Udio Pankh Pasar #4

In the very notion of renunciation there is, fundamentally, ignorance. Tyag means: running away, escapism, cowardice. For renunciation no intelligence is needed. To live, you need intelligence, sharpness, brilliance. To flee, no talent is required. Those who run from the battlefield we call cowards; and those who run from life's field of war? We garland them with a holy title—Ranchooddasji, the one who deserted the battle! They too are deserters. Good names change nothing. How long can ugliness hide behind pretty labels?

On the one hand religion has kept saying: “The world is the creation of Paramatma,” and on the other the same people have kept saying, “Leave the world, renounce it; the world is sin.” If the world is the creation of Paramatma, then Paramatma is the sinner—simple arithmetic. If the world is wrong, how could the maker of the world be right? And if the maker is right, then his creation must be beautiful. If God is the creator, creation is beauty; it is his poetry. It is a painting colored by his own hand; the colors everywhere are his. The brushstrokes are his, his signatures are on every leaf.

But the so-called great ones kept speaking with a forked tongue. On one side: God created the world. On the other: leave it, escape it, renounce it! And we did not even notice the distortion in that logic. We heard it so often we became habituated. In truth, religion never gave us the capacity to think; it robbed us of it. We were told: believe. We were not told: awaken, trust with awareness. We were told: accept what is said. Baba vakya pramanam—“the baba’s word is final proof!” Whatever is said, however foolish, accept, adopt. This was called theism. So we never saw the contradictions hidden within so-called faith; because whoever sees is an atheist; whoever sees will fall into hell. Heaven was for the blind; hell for those with eyes. Who would want hell? Better to live with eyes shut, live blind. Four days of life—pass them with eyes closed. Then there is the reward of heaven. And what is the point of questioning? Why get into trouble? It is not easy to provoke quarrels with pundits, priests, politicians, the contractors of society. It is to invite upheaval; it is rebellion.

Thus religion has always nourished dead customs, supported blindness. It did not kindle the fire of thought; it doused it. It gave no momentum to reflection and contemplation; it suppressed them, murdered them. Therefore they could make us believe—and not only believe, but also act upon—all manner of foolishness!

Sannyas is not renunciation; sannyas is supreme enjoyment.

Only yesterday I told you: in the Vishnu Sahasranam one of the names of the Divine is—Mahabhog, the Great Enjoyer. That name is dearest to me, because in it the whole point arrives complete.

Sannyas is the art of savoring life. Of course, anyone can smash a sitar; but to play it you need a Ravi Shankar. Years of tapascharya are needed. To break, no austerity is needed—a child can break it! But if you would play the sitar so that Raga Dipak arises, so that extinguished lamps are lit, then years of sustained effort and sadhana are required.

In renunciation there is no sadhana. The dullest of the dull can run away. What is there to running? Fear is enough. Frighten people, they will flee. Terrorize people, they will flee. But if you would learn to play the sitar, you will labor day and night for years. It does not happen in a day. On the first day when you play, you will not believe that any melody can ever rise from this sitar. Only dissonance will rise, not raga. Noise will rise, not music.

Mulla Nasruddin bought a new sitar. He must have heard some musician and been impressed—and he began at once. He went on pounding one string only—raa-roon, raa-roon, raa-roon! The wife began to go crazy; the children panicked. “Papa, exams are near and we hear nothing but raa-roon! What shall we write in the exam—raa-roon, raa-roon? We’ve heard many play the sitar, but what is this you are doing?”

The wife knocked her head, banged utensils, broke plates. She would add too much salt to the curry—less vegetables, more chilies. But that only fueled him—more raa-roon...! The whole neighborhood was aghast. He let no one sleep, no one live in peace. Finally the entire neighborhood gathered, folded hands: “Either we leave this neighborhood, or you do. What are you doing? We’ve seen many musicians, but you are unique! This has never happened, nor will it ever. What raga is this?”

Nasruddin smiled, “Other players are still searching for their note; I have found mine. They wander from string to string; I have arrived—why should I wander? I have found my note. Now there is me and my note—this is what will sound. Whoever wishes to live here may live; whoever wishes, may go.”

Is there any music in vairagya, any fragrance, any blossoming, any ecstasy of life, any dance? Does dispassion require any art, any artist? No need. Anyone can flee. And life is full of suffering—no doubt; but full of suffering because we are foolish, not because life is wrong.

You have been told again and again—“The world is suffering”—but it has been said as if suffering is the very nature of the world. I tell you: the world is suffering because we are fools; otherwise it is not suffering. Where so many fools gather, suffering is natural. Truly, it is a great miracle that suffering is so little! Billions of fools are at work, and still the suffering is not overwhelming.

The world is not suffering—just as the sitar does not contain noise. The world is an opportunity—an opportunity for experience, for Atma-sakshatkar, for Paramatma-prateeti. But then you need great intelligence. You must keep your edge sharp. You must be keen, alert. You must live attentively. You must exercise great care. Each step must be placed with awareness, skillfully. If, like the blind, like the stupid, you rush headlong, you will collide; and collision brings pain.

There is pain, but not because pain is the nature of the world; there is pain because we are unwise. If your garden does not blossom, it is not the garden’s fault; how will flowers bloom if you are sowing weeds, if you never remove stones, if you uproot the roses? One thing to understand: to grow weeds no intelligence is needed. Weeds sprout by themselves.

Nasruddin’s neighbor asked him, “Your lawn is very lovely. I too have sown doob grass, and sprouts are appearing. But which sprouts are the grass and which are just useless weeds—how to recognize?”

Nasruddin said, “Very simple. Uproot both and throw them away—whatever grows back by itself is weed.”

Weeds sprout on their own; they do not need cultivation. If you would go downhill, you can switch off the car’s engine—no petrol needed. But if you would climb a mountain, the engine cannot be off. Then you must drive with awareness; the engine must be active.

Those whose life is on the descent, downhill, need no art. Hence escapism appealed to the weak. They fled—and not only fled, they left behind the feeling that life is melancholy, life is suffering, life is wrong.

