Udio Pankh Pasar #3

Chaitanya Kirti! Falsehood does not last long against truth. Nor should truth be anxious about the false. If something is false, it will erase itself; and if it is true, it should not be erased at all. There is no need for us to make any effort. If what is being said is true, it will live and it will prevail; truth must triumph—that is our longing. And if it is false, make a thousand efforts, prop it up and polish it as much as you like—you cannot breathe life into a corpse; you cannot make a dead body walk. For a little while you may deceive a few people, but short-lived deception ultimately proves costly—above all to the deceivers themselves. Because those who hear such absurd, pointless things and come here at least arrive. That much the newspapers and their publicity do for us. That is a service to us—and we are not even paying them for it.

Whoever comes here will see something, hear something, recognize something. He cannot go back exactly as he came. Some of the notions he brings will certainly be shattered, reduced to dust. He will return with a new way of looking.

So it is not right to stop what they are doing. Let them carry on.

Truth does not hide, even when you hide it. Falsehood, no matter how much you publicize it, stumbles and falls. The false has no feet of its own—only borrowed feet; no wings of its own—only borrowed wings. How long can you manage on borrowings? You can fool a few people for a short time. And those who get carried away by such things will get carried away by anything; they are of no value anyway. If they don’t fall into a well, they will fall into a ditch—they have decided to fall. You cannot stop them. After all, each individual also has the freedom to fall! And everyone has the birthright to believe whatever he wishes—even to believe the untrue.

Falsehood can impress from a distance; the moment you come close, its hypocrisy breaks apart.

So I take it that all those newspapers are working for me. I am not angry with them.

There is a very sweet anecdote in Buddha’s life. I have told this story many times, and each time I wanted to make a small correction. Today is exactly the right moment to do it.

One of Buddha’s disciples, Purna, truly became purna—complete. He attained Buddhahood. A light arose in his life; he recognized himself. He had the direct experience of truth. Darkness vanished, the sun of the morning rose. Buddha called Purna and said, “There is no need now for you to wander as my shadow. Go, carry my message to faraway people. Now you are capable. Where would you like to go?”

There was an area of Bihar called “Sukha”—“Dry.” Perhaps the people there were dry—hearts dead, streams of feeling dried up—hence the name. Purna said, “If you permit, I would like to go to the Dry region, because so far none of our sannyasins, none of your bhikkhus, has taken your message there.”

Buddha said, “Purna, you are still young; you lack worldly experience. Granted you have realized the truth, but you don’t know the world. Learn at least from the fact that no sannyasin has gone there—not even the most seasoned wise ones. Why? The reason is clear. The people there are heartless, wicked, inhuman—animal-like. They will behave badly. First, they will not listen to you. You will say one thing; they will hear another. You will say something; they will spread something else. They are the wrong sort of people. They will insult you, slander you. They are blind—as if their eyes of love have burst. They are skilled only in argument, so they will debate endlessly. And this is not a matter for debate. These are matters to be understood in love, in affection—heart to heart. These are not problems that can be resolved by head-butting. These are realizations, available only when blossoms of feeling open in the heart. Now, you know from your own experience. Why get into useless trouble? You are still new, young. Choose another region.”

But Purna was determined. He said, “Precisely because no one has ever gone there, I want to go. And if the people are bad, then they are the first who need to hear your message! Who else will bring them your news? If they are sick, they are the ones who most need treatment. If their feelings have died, then those very feelings must be awakened. If they have dried up, then while you are alive, if greenness does not return to their lives, when will it? When will their good fortune dawn? Please give me your blessing.”

Buddha said, “I will give my blessing. If you ask, I will give it. But I want to ask you three questions. If you answer rightly, I will grant you permission. First—if they insult you, what will happen in your mind?”

Purna said, “Please don’t ask—you know very well what will happen in my mind. I will be delighted, joyous, thrilled that they only insult—at least they do not hit me. People say they are murderous, bestial! They are not as bad as people say—if they only insult. What does an insult do to me? An abuse comes from here and goes there—just air. Unless I catch it, how can it touch me? I will thank them that they are decent enough to only insult, not beat me.”

Buddha said, “Second question—if they beat you, what then?”

Purna replied, “You know well what will happen; still, if you ask—if they beat me, I will say: ‘They are decent people—they could have killed me, but they only beat me.’ What is created or destroyed by a beating? Even if they killed me, nothing real is created or destroyed. The body must perish—today or tomorrow or the day after. It is transitory. You taught me, and I have seen, that whoever is born will die. They are not so bad as people say. They merely beat, they do not kill.”

Buddha said, “Third question—if they do kill you, and you are dying, what will arise in your mind?”

Here is where the story, as told, goes one way—and I want to make a small correction. I have long wanted to do this. I had thought, “Don’t tamper with scripture; leave it as it is.” But it always jarred on me.

The story says Purna replied, “Even if they kill me, I will die with gratitude, thinking: ‘They are delivering me from a life in which mistakes might still occur. They are good, auspicious people. They are freeing me from a life where I might have strayed, erred, missed the path.’ I will die with goodwill.”

Buddha then blessed him, “Go anywhere you wish. Now nothing can hinder you. Through you, truth will reveal itself—even in the darkest night of no-moon. Even among the driest people, the seed of truth will sprout because of you. Go—my blessings are with you.”

In this story I want to change the third part a little. Why? Because a person who has attained supreme knowledge cannot make a mistake—even if he wants to. For Purna to say, “They are freeing me from a life in which some mistake could happen”—this does not fit. It is impossible. The supremely awakened may act a mistake for play, but cannot actually err—that is impossible. He cannot stray from the path, because wherever he walks, that is the path. If he seems to deviate, that very deviating becomes the path. For one whose inner lamp is lit, there can be no darkness anywhere; even if he enters the densest darkness, still there is light within. Light will spread all around him. He will be in light—whether it is night or day, birth or death. For one who has attained, life is not a burden to be dropped. Not even the faintest desire remains as, “Let me be rid of this load.”

