Udio Pankh Pasar #10

Prajna! No one has ever truly felt at home in the world, nor can they. In the world there is everything—money, position, prestige. Yet some lack always remains, because your own being is not in the world. And in the very being of the self is truth. The lack is of truth.

The world is a dream. In a dream, everything may appear—but not truth. And whose stomach was ever filled by dreams? Who was ever fulfilled by them? However much dreams may bewitch and bewilder, they cannot fill you; you remain empty. Even wealth is a dream. Have as much wealth as you like—it is still a dream.

Understand the definition of a dream: that which is here today and may not be tomorrow—that is a dream. That which is not eternal is a dream. That which is momentary is a dream. That which is a bubble on water, or a rainbow stretched across the sky, is a dream. That which must break, must fall away. Make a thousand arrangements, gather a thousand defenses—all organization will fail. No one has ever managed to save a dream. In the end not even ashes remain in your hands. The dream dissolves as dewdrops vanish in the morning sun. Nothing is left behind.

There is a race for position: let me become this, let me become that. Even if you do become it—there’s no essence in it. If you don’t, there is sorrow. If you don’t, there is the pain of defeat, despondency, torment. And if you do, nothing is gained. It is a strange dilemma! Only suffering—lose and you suffer; win and you suffer. Those who reach high office burn with a greater pain than those who never reach. Those who don’t reach at least still have hope. Those who have arrived have lost even hope. They have found out that the whole run was in vain. And now whom to tell? Even saying it doesn’t seem proper. If they speak, people will laugh. People will say, “We told you so! You ran in vain, you rushed about for nothing.” So better to remain silent. What’s done is done. Now it seems proper to put on a mask and smile. Now it seems proper to display, “I have got it all; I am fulfilled; my ambition is complete.” Now the only “sense” is to keep the lie going—otherwise people will declare your lifelong foolishness. Life is already gone; what is the point of being called a fool on top of it?

So those in high places suffer far more within—more than those who are not.

The rich weep more than the poor. The poor still hope—“I’ll gather, I’ll accrue; life remains, I’ll run more, work more.” Where can the rich go? They have reached a bend beyond which the road ends—sunk badly.

In this world there is everything, yet it is all dreamlike. Truth is within, not without. What is outside is the “world”; what is true is your own being.

You say:
“In this crowded world I cannot feel at ease,
who knows what is still missing.”

Good that the sense of lack has begun to dawn. Blessed are those in whom the lack becomes apparent. And those in whom it dawns early are under the compassion of the divine.

You are still young. This is precisely the moment: if one awakens now, life can be saved from going to waste; if one awakens now, the outer journey can become an inner pilgrimage. And the first stirring of awakening comes exactly like this—a sense of lack. In old age it occurs to everyone, but by then it is too late. And some are such fools that it doesn’t occur even in old age—not even at death. Even as they die they strive to complete whatever lack remains. Dying, they still run, placing one last bet; dying, they still elbow through!

Mulla Nasruddin, fed up in his old age, got himself admitted to a hospital. A young, beautiful nurse was on duty in his ward. One day she said, “From tomorrow my duty will be in the women’s ward.” Nasruddin said, “Then transfer me to the women’s ward too.”

The nurse said, “Won’t you feel ashamed in the women’s ward?”
Nasruddin said, “What is there to be ashamed of? That’s exactly where I was born!”

Foolishness does not melt even by old age. The same tune, the same color! Bankruptcy draws near, yet still the lamps are lit—in the hope of celebrating one more Diwali! Everything has cracked, everything has fallen apart; yet one more try—who knows, what has not come to hand so far may come now!

Nasruddin went to an exhibition in Lucknow. He is old now. He is wearing a churidar pajama, an achkan, a shawl over his shoulders, Gandhi cap on his head—looks every bit a leader. Old men wear churidar pajamas precisely for that—youthful tautness is suggested, a deception of youth. Tighten the legs and though the skin may be slack, at least outwardly a crispness shows; and if you keep yourself that taut, you’ll walk a little faster too—to get home quickly and be free of the churidar!

He was hurrying along. Seeing a beautiful young woman in the crowd, he couldn’t restrain himself. He tried to stop himself, yet he gave her a shove. She turned and looked—pure khadi-clad leader! All his hair white. She said, “Aren’t you ashamed? Your hair is white, and still this behavior!”

Nasruddin said, “My hair may be white, but my heart is still black. Look at the heart.”

The heart remains black; it doesn’t turn white. Not by white khadi, not by white hair. Until the inner lamp is lit, the heart stays black—soot and smoke within.

Prajna, you are still young—this is the moment. If someone awakens, there is still time. The energy you invest in the outward journey can be invested in the inward one. Outwardly, no wealth is gained—but inwardly, it can be. Not wealth, but meditation will be found. Yet meditation is the true wealth. Not worldly position, but the divine will be found—and the divine is the supreme position! The lack will disappear.

But one must understand a few sutras for the inward journey. The first is: do not enter within out of greed, because greed belongs to the outward journey. If there is greed, you are not going within. Even if you sit to meditate because of greed, your outward journey continues. Greed can only carry you outward; that vehicle goes outside. If ambition rides your head, then whether you do meditation, worship, or prayer—nothing will happen, because the poison of ambition will strangle them all. Ambition heads toward Delhi—not toward the heart. That journey is outward, not inward.

Just the other day I told Dr. Munshi Singh: since you have wandered in here by mistake, now gather courage. You must have been doing things half-and-half, here-and-there, incomplete—and that is why nothing has happened. Now plunge in totally. If you are to plunge, plunge totally. This bargain is for gamblers, not businessmen.