There is nothing wrong in life. Life is the manifest form of Paramatma. It is his very body. Just as within you the Atman is hidden and not seen, and the body is seen—so the world is seen. Within it what is hidden is the Divine. If you leave and run away, how will you search, how will you dig? Granted, excavation is hard—stones will come, rocks must be broken, deep labor is needed; only then will you reach the source of water. But people found cheap recipes: leave everything, sit, chant “Ram-Ram”—and all will be well.

If only it were so easy, by now we would have made life a heaven! So many of your sannyasins have been around; life has not become heaven—each day it drifts further into hell. The time has come to reconsider. Somewhere a fundamental mistake was made. And I call it fundamental, Nirmal: to take sannyas as renunciation of life—that is where the mistake crept in. There is certainly some renunciation in sannyas, but it is not renunciation of life; it is renunciation of stupidity. There is renunciation, but not of life; it is renunciation of stupor. There is renunciation, but not of life; it is renunciation of anger, greed, attachment, jealousy, ego—of all these diseases. And for these, there is no need to go to the Himalayas. For this renunciation the best opportunity is right here in the marketplace, because here, moment to moment, tests arise. Each moment there are occasions when anger flares, lust awakens, clouds of jealousy gather. Sit in a Himalayan cave and you will never know—there you will miss the very occasions. The seeds will remain within; life will not be transformed. The first little test that comes and you will slip.

Here, in life itself, drop what is useless. But life is not useless. And by dropping the useless, you will come to know life’s meaning. Throw away the trash—but do not throw away the gold with the trash. Discard stones—but here too there are diamonds; do not discard the diamonds. The escapees threw away everything—stones and diamonds both.

That is why in the lives of your so-called escapist sannyasins you will not see any light; you will see a sadness, a deep dejection, a despair. In their eyes you will not find the lamps of joy burning; not Diwali, but bankruptcy—as if everything has gone bust.

The one who drinks the rasa, the juice of life, attentively—every day is his Diwali, every day his Holi, every day a shower of colors, every day songs are born, every day anklets ring upon his feet, every day the flute of his being plays! Upon his life a peacock-feather crown will rest. Around him there will be a fragrance, a perfume.

Therefore I call sannyas the art of living. My sannyasin has to call the world to a new sannyas. Hence a great task lies before my sannyasin. My sannyasin is not an ordinary sannyasin. The days of the old sannyas are over, finished. That story is dead. Soon such people will be placed in museums; they have no place left. Their roots have been severed from life; they have become irrelevant.

The sannyas I give you is the sannyas of the future. It has a future. And such sannyas can spread, like flames, and encompass the whole earth. For this sannyas you need not go anywhere, nor perform hollow rituals; rather, transform life from within. Learn the art of living.

Meditation is the art of living. Only the meditative truly know life. Those who have become still at their center recognize the benediction existence has bestowed upon us. There is a richness in their life. There is gratitude in their breath. They bow in surrender. Prayer will arise from within them. The fragrance of prayer, the hue of prayer, will overflow—springs will burst forth—spontaneously, because in life they begin to see how much has been given! How much for which we had no worthiness! How much for which we did no earning! Pure gift of nature! Our begging bowl is filled, yet we do not look at it. We are entangled in petty things.

Nirmal, understand sannyas as the art of life. It is difficult. I am giving you a difficult challenge, because I am saying: do not run. Running is very easy. I am saying: here! I do not tell anyone to drop anything first. If even a thief comes to me and says, “I want to be a sannyasin,” I say, “Become one.” He asks, “What about my stealing?” I say, “We will see later. Let sannyas see to it. You are a thief—so be it; is it not enough that even as a thief the longing for sannyas has arisen in you? You are better than the bankers in whose hearts no longing for sannyas has arisen. What kind of bankers are they! They are thieves; you are the banker.”

My way of seeing is different. Even if I find you stealing I will not say, “Aren’t you ashamed—being a sannyasin and still stealing?” I will say, “You are an extraordinary person—being a thief and still a sannyasin!” My vision is affirmative.

In a Jewish ashram two youths were walking in the garden early morning. Both were addicted to cigarettes. They get one hour to walk in the garden—not really to walk, but to walk and then meditate. The other twenty-three hours are inside the ashram—there, smoking does not arise. Here outside they could smoke, because the guru is not present. But they felt a pricking within: is it right? Let us ask the master. Tomorrow we will ask, then we will begin.

Next day they met. One sat very dejected; the other came along smoking, sending up clouds of smoke. The first youth flared up: “What is this—smoking! Will you not obey the master?”

He said, “I took the master’s permission—only then am I smoking.”

The first said, “What kind of master is this! I asked and he became furious—picked up a stick and said he would crack my head. How did he give you permission?”

The second smiled, “First tell me—what did you ask?”

“I asked: ‘If I smoke while meditating, is there any objection?’ He flared up, grabbed the stick—‘I’ll break your head! No shame? Smoking while meditating? What did you come here for then?’”

The second said, “Peace, now I’ll tell you the secret. I too asked. I asked, ‘Gurudev, if I meditate while smoking, is there any objection?’ He said, ‘None at all. You are anyway smoking—if meditation can be added to it, nothing bad—rather, good. If smoking and meditation go together, meditation will win—don’t worry. Smoke, and meditate. It is auspicious that such a feeling arose in you. It rarely arises in smokers.’”

That is why you see in this ashram we call only one place a temple—the place where people smoke: the Temple of Smoking. There is no other temple here.

My approach is affirmative, not negative. My emphasis is not on “no,” it is on “yes.” I call affirmativeness itself theism; I call negation atheism. Theism and atheism have nothing to do with believing or not believing in God. Theism and atheism are a larger matter. To look at life affirmatively is theism.