So I do not believe Purna said that third thing. Somewhere the scriptures have slipped; the writers blundered. If I had been in Purna’s place, my third answer would have been: “They are good people—I am dying in joy for this reason: at least they have not ignored me. They could have ignored me.”

And in this world, the greatest danger to truth is indifference.

Just think—if Jesus had not been crucified, if people had simply ignored him, perhaps you would never have heard his name. What was there in a carpenter’s son that would make his name so significant that no other name holds such weight in history? History itself is divided by his name. Even non-Christians divide time by Jesus—Before Christ and Anno Domini. The whole world takes Jesus as the dividing line: before Jesus, one world; after Jesus, quite another—as if humanity climbed a new rung, touched a new peak. This carpenter’s son did something astounding!

If people worshiped Buddha, one reason may have been that he was a prince. If they worshiped Mahavira, again one reason may have been that he was a prince. Never forget: all twenty-four Jain tirthankaras were princes; not one came from a poor home. How could he? Who worships a poor man’s son! Princes were naturally worshipful; when they renounced their palaces, they became even more worthy of worship. Buddha was a prince. Rama, Krishna—the Hindu avatars too. In India, those we have most highly honored are all princes. Who would have cared for Jesus? He was practically an uneducated village rustic. But the cross changed everything—the cross changed history. The cross made it clear: if you must crucify a man, he must be valuable; otherwise there would have been no need to crucify him.

Socrates was given hemlock. As Socrates was dying, his disciple Crito asked, “Master, your last hour has come. Give us a message—how should we conduct your last rites? Shall we cremate you as in the East, or bury you as in the West? Or do you have some other way in mind? Because you have an original insight about everything.”

Socrates, dying, opened his eyes and said, “Crito, my enemies think that by killing me they will finish me. But I tell you, by killing me they are making me immortal. I would have died anyway, but because they are killing me, they will immortalize me. And you worry about my funeral! Once I have gone, whether you bury or burn or float me downriver—what difference? The bird has flown; the cage remains—do whatever you like with the cage. They imagine they are killing me; you imagine you will conduct my funeral. I tell you: if their names are ever remembered, it will only be because they gave Socrates poison. And if your name remains, it will only be because you asked Socrates how to conduct his last rites.”

And it’s true. Who would remember Crito—and for what? Socrates said, “I will remain alive, burying both those who kill me and those who cremate me.” He was right. The simple fact is: if you have to poison a man, he has proved that there is power in his words—enough to make you squirm. He shook your roots. He rattled the machinery of your vested interests. He put your established values back on the table for reconsideration; he put question marks on your so-called eternal values. He struck deeply at your centuries-old tracks and traditions. He pulled the ground from under your feet and left you hanging. He forced you to decide.

Socrates, Jesus, Mansoor—such people leave you only two choices: either you are with them, or you are their enemy. There is no third way. Today the same is happening with me. Either you can be my friend or my foe—you cannot ignore me. Therefore I thank you all—everyone who cannot ignore me. They are, by themselves, dividing people. It doesn’t matter how many are with me and how many against. Certainly more will be against and fewer with me, because to be with me takes courage, even audacity. To oppose me takes nothing at all—it is perfectly easy for cowards. To flow with the crowd is effortless for the timid. To be with me is not without danger; it brings all kinds of inconvenience. To be with me means you will invite trouble upon yourself.

Just yesterday a very prominent German engineer took sannyas. Afterward he sent word. He holds a very high post in the world-famous firm Siemens. Sixty engineers work under him, and three thousand other specialists. He asked me, “If I go about in ochre robes, there will be trouble. This big job, big car, big house, big prestige—I am ready to stake it all. Before taking sannyas I thought it through—this will go; it cannot be saved, because they will not tolerate my robes. What do you say? I am ready to risk everything. Shall I leave everything and come here? Or leave everything and work there for you? Or should I drag Siemens into court? Legally they cannot dismiss me. There is no legal ban on ochre robes or mala. Soon there may be legal provisions too.”

I told him, “Court first. Give them a full fight. Win first—and then resign. You will resign anyway, because where is the fun otherwise? But resign after victory. Shake them up thoroughly. Meanwhile, among those three thousand specialists and sixty engineers, make as many sannyasins as you can. Why miss the opportunity!”

He liked that. He said, “Then I go back and fight first.”

“First win there; then resign in triumph—that has a certain grace.”

To be with me will require courage. But all these rumors are doing a good job: they are dividing people. Thousands come to see the ashram. Regularly, hundreds come to look around. Some go back stirred, impacted, amazed, at a loss—because they come with quite other expectations. They might never have come had the newspapers not spread such nonsense against me. When they return, they will not keep quiet; they will speak of what they experienced, what they saw. At least it will be clear that what was said was outright false.

Certainly, many lies are being told—not only in this country but across the world. Perhaps this has never happened before. Buddha was abused, but it remained confined to Bihar. Mahavira was abused, but it remained in Bihar. Jesus was abused, but it remained in Jerusalem. Socrates was abused, but it didn’t leave Athens. My case is the first to be abused universally. There is hardly a country where absurdities are not printed about me; and the farther the country, the wilder the absurdity—because they think, “Say anything—who will check?” But people are coming even from there. And when they arrive and see, they are astonished.

A well-known German paper printed that when their reporter reached the ashram, he knocked at five in the morning. The gate opened, and a naked beauty opened the door, took him inside. The ashram spread over fifteen square miles—fifteen square miles, perhaps larger than all of Poona—and there thousands of naked couples were wandering!