He thought, “All right, let me plunge completely and see.” The very next day he took sannyas with great flourish. He wrote to me: “You told me, so I became a sannyasin.” But his sannyas lasted only one day! That is why I didn’t answer his question the next day—I said to myself, “Let me wait a few days and see. This won’t last.” Exactly twenty-four hours later he arrived: “If within a year I do not attain God, I will drop sannyas.” He was informed: “Better drop it now, because no one becomes a sannyasin on conditions.” He was issuing an ultimatum to God: “If within a year there is no attainment, I will leave sannyas!” It seems as if he needs God less than God needs him; that if Dr. Munshi Singh does not attain liberation, God will weep and beat his chest crying, “Oh Munshi Singh, where are you? Without you I cannot live. Come, and…”

“A ripple has just risen in the heart,
a fresh breeze has just begun to blow;
there’s uproar in the house of the heart,
some wall has just fallen.”

…as if God too will start humming, as if a season will come into his life if Munshi Singh arrives!

And he must need a doctor too! Such a “Munshi Singh” does not appear to me a real doctor, because on his first signature he wrote “Munshi Singh, doctor.” I called him “Doctor Munshi Singh” only out of courtesy. He seems like our Padma “Engineer”—perhaps some ancestor was once an engineer! It’s certain Padma isn’t an engineer now. But it has become a surname—Engineer, like Sharma or Verma: Padma Engineer. In the same way this one looks like a “Munshi Singh, doctor”—because a real doctor would write “Dr.” first, not after. When someone writes it after, the meaning is clear. But ever since I said “Doctor Munshi Singh,” he began writing it in front too—he thought, “If it’s going through for free, why not let it go through!” Maybe some forefather was a doctor. Even then, I don’t think he doctored human beings.

Within twenty-four hours he started setting conditions: “One year—exactly one year! If God is not attained, if Nirvana is not experienced, if samadhi does not happen, I’ll drop sannyas!”

Sannyas out of greed? Meditation out of greed? Then liberation is no longer liberation; God is no longer God. It all becomes shopkeeping. It remains an outward journey. These matters are about a playful, intoxicated joy. And if the “leaving” is already scheduled, can you ever plunge in totally? You’ll be counting every hour: “Not yet, not yet. Four days gone, five, seven; one week, four weeks, a month—now only eleven months left! By now something should have happened. If not the whole, at least a tola or two—something! A few signs should appear. If not that, at least the sound of footsteps should be heard. A month gone just like that—and only eleven left!”

These are childish things. God a toy? Will you attain him by racing with desires, greed, ambition? Have you gone mad?

Prajna, it is good you are still young. If the lack in the world has begun to be felt…this is exactly what I want—that you feel the lack in the world. That is why I do not ask you to leave the world. If you leave it, how will you know its lack? One who sits in a forest finds the world very tasty. One who sits in a cave in the mountains remains suspicious: “Who knows what fun is going on in the world! Perhaps I made a mistake!”

A Jain monk, Kanak Vijay, once visited me as a guest. He saw that with me straight talk is possible. For two or three days we spoke of spirituality; then slowly he came to the real matter. He said, “With you I can say the real things. Let me tell you the truth: I was only nine when my mother died. On her death, my father took sannyas.

“In this country, if the wife dies, what else to do—shave your head and become a monk!” He shaved his head and became a monk. There was a nine-year-old son at home—what would he do? So he gave him sannyas too. At nine, Kanak Vijay became a monk. Now imagine the plight: a nine-year-old child becomes a renunciate; he leaves home—and a Jain monk at that! He never ate the sweets other children eat, never tasted ice cream, never drank Coca-Cola, tea or coffee, no chamcham, no sandesh—nothing. He got stuck at age nine. He saw no street magicians, no circus, no cinema.

He said to me, “With you I can tell the truth. My mind keeps asking: what happens in a cinema? I see crowds, scuffles at the doors, queues stretching far down the road—surely something must be happening. What goes on inside? I cannot ask anyone—people will say, ‘A seventy-year-old Jain monk asking what happens in the cinema! What kind of spirituality, what kind of austerity, what kind of curiosity is this? Speak of Brahma-knowledge, of self-knowledge.’ I teach people self-knowledge and Brahma-knowledge. I point out the path to liberation. I explain the Jina’s word. Now whom can I ask? Whoever I ask will look at me with suspicion. But I can ask you: what happens in a cinema?”

I said, “Don’t worry. I will send you to a cinema.”

He said, “What are you saying! Someone might see me!”

I said, “Don’t worry about that either. In the cantonment area no Jains live. Jains don’t get recruited into the military anyway. Leave the military—Jains don’t even do farming because plants have to be cut or pulled—killing! Plants too have life. So forget the military—what question of Jains there! I’ll have you go see one there. One hitch: they don’t show Hindi films there—only English.”

He said, “Whatever the language, what does it matter? Let me see once what it is. If I don’t understand, no problem.”

A devotee of mine lived next door—Jagsi-bhai. I called him. “Do this,” I said, “take him to a theater in the cantonment area. Seat him in the box upstairs so no one can see.”

Jagsi-bhai got very nervous. He too was a Jain. He said, “Though I follow you and have no taste left for Jain orthodoxy, even so—I don’t have the courage! You called the wrong person. You choose your targets cleverly!”

I said, “I thought I’d kill two birds with one stone. Kanak Vijay will be taken care of—and you too. We’ll see how free you are from bigotry.”

He said, “If my wife finds out, what then?”
I said, “We’ll see then. If the monk himself is not afraid, why are you, Jagsi-bhai? It will be only your wife who finds out!”

“My wife is very religious. She will make my life hell. If my children learn of it, they will make trouble too.”

“Why should anyone find out? Put him in a car.”

“A car! Put the monk in a car?”

“Jagsi-bhai, you remain the same! If you take him to a cinema, will you take him on foot? The whole town will know where the monk is going. Some followers may start trailing him—more trouble.”