Therefore, for me Mahavira is an astik, Buddha is an astik; though they did not accept a God, yet they are supremely theistic. Who could be more theistic than they! Though Hindus are unwilling to accept that they are astik. How could they be, for the Hindu definition was quite petty—then even pettier. In Buddha and Mahavira’s time the Hindu definition of theist was: whoever accepts the Veda is an astik; whoever does not is a nastik. What kind of definition is that! Does theism or atheism depend on accepting some book? Then all Muslims are atheists, all Christians atheists, all Jews atheists, all Parsis atheists, all Jains atheists, all Buddhists atheists—then where would the theists be? Only a few Hindus remain. And among them, exclude the Shudras, for they were not allowed to read the Veda—how would they accept it! Then exclude women, for women had no right to read the Veda; they had only one right—to be beaten. “Dhol, ganwar, shudra, pashu, nari...” When will we be free of this Baba Tulsidas! No one has corrupted this country more than this man.

But it has lodged in our minds—beat a woman as you beat a drum. If it had lodged only in men’s minds, still one could understand; it has entered women’s minds too. If a man does not beat his wife, she feels perhaps he no longer loves her: nowadays there is no beating at home—meaning all is peaceful, all is over; the play is over, the money digested. If there was some beating, that meant some attachment still remained, some story still continued. Women even wait—“beat me”—because Tulsidas taught them so. In truth, more women go to listen to the Ramayana than men. Why would men go! They got their royal privilege. Women go to learn how Ram behaved with Sita—so that even if your husband behaves with you like that, he is still God-like. Even if he sends a pregnant wife into the forest on the word of a washerman! If such grandeur was needed, then he could have gone to the forest with her—some glory would have been there. An helpless woman, pregnant—sent into the jungle!

Yet this is the ideal for women. Sita is the feminine ideal. And Ram is “Maryada Purushottam”—the supreme man of propriety! He is the masculine ideal. Even if your husband behaves with you like that, it is auspicious. You must quietly bow, be beaten. That is your function. The woman is footwear, a slave at the feet!

Cut off the women—they had no right to read the Veda. Cut off the Shudras—they had no right to read the Veda. You will be amazed that we tolerated it! Today you abuse, you get angry if somewhere Shudras are burnt, if their village is raped, if their settlements are destroyed—you feel torn. But what did Ram do? What did Maryada Purushottam Ram do? A Brahmin’s son died. If a son dies before the father, then surely some great sin must be happening! That this father did some great sin in his past birth—such a question does not arise! A Brahmin and a great sin—impossible! Surely some great sin is occurring now! Where? The Brahmin said: a Shudra, a Shambuka by name, is reading the Vedas, listening to the Vedas. Because of his sin.

Where Shambuka! What had he to do with it! He was a thousand miles away. No one else’s son died; this Brahmin’s son died. And do you know what Maryada Purushottam Ram did! He had molten lead poured into Shambuka’s ears—his ears burnt—because he had listened to the Veda.

Exclude the Shudras, exclude the women. Exclude all other religions. Then how many theists remain? The whole earth becomes atheistic. That definition was petty, narrow. Then it changed: whoever accepts God is an astik; whoever does not is a nastik. But Buddha and Mahavira broke that definition too—because who could be more theistic than they! Where will you find more affirmative, creative beings! They dulled the shine of all your great men.

Yet the old definition still persists. I want to change it again. The time has come; that definition no longer works, for by it Buddha and Mahavira are left outside. I define an astik as one whose vision of life is affirmative, not negative; one who is ready to embrace life—he is theist. And whoever runs from life, is a deserter, denies, negates—he is atheist. The old sannyas was atheistic. The sannyas I speak of is theistic.

But my sannyas is certainly challenging. You will have to learn every single thing, for for centuries you were taught to leave—and for leaving nothing need be learned. If children are taught to leave school, the matter is simple—what child doesn’t want to leave school! Go to any school, ask the children to raise hands—who wants to leave school? All hands will rise. Consider them the sannyasins of the old definition. Perhaps one or two talented children will say, “No, I don’t want to leave.” Those who want to leave need learn nothing. They want to leave precisely to avoid learning. If they wanted to learn, what was wrong with school! The place of learning is school. And if you remain, you must learn—mathematics, language, geography, history, science...keep learning; there is no end to learning! There is such vastness to learn!

And school is a small thing; it is only primary. University too is primary. Real education begins when, after graduating, you enter life. Then at every step you must learn—how to be with people, how to sit and stand, what kind of behavior, what kind of courtesy, how to bring grace into life, beauty into life; how to avoid sowing thorns of sorrow and sow flowers of joy; how to share love and not give pain. For whoever gives pain will receive pain; whoever shares love will receive love. Here you must learn moment to moment—till your dying breath; even while dying, learning does not stop. If you have such courage to learn, then you can accept my definition that sannyas is the art of living.

Nirmal, you became a sannyasin—you have dared the impossible. It is not cheap. Now you must place each step with awareness. Now you must live thoughtfully. You cannot live as you lived till now. Generally people do not live by themselves at all; they live as the crowd lives—by imitation. Someone builds a new house; you must build one like it—even if you must take loans and drown in debt. Someone wears new clothes; you must wear the same.

What do people do in Rotary Clubs, Lions Clubs? They go to see what others are wearing. And what do women do in temples? They inspect each other’s sari-weaves. Temples run like mills’ advertisements! In truth, mills should build the temples. Birla was a clever man to have built Birla Temples. The rule of Birla Temples is not religion. Publish all the ads in the newspapers you like—no use. Dress a woman and send her to the temple—that is enough; the whole town will talk. All the women will be infatuated; all husbands will have nooses around their necks.

One American company never advertised the products it wanted to sell. It took people’s phone numbers, found their addresses, and sent personal letters. Letters addressed to the husband and on the envelope written: “Private—please, no one else open.” Naturally the wife will open it—guaranteed. It cannot be otherwise. Inside—only advertisement, nothing else. Salesmen also come—but when the husband has gone to the office. They keep an eye on when he leaves so they can ring the bell. Win over the wife—then all is well; what can the husband do? Women look at each other’s saris and then go to buy. Thus fashions move. People live by watching others. This is not living; it is imitation.