Brahma-muhurta—the early dawn—has been the hour of rishis and seers since ancient times. Though in my ashram nobody gets up at brahma-muhurta, because we hold: whenever the eyes open, that is brahma-muhurta; when Brahman awakens, that is brahma-muhurta. If Brahman is still asleep, how can it be brahma-muhurta!

“She led me to a tree, plucked a fruit that looked like an apple.”

It must have been the very fruit the devil gave to Eve, which she fed to Adam, and for which God expelled them from Eden. That too looked like an apple.

“And the woman said: ‘Eat this. You will live a hundred years—and not only live a hundred years, but your sexual energy will remain youthful for a hundred years.’”

Then the woman showed him the ashram: large lakes where naked people were bathing! Great waterfalls! Then took him to underground places.

Keep in mind—you are sitting in an underground building! “In that underground hall my discourse was going on, where five thousand sannyasins were sitting naked, because the first condition for listening to the discourse is to be naked.”

Whoever wrote that must be imaginative—a poet. And I liked the touches. I thought, “The idea is not bad. The ashram should indeed be on fifteen square miles—one day it will be! There should be lakes. And the welcome at the gate should be fitting too. Fruit-offering is not a bad thing.”

Then people began coming from Germany asking, “Where is that tree? Where are the lakes? Where is the underground hall that seats five thousand?”

I said, “Ask your journalist! We got an idea from him—so when we build the new ashram we will try to arrange all this. We have even sent people to locate that fruit, because we too liked the idea—not just you. But for now, we cannot meet such expectations.”

How long can such nonsense last? What value can it have? Yet it brought many here. So there was gain; where was the loss? What was harmed?

A lie does not run; however you push it, it keeps falling—and in such ridiculous places that it ruins the liar. Those people went back and wrote letters to their papers: “This is sheer falsehood. The man who wrote this never even visited the ashram; he has nothing to do with it.”

Mulla Nasruddin had just fallen in love with a young woman. In conversation she said, “Do come to our house sometime.”

Nasruddin said, “Of course, of course—why not!”

Next day he went searching for her address but could not find the house. At last he stopped an elderly man and asked, “Sir, could you tell me where Miss Salma lives?”

The old man looked him up and down and asked, “May I know who you are?”

Nasruddin said, “I am her brother.”

The old man said, “Delighted to meet you. Come, come—I am her father!”

How long will a lie go on? Not even one step—and down he went, flat on all four! He met the father he had never so much as seen. And one lie calls forth a thousand more, because to prop one lie you need more lies. That is one feature of lying: to support one, you must erect ten; and each of those ten needs ten more. There is no end.

Truth has a beauty: it stands alone. It needs no support. Truth is its own support. That is its freedom, its strength, its radiance, its vigor. With lies, however much you try, you must bring more lies. Somewhere you will be caught, because the net becomes too big to manage.

A certain politician filed a case against Chandulal: “In a busy hotel, in front of about fifty people, he called me ‘son of an owl.’” The politician was powerful—there was influence even in court. The magistrate browbeat Chandulal: “How dare you call the leader ‘son of an owl’? Shameless fellow! What have you to say in your defense?”

Chandulal said, “Your honor, I never called the leader ‘son of an owl.’ Ask anyone—there were dozens of people there. I didn’t name him. He just grabbed the flying remark and took it upon himself. I was saying it to someone else. He jumped in, fell on me, saying, ‘You called me son of an owl!’”

The leader said, “I have brought my witness.” He put Mulla Nasruddin on the stand. The magistrate asked, “Nasruddin, what do you say?” Nasruddin said, “I say this with absolute certainty: this Chandulal fellow called the leader a son of an owl.” The magistrate said, “He didn’t name anyone—how are you so sure?”

Nasruddin said, “What’s to be sure of! There was no one else there who qualified as a son of an owl except the leader. This scoundrel is telling sheer lies. Who else would he call a son of an owl? Besides the leader, there wasn’t a single one! There were fifty men, sure—but not one owl’s son. I’ve known the leader since childhood. I know his father too. I tell you the truth, your honor—he called him.”

What will you do?

Try to lie and somehow the truth will pop out.

Speeding on his motorcycle, Mulla Nasruddin was stopped by a traffic inspector: “Sir, don’t you know it’s strictly forbidden to go over twenty kilometers per hour on this road? You’re fined ten rupees.”

Nasruddin pleaded, “Inspector, my home is fifty kilometers away, and you can see evening is falling. If I don’t go fast, I’ll never get home, because my headlight is broken.”

The inspector said, “Broken headlight? Then it’s fifty rupees. Why didn’t you get it fixed?”

Nasruddin said, “The fact is, good mechanics are hard to find. What can I do? I left it at a garage yesterday; they didn’t fix the light—in fact those rascals spoiled the brakes and the horn as well. I’m looking for a decent mechanic.”

“What! The horn and brakes are bad too?” The cop growled, “Listen, mister, now it’s five hundred.”

Poor Nasruddin—the more he tried to wriggle out, the deeper he got. Seeing this, his wife Guljaan on the pillion felt pity and tried to defend him: “Officer, please don’t take what he says too seriously. When he drinks too much, he babbles all sorts of nonsense.”

The inspector roared, “So you’re driving drunk! When you were given a license, weren’t you told these rules?”

Nasruddin said very innocently, “Sir, the truth is I don’t know those rules because I’ve never taken a license. If you say so, I’ll get one today. Where do they sell it? Is it very expensive?”

Now the officer’s anger hit the sky: “Son of an owl, come to the station—I’ll teach you a lesson! Five thousand fine! You’ll remember your grandmother—and the bike is impounded.”

Hearing this, Guljaan fumed, “See! You wouldn’t listen to me, and now look. I told you Tuesday is unlucky for you, but you wouldn’t hear of it—and you cheated poor Chandulal on a Tuesday, paid him with counterfeit notes, and bought this motorcycle. Now suffer! The bike is gone and your five thousand rupees too.”