“That’s true. I can’t bring my own car—my children and wife will ask where I’m going.”

“Then take mine.” I gave him my car. I saw his hands and feet trembling. I said, “Jagsi-bhai, you drink alcohol and even then your hands don’t shake! Then you don’t remember Jainism. And when the monk himself is ready, why are you worried? But if you drive trembling like this, you’ll cause an accident; both you and the monk will be in a fix. I’ll have no problem—my ‘bad name’ will grow a little, which is to say, my name will grow a little!”

I said, “I’ll take you both myself and drop you at the theater. In this state you can’t manage. If some Jain spots you on the way, you’ll lose your senses.”

So I took them and dropped them at the cinema. He watched and returned. He said, “There’s nothing there—but I was so tormented! The thought kept rising: what is there! Now I won’t hide from you: these small things trouble me—ice cream, Coca-Cola, Fanta!”

I said, “All of it—whatever troubles you—say it. And Jagsi-bhai, I’ll take care of both of you. You want to drink—Jagsi-bhai drinks himself; he’ll pour you one too. Taste it all once—be done with the nuisance. You saw the cinema; now you’re free of it.”

He said, “Yes, absolutely free. Now I have no interest. I’ve seen it—there’s nothing in it. I was worried for nothing.”

This man was frozen at age nine. The curiosity of a nine-year-old. It isn’t his fault. What fault can there be? You froze a nine-year-old. Whoever runs away from life will get stuck somewhere. He will keep looking back: “Who knows what is happening there! In the cave nothing happens.” News will keep reaching him: now television has come—color television! Now there is cabaret! Sitting in a cave he wonders, “What is cabaret?” He hopes that after death in heaven the apsaras—Menaka, Urvashi—will still be dancing…though by now they must be very old. It’s been millions of years—old women dancing—very difficult! And what cabaret could they possibly do? And even if they did, what charm would it have? “What is strip-tease?” “Wait till after death, the apsaras will do it.” But the apsaras must be in such condition by now—their teeth all fallen out. What strip-tease will you watch then?

I heard of an old woman in an American hotel, very distressed—no one even looked at her. Women are of three kinds: those at whom people look; those people overlook; and those people avoid looking at. She was in the third category. Wherever she went, people looked away. Every day there was cabaret, strip-tease—those girls were yesterday’s kids! The old woman was miserable: these young girls are defeating me! One day she grew furious. She said to her friend—also an old woman—“Today I’ll show them.” She took off all her clothes and walked naked into the hotel: “Now they will look.” However much a woman protests, the desire remains that someone should look; if no one does, she feels very hurt. Whether she is an apsara or not, of earth or of heaven—it makes no difference. When people stop looking, the pain begins. When men no longer look at women, women feel their time is up.

Old age simply means: now no one looks; old age has come.

Naked—only in America could this happen—she walked into the hotel. Her friend, also naked, went with her. Both must have been over eighty. No one looked—only two men did. And they said to each other, “Whatever else, let them wear what they like—but at least they should iron what they wear! What kind of clothes are these!” They were naked! Worse things must be happening up there. Even if you iron Menaka, nothing much will come of it—and she will burn with rage.

These men sit in caves thinking, “Will I get Urvashi? Will I get Menaka?” They have run from here while hoping for heaven there—hoping to attain what they left behind here! Nothing has been dropped; the same race continues in the mind. They chant “Rama, Rama” even now—but what is the motive? The same: to get what was left behind here, on a larger scale. As long as there is any desire to get, any greed—call it the desire for God, for bliss—these are just names. Greed is cunning; it sticks to anything; it seizes any object you offer—even liberation—and says, “Fine, liberation it is; I’ll attach to this.”

Now this Munshi-ram “doctor,” within twenty-four hours greed has seized him: “Within a year, attainment of God.” Otherwise he will leave sannyas. Is this sannyas? Is this meditation? Will you meditate like this? It is this very current of greed that has kept him wandering and troubled. He will go on wandering. In his life that moment will never come when he could say:

“A ripple has just risen in the heart,
a fresh breeze has just begun to blow.”

Only the foul winds of greed will keep blowing in his life—the dirty winds of ego and ambition will ring him round. Within him no wall will ever fall.

“There’s uproar in the house of the heart;
some wall has just fallen.”

But Prajna, you are still young. This is the moment. Do not leave the world, do not run away. Stay right here, so that you can be truly free of it. Only by seeing does freedom happen. Only by experience comes release. And if you have begun to see that

“In this crowded world I cannot feel at ease—
who knows what is still missing,”

then the first step of the inner journey rises exactly like this. But now be alert: do not allow even a little room for any tendency that carries you outward. Do not sow even a small seed—of greed, of ambition, of ego.

Sannyas is non-greed. Sannyas is freedom from ambition. Sannyas is a transcendence of craving. Sannyas is the understanding of the futility of desire. Then, by itself, consciousness begins to slide inward. Nothing needs to be done; no effort—spontaneous.

And many blows will fall. To be with me means blows upon blows—because whatever you have built till now, I will break. I will topple your sand houses. I will bring down your palaces of cards.

You say:
“I am somewhat delicate of temperament,
and this wound too is new.”

The blows will fall, because your beliefs will break, your assumptions will break, your doctrines will break, your foundation stones will shift. And who is not delicate? Everyone is. Who is there who will not be hurt? It is impossible to be with me and not be wounded. Only one will not be hurt: one who understands nothing at all; whose skin is so thick that nothing reaches the intelligence; one who is listening and not listening; who has just drifted in; who dozes, half-asleep; who has not really come—only the body is present. But one who is present as a soul—on that one blows will rain. And the more worthy one is, the more blows I will give—because the greater the worth, the greater the need. The greater the possibility of transformation. His neck will be cut. He will be chopped into pieces so that only the purest remains. That which cannot be broken should be left; all else will be shattered. That which is indivisible will remain; the rest will be fragmented.

