Udio Pankh Pasar #5

Dhyanesh! The only difference between ordinary people and Buddhas is remembrance. The one in whom remembrance awakens becomes a Buddha; the one in whom it does not remains only nominally human, never truly becoming human. There is no other difference—no essential or qualitative divide. It is not that Buddhas descend from the sky while we are born of mud. They too arise from the same mud; lotuses always do. But this small difference becomes vast: in some, remembrance of the Divine stirs; in others, it does not. Some go on sleeping, lost in dreams, arranging new ways of deepening their stupor.

Our so‑called way of life—what we call comfort and convenience—is little more than a set of contrivances to maintain our unconsciousness. If the bed be soft enough, the surroundings pleasant enough, the sleep will not break.

Have you noticed—sleep breaks when a nightmare comes. In a dream, if you are pushed off a mountain and are plunging into an abyss—now, now you will be shattered—how would you go on sleeping? Sleep breaks. A lion pounces on your chest, claws tearing—can you sleep? For sleep you need sweet dreams.

And what we call life is simply the arrangement to keep dreaming sweet dreams. Those we call successful are the ones skilled in dreaming pleasant dreams; the unsuccessful are those who cannot. But in life’s final arithmetic, the truth is the reverse: successful is the one whose dream breaks; unsuccessful, the one whose dream becomes stronger. Our lives are spent procuring sleeping pills. Then how will remembrance come?

You say:
“Your memory must have lost the way, otherwise
it would not have entered the homes of us poor as light.
We too would have vanished, become a wound of longing—
if only your remembrance had not come as a messiah...”

He stands at every door. For him there is no distinction between rich and poor. But the rich build strong doors, fix heavy locks, post guards. Even if God wishes to enter, he cannot.

Do not say:
“Your memory must have lost the way, otherwise
it would not have entered the homes of us poor as light.”
If your doors are open, remembrance comes this instant. The sun does not check whether it is a palace or a hut; its rays dance in wherever there is an opening. The sun makes no distinction; in truth, it enters huts more easily than mansions—too many gates, guards, guns in palaces. How shall fragile rays find their way?

No, you are not poor if his remembrance has come. If it has, you are wealthy indeed. True wealth is inner awareness; dhan is within—it is dhyan. What death cannot seize is wealth; what death can seize—what kind of wealth is that? Sandcastles, paper boats, houses of cards—one gust and they fall.

But it is true: without his remembrance, what are we but a wound of longing—pain, lament, tears. With remembrance, tears become pearls; without it, they are only water. That alchemy of remembrance is the greatest magic in existence: the clay it touches turns to gold; without it, even gold in your hands remains clay.

“This is true. One hundred percent true.”

What is the ordinary life but a festering sore? Hide it all you like, it keeps bursting open—cover it here, it oozes there. Heal one illness, another appears. The ordinary mind is a derangement, a kind of madness. Yet because all around us are mad in the same way, we do not notice. In a crowd of lunatics, we appear perfectly normal.

A new doctor came to a madhouse. The inmates threw a grand celebration—garlands, songs, showers of flowers. The old doctor, taking his leave, was shocked. “I served you thirty years—no thanks; and this newcomer you don’t even know, and such a welcome! Why?” The lunatics laughed, “You were a stranger; you never fit with us. Everyone here knew you were mad. This man is sensible. As soon as he entered we recognized it. Can wisdom be hidden? Like a lamp in the dark, it shows itself. He lit a cigarette and began to smoke it from his ear—we knew at once: our kind of man!”

To the mad, the mad feel like kin; the healthy do not appeal. In a town of the sick, being healthy is risky. In such a place, remembering God is dangerous. Sufi fakirs say, “Remember silently; let no one hear, or you’ll be in trouble.” But this is a thing that cannot be hidden. The more you try to hide it, the more it shows, because remembrance brings a certain intoxication. When spring comes, flowers will bloom—what can buds do but open and scatter fragrance? When the monsoon arrives, clouds will rain, peacocks will dance. When God descends into you as remembrance, your feet begin to dance, songs come to your lips, a light appears in your eyes. Even the way you rise and sit changes—an inebriation, a sweetness comes. Without that, life is incomplete, life is dark.

So it is true:
“We too would have vanished, become a wound of longing—
if only your remembrance had not come as a messiah.
To quench every fire of the heart your remembrance came—
now as a drop, now as dew, now as a river.”

His remembrance comes in many forms. Let it come once, and you begin to recognize it everywhere. With that first understanding, you will find his smile in a flower, his sparkle in a drop of morning dew, his veil spread across the evening stars. In the sunset too you will see only him; his colors scattered on the clouds; in people’s eyes, his depth; in birds and beasts, his innocence. Once recognized, you will find hymns chiseled into every stone. Then the Vedas need not be sought in books. Why go to rotting pages when the living scripture is all around?