Nasruddin snapped at his wife, “You superstitious woman! Stop this nonsense! No day is lucky or unlucky. Why, just last Tuesday I stole Dhabbu-ji’s camera—what happened? Nothing happened—tell me!”

One after another…they line up. One lie is exposed, then the next, then the next. Lies come in layers; truth stands alone. Lies come as a crowd.

Chaitanya Kirti, don’t worry.

You say, “Most newspapers print all sorts of absurdities about you, which spreads all kinds of falsehoods among people.”

But it is getting publicized, isn’t it—even if false! Let it be publicized once; it won’t take long to set it right. Once the news reaches them, we’ll reach the right news too. It won’t be a big hurdle.

And you say, “People come to the ashram carrying wrong expectations.”

But they do come to the ashram! Whatever expectations they bring, we’ll break them here. The point is: let them come this far. I don’t go anywhere; they have to be brought here. And the poor newspaper people are engaged in free service. You are angry with them for no reason!

Whenever you meet newspaper people, tell them as many absurd and outrageous things as you can—so fantastic that even their hearts are delighted! They will add more salt, pepper, and spice. And the result will be that a few more people will come. After all, people have eyes—they are not completely blind. They have ears too—they will hear, see, understand.

There is no difficulty. By such things, truth has never been harmed—nor can it be.

You ask, “Isn’t it necessary to stop this in time?”

Have you gone mad? Stop it? On the contrary—magnify it!

Dr. Munshi Singh! You seem weak. Utterly cowardly! What religions could you possibly have adopted, and what spiritual practice could you have done? The one who trembles even at changing clothes—what else will he change? If someone’s very life shudders at changing something as trivial as clothes, will he change his mind, will he change his soul? You are squeamish about lancing a small boil, and you want surgery for cancer!

You say: “I adopted many religions to experience truth.”
You must have loitered around the temples from the outside. What does “adopted” even mean? If you panic at the idea of wearing ochre robes, if the very thought of a mala makes you feel as if you’re being hanged, what could you have adopted? And you want to experience truth—so cheaply! You want it for free. You want someone to spoon-feed it to you. You want it pre-cooked—you won’t even chew. You won’t take even that little trouble.

Truth is only for those who are ready to set out courageously into the unknown, who are willing to let their boat loose into the storm. You don’t even want to leave the shore. You are sitting with the boat firmly tied with strong ropes so it won’t drift into the ocean in wind or storm. You say you want the experience of truth—but you have nothing to do with truth. You have only learned the word “truth”—like a parrot.

For the experience of truth, what are you ready to pay? Truth is experienced by those who are willing even to give their lives. And your problem is that the ochre robe and the mala are becoming an obstacle. What will happen if you wear ochre? At most people will laugh—so let them laugh. A few patients may stop coming—let them stop. Your business may slow down—let it slow down. You will have to show a little courage. What obstacle does a mala create? People will only say, “You too have gone mad!” So you aren’t even prepared to go mad for truth? You want to become a moth but lack the courage to burn in the flame? Then write “moth” on your skull and stay home. You’ll remain a fake moth. The moth’s joy is only in burning in the flame. This is the path of the mad.

Dr. Munshi Singh, this work is not for you—yet. Let the wheel of birth and death turn for another five or ten lives. What’s the hurry? That is why Hindus have clung to the doctrine of rebirth—lazy, slothful people—because they know well nothing is going to happen so soon. “It will happen sometime in some life.” For now it’s enough that you’ve at least started talking about truth. Keep talking; someday talk might turn into reality. And what’s the hurry—eternity is there! Be patient. First complete your medical practice. First earn well. Then, someday at the time of death, take the name of Ram. You’ve read Ajamila’s story, haven’t you? Just take the divine name while dying—work finished. And if you can’t do it, the priest—the hired help—will chant a mantra into your ear. Any mantra you like. Gayatri, or the Navkar—whatever pleases your heart. They’ll even recite the entire Gita. Keep a bottle of Ganga water at home; when dying, drink it. What else will you do? Do something cheap. In a couple of years go bathe in the Ganges, rub your head on the temple floor now and then. In the morning, mutter Ram-Ram a few times. No one will notice; no complications. And if they do notice, it will benefit you. If patients see that the doctor also chants Ram-Ram, they’ll come even more: “So religious! So devout!” Why have you come here then? You’ve come to the wrong place.

You say: “I adopted many religions to experience truth.”
You didn’t adopt even one. Where did you gather the courage to adopt? And you say: you meditated by their methods. You must have done some superficial playacting, because even a single method of meditation—if one does it totally, stakes everything—yields results. Drama won’t do. People are only acting. They think they can deceive God too. I know such people: they sit in the shop with the rosary hidden in a pouch. Inside the bag their fingers keep turning the beads—Ram-Ram Ram-Ram! A customer arrives; they signal the servant. A dog comes; “Shoo him away!” And there the Ram-Ram is going on and the mala is being turned! Then one day they complain, “It’s been so long turning the mala, nothing happens.” Is this any way to turn a mala?

One evening Akbar went hunting in the forest. Returning at dusk, he laid out his prayer-mat to perform namaz. A young woman came running past—carefree, impulsive. If she had met me, I would have made her a sannyasin. She gave Akbar a jolt. He was praying; he fell over. But it isn’t proper to speak in the middle of namaz. He very much wanted to scold—his heart wanted to seize her by the neck and twist it—but a namaz cannot be broken midway. So he swallowed the poison. When the girl was returning, the namaz had finished; Akbar was waiting. He said, “Stop, ill-mannered one! Have you no sense that if someone is offering namaz you shouldn’t jostle him? And could you not see that I am the emperor? One should not jostle even an ordinary man at prayer; you pushed the emperor!”