So do not panic. Do not be afraid of the blows. When a blow falls, give thanks. That is the art of a disciple—the art of discipleship: that when the true master strikes, the disciple can offer gratitude, can express gratefulness. And to the extent one expresses that gratefulness, transformation in life becomes certain.

Ranjan! Your name is Ranjan—and you’ve fallen into the hands of an iconoclast. And your work—at the doorway of this tavern—is to welcome people. What more is there to know?
You ask: “I don’t know—who am I!”
Whenever such a question arises, look at your image in the mirror and say, “Ah yes, this—this is me, Ranjan Bharti!” And “What am I doing here!”—what is there to do? There is nothing to do. Here the very question of doing does not arise. But this danger will be there.

Sant Maharaj, speak—speak Punjabi. There’s no harm in it. Don’t worry.

When I used to go to Punjab, many people would talk to me in Punjabi. I don’t know even the ABCs of Punjabi. The first time I went to Punjab, I attended a Vedanta conference in Amritsar. A Punjabi newspaper sent its editor. He came and started speaking to me in Punjabi. The people whose guest I was felt a bit uneasy. They knew I didn’t know Punjabi. But they were even more astonished that I didn’t understand a word—he would speak in Punjabi and I kept answering him. They were amazed: perhaps he does know Punjabi—what’s going on? The editor left so satisfied that the next day he printed this headline: “Asia’s greatest Vedantin.” Because whatever he asked, I just sifted it through Vedanta! I had no idea what he was asking. I simply talked Vedanta. So he wrote… “Asia’s greatest Vedantin.”

My hosts said, “You have astonished us. We didn’t know you knew Punjabi!”
I said, “Who on earth knows it!”
They said, “But you were replying as if…”
I said, “What difference does it make to me? Ask in any language; what I have to say, I say.”

I used to go to Gujarat; people would come and talk in Gujarati. Let them! Whatever I have to say, I say. Traveling all over the country, I had to hear all kinds of languages. Who cares what you are saying! All I know is that in this country there is such profound foolishness that people talk of nothing but Brahma-jnana. So ask anything, and I’ll launch into Brahma-jnana.

So don’t worry, Sant Maharaj! This will even make people take you for an accomplished one. Whether someone speaks English, Hindi, or anything else, you speak Punjabi. Speak Punjabi with your heart wide open. There’s a special delight in speaking Punjabi! If it’s a fight, what Punjabi can do no other language can. Now try that same fight in Gujarati, and it feels like a love-dialogue. In Gujarati the life goes out of it. All the words become rounded; the edge dies away. But Punjabi has a sharp edge—a kirpan!

So when I said to you that your real name is actually “Ant-Shant Maharaj”—Nonsense Maharaj—people will say, “Yes, exactly right.” Don’t suppress what’s in your heart; I am absolutely against repression! And first of all, start your satsang with Ranjan. Ranjan will speak Gujarati; you speak Punjabi. However much he asks, “Mane khabar nathi, hu kaun chhu” [I don’t know—who am I?], you tell him—in Punjabi. However much he says, “Aiyaan su karun?” [What should I do here?], don’t worry. And if he creates more confusion, then do the bhangra dance!

Once three men met in jail. One said, “Friends, I’ve been in this jail since the time trains first began running in Bombay.” The second said, “That’s nothing—why, I’ve been in this jail since the time horse-carriages first began running in Bombay.” The third said, “Brother, what is a horse-carriage?”

Let it rip from the heart! Since you’re hollering anyway… And what is Brahma-jnana—just hollering! This is what they call Brahma-discourse.

Two fishermen were returning home. One said, “Today was incredible! I caught such a fish—never have I seen or heard of a fish so big. An astonishing fish! There’s no mention of such a fish in history. My boat was too small. Dragging it to the ghat became a problem.”

The other said, “I too caught an amazing fish today. Though it wasn’t that big—small, really—but when I cut it open, what did I see? Inside I found a lantern. And on the lantern was written: Napoleon’s lantern! And not only that—the lantern was still burning!”

The first said, “Look, brother, if you put out the lantern, I can make the size of my fish as small as you like. But please put out the lantern—at least put out the lantern! It’s enough that it was from Napoleon’s time, but at least extinguish the lantern.”

When you’re just spinning yarns, then what! And that’s how it’s going to be. Here there are people who know at least fifty languages. In the new commune we will make such arrangements. We’ll create some spaces for satsang where each can strike up in their own language. No one needs to listen to anyone else—does anyone listen to anyone in satsang! Each one strike up your own. Someone will be speaking Gujarati, someone Punjabi, someone Bengali, someone Madrasi, someone Marathi. Someone Chinese, someone Japanese, someone German, someone French, someone Italian—whatever comes to their heart. There are at least fifty languages spoken already. By the time the commune takes shape, we’ll have people speaking at least a hundred languages. What fun it will be! Such a satsang will never have happened in the world. Whoever reaches that satsang even once will return completely unconscious. He will lose his senses. If he returns alive, that is something. If he faints, that’s fine; but if he returns alive, that too is much. Now look at this Ranjan—he thought of asking his question in Gujarati. But he has asked a lovely question. He wants the answer in Punjabi. Saint Maharaj, have mercy on me and give him the answer.

Prem Veetrag! In ignorance, whatever you believe is consolation. God is consolation, moksha is consolation, the soul’s immortality is consolation, rebirth is consolation. In ignorance you believe precisely because inside you there is fear, panic, anxiety. How to hide that anxiety? How to suppress that fear? How to erase that panic? All these fine words, these sweet notions, prop you up. These beliefs at least give you enough strength to keep going. At least they drag you through life! They cannot create a dance, because no matter how much you believe, deep within you know you don’t know.