If you would learn the art of life, you must drop imitation. That is the first step. For the first time you must pay attention to your own privacy—what is my need, what is my requirement? Nearly ninety percent of what you do could be left undone—and nothing would be lost—but your energy is spent there. That very energy, rightly applied, could reach life’s summit. But it is wasted. Each lives by watching the other. It is a very strange world. Very few live out of their own inner sense; those who do, truly live; the rest are corpses. There is not even enough talent in their lives to decide for themselves how to live. Others decide for them. Advertisers decide what toothpaste you use, what soap you use, what film you see. Others decide everything. You are not the master of yourselves.

And sannyas is self-ownership.

You perhaps do not even notice—so unconsciously do you live—that when you go to the shop where all kinds of soaps are displayed and the shopkeeper asks, “Which soap?” and you say, “Lux,” have you ever wondered why “Lux” came out of your mouth? You may think it is your own choice. It is not. In the newspaper every day—Lux Toilet Soap; in the cinema—Lux Toilet Soap; on the road huge hoardings—Lux Toilet Soap! Wherever you go—Lux Toilet Soap. Beautiful actresses’ photos printed—their skin so delicate, why? Lux Toilet Soap! The phrase caught hold of you; it sank into your unconscious. Even if someone asks you in your sleep—which soap?—you will say, “Lux Toilet Soap!” No need to be awake. It has gone into your unconscious. This is the entire art of advertising.

Advertising works because man is an imitator. Many experiments have been done. Ten scientists’ statements were prepared naming the soap scientifically best for the body, and ten actresses’ names were chosen for the worst soap—and both ads were released. The soap with scientists’ names did not sell at all. What sells by scientists’ names! First, no one knew their names—who are these gentlemen! Some Tom, Dick, and Harry. And these details about chemicals and germs—who cares! Who wants to kill germs! But the ten actresses who say that their bodily beauty, their childlike innocence, their silky skin, their velvety expressions—are due to this soap!

Nasruddin turned a hundred. I asked him, “Nasruddin, what’s the secret of living a hundred years?”

He said, “Stay two or three days.”

I said, “Why? Will two or three days help you find out?”

He said, “No, not search. Negotiations are on with two or three companies. Whichever pays more—that will be the secret. A biscuit company is after me, the Bournvita people are after me, a vitamin company is after me. Whoever pays more. Though I have never touched any of them in life. Why touch!”

Those sparkling teeth you see in the actresses’ smiles—your heart is taken—Binaca! Perhaps Binaca never touched those teeth. In truth, the more likely those teeth are not real at all. Often the teeth are artificial, made. Western actresses’ teeth look far more beautiful than Indian actresses’—because in the West actresses replace their teeth. Natural teeth are never that beautiful—some crooked, some uneven, a gap here, a fissure there. But when plastic teeth are made—then perfectly sculpted, pearl-like! Artificial teeth. That smile too artificial. The split lip—only practice, nothing inside; no laughter within. Like Jimmy Carter’s face you see—teeth completely exposed; you could count all thirty-two at first; now you cannot. Ever since the Tehran trouble began, his teeth are no longer visible. Before, all his teeth were visible—that is absolutely necessary in America. If a politician would succeed, that many teeth must show. He must have practiced a lot—teeth exposed twenty-four hours.

I have heard—at night too they do not close. When practice becomes strong, sleep comes but the teeth stay out. The wife must be afraid: what is he doing! Usually she would close his mouth when he slept; but one night she forgot. That night she phoned the doctor: “Come quickly, a mouse has gone into his mouth.” The doctor said, “It will still take me ten or fifteen minutes—distance is such. Until then, dangle a piece of cheese before his mouth and shake it—perhaps the mouse will come out.” Fifteen minutes later the doctor arrived—astonished. The wife was shaking a dead mouse before Carter’s mouth. “What are you doing! I told you cheese—why a dead mouse?”

She said, “I know—but a cat followed that mouse into his mouth! First I am getting the cat out. Once the cat is out, then the cheese; then we will get the mouse out.”

When practice goes very deep, such results begin. But people are living by imitation. Teeth, eyes, skin—everything imitation. Hair—everything imitation. They find one woman with very long hair and the ads begin; and you go to buy the oil—this oil will make your hair like that.

Whoever would make his life an art—first he must be free of imitation. He must become, thoughtfully and with discrimination, the governor of his life; the master of his life. He must stop handing his ownership to others. The first act of the sannyasin is to take his ownership back. He declares: Now I will live in my own way; even if I err, it is all right. From mistakes too I will learn; even mistakes will profit me. But I will not imitate. Even if by imitation you do something right, it is useless. If, in your own way, you do wrong, it is all right—only by trial and error does one learn.

And then examine each thing. You get angry; you go on being angry every day. You were angry yesterday, the day before, perhaps in past lives too; you are angry today. What have you gained? Will you sit and reflect, review, evaluate how much of your energy is destroyed by anger? Anger is eating you—there is no greater disease. Yet you nourish it, feed it, protect it; you exercise and prepare for it. And you do not know that there is no greater enemy of yours than this. You are filling yourself with poison. Even scientists now agree that when you fill with anger, poison is released into your blood. There are glands that release toxins. That is why man in anger does what he could never do in awareness. When awareness returns, he repents: What have I done! How did I do this!

People often say, “It happened in spite of me.” In spite of you! Then where were you? Did you go somewhere else? So many things are happening in spite of you—anger, jealousy, enmity, greed, lust—everything, without you, in spite of you! Then what are you? What is the significance of your being? When will you declare your being?

If you reflect upon anger you will find it sheer stupidity. I do not call anger sin—I call it foolishness. Calling it sin does not help; you have been told sin for centuries and nothing changed. I simply call it stupid. If you understand a little, awaken a little, you will find this very energy can give brilliance to life.

You see lightning in the sky! In Vedic times your so-called seers trembled before this lightning and began pujas and havans—thinking Indra is angry, he has drawn his bow, the thunder is the twang of his bowstring. Appease Indra! Now even a small child does not fear. All children know—what has lightning to do with Indra! Indra is gone. He who seemed so present to the rishis that they remembered him twenty-four hours a day—there are more hymns to Indra in the Vedas than to any other. There must have been great terror—and a terror of falsehood—among rishis! What rishis! Now we know what electricity is. Now the same Indra’s bow, the same twang, the same arrows are lighting your bulbs, cooking your meals, running your fans. We have even made Indra serve! That is the real yajna. The other was madness. Yet some mad yagnas still go on—“No rain—do a havan. Indra is angry.”