The girl said, “Forgive me if I bumped you. I remember nothing. My lover was coming after a long time; I was rushing to welcome him. I could see nothing but him. I don’t remember. If you say so, I must have hit you. Even though when you were jostled I too must have been jostled, since we collided; yet I remember nothing. Forgive me, or punish me as you wish. I am mad! I was running in the frenzy of my lover; I did not know who was praying, who not, who was in the way, who not, whom I collided with and whom I didn’t. But I will ask you one thing—punish me if you must, but answer this: I was going to meet my earthly lover and I was so mad with love that I remembered nothing; and you were going to meet God—and you remembered my bump! You noticed me; you knew you had been jostled! I was going to an ordinary, worldly meeting; you were engaged in spiritual prayer, worship, meditation! You were uniting with God! How did you come to know of my nudge? This I cannot understand.”

They say Akbar bowed his head in shame. He has recorded that, for the first time, a young woman showed him his namaz was hollow, formal. I was merely doing it because it should be done. From that girl I first learned that namaz must have a certain madness, a certain ecstasy. She was going to meet her lover—how intoxicated she was, how carefree! And I was going to meet God—what meeting! I was just sitting there pointlessly with eyes closed.

When I used to travel to Rajasthan, I would change trains at a station in the middle. It took forty-fifty minutes, sometimes an hour. Many Muslims on that train would be going to Ajmer; it was time for their evening namaz. They would pray on the platform. I had nothing to do, so I would help them as much as I could. I would stroll behind them, and whenever I saw someone repeatedly turning back to check that the train didn’t leave, I would seize his neck and straighten it. They couldn’t say anything while praying; after namaz they would pounce: “What kind of man are you! You look like a sadhu! You ruined our namaz!”

I said, “I was correcting your namaz. I have no namaz to offer. I was just walking about to see whose namaz was going astray, and to put it right. Why were you looking back again and again? If you needed to watch the train, stop the namaz; and if you must pray, then let the train go. At least once in life pray such a namaz that even if the train leaves, you do not mind. At least once! What kind of namaz is yours that you looked back ten times to see if the train had left? If it was so, you should have faced the train for your namaz; why give your back to it? Or sit in the train and pray; then the fear would vanish. Why this whole display outside on the prayer-mat?”

They had no answer; they would mutter. I often went to Rajasthan; some people started to recognize me. The stationmaster there was a Muslim. As soon as he saw me he would start hovering: “Brother, please don’t trouble anyone.”
I said, “I’m not troubling anyone. My job is to assist people with their namaz.”
He would say, “Come sit in the office.”
I said, “I can’t. When so many devotees are sitting here, I’ll also do satsang.”

Dr. Munshi Singh, you say you practiced meditation by many methods. You didn’t practice even one. It’s not a question of methods; it’s a question of diving in. Even by a wrong method, if someone dives in totally, he arrives; and by a right method, if one does not dive, what can happen? The real question is to drown—become intoxicated, utterly lost. These are the ways of madmen, of the masts. This is not shopkeeping. You seem a thorough shopkeeper.

You say: “But I did not get success.”
Success—this very accounting is of a shopkeeper. A meditator does not worry about success. Entering meditation is success. The joy of meditation is success. Swaying in meditation is success.
Shopkeeper-type people come to me and ask: “If we meditate, what profit will there be?” Profit first! They are the same people who write on their shops: Profit–Loss. When they open their ledgers they write first: Profit; Auspicious Profit; Sri Ganeshaya Namah! They are obsessed with profit. What profit!

You have no idea of meditation. You are asking as if someone asks: what is the profit of love? Is there any profit in love? Love is its own end; it is not a means to anything else. It is joy in itself. Nothing is “gained” through it. It’s not that if you go deep into love your wealth will suddenly increase. But you pray in the same way—“Jai Jagdish Hare!” Listen to those words—“May wealth and prosperity increase!” The same people come here and say: “Jai Rajneesh Hare! May wealth and prosperity increase!” No difference. I sit and listen and am delighted—what incredible patients! Wherever they go, they carry their disease. “May happiness and riches come home!” Everywhere—success!

So in between you must be peeking to see whether the roof has broken yet—because “when he gives, he breaks the roof.” Do you put up an umbrella while meditating? Otherwise the roof may break, wealth may rain, and your skull may crack open.

Success—of what? The one who has awakened to the futility of success is the one who enters meditation; the one who has understood that success and failure are children’s games—cheap matters. If you succeed, so what? If you fail, so what? What is defeat or victory here? It’s like chess—someone loses, someone wins—yet swords are drawn even there. Such fools abound—great fools! They play chess—nothing real; the horses and elephants are wooden; neither the king nor the vizier is real—but swords will be drawn, because they lost! People playing cards start swinging clubs—because they lost, someone cheated.

The very disease of success and failure in your mind is the world. Meditation happens to those who are free of it; who have seen that even if you succeed here, you remain a failure; if you fail, you are of course a failure. All this world is playacting. One has to dive within. What success, what failure! One has to settle into one’s own being. But if you keep checking again and again—“Has success come yet? When will it come? It’s getting late”—that very checking becomes the obstruction, the barrier. You open your eyes in between to see—“Not yet; when will it happen?”

Therefore you must have changed religions again and again. In one life you say you adopted many religions—you were in a great hurry! Two-four days here; you probed: “Nothing yet, the roof hasn’t broken—let’s go elsewhere.” Two-four days there—then somewhere else. Haven’t you come here the same way? This is not a two- or four-day affair. And here no one gives any assurance of success. Those hollow gurus of yours promise success.