So consolation remains on the surface, a coat of plaster. Like graves that someone has carefully plastered and painted—yet they are still graves; inside there is a rotting corpse. Jesus has often said your beliefs are like whitewashed tombs that shine from afar, especially in a moonlit night—how they gleam! But what is within? Only bones, nothing else.

It isn’t just rebirth—anything you believe in ignorance is consolation. Because you are disturbed, and the disturbed need props. They say, “A drowning man clutches at a straw.” No one is saved by a straw—everybody knows that. But the drowning man clutches at it anyway, thinking, “Perhaps I might be saved.” Even a “perhaps” gives the mind relief.

Death frightens everyone; that’s why so many in the world believe in the soul’s immortality. Don’t conclude from this that there are so many religious people. If there were, this earth would have become a paradise. And have you noticed—those who are more cowardly are the very ones who believe in the soul’s immortality! Can you find a country more cowardly than this one? For thousands of years this country remained enslaved, and yet it believes in the soul’s immortality. Can people who believe in the soul’s immortality be made slaves? What will you destroy in one whose soul is immortal? Seize the body if you like, but he won’t give up his freedom. And yet for thousands of years this land was enslaved. Any small tribe came and enslaved it: Turks came, Mughals came, Huns came, the English came, the Portuguese came—whoever came. Those who didn’t come—it was their mistake; had they come, they too would have made us slaves. Whoever took the trouble to come, we were ready to be their slaves. And these “religious people,” who say the soul never dies! “This body is mortal; the soul is imperishable! This body is clay; the soul is consciousness! The soul is of the nature of the divine! The body is here today, gone tomorrow—a clay pot that must break; but the sky within can never be broken!” Such great knowers, brahmagnanis—yet they could be enslaved?

I see the reason. We became a nation of cowards, of the weak. Your confidence about the soul is not founded on spiritual experience; it is founded on your fear. You are frightened people, panicky people. You want to believe the soul is immortal—for two reasons. First, death terrifies you terribly. Nowhere in the world are people so frightened of death. Others say, “When it comes, we’ll see.” They have at least more spine than you. They say, “It hasn’t come yet; we’ll see when it does.” You call them atheists, materialists; you have invented so many words of abuse! The truth is you are cowards and they are not. But you hide your cowardice behind fine words.

In five thousand years you have mastered one art: hiding yourself under beautiful words. You have become experts in it. You have achieved a “siddhi” in it—your only siddhi! The whole world is sinful; only you are the saint! And why? Because you believe in the soul’s immortality, because you believe in God. Those others don’t believe in God—ah, they’re materialists!

But look closely: those materialists did everything to make life beautiful. What have you done? Whatever you have today is because of them—if you have roads, it’s because of them; if you have railways, because of them; airplanes, because of them; factories, machines—whatever you have is because of the materialists. And what do you have because of yourselves? Only hollow words.

And I am not saying these statements are false—mark this well. I am not saying the soul is not immortal; note this. The soul is certainly immortal. But your belief is false. Beliefs are false; experience is true. When Buddha says it, understand it is true. When Mahavira says it, when Nanak says it, when Kabir says it—understand, it’s true. But what weight is there in your words?

In my village there was a Kabirpanthi mahant, the head of a very old Kabirpanthi center—Swami Sahibdas. I have seen many kinds of speakers in the world, but none so boring as he was. He was unique! So skilled in that art that he could drive anyone out of their wits. If he got after you, you had to concede, you had to agree—simply because there was no other way to get rid of him.

He was a friend of my father’s and often came to our house. He was always on about “the soul is immortal... and I don’t fear ghosts!” I was fed up with his chatter: “I don’t fear ghosts; ghosts are nothing; the soul is immortal—why would I fear ghosts?”

Behind our house in the courtyard there was a neem tree, and a narrow lane passed by; he used it. One night I decided to put his doctrine to the test. I climbed the neem and sat up there with an empty can. As he came along below, he was loudly muttering some charms. The lane was deserted; the municipality hadn’t put up a lantern there. Whoever passed that way usually became religious—some would go by uttering “Ram, Ram,” some “Victory to the Flute-bearing Lord!”—something or other! It was a creepy place. And that neem was reputed to be haunted.

So I sat on it. He came along with a lantern. First I rattled the can. As soon as I rattled it, he froze in his tracks. But he had to go on—how long could he stand there? He chanted louder, hurled some spells my way, peered into the darkness—he could see nothing. Whenever he took a step, I rattled the can again. Then he shouted, “Who are you—ghost, spirit—who?” I said nothing, just rattled the can whenever he asked. His courage ebbed. But he had to get to his ashram, and there was no other route. So he mustered courage and tried to run. As he ran, I dropped the can. The moment it fell, the lantern slipped from his hand. The lantern fell, he fell, and I leapt down onto him. Then he shrieked, “Save me! I’m done for!” In the commotion I grabbed his lantern and stick and ran. People gathered and lifted him up, asking, “What happened, Sahibdasji?” He said, “Nothing happened—don’t know if I slipped or what.” He made up stories. After that he kept pestering my father to have that neem cut down. Whenever he talked of ghosts or the soul’s immortality or “I fear no one,” I would say, “Lantern... stick!” He would fall instantly silent, staring at me: How does he know about the lantern and stick? My father too wondered why, whenever I said “lantern and stick,” Swamiji fell silent.

At last Sahibdas couldn’t bear it. He asked, “What lantern? What stick? Why do you keep saying lantern and stick? Whenever I speak of Brahman-knowledge you say lantern and stick!”