Some people are still not contemporary; they live five thousand years ago. A sannyasin must be contemporary. He must be filled with today’s understanding. He is the helmsman, the decider of the future. The future comes in his footsteps. He is sunrise. That is why I chose the ochre color; it is the color of dawn, of sunrise. It is the color of spring, the color of flowers. It is the news that many blossoms are about to come, the sun is about to rise. Birds will sing, flowers will open, the sun will ascend the sky. The days of darkness are finished. Now we know: there is no need to fear electricity. Press the button—electricity is present; turn it off—electricity departs. Electricity has become your servant.

Exactly so within are our energies—of anger, lust, greed. No need to fear them. No need to tremble. They can be handled just as scientifically. If we understand scientifically, they too can become light within us. They can kindle the inner lamp. They can bring coolness, send bubbling springs through the inner life.

Sannyasi means: he takes the whole of life as a raw opportunity. Like a diamond freshly taken from the mine—uncut—recognized only by a jeweler, not by everyone. But when the jeweler’s chisel runs, and the edges are given, and the sparkle begins, then even a blind man recognizes it; then being a jeweler is no longer needed. When the Kohinoor was first found in Golconda, it lay in a farmer’s house for three years. The children played with it. It lay in the courtyard. Anyone could have stolen it. No one knew it was the Kohinoor. Then, by chance, a jeweler became a guest and said: “Idiots! What are you doing! I have never seen a larger diamond.” Then they awoke. Then it was sold. In its uncut state it weighed three times what it weighs today. Then it was cut and trimmed. Its weight diminished—but as the weight diminished, its value increased. Today only one third of the original remains. But today its price is millions of times more. There is no greater diamond in the world.

Within you too is an uncut diamond. Layers of anger cover it, of lust, of greed, of attachment—God knows what else. All this is to be cut away, trimmed. But to cut and trim you cannot deal with enmity; a very loving approach is needed—because except by love, no one understands himself. Love yourself. Try to understand yourself. You have been given such energy that—oh, if only you make friends with it—this very energy becomes the staircase to Paramatma. If you make it an enemy, you will live and die fighting with it—wasted.

Sannyas is the art of life, Nirmal—not the renunciation of life.

Keep flowing, keep flowing, keep flowing, brother!
Lift your head and bear the cold and heat, brother!
All here are sobbing out their tales of pain—
You, smiling, speak of everyone’s joy, brother!

Here, sun, moon, stars seem drowsed in delusion;
Ice is melting, winds moving, embers burning here;
Coming and going is truth—everything else a lie, brother;
When did those who bend and cower ever halt life’s flow?

Tell me, what made you rejoice—and with whom did you sulk?
Yesterday’s golden dreams have proved false today.
This is a thorny path—helplessly all must walk;
He who becomes the very progress—their dreams are rare and new!

You who challenge humanity eight watches of the day,
You who think palaces and treasures your hereditary right—
Tomorrow, as dust, you will be kicked aside by feet;
Who here has come after dining upon immortality?

This rainbow dawn holds nights black with sorrow;
In summer’s burning flames there are showers of nectar!
This making and unmaking is the step of imperishable Time;
Like images of shadow are these talks of joy and grief.

To stop is not the law of motion—keep moving, brother;
To be extinguished is not the law of life—keep burning, brother!
Like a glacier, be pure, cool, bright—worthy of renown;
To become frozen tears is not the law—keep melting, brother!

Prakash! It’s a bit difficult, but not impossible. You’ll have to be free of the Marwari first. You cannot attain moksha while remaining a Marwari—that much is certain. But there’s nothing to worry about in that. No one attains moksha by remaining a Hindu, or a Jain, or a Muslim. All these boundaries have to be dropped. One has to go beyond every limit.

And “Marwari” is a rather rigid boundary. The very worry that has arisen in you shows you, too, must be wondering whether moksha and “mhaaro desh Marwar” will go together or not!

Two stingy Marwaris lived next door. One morning they met; the first looked very dejected. The other asked why. The first said, “It’s a very inauspicious day for me. A tooth of my comb broke this morning.”
“I feel bad about the loss too,” the second said, “but being this sad isn’t quite justified.”
The first said, “What shall I tell you, brother—it was the comb’s last tooth!”

A Marwari was famous for his miserliness. A stranger, having heard his praise, went to see him at night and knocked. The man came with a lantern and asked, “Will you sit for a while?”
“Yes,” the visitor said, “I’ve heard so much about you; I’d like to sit and see for myself.”
The miser immediately blew the lantern out.
“I understand,” the visitor said, “you don’t like to waste oil.”
“That’s true,” said the miser, “but in the dark I take off my dhoti and set it aside; the cloth wears out less that way.”

So yes, it’s a bit difficult—but don’t be afraid. We’ll break it. You are a human being, not a Marwari. As long as you clutch the adjective, it holds you. Let it go and it falls.

A sannyasin wearing only a loincloth was giving a discourse. Poor Chandulal, a Marwari, was listening, but kept nodding off. In the middle the swami stopped, annoyed: “You son of Chandulal—are you understanding these discourses on Brahman or not? Why do you keep dozing—are you a man or a pajama?”
Startled, Chandulal opened his eyes and said, “A man, Swamiji—it should be a man. If it were a pajama, you’d have put me on long ago!”

You are a man, not a pajama—what’s there to panic about? Moksha is possible, Prakash. Drop this notion. What “Marwar” is this? Why bind yourself in such little limits? But we are addicted to limits; we take great relish in them. If Marwar drops, you’ll at once become “Indian.” Then the Indian swagger will seize you. In swagger lies the fetter. You slip out of a small shackle only to fall into a bigger one; you leave a small prison and land in a large one.