This creation is his book, his Veda. All other “Vedas” are man‑made—call them apaurusheya, call them God‑given, the claim does not ring true, for those pages are stuffed with things that could never pass God’s lips. The Vedas are full of prayers—then to whom is God praying as he writes? Only one who is not God prays. And the petitions! “Lord, increase the milk in my cow’s teats; and may my enemy’s cow go dry. Let rain fall on my field and not on my neighbor’s.” Would God write this? All scriptures are crammed with such trifles—yet every religion claims God himself wrote them.

I say: God has only one book—it is not written. It flowers in petals and leaves, in mountains and stones, in rivers and in people’s eyes. This life is his scripture, his Qur’an, his Gita.

Let his recognition begin and every fire of the heart will be extinguished. Why do we burn so? Because we have been uprooted from what is ours. Uproot a tree from the soil—its leaves wither, buds will not bloom, leaves fall, out‑of‑season death arrives. Roots need soil; our life‑sap needs God. He is our ground. Without him we dry up, lose vigor, become dull. He is our strength, our energy.

“To quench every fire of the heart your remembrance came—
now as a drop, now as dew, now as a river.”

It comes in many forms. The first recognition is the hard part. Once it happens, all else becomes easy.

“When we set out toward the wilderness, we saw this:
your remembrance stood before us like Layla.
We too would have vanished, become a wound of longing—
if only your remembrance had not come as a messiah.”

In the world God has been remembered in two ways. In India, devotees saw him as the Beloved Male—Krishna—and all devotees as his milkmaids, his sakhis. The Sufis did the reverse: God is Layla, the Beloved Woman; and all seekers are Majnun. Their vision too is lovely.

Choose what resonates; don’t waste life in theoretical quarrels. Whether God is beloved or lover is only a matter of language. If God is Layla, have the courage to be Majnun. It costs dearly—Majnun is the last height of love’s madness. He saw Layla everywhere; the whole world became Layla‑filled. Remember: the story of Layla‑Majnun is a Sufi scripture, not a worldly romance. People err to read it otherwise. It is a marvelous poem hiding great secrets. If you can dare to be Majnun, to lose everything, set out seeing God as Layla. The real matter is: disappear. If you vanish as Majnun, you will find her. Let yourself be lost, and you are found.

Perhaps Majnun does not speak to you; perhaps Meera does. That too is a way of disappearing. It is said when Meera reached Vrindavan, there was a great temple of Krishna. Its priest would not look upon women. The world harbors many such follies. To see God in woman—understandable; but to not see women at all—this is a sickness. Yet he had prestige, for in a mad world such madness is honored. Women were barred from the temple, lest the priest’s celibacy be broken by a glance—how fragile a celibacy that a mere sight would shatter!

Meera arrived, singing and dancing with her ektara. No woman had ever come like that. The guards forgot themselves, a crowd gathered, they were entranced—and Meera, dancing, entered the sanctum. Only later did the guards awaken: “What has happened! A woman has gone inside!” Too late. The priest was at worship. At the sight of Meera, the tray fell from his hands—his lifetime of practice, broken; his fury knew no bounds. These so‑called celibates are great anger‑mongers, all disciples of Durvasa. He roared, “Woman! How dare you enter? Have you no shame? Don’t you know?”

Meera was in ecstasy. “All that later—first let me dance around Krishna.” The priest barked, “Dance later. First answer: how did you enter? Don’t you know?” Meera said, “Since you ask—how strange! Thirty years worshiping Krishna and your sense of being a man has not gone! The first step in Krishna‑devotion is to know: only Krishna is the Male; all of us are women. If you too were a woman, as I am, where would be the quarrel? I am a sakhi, you are a sakhi; come, let both sakhis dance!”

It was like a thousand pots of cold water over his head—he woke up. This is the foundation of Krishna‑bhakti: aside from Krishna there is no other male. As the Sufis say: aside from God there is no other Layla; all else are lovers. In both, the key is the same: become either Layla’s Majnun or Krishna’s Meera; learn the art of dissolving. Enter from the east or west, from this door or that—the moment you disappear, God enters.

Dhyanesh, disappear! Totally. What is now only remembrance can become your very being. Then remembrance need not be “done” at all. Kabir said: At first I remembered, calling “Hari, Hari,” searching and searching. Now the state is reversed—remembrance never leaves, so what is there to “do”? Let those who forget remember. Now he follows me, saying, “Kabir, Kabir—where are you going?” This is the summit of bhakti—when God remembers you. “Hari mera sumiran kare”—I am gone; he remembers!