Maharishi Mahesh Yogi tells people that by Transcendental Meditation there will be spiritual benefit—and material benefit. Promotion in job, higher position, more prestige. Those without employment will get jobs. Health will improve; diseases will go. And spiritual benefit—that is extra, like interest; the principal is these. People say: then why not! If everything’s coming, loot while you can! Otherwise you will repent later. So people rush to grab it. But in two-four days they see nothing happened—neither outside nor inside—they fold their camp and move on. They go from one guru to another; and gurus keep offering the same assurances, the same deceptions.

Here there is no assurance, no temptation. I make you no promise that you will get something. The very talk of “getting” is wrong. “Getting” implies the future. And one whose mind is still so attracted to the future cannot enter meditation. Meditation means living in the present. “Success” means a longing for the future. These do not fit; they are opposites. Meditation means: this moment is enough. To dive into this very moment. The past has no existence; the future has not yet come. If anything is present, it is this moment—here and now.

You are sitting here. There are three kinds of people here:
- First, those who sit here tallying the past: whether what I’m saying agrees with the Gita or not, with the Koran or not; whether it accords with Samayasara; whether there is any contradiction with Kundakunda, Umasvati; with Jesus, Zarathustra. They are busy calculating. They miss. They remain stuck in that garbage. If they were in Krishna’s time, while reading the Gita they would check whether it matches the Vedas. If they were in the time of the Vedas, they would still do the same—checking with those who came before. Their way is always to match everything with the past, because their beliefs are fixed in the past. If it matches, it’s fine. It means they have no concern for truth.
- You say you are searching for truth. You are not. You are searching for someone to stamp your beliefs with the seal of Truth—to sign: “Yes, perfectly true; Munshi Singh, you are absolutely right!” Then your heart would be pleased.

If you have come here with that hope, you’ve come to the wrong place. Here every single thing of yours will be broken—systematically broken. One brick after another will be pulled out, Munshi Singh—until you are made absolutely flat, until there is an open ground. I demolish the old house first; only then do I build anew. I have no faith in renovation—whitewashing the same old house; a little cement here, fixing the roof there, a prop here and a coat of paint there, a new door, changing pictures, replacing the calendar. I have no faith in that. I start from the roots. First I will finish you—finish you so thoroughly that there is no trace left. When I have made you completely flat, when you lie knocked out, then slowly I will blow life into you: “Brother, now get up; Munshi Singh, the operation is over—now return; now breathe again; your new birth has happened!”

So some sit in the past; they remain stuck there. Others are in the future. They keep calculating: if we follow him, what profit will there be, will success come; what the gain, what the loss? They sit with their scales, weighing: how much profit, how much loss; is the loss too much, the gain too much? Where is the balance tilting? These two kinds miss.

The third kind are those who sit here silent, still, savoring this moment completely. Nothing to do with the past, no use for the future. Their meditation is happening right now. They don’t need any method. Meditation is the art of being in the present. By any excuse, if you can be in the present, meditation happens. The sun is rising—be with it in the present—meditation happens. The night is star-filled—merge with it—meditation happens. A distant cuckoo calls—become absorbed—meditation happens.

The whole meaning of meditation is only this: your mind loses its ripples, loses its thoughts. Thoughts are always of past or future; there is no thought of the present. The present is thoughtless; and where there is thoughtlessness, consciousness is born, revealed. The dust of thought veils your consciousness.

You say: “I went here from there, there from here; I tried many methods of meditation, but success did not come. Now in taking sannyas the ochre clothes and mala are becoming obstacles.”

If such small things become obstacles, don’t take the risk. You are a very prudent man. You will test every step before putting your foot down. You now blow on buttermilk before drinking. As you wish. I too know that no one becomes a sannyasin merely by changing clothes. But the one who does not have the courage even to change clothes—how will he be a sannyasin? I also know—what will a mala do? That by wearing a mala you will become enlightened? But someone so cowardly that he cannot declare before a few people that he has joined the assembly of the mad, the company of these drunkards—this is beyond him. Let him run his shop, increase his bank balance. Best that he leave some money and children behind when he dies. That’s why people say: the owl died, left behind offspring! You will die, but leave offspring. They will do the same—leave more offspring. Thus the flock of owls keeps growing.

Have courage! And you ask: “Can one get sannyas by meditating only?” Why do you need sannyas then? If you can only meditate, why sannyas at all? Sannyas is merely the groundwork within which the flower of meditation will bloom.

You are in effect saying: “Can a flower bloom without the soil?”
Yes, it can—but it will be a paper flower, a plastic flower. A plastic flower has its virtues—never dies, never rots, never decays. Once you bring it, it is forever—very eternal! Very sanatan—just like “Sanatan Dharma”! Nothing ever changes. Wash it with soap and it becomes fresh again. No bother of watering, no manure, no earth. But if you want a real flower, a rose, then you must prepare the soil, remove stones, uproot weeds, give manure, care for the plant, water it, arrange for sunlight, fence it so that wild animals don’t graze it, children don’t pull it out, neighbors don’t steal it.

Sannyas is only the preparation; meditation is its flower.

You ask: “Will it do by meditation alone?”
As you wish. It will “do”—but the matter will remain paper. For the person who didn’t have the courage for sannyas—will he have the courage for meditation? Meditation demands immense courage. Meditation means death—death to the body-identity, death to the mind—only then does the self become known. And you are trembling even to change clothes!

I used to be a guest at a house. The mistress of that house would always say: “I am already your sannyasin—just don’t ask me to change clothes.” I said to her, “I know well what’s going on. You are ‘my sannyasin,’ and you’re not ready to obey even this small instruction? If I say, change your clothes—will you obey anything else? If I say, jump from the roof—will you jump? Into the well—will you jump?”
She said, “You would never say such things.”
I said, “Don’t worry about me; I can say anything. You tell me about you. And if you don’t trust that, come to the well.”
There was a well in the garden below. I said, “Come.”
She got a little nervous. “Let my husband come,” she said.
I said, “What has your husband to do with this? Am I going to make him jump too? Just tell me—what can you do by obeying me? Free sannyas! Just words—formal! And I know the reason you don’t want to change clothes: you’ve collected three hundred saris.”