I get letters daily saying, “Your words are not in accord with Indian culture.” Who told you they are? When did I claim that? You are not criticizing me—you are declaring what I declare: my words are universal; what have they to do with “Indian”? This earth is not actually divided into such fragments. Those fragments are political. The earth is undivided; man is undivided. Indian pride grabs you: “India is a land of merit; even gods yearn to be born here!” Perhaps some foolish gods—otherwise why would they yearn to be born here? What is here that gods should yearn for? But every country harbors such notions. Everyone has his own ego. And where there is ego, there is bondage. Whatever name you give the ego makes no difference. Call it “Marwar”—a small one; call it “India”—a bigger one; call it “Hindu”—bigger still, for Hindus live in Mauritius, Singapore, Canada, England. But when ego has to be dropped, all adjectives must be dropped. Being human is enough. Ultimately, even the adjective “human” has to be dropped. Then being consciousness is enough, being a witness is enough. That is moksha. Be a witness!

No one is really a Marwari, or a Hindu, or a Muslim, or an Indian, or a Pakistani. Can anyone tell by blood that “this is Marwari blood,” “this is Jain blood,” “this is Hindu blood”? Blood is just blood; bone is just bone. Go to the cremation ground, sort the bones, and tell which bone is whose—Hindu or Muslim—and you’ll be in trouble. All this is just talk. Don’t give it so much value. It’s trash. Set fire to it. The Marwari has to be freed from being Marwari. The Bengali, from being Bengali. The Bihari, from being Bihari. The Indian, from being Indian. Wherever you are bound, you must be freed from there. Whether the chains are iron or gold makes no difference. You have to be free of chains. What does moksha mean? To be free of all bonds. And remember, the bonds are not holding you—you are holding them.

A man came to Sheikh Farid. Farid was a carefree, utterly intoxicated fakir, a realized Sufi. His answers were unique. This man asked, “You have arrived; show me a way too—how can I be free of these chains?” Farid looked at him once, stood up, went to a nearby pillar, grabbed it hard, and began shouting, “Help! Help! Save me from the pillar!” The man was stunned—what happened to him? He too sprang up in alarm. “What has come over you suddenly? You were fine. I asked one question and you went mad!” But Farid wouldn’t listen—he kept shouting. The neighborhood gathered. All stood bewildered: What to do? What a strange plea: “Free me from the pillar!” He’s holding the pillar himself.
The man said, “Are you making fun of us? You yourself are holding the pillar.”
Farid said, “Then you are not a fool. So why do you ask such a question? Are those chains holding you? Which chain is holding you? Tell me, I’ll free you. You yourself are holding the chains.”

People are stiff with their chains; they take them as ornaments of ego. Not just “small” people—small and great alike. Only the other day Margaret Thatcher, the Prime Minister of England, said, “I feel supremely proud that I am British. Being British is a matter of pride.” Why? What special quality is there in being British? But this is everyone’s story. Indians too have the same strut: “We are Indians—that’s a great pride! We had Buddha, Mahavira, Krishna—great pride!” So what of yours did they change? They were—so they were. You remained as you are. Untouched like a lotus in water! No one can spoil anything of yours! Let Buddhas, Mahaviras, Krishnas come and go—no one can ruffle a single hair of your head! No one can shake you—you don’t shake! Ah, you are an immovable rock!

Everyone has the same swagger—every race, every community. This pride—you are the one holding it. Drop it. And at least the pride of being a Marwari isn’t even the kind of pride one can boast of—tell someone and you feel a little embarrassed: “I’m a Marwari!”

There are places like that. For example, in Punjab there’s a town, Hoshiarpur. Ask a man from Hoshiarpur where he lives and he at once flares up: “What’s it to you?” Then you know he’s from Hoshiarpur—because there’s this notion that Hoshiarpur folk are fools. Ask one on a train, “Brother, where do you live?” and he gets hot: “What’s it to you where I live? What harm have I done you? Who are you to ask?” Then you know—ah, we understand, you live in Hoshiarpur.

They say that in Akbar’s time the people of Hoshiarpur were very distressed that they couldn’t even tell the name of their town; whoever they told would start laughing, “Ah, Hoshiarpur!” The name itself must have brought the bad reputation. The name is bad—Hoshiarpur, “City of the Clever.” If you call yourself clever, people will laugh—praising yourself with your own mouth! Anyone would laugh. That’s how people must have begun to think them fools: they don’t even have the sense that one shouldn’t call oneself clever. A delegation from Hoshiarpur went to Akbar: “Something must be done. We are not fools, but we’ve been maligned. It’s fraud. Investigate if you wish.”
Akbar agreed and sent ministers. The people of Hoshiarpur welcomed them lavishly, won their hearts. The ministers were delighted: “Who says they are fools? They are wonderful people, very sweet! We’ve seen many, even in Delhi none are so delightful.” They were fully prepared—no trash on the streets, everything clean; walls decorated, houses adorned, lamps lit. Everyone was alert that no mistake be made. The ministers stayed three days, were honored with garlands and feasts. After bidding them farewell, the townsfolk asked one another, “Brother, did we make any mistake?” One said, “One mistake happened—today—we forgot to put cumin in the dal. A small matter, but they might think these idiots don’t even know dal takes cumin!”
“Don’t worry!” they said. “Collect all the cumin in the village. Load it on bullock-carts! Send horsemen to stop the ministers. ‘Please wait a minute or two. Don’t be upset.’”
“We’re not upset,” the ministers said, “we’re leaving very happy.”
“Please stay calm,” they insisted. “We will prove it right now.”
And cart after cart arrived—loaded with cumin! “What is this?” asked the ministers.
“This is cumin, sir! Don’t think we don’t have cumin, or that we don’t know dal takes cumin. That was the cook’s mistake. Don’t take us for fools. As proof, we’re sending this cumin along with you.”
The ministers said, “They are fools indeed!” From then on, the matter was settled.

So getting rid of being a Marwari is the easiest thing. The simplest way, Prakash—become a sannyasin. Like Sohan sitting here—right in front our Marwari is sitting. But she was a Marwari; now she isn’t. Now she’s a sannyasin—what Marwari!
Whenever I say something about Marwaris, people go to her: “What do you say, Sohan?” Sohan says, “I am a sannyasin! I was a Marwari before; that story is over. Sannyas is a rebirth.”