I said, “Shall I bring them?” I had kept them. I brought his lantern—it was broken and everyone knew it—and his stick. I asked, “Where did these come from? And who was rattling the can in the tree? That was me. And now, by mistake or otherwise, don’t ever say in this house ‘I don’t fear ghosts.’ Stop that nonsense. And the neem will not be cut—because I need that neem to set others on the right path too.”

But my father had the neem cut. He thought, who knows whom else this boy will scare and knock down—someone might break an arm or a leg. No one could be found to cut the neem. Who would cut it, after all the rumors? And since the day Sahibdas fell... Finally my father said to me, “You yourself find someone—we have to get this neem cut, but no one agrees to do it.”

I said, “No one can cut it without me. Whoever tries, I will haunt him.”

After that, Sahibdas’s spiritual discourses stopped. He stopped coming to our house. As long as I lived in the village, he never came. When I left for the university, his discourses resumed. Whenever I returned on holiday I would visit him: “Well, Sahibdasji, how goes it?” He would say, “Everything is fine.” I said, “Found anyone to cut the neem? You won’t find one! Where did your immortality of the soul go—and your Brahman-knowledge and Kabir’s couplets? All washed away by a little can! It wasn’t even a special can—just a kerosene tin, empty—and you were finished!”

These frightened, cowardly people keep talking lofty things. Their lofty talk is a device to hide what is within.

Your so-called mahatmas denounce the world only because the world’s lure is in their minds. They abuse women only because the fascination of women is in their minds. That is what torments them.

You ask, Prem Veetrag: “You oppose consolation.”
Certainly I do.
“Then isn’t rebirth also a kind of consolation?”
For you it is a consolation; for me it is not. Take note of this distinction. For me, rebirth is an experience, a truth. And I would like it to become an experience and a truth for you as well. For you, even the soul is just babble. You don’t know anything; you have never gone within, never met yourself, never known yourself. What talk of the soul! You read the Gita and think you have had the experience? You memorized the Upanishads and think you have had the experience? The Upanishad says “Aham Brahmasmi,” so you begin repeating every day “Aham Brahmasmi”—and by repetition you fall into the delusion that “I too am Brahman.”

All this is delusion—for you. Brahman and so forth are nothing more than words to you. “Aham Brahmasmi”—you do not know yet.

People want consolation, not truth. Because to attain truth one must labor; consolation is free.

When someone dies, watch what “wisdom-discourse” starts in that house! Have you been to the cremation ground? When people carry someone there, see what Brahman-discussion starts! The village ruffians and loafers all start discoursing: “The soul is immortal; the poor fellow is liberated from the world, from snares, from the ocean of becoming! It’s good he is freed. What is there in this world anyway? Who has attained anything? Life is a knot of sorrow—now it is cut.”

I used to go to the cremation ground. Since childhood I enjoyed going—whoever died, whether I knew them or not, whether there was friendship or enmity, I went.

There are only three kinds of people in the world. First, friends—who can become enemies any time and often do. Second, relatives—born enemies; they never need to become enemies. Truly, there are only two kinds: enemies—those who are enemies for some reason; and enemies without reason—relatives. And third, friends who are preparing to be enemies. I didn’t bother about who had died; whoever died, I wanted to go to the cremation ground, because I was more interested in what people said there. And it was remarkable—there they would start high talk! Sitting with their backs to the pyre, with the corpse burning, they would talk wisdom. They would be consoling themselves and also consoling the relatives of the deceased. And when someone dies in their house, others do the same for them. This is everyone’s job: giving each other relief—this is society’s function, its ritual.

In a war a young man was killed. His father was heartbroken. Mulla Nasruddin—whose specialty is to offer sympathy to everyone—went to the house. The whole house was in mourning: the mother weeping, the father weeping, the young wife weeping, the children weeping. He was their only son—the lamp of the house was extinguished, the staff of their old age was gone.

Nasruddin had to say something sympathetic, some hook to hang it on. So he asked the father, “Where did the bullet hit?”

Sobbing, the father said, “Just below the left eye.”

Nasruddin said with great sympathy, “Well, that’s a mercy—at least the eye was saved! God’s great grace on your son—hit just below the eye. If it had hit the eye itself...”

Now the son is dead—what does it matter where the bullet hit? But in offering consolation one must say something—one needs some handle. “The soul is immortal! Your son has become God’s beloved!” As if until now he wasn’t beloved, and only now he has suddenly become so. And why aren’t others’ sons becoming beloved? If someone dies young people say, “God takes early those he loves.” Then why create them at all? Those he loves most, perhaps he doesn’t create, or he takes them as soon as he creates them. And those he keeps living to seventy, eighty, ninety—what enmity does he have with them that he lets them linger, rot? When someone dies at a ripe old age people say, “Ah, how gracious of God—he died after a full life!” And when someone dies unripe?

Any excuse will do for consolation. But none of this transforms life. Yes, it applies a coat of paint. Our entire religion, about which we make so much noise—what else is it? It is of this very kind.

My effort here is not to give you belief but to give you experience. That’s why I never say, “Believe what I say.” I say, “Experience what I say; let it become your experience; then belief is unnecessary. Experience suffices. Belief is needed only by those who have no experience. Those who have belief have no experience. And those who have experience—what need have they of belief? Belief is hollow. The knower does not believe; the knower knows.”

No one asks you, “Do you believe in the sun?” No one raises a debate. No one says, “I don’t believe in the sun; I’m an atheist—where is the sun? I don’t accept it.” All accept it because all can see it. The day the divine becomes that immediate in your experience, belief will not arise. Until then, all is consolation.

And beware of consolation. It is poison. It is a sleeping pill—you lie down with it, you feel relief, but no revolution happens. And revolution is needed, not relief. Relief you have had in plenty—you have lived on relief for so many lives. You will waste this life too.