I slept in her room; I had seen her wardrobe—at least three hundred saris; maybe more. Now, imagine the plight of a poor woman: tell her to wear only ochre now—and she has three hundred saris! Every day she would open her wardrobe for hours thinking which to wear. And now only saffron! I said, “Distribute these three hundred saris; then it’ll be easy to take sannyas.”
She said, “What are you saying! I’ve collected them with such difficulty; each is costly. Give them all away? Wait a bit—let my son’s wedding happen; I’ll give them to the daughter-in-law.”
I said, “Don’t make excuses. Give them to your son; when his wife comes she can decide. And why trap your daughter-in-law in the snare of three hundred saris? She may want to take sannyas—then what? The snare of three hundred saris will be a big hurdle.”

You are afraid of taking sannyas—for mere clothes and a mala! And you speak of meditation! These are only symbols. Sannyas is only a gesture from your side, an indication that you are willing—that you are ready to do what is asked. If you cannot do even this much, how will you do the greater things? And in this life, if you cannot do the small, you will not manage the big. People like to talk of big things because they are inner, invisible; no one can see them. If I say, “Will you meditate?” you say, “Yes.” No one can see whether you do it. But if I say, “Change your clothes”—that will be visible to the whole world. And I am not going to put a policeman behind you to check whether you meditate. But if you change your clothes, the whole neighborhood becomes the police. Your enemies will report to me if you don’t wear them. Letters arrive—even from opponents: “Your sannyasin hides his mala inside. In Poona he wears it openly; as soon as he gets on the train he tucks it in! In Poona he wears full saffron; at home he has made such pale saffron garments that only with spectacles can one see there is some faint color.”
So I need not appoint any police. The whole town will monitor you to see whether there are any slips. If my sannyasin is seen at the cinema, letters come at once: “Your sannyasin was at the movies—what kind of sannyasin is this?” I have told no sannyasin not to go to the cinema.

One sannyasin came and said, “You’ve put me in a fine fix.”
I said, “Putting you in a fix is my job.”
“I was walking with my wife; two men grabbed me: Whose woman is this? Being a sannyasin, whom are you abducting?”
I said, “She’s my wife!”
“Aren’t you ashamed? A sannyasin—and your wife! Come to the police station.”
He said to me, “Now please give my wife sannyas too, else this nuisance will grow.” Those two were mischief-makers, but they created an uproar, gathered a crowd. Some acquaintances intervened and said, “No, no, these are a different kind of sannyasin—let them go.” His wife took sannyas like this. Five-seven days later they came again: “You’ve created a fine mess. We two were going to Bombay by train; in the compartment people encircled us: Whose child are you kidnapping? Nowadays child abductors are around.”
“But this is our child!”
“Aren’t you ashamed? You are a sannyasin; your child! A sannyasin should be celibate. And whose woman is this? You both are sannyasins? Do you live together? Should male and female sannyasins live together? And whose child is this? He doesn’t resemble you, nor your wife.”
They came to me: “What can we do? If he doesn’t resemble us, what can we do? Give the child sannyas too.”
Now all three are sannyasins.

A friend took sannyas; he drinks alcohol. He said, “I drink—will you give me sannyas?”
I said, “I don’t bother about such small matters. First sannyas; then we’ll settle the rest.”
He came five-seven days later and said, “I understood your meaning. I was about to enter the liquor shop when someone caught me: ‘Swamiji, where are you going? This is a liquor shop!’ So I immediately turned back: ‘Oh, I didn’t know!’ Since then I can’t go to the liquor shop—now I’m afraid someone will grab my feet. People touch my feet—and when the one whose feet they touch goes to a liquor shop, it doesn’t look proper.”
That is why people give respect to sannyasins; it is their strategy to keep you disciplined: “Maharaj, we touch your feet—please be careful!” Stray even a little, and you’ll be caught.
I said, “Now you understand. You take care; I’ve created the trouble.”

So, Munshi Singh, the first step is ochre clothes and mala. First descend into this ‘trouble’; then meditation. First gather this outer courage; then the inner journey can begin. Those you’ve been to so far must be two-penny people—cheap—who themselves have no meditation, no experience of it.

I know all the so-called great sannyasins of this country—Hindu, Jain, Buddhist. All of them have asked me in private, “How do we meditate?” They themselves don’t know. Acharya Tulsi asked me, “How do we meditate?” And when he asked, he told everyone to withdraw: “We want to speak in private; something esoteric.” I said, “No matter how esoteric—let them stay; they too are poor fellows, let them benefit.”
“No,” he said, “this is very esoteric.”
The “esoteric” thing was that he wanted to ask how to meditate. How could he ask that in front of everyone?

Those you must have gone to have been just such people. In this country there is so much spirituality floating around that you cannot keep count of it. It’s all rubbish! Now you have come to the edge of the sword—if you have the courage, your head will be cut off. Though I will cut it off only after asking you; with your consent; only if you say yes.

Kabir has said:
Kabir stands in the marketplace, torch in hand.
Whoever will burn his own house, come along with me.

Whoever has the courage—I’m standing in the marketplace with a club—whoever has the courage to set fire to his house, to blow up his house, let him come with me. This is the business of burning the house. And if you have come here to pick up some cheap recipe, you are mistaken.

People think I have made sannyas very simple. They are thinking wrongly. They don’t know I have made sannyas supremely difficult. You too will be startled, because on the surface it seems just the opposite: I do not tell the sannyasin to leave his house; I do not say leave the family; I do not say give up the shop, the business. So people feel I have made it easy. The old sannyas was very difficult—practice austerities, practice renunciation, leave the home, leave the wife!