So first get free of being a Marwari. And keep getting free, keep getting free—break one thing after another—and moksha won’t be far.

Moksha means only this: no adjectives remain upon us. We become adjective-less, because the Divine is adjective-less—nirguna. Let us too become nirguna. We can. It is our very nature.
Moksha is not some acquisition—it is the discovery of our own nature.

Sant Maharaj! No, brother, you don’t get the same form in every birth!…and one lifetime hasn’t satisfied you already?

Do you know why I named you “Sant Maharaj”? Because, brother, enough is enough! When you came, I looked closely—thinking about what to call you—and the first name that came to me was “Ant-shant Maharaj” (nonsense-maharaj). But I thought: that won’t quite do. So I said, cut off the “ant,” leave “shant.” But even “shant” doesn’t quite sit—people will ask what “shant” means, and it will remind them of “ant” again. So I said, make it “sant” and be rid of “ant” altogether. That’s how you got the name “Sant Maharaj.”

In fact, the word ant-shant (nonsense) arose because of saints. Ant-shant means: “Hey, are you talking like saints talk?” When someone starts babbling, people say, “Why are you talking like saints? What ant-shant are you spouting?” The very meaning is: speak like a human, not like a saint. Saints have a habit of ant-shant!

There’s a similar word in English—“gibberish.” That too means ant-shant. And that, they say, arose from the name of a Sufi fakir, Jabbar—because whatever he blurted out, nobody could make head or tail of it. Such learned talk, such leaps! As they say, “A blind man, in the dark, saw something far away!” No one could figure out what he was saying. So from Jabbar came the English word “gibberish”—“why are you talking like Jabbar?” But the man himself was lovely.

Words often get made in wondrous ways. Ant-shant is one such word. If you listened to Kabir, many times you’d feel he’s talking ant-shant. Many of Kabir’s sayings are called ulatbansi—upside-down verses—meaning: they won’t make sense to you. Kabir says, “I saw a great wonder—‘the river caught fire.’” Now where does fire ever catch on a river? But Kabir says, “I saw the river ablaze; I was greatly astonished.” What will you say? You’ll say, “Ant-shant!” Yet he’s speaking right to the point—so much so that only those who know the point will understand; the rest will think, “Brother… he’s stoned on bhang, drunk too much, delirious, talking sheer nonsense! ‘A great wonder I saw—the river caught fire.’ Who has ever seen a river on fire?”

But Kabir is saying something absolutely to the point: with man something like this has happened—just as a river cannot and should not catch fire, man’s nature is bliss, yet man is miserable. This is even more astonishing than fire on water: man’s nature is bliss, yet he suffers. It’s like water catching fire. To say this, he used that upside-down verse. If you understand, fine; otherwise it will sound like ant-shant.

Many of Kabir’s sayings are ulatbansi. Many saints speak in ways you simply won’t grasp. So people began calling their speech ant-shant, calling their lingo sadhukkadi. Sometimes words arrive by very strange routes. We have a phrase: “nanga-luchcha” (naked scoundrel). It was first used for Mahavira. You could never imagine that—using “nanga-luchcha” for Mahavira!

A gentleman came to me. He said he went to meet Muni Vidyanand. He mentioned my name, even took a written note saying, “What are your views about him?” The muni tore the note up in anger, didn’t even look his way, let alone answer, and began talking to others. And after the man had left, he inquired who he was.

So I said to him, “Why did you go to naked scoundrels?” He was shocked: “What are you saying—naked scoundrels!”

I said, “Yes, this was first used for Mahavira. Mahavira lived naked and plucked his hair; so people began saying ‘nanga-luchcha’—naked and rough. They didn’t cut hair, they plucked it, and they lived naked. The word fits—nanga-luchcha.”

And “buddhu” (simpleton) first came from Buddha. When Buddha left his home and sat in the forest, many people said, “What buddhu-ness is this!” And when others followed him, leaving everything, people said, “This is the limit! Why are you trailing after that buddhu—you’re becoming buddhu yourselves!” The phrase stuck. Even now, if someone does such things, people say, “Why, brother, why are you doing buddhu-pana?” But the word came from a very fine source—from the Ganga’s very origin!

So it is with ant-shant, Sant Maharaj! And what has struck you now—that even in your next birth you want to be a donkey! One life’s experience isn’t enough? First of all, try to be nothing at all. And if you must be something—mule, horse, whatever—but a donkey? At least move a notch higher! Make some progress! Climb a step or two!

Don’t waste the opportunity. If you wish, a moment can come when you don’t have to be anything at all. What should be, in truth, is that there is no next birth—because one who is freed from birth is freed from death. One who is free of birth and death attains the supreme life. That state we call moksha, or nirvana, or Brahman-realization.

Raj Bharti!
After a long time
I went to meet him at his house.
He seated me in the drawing room,
served tea, served snacks.
He greeted me warmly,
reached his hand toward my feet.
I was taken aback:
the man who used to keep me waiting for hours,
who would come out only after much fuss—
today the same gentleman
is clutching at my feet?
His peon revealed the secret:
“Perhaps you don’t know—
our master is contesting the elections.”

It is the season indeed. And the joke is both true and not true. If you grasp the secret of it, Raj Bharti, it’s true. Otherwise, false.

Once the city’s honorable leader, Shri Jaggu Bhaiya, was invited to inaugurate a dairy farm. Jaggu Bhaiya is always overeager for inaugurations, so he arrived, dressed in khadi dhoti-kurta and cap. He pulled out his scissors and said, “Tell me, where’s the ribbon?” The managers of the dairy farm said, “Sir, this is a dairy farm inauguration—no scissors required. The opening will be done this way: that calf tied there—you will untie it from its stake, and it will run toward its mother.”

