scale to be weighed.

There was a Jain scholar, Rishabhdas Ranka. He was the one who brought me to Poona for the first time. If Poona has any complaint, it should be with Rishabhdas Ranka; it is not my fault. I might never have come to Poona on my own. He had been with Gandhiji for years, living in Wardha—very Sarvodaya. In the company of Gandhi and Vinoba he had memorized one thing and turned it into a catchphrase: “All religions are equal.” He began to say it—but it remained only on the surface. How could it go inside? Inside, Jainism was sitting. He wrote a book on Mahavira and Buddha. He showed me the manuscript and asked for my opinion. I saw the title and returned it. I said, I’ve seen the title—enough. He asked, What do you mean?

I said, that’s the end of the matter. No need to say more. The title itself has said everything—not about Mahavira and Buddha but about you.

The title was: “Bhagwan Mahavira and Mahatma Buddha.” I asked, why do you write “Bhagwan” for one and “Mahatma” for the other? And all this while you have been pestering me that all religions are equal—that what is in the Gita is in the Dhammapada, is in the Quran, is in the Jinvani. Then why this distinction?

He said, What is there to hide from you? Granted, all religions are equal—but Mahavira has to be kept one rung higher. He is Bhagwan, a vitarag purush. Buddha—granted he is highly accomplished, a siddha—but he is only a mahatma, not yet Bhagwan. Still one step lower.

No Jain can put Buddha alongside Mahavira, cannot keep them together; there is a hitch, a difficulty. And when he cannot put Buddha with Mahavira, what to say of others! How will he place Mohammed? Mohammed carried a sword. In the eyes of Jains, Buddha’s “faults” were two. First, he wore clothes; God should not wear clothes. What is there for God to hide? Everything should be manifest. He should be innocent like a child—as if merely by dropping clothes one becomes innocent like a child! Then all those Hindu naga sadhus would be innocent children! They look like seasoned rascals. Go to any Kumbh and see their armies; they are the most troublesome—every Kumbh there are fights, beatings, spears flying, and it is because of these naga sadhus. They say, “The first right to bathe is ours, because we are naked!”

And their nakedness is interesting: they become naked only at the Kumbh. The rest of the time in their akharas they wear clothes. Who is looking in the akharas? So generally you won’t see these naga sadhus anywhere except at the Kumbh. The rest of the time they are clothed. If becoming naked makes one a god, then all animals and birds are naked.

One “mistake” of Buddha was that he wore clothes. The second “mistake” was that he permitted eating the meat of an animal that had died on its own. Buddha said, there is violence in killing, not in eating meat. The point is logically sound, meaningful. There is violence in killing—what violence can there be in eating meat? So if an animal has died, its flesh may be eaten. These two points created great restlessness. Even if everything else matched, these two things became obstacles. So “Mahatma” they conceded—that much, no more. In fact, what he meant to say to me was: see my equanimity—I have accepted him as a mahatma; is that not enough? No Jain is ready even to call him a mahatma.

So leave Mohammed aside. Don’t even bring up Jesus. Jains write to me: “You utter Jesus and Mahavira together—this is not right. It is an insult to our Mahavira. Where is Mahavira! He would walk the road, and if a thorn lay upright it would turn over on sight of him lest it prick his foot. This is the mark of a Tirthankara. And Jesus—he was crucified. The clear meaning is that in some past life he must have committed a great sin—not a small one, a great sin; only then would crucifixion happen. One has to reap the fruit of karma. Not everyone is crucified. Even a thorn cannot prick a Tirthankara, because all his sins are exhausted, his nirjara has happened. How would a thorn prick? For a thorn to prick there must be some sin behind it. Where Jesus and where Mahavira! You utter both together—you do not do right.”

And if you ask a Christian… Christian missionaries have come to me and said, “It would be better if you did not weigh Mahavira and Buddha alongside Jesus. Jesus gave his life for mankind; what did they give? Jesus gave sight to the blind, ears to the deaf, legs to the lame. Whom did Mahavira serve? He didn’t even open a hospital. He could at least have opened a primary school; even that he didn’t do. Not even a semblance of service. When there is no service, what compassion—and what attainment! Mahavira and Buddha taught selfishness. How can you count them with Jesus, who hung himself on the cross for the salvation of man!”

The definitions have changed. They feel hurt that I take the names of Mahavira and Buddha alongside Jesus. Buddhists feel hurt that I take Mahavira’s name alongside Buddha, for the Buddhist scriptures make much fun of Mahavira. They do not accept Mahavira even as a mahatma—far from God, not even as a knower. This is the world of buddhus—the fools. In the world of fools the accounting will be arranged like this: everyone has his own scale, his own measure, his own weights—he will weigh with those. Otherwise, among those who have awakened, who have experienced the supreme life, there are no distinctions.