No! The old sannyas was very easy. What man is there who does not want to run away from his wife? Ask anyone’s heart. And what wife is there who does not repent, “What trouble have I gotten into, what net am I tangled in!” And now how to get out! Who in the worldly life is not weeping? They hide their tears, because what use is crying now? And whom would you cry in front of? Why expose your own disgrace by crying!

The old sannyas was very easy because it gave honor to escapism. And the world is full of escapees. Escapism is simple, and it earns respect for free. You see, the sannyasins you honor—Jain, Hindu, Buddhist—if they were not sannyasins, you probably would not even keep them to wash dishes in your house, not even as a cook; even for that you would demand certificates, you would ask, “What are the qualifications, what is the competency?” But if someone has run away from his home, that alone is enough for you to touch his feet; enough for you to honor him; enough for you to wash his feet and drink the wash-water. The same man, if he came to your door in ordinary clothes and said, “I need a job,” you would say, “Move along! We can’t keep such riffraff as servants. We don’t even know you; thefts are increasing these days—if we take anyone into the house, tomorrow you might run away with something—then what?”

And this very man, if he sits as a sannyasin, smears ash on his body, lights a sacred fire, you are ready to touch his feet! Ready to offer him everything! Strange people you are. Strange is your arithmetic. You have given the escapees a splendid trick!

My sannyas is not for escapees. Escapism is proof of cowardice. My sannyas is difficult, because the escapee has one advantage, an ease—no wife, no children. Naturally, then, there are no situations in which anger arises, no situations in which anxieties arise. So if your sannyasin becomes a freeloader and sits around and he has no worry, no anger, is that any wonder? If you too got to freeload, you too would have no worry. Why does worry come at all? You worry because you don’t know whether business will run tomorrow, whether a customer will come; the whole day has passed, no customer has come—how will you get bread tomorrow! But the sannyasin’s bread is assured. Tomorrow, too, he will get bread. The same fools who gave today will give again tomorrow. His arrangements are set. He can be carefree. He is not going to lack anything. Why would he get angry—no one insults him. In life, at every turn there is insult, but does anyone insult the sannyasin? Everyone honors him. When everyone honors him, why would anger arise? But this does not mean that anger has disappeared from within him. It only means you have kept the gunpowder away from the fire—nothing more. Let a single spark fall, and the blaze will erupt—fire is still there.

Bring the sannyasin back into the world! That is why he is nervous. The sannyasin gets nervous. Leave him alone near a woman—he will be drenched in sweat. Why? What is the great panic? Every day he was preaching that there is nothing in a woman’s body—just flesh, blood, pus; just phlegm and bile—what is there in a woman’s body! And now seeing that very body he is sweating profusely. Sweating at the sight of phlegm and bile! Why such panic on seeing flesh and marrow? And if this flesh-and-bone comes a little closer, if a hand holds his hand, why are your life-breaths about to leave? Why is your voice choked? Why have all your mantras and tantras been forgotten in a flash? Only when fire comes near the gunpowder do you come to know. Insult this very sannyasin, put him in some humiliating situation—then you will know how far anger has actually been eradicated.

But we have given the sannyasin total protection, a complete armor. No one insults him—respect instead of insult. Nor do we give him any situation in which lust or anger might be stirred. But don’t stay in the delusion that his lust and anger are gone; inside they are burning—burning brightly, burning fiercely, burning terribly. Nothing has changed; only a mask has been put on above.

I have restored to sannyas its full difficulty. I tell you: you have to live in the home and be free of lust. You have to pass through sex and be free of sexual desire. You have to live in the marketplace and be free of the marketplace. You have to live amidst wealth and possessions, and live as the lotus in water, and yet the water does not touch it. Live in the world, but let the world not be inside you. This is the real process of sannyas. And sannyas has never been more difficult than this.

The old sannyas was worth two pennies—cheap. I have challenged it completely, because I want you to stand in the density of life, stand on the battlefield, and become calm, become silent, become empty. And this is possible. And only if this happens should you understand that something has happened, because then nothing will be able to unbalance you. One who has stood in the fire and become still—you can take it that his gunpowder is finished. The one who runs away from the fire and appears calm—his calm is deceptive. Where will the test be?

My sannyasin has an examination every moment.

And I am not against anything. My whole process is the reverse. I say: whatever you have to be free of, not by running from it, not by abandoning it, but by living it, by experiencing it. Whatever you have to be free of, in truth it is not to be renounced, it is to be transformed. Anger, transformed, becomes compassion. One who has suppressed anger will not have compassion in his life. And sex, transformed, becomes love. One who has suppressed sex will have a life devoid of love. And where there is neither love nor compassion, neither music nor poetry nor beauty—what will you do with such sannyas? What value has that trashy sannyas?

Sannyas is a dance, the great rasa, the grand celebration of life.

In the Vishnu Sahasranama, among the Lord’s names, there is one: Om Mahabhogaya Namah! The Supreme is the very form of the Great Enjoyment. This is the dearest name. A thousand names are counted, but I choose Mahabhog as the foremost. The Divine is the Great Enjoyment—not renunciation, but the Great Enjoyment!

My sannyasin is not a renouncer, he is a celebrant of the Great Enjoyment. Mahabhog is not ordinary indulgence. Ordinary indulgence is full of misery; there dwell anger, sex, jealousy, envy. Mahabhog is bliss, the great celebration! There all the petty things have been transformed.

Whatever in your life now seems wrong—within that the right is hidden. In the mud the lotuses are buried. But learn to free the lotus from the mud. Learn that art.

If truly you want to attain meditation, to attain samadhi, then this sannyas is the groundwork. Without this groundwork nothing is possible.

Enough for today.