Jaggu Bhaiya promptly untied the calf. The calf had been tied for quite a while and got nervous; it bolted, shot between Jaggu Bhaiya’s legs, and knocked him flat on his back before racing to its mother. The photographer quickly captured this lovely scene. After that, more pictures of Shri Jaggu Bhaiya were taken. One was with the farm’s finest and most beautiful buffalo. One was with his wife. A few solo portraits were taken. Some photos of the farm’s sturdy, healthy bull were also taken. The next day the impatient Jaggu Bhaiya called for the newspapers, sure his photos would be on the front pages. They were—right on the front pages—but with captions like these:

In the first photo Jaggu Bhaiya lay flat on his back. Below it: “The Honorable Shri Jaggu Bhaiya inaugurating the dairy farm.”

In the second photo Jaggu Bhaiya stood smiling with his wife. The caption read: “Shri Jaggu Bhaiya with the dairy farm’s finest and most beautiful buffalo.”

In the third photo he had his arm around a buffalo’s neck, hugging it. The title: “The Honorable Shri Jaggu Bhaiya with his beloved wife.”

Seeing all this, Jaggu Bhaiya fumed with rage. He called his driver: “Bring the car right now—we’re going to the editor’s! What nonsense is this!”

The driver said, “Sir, that’s nothing—just look at this other paper.” He took another newspaper from his pocket and put it before him. On the front page was Jaggu Bhaiya, grinning broadly. The caption: “Our dairy farm’s famous bull!”

Right next to it was a photo of a huge black bull. The caption under that one read: “The Honorable Shri Jaggu Bhaiya!”

The climate really is nasty just now. Step carefully, because all those toothy grins will be lined up at your door. Use a little intelligence. Use a little discernment, because after that no one will ask about you for five years. So whomever you hand power to for five years—do it after serious thought.

Right now the people of this country are utterly naive. Anyone can make fools of them. Anyone can win them over by baring his teeth in a grin. They can be confused by any kind of false promise.

The people of this country must become a bit more alert. Otherwise we will keep wandering in the wilderness like this. Thirty, thirty-five years have drifted by in this wilderness. And if nothing changes soon, we are approaching the brink. Very soon our population will reach one billion. There will be no food, no clothing, no shelter, no work. India has never seen the kind of calamity we may have to face. All this can be changed. None of it is inevitable. But the way we keep supporting fools in elections, the possibility of change does not appear.

In elections, it’s because of you that things always go wrong. Muslims vote for Muslims; Harijans vote for Harijans. What sort of sense is that? Kshatriyas will vote for Kshatriyas; Kalars for Kalars. As if we have no other standard for thinking or understanding in this country! Caste and community! Maharashtrians will vote for Maharashtrians; Gujaratis for Gujaratis—as if those are decisive matters! And do you not even see that the promises being made to you have been made many times before and never fulfilled? Then at least examine the practicality of the promises—can they even be fulfilled? Some promises simply cannot be kept; they exist only to be made. And yet you fall for those very promises.

And the fun is that you keep marching along your worn grooves and vote accordingly. This is the country’s greatest misfortune. Those grooves must be erased—they are the very cause of our disease, our troubles. Those beliefs. For instance, whoever says, “We will bring compulsory family planning to this country”—no one can vote for him. His defeat is certain, though he is precisely the one who could do something for this country. But the one who says to you, “What need is there for family planning? This is the land of rishis and munis; we’ll manage with brahmacharya—celibacy”—your hearts instantly blossom!

Mulla Nasruddin says… he has translated “bagh-bagh” into English—he says, “garden-garden!” Your heart becomes garden-garden at once. Tell you some foolish thing and you are delighted. The land of rishis and sages! What need is there for family planning here? And compulsory family planning—intolerable! We must be free to have children. And when God is the giver, who are you to stop it!

God may be the giver, but he doesn’t send along land with the child, nor a factory. He just keeps sending people. And when famine grows, where will you look for God? You cannot call him to account, demand an answer. If Muslims are told they cannot keep four wives because it is dangerous, no votes will be won—then it becomes “opposition to religion”! But if a man keeps four wives, that is dangerous, inhuman. With one wife you’re already producing so many children—four will cause immense havoc. But if you want Muslim votes, you must accept that they keep four wives—fine, absolutely fine!

If you want Hindu votes, you’ll have to say that brahmacharya is a lofty ideal. Yet your deities do not practice celibacy, and your rishis and munis are all dubious. Leave others aside—just open your Puranas! Brahma created the earth, and when he first created the earth, he made it as a woman. And when Brahma created her, what he created was his daughter, for Brahma is the father. But Brahma became enamored of her. This is the condition of your Brahma. How will you practice celibacy! Even Brahma—whose name gives us the word brahmacharya—could not manage it! He fell for his own daughter and immediately began to chase her. The daughter panicked and turned into a cow; Brahma instantly became a bull—or, Jaggu Bhaiya, as you prefer! She ran and ran to escape; she turned into a buffalo, he became a buffalo. And thus the whole creation spread. The woman kept fleeing, taking new forms to save herself. But it isn’t easy to deceive Brahma—he too kept taking new forms.

Just read the stories of your gods and goddesses! And to you they preach celibacy. Mahatma Gandhi preached celibacy—you found it very appealing. He himself fathered five children and then began to talk of celibacy. You find it very fitting—perfectly in line with your scriptures. Let anyone speak in harmony with your preconceptions and you are pleased.

But now the time has come to break all your preconceptions—only then can the country’s fate be transformed. And the season of elections is precisely the opportunity for transformation. Then you should be alert. Then you should be aware. I am not telling you whom to choose. I have no curiosity about anyone. But I do say: choose with discernment; choose with awareness; choose carefully. And have the courage to choose those who are not conservative or shackled by tradition, who can help you become free of the past, and who are capable of giving the country a new life and a new future.

This is possible—but only if you allow it. If you yourselves stand in the way, and people must depend on your vote, then they have to watch you and say what you want to hear. Otherwise, five years later you take your revenge. And no one wants to lose five years later. Once someone sits in the chair, he wants to sit forever. No one has the courage to sacrifice position and prestige for his convictions, for new convictions. No one has that courage. And you cling to your beliefs so tightly that you never reconsider them.

Think—really think. These are moments for thinking. And on the basis of that thought, make your decision. Then whatever decision you make could be for the good of the country.

That’s all for today.