One grain of your own experience is enough; a whole Himalayan mountain of belief is smaller than one grain of experience. One drop of experience is enough; it is greater than an ocean of belief, because even a single drop of experience is liberating. Only your truth will liberate you; someone else’s truth cannot.

Amrit Krishna! Even that one hand has to move because of you—because of your restlessness. Otherwise there would be no need to move it either. If you were to sit silently, that hand would not move.
When your mind is restless, its reflection falls on the body as well. Your body conforms to your mind; it is its shadow.
Ananda asked Buddha: The way you lie down to sleep, you remain in that very posture the whole night! For many nights Ananda sat and watched—how can this be? Naturally, he was curious. He said: I examined you in every way. However you lie down, whichever leg you place over the other, it stays there all night. Do you really sleep, or even in the night are you keeping account so that the foot remains where it is and does not change? You never turn sides!
Buddha said: Ananda, when the mind becomes silent, there remains no reason for the body to be restless.

I am not making any effort to sit like this. Nor is there any need. People keep shifting even while they sit. They sit on a chair and move their legs, jiggle their feet—as if they were walking! as if riding a bicycle! They are on a chair, but their life energy inside is running.

The mind is fickle, in motion. Its shadow will fall on the body. When the mind becomes quiet, the body too becomes quiet. If there is a need, you will move; if there is no need, why move? There is no mystery in this; it is a simple matter.

You, of course, are restless. That I know. Even to sit quietly for five minutes is difficult. In fact, if you try to sit still even for five minutes, a thousand obstacles arise. Somewhere a tingling will start in the leg, somewhere a leg will begin to go numb, somewhere ants will seem to be crawling up your back. And if you look, there are no ants at all! That’s the strange thing! Many times you have checked and found there are no ants, yet imagined ants begin to crawl. Who knows what all kinds of thoughts will come! A thousand and one notions will arise: let me do this, let me do that, let me look here, let me look there. The mind will say: Why are you sitting like a fool! Get up, do something! Life is short—will you pass it like this? Do something so that your name is written in golden letters on the pages of history. If you keep sitting like this you will miss; others are seizing the opportunity.

Your mind is running, therefore your body is running. And what do people do? They do the opposite. They try to make the body steady. That is why they learn yogasanas—thinking that if they stabilize the body, the mind will become still. They are trying to do it upside-down. It cannot happen that way. By making the body still, the mind does not become still. If the mind becomes still, the body settles by itself.

I never learned any yogasanas. There is no need. Meditation is sufficient. And if you keep trying to force the body to sit still, you may succeed. In the circus people succeed—but do you take them to be yogis? In the circus, what all they can do with the body! They can demonstrate anything. But don’t imagine that makes them yogis. Their life is the same as yours—perhaps even worse.

Even if you learn postures, nothing will happen. But if inwardly the mind comes to rest, everything settles of its own accord.

Brother Madan Mohan Agarwal! Just tweak your name a little! Either make it Madan Lal Agarwal or Mohan Lal Agarwal. And then, in English, write the short form—M. L. A. Your initials will read “M.L.A.” This method is both cheap and simple. Without even turmeric or alum, the color comes out bright! And it’s durable too, because those who become MLAs by fighting elections stop being MLAs after five years; they become “former.” And becoming “former” is a great misfortune. “Former” in Hindi is bhut-purva—meaning you’ve turned into a bhut, a ghost! Better not to have been at all. Ghosts of MLAs, ghosts of MPs, ghosts of ministers—right now there are so many ghosts in the country there’s no counting them. The country is being tormented by ghosts and goblins.

But if you change your name once, then you’re an M.L.A. forever—no one can make you “former.” You will always be abhut-purva—unprecedented, never a ghost! A simple trick. No contesting elections, no getting into hassles. Just change your name. And what does it take to change a name? Go to the court. Do it today—don’t leave it for tomorrow. Who knows about tomorrow—whether you’ll survive or not. At least die as an M.L.A.! Even if you die, people will say, “He was an M.L.A., a very accomplished man!”

Now this Madan Mohan Agarwal—if he tries to sit silently even for five minutes, how will he? He has to become an M.L.A.! His mind is already running toward Delhi. He can’t find peace here. He’ll go and settle in Delhi. He wants the capital. Wherever he is, his running will continue. Even if he sits, he can’t sit at ease. How to sit at ease—the mind will say, “You’re wasting time! In this much time you could have met ten or fifteen voters. Go fight the election.” And what do you really have to do to fight an election? You just need to know how to bare your teeth. That’s all—stand grinning in front of anyone. Touch anybody’s feet, hold out your begging bowl: “Brother, please give me one vote. If you give it, I’ll be saved; if not, I’ll die. Give me your vote, or I’ll go on a fast, I’ll do satyagraha, I’ll commit suicide!” And what else has to be done? From the small fry to the big shots—what do they do?

You saw Atal Bihari Vajpayee became Foreign Minister for a while—rushing from one capital to another. What did the whole world come to know him for? For baring his teeth! Because he was forever baring his teeth. Did you see his photos from that time? Looking at his face, you feel: does this man even have any life in him? Has the life-force drained out? What’s going on?

To be a politician, you need that art. I know two men: one, Atal Bihari Vajpayee—very skilled at baring his teeth; the other, Dr. Karan Singh. Why they named him Dr. Karan Singh, I can’t understand. They should have named him Dr. Dant Singh—Dr. Toothsingh. As long as Indira Gandhi was in power, he always stood ready, teeth bared, to welcome her. The moment Indira went out of power, he bared his teeth for someone else. You can’t trust the teeth-barers. They’re chamchas—spoons, sycophants.

Mind you, these days even spoons have teeth! Be a little careful with these spoons. If they catch hold of you, they won’t let go—spoons with teeth! And they’ll latch on in such a way they’ll suck you dry.