All this talk of kalas and such is meaningless. These are our ledgers, because we cannot keep everyone equal. We cannot accept without weighing.

A netaji lost an election. When he came home his wife said, “I don’t care about your losing or winning. Just tell me this: of the two votes you got, one was mine—but whose was the other witch’s?”

Wives have their own measures. What has winning or losing to do with it? The real question is: you got two votes—how did you get them! One was mine; I cast it. Whose was the other witch’s?

Fools will remain fools. Even if they discuss Buddhas, what difference does it make? Their foolishness will creep in.

A hotel caught fire. Everyone, to save their lives, ran out in a panic and waited for the fire brigade. Just then a guest staying at the hotel began telling the people around him, “I am not the least frightened by fire. When the fire broke out I rose in style, put on my shirt, fastened my watch, adjusted my tie, combed my hair, lit a cigarette, and then strolled out with panache. And you lot ran like cowards in a panic! Why be afraid like that? Does it befit a man?”

A traveler standing nearby said, “Sir, you did everything—but why did you forget to put on your trousers?”

Even if you think about Buddhas, something or other will be missed. You may have straightened the tie—but what about the trousers? You have a short blanket. Cover your head and your feet stick out; cover your feet and your head sticks out. Somewhere or other it will show.

Sahajanand, you ask: “Are there also grades in Buddhahood?”
No, there are no grades. Buddhahood means: the transcendence of grades.

And you ask: “Is that why the Hindus fixed the kalas of avatars?”
Not for that reason. Rather, because we have to make a place for everyone—out of politeness. The “good” people keep everyone together. They put their own at the very top. A devotee of Krishna places Krishna at the top; he is the purnavatar, the complete incarnation. All the rest are partial incarnations. A Buddhist does not count Krishna as an avatar at all—he simply cannot. As for calling him a complete incarnation—forget it. Those who revere Mahavira have consigned Krishna to hell.

Everyone has his own accounts.

Muslims say: Mohammed is the last prophet. God’s final book has descended—the Quran. Now there is no need for any book. Yes, before him there were prophets: Jesus, Moses, Abraham; but they are now out of date. When Mohammed came, the last book arrived. After that there is no need.

They are decent people; at least they concede: “All right, we accept Jesus too as a prophet—minor, a good man!” But before Mohammed all others pale. The sun has risen; the stars have faded. There is no need now to light lamps—though a lamp does give light in the darkness. When Mohammed was not there, they were needed.

These are the accounts of us buddhus—the fools. The Buddhas have nothing to do with this. The awakened have nothing to do with it. In sleep there are distinctions: someone is dreaming a sweet dream, someone a bitter one; pleasant or unpleasant. But once awake, dreams end. Then no one is small or great. In truth, then there is no person—there is the whole. The drop is lost in the ocean—what account of the drop?

But we have old habits. Our ways of thinking. We keep imposing. We do not leave anyone alone. We will contrive something. We will not drop our stupidity. Through our stupidity we will even look at the Buddhas. Then mistakes are natural.

No enlightened one is lower or higher. Nor is any enlightened one complete and another incomplete. Buddhahood is the name of completeness. No one can be more complete than that, nor less complete.

A music teacher asked a student, “Which tala (rhythm) do you know the most about?”
The student immediately said, “Hartal (strike).”

What is a man to do!

A lock-and-key repairman never kept a fast. His wife was always after him. Wives are always after making their husbands religious. Who knows what restlessness grips them! They must send their husbands to moksha. Their own moksha they have decided upon; lest the husband be left behind, he must be taken along—so that even there he can be harassed; otherwise he might slip away, start playing eye-games with someone else, do some mischief; even in moksha he will have to be kept under watch! So the wife kept at him, kept at him. What could the poor man do? One day he kept a fast. In the evening the wife said, “From the look of you, it seems you have already broken your fast.”

Perhaps he had eaten outside in the market. After all a husband must devise some self-defense. But what did the husband say? “Not yet—the key is lost. How can I ‘open’ it?” Fast-breaking is called “opening the fast.” His trade was locks and keys; instantly his own vocabulary surfaced.

You measure and weigh life—big and small, high and low—shudras and brahmins, great men, saints, good and bad—and you apply the same arithmetic to the enlightened. But “Buddha-purush” means: beyond your bookkeeping. Where you fall silent, wonder-struck; where no words come; where nothing occurs to be said; where the heart skips a beat; where all your habits and thought-processes so far suddenly prove useless—know then that you have come upon an enlightened one.

That’s all for today.