Now you too have the same restlessness! Is there nothing else to do in life? You want to get into some futile business? What will you do by becoming an M.L.A.? What are those already there doing? You’ll just get thrashed for no reason—shoes will be flung, and what else? Go to Parliament and put on a few scenes? Say something sensible. Say something intelligent. Make some good use of your life. There is something worth knowing, something worth attaining—and it is within you.

Rupchand! Who told you to understand me? If you try to understand, you will certainly get tired. Because this work here is not for the “understanders.” This work is for the mad ones, the moths drawn to the flame. This settlement belongs to the intoxicated ones. I am not sitting here to make you into pundits.

And what will you understand right now anyway? You are already carrying plenty of “understanding.” You are busy matching what I say with what you already know, trying to rig some arrangement with it. It is hard to find a person who isn’t already sitting convinced that he understands. That’s where the obstacle begins. It is not difficult to explain to the ignorant; it becomes difficult to explain to the “knowledgeable.”

You seem “knowledgeable.” You’re a hidden master—an undercover pundit!

“Hey, Chandulal, why are you shedding tears over the death of the childless millionaire Seth Dhannalal?” Dhabboo-ji asked. “Was he a close relative of yours?”
Chandulal burst into loud sobs and said, “No, he wasn’t—that’s why I’m crying!”

Everyone has his own “understanding.” If you bring yours here, you cannot understand what I am saying.

A famous foreign doctor, during his world tour, came to India. A long line of patients formed. One patient described his ailment, saying he couldn’t sleep. The foreign doctor, astonished, said, “No, no—this can’t be. You must be mistaken. You must have thought, in your sleep, that you don’t sleep—because I know very well that in India people do nothing except sleep. Any other complaint?”

If a man arrives with his conclusions ready-made, he won’t admit that such an illness could exist. Impossible! “So you must have dreamt in your sleep that you don’t sleep.”

Rupchand, leave your “understanding” outside the door and come in. Then you will see my words are very plain and simple. Never has it been said as straightforwardly as I am saying to you. Cut-and-dried.

Nasruddin rushed into a pet shop and said to the shopkeeper, “Sir, I need five hundred bedbugs and about two thousand mosquitoes.”
The shopkeeper, startled, said, “I can get them for you, but what on earth will you do with them?”
Nasruddin said, “Sir, the landlord has ordered us to vacate the house, and he insists I must leave the house exactly as it was when I rented it.”
So he’s gathering the bedbugs and mosquitoes and rats, digging into the walls, making holes in the floor, breaking the roof—restoring it to its former condition.

Nasruddin’s wife, Guljaan, for some reason had to go to court. The magistrate asked her, “Would you please tell us your age?”
Guljaan said, “Sir, twenty-two years, and a few months.”
The magistrate asked suspiciously, “Twenty-two years and a few months? Exactly how many months?”
“Twenty-two years and eighty-four months,” replied Guljaan.

I don’t know what notions you carry, which ideas are obstructing you. But there must be some notions; otherwise, am I saying anything difficult? I am saying a very simple thing: look at the mind with a witnessing awareness, so that gradually you step aside from the mind and become the witness; step out of the mind and arrive at the state of no-mind. What could be simpler?

Nasruddin had just been married. On the wedding night, Guljaan quickly undressed, adorned herself, and lay down on the bed. But Nasruddin placed a chair by the window and just sat there. For a while, Guljaan waited… a lifetime’s waiting—and what’s wrong with him! At last she said, “Nasruddin, aren’t you coming to bed? Aren’t we going to celebrate our wedding night?”
Nasruddin said, “That’s exactly what I’m celebrating. You go to sleep; don’t interrupt. My mother told me that the wedding night comes only once, so I’m sitting by the window watching the night. I won’t sleep tonight. This night will never come again. I’ll meet you tomorrow. But this wedding night, this moon, these stars—these won’t return. My mother kept reminding me: ‘Son, Nasruddin, the wedding night comes only once.’ Now, don’t interfere.”

Surely, Rupchand, you’ve come here carrying some peculiar kind of “understanding”—Hindu understanding, Muslim understanding, Christian, Jain—who knows which! Who knows which books are crammed into your head! Who knows through which walls my words have to pass to reach inside you! But there will be walls.

You are deaf; otherwise, to understand what I’m saying, does one need higher mathematics, science, some great art? I am saying something as simple as “two and two are four.”

One night the hotel room became very cold. Chandulal was shivering under a blanket. He thought, “I should call for another blanket; otherwise, I won’t sleep the whole night.” He phoned the receptionist: “Listen, Miss, I’m feeling very cold. I’d be most obliged if you…”
Before Chandulal could even finish, the reply came: “All right, all right, I’ll be at your service within two minutes. In the meantime, please take off your clothes and get ready.”

Drop your “understanding.” My words are straightforward.

You ask: “I’ve grown tired of trying to understand you.”
Good that you’re tired. If you’re truly tired, then now drop your understanding. Don’t fight it any longer. Let your “understanding” fall. It’s precisely because of it that nothing makes sense.

And now you ask: “What should I do now?”
When nothing makes sense, what will you do? What I say won’t make sense either. What I ask you to do won’t make sense either. You’ll understand something else altogether. First, drop your understanding.

Come here as if you were innocent children. Sit here as if you know nothing. And then see how simply the words descend, how they go straight to the heart. Then see—what happened to Pragya can happen to you as well—

A wave has just risen in the heart,
A fresh breeze has just begun to blow.
An uproar has burst in the house of the heart—
Some wall has just fallen.
In this crowded world the heart finds no rest;
Who knows what is still missing.
Partly, yes, our temperament is delicate too,
And this wound is still newly made.
A wave has just risen in the heart,
A fresh breeze has just begun to blow.

That’s all for today.