Meditation begins with remembering God and is fulfilled in dissolution. When all is dissolved, life’s supreme benediction arrives—that is liberation, nirvana.

A patient told a doctor: “Doctor, the moment I lie down at night, the itching starts and goes on for hours.” The doctor said, “Fine, take these pills at bedtime.” “What are they?” “Sleeping pills.” “But my problem is itching.” “Brother, if you fall asleep, where will the itch be?”

What you call life is mostly a way of forgetting God, not remembering: in wealth, position, prestige—these are sleeping draughts. In the race for money who has time for meditation? “Let me earn first; later, leisurely, I will remember. What’s the hurry?”

In this land there is a special twist: we believe not in one life, but in countless births. As if we were not lazy enough already, this belief fattens our laziness. I do not say which belief is true; I point to their effects. In the West, where there is one‑life belief, there is urgency, skill, a drive for completion; here, everyone postpones. Files move from desk to desk—what’s the hurry? There is eternity ahead.

Eighty‑four million wombs you have passed through, and still no remembrance of the Lord! What a sleep! Even now, if someone says “Remember,” you say, “We will—after the son’s wedding, the daughter’s wedding, when the grandchildren grow up, when the household settles, when the shop starts running. In old age. At the end time. If not now, then next time.”

A Muslim fakir asked Mulla Nasruddin, “You’ve lived long in India—what do you think of reincarnation? We Muslims don’t believe in it.” Nasruddin said, “Sir, it’s like this: you die, and a rose blooms on your grave. A cow comes and eats the rose, then the cow drops dung. I go for a morning walk, see the pile, and say, ‘Master, you haven’t changed at all!’ That’s reincarnation—nothing changes; you are exactly as before—pure dung.”

This life too you will “get through,” as you have “got through” countless lives. Postponement has become your habit. Wake from this habit. Do not leave it to tomorrow. Whoever leaves it to tomorrow leaves it forever. That is dishonesty—toward yourself and toward existence. If you would remember God, open your doors and windows. Let remembrance in now; this is the moment. He is knocking even now, but you must listen. Your ears are shut. You keep taking more sedatives. You are drunk.

And there are many kinds of wine. The grape’s is the least of them; drink it and, at worst, you will be drunk for a night—by morning you’ll be sober. But there are deeper intoxications. The wine of politics does not wear off in a day—it devours a life. One post leads to the hunger for another; what you have must be protected; what lies ahead must be won. The wine of wealth—how will it end? However much you have, there is no end to the race. These are the deeper poisons.

People decry wine—and often those very politicians, drunk on office, lead the crusade. Our language is old but precise: pad‑mad, dhan‑mad—the intoxication of position, of wealth. They intoxicate so deeply that even if someone counsels you, you say, “Just let me be Prime Minister once—then I will do everything, even seek God.”

The strange thing is: for the trivial you want “now”; for the essential you say “later.” And later never comes. Wake today. Pray today. Meditate today. Open the doors today. He stands at the door. Do not forget: not only are you seeking God—God is seeking you. Take one step toward him; he is ready to take a thousand toward you.

Dharmanand! The public is the public. It will misunderstand—that’s precisely why it’s called the public. If it understood rightly, it would not be the public; it would be truly awakened people.

We have two words: Pritakjan—which means the crowd, the masses—and Prabuddhjan, the enlightened. What I am saying can be understood by only a few. There is nothing surprising in that. I understand your question and your pain, because you want others to understand too. You are drinking and growing ecstatic, and you want others to drink and be ecstatic as well! And you are bewildered that far from drinking, far from becoming ecstatic, they are not even willing to listen. They hear something else entirely. But understand their difficulty too. Have compassion for them. Don’t be harsh. Their difficulty is that their habits of understanding are set; they will understand only in the way they have always understood.

Mulla Nasruddin was educating his son. He was a politician, so of course a politician imparts political education. He said to his little boy, “Son, climb the ladder.” The boy climbed—when the father says so, the son climbs. When he reached the top, Nasruddin said, “Now jump, son. I’ll catch you.”

The boy was afraid. The ladder was high. What if his father missed, what if he slipped through his hands, what if he fell here or there and broke his bones? Seeing the boy’s fear, Nasruddin said, “Don’t you trust your own father? You good-for-nothing! Don’t you have faith in me? When I am here, why are you afraid? Coward! Jump!”

After much goading, flattery, and scolding, what could the poor boy do? He closed his eyes, held his breath, took God’s name, and jumped. And as he jumped, Nasruddin stepped back. Down the boy crashed. Both knees were skinned; he began to cry. Nasruddin said, “Don’t cry!”

The boy said, “I knew it! Why did you step back?”

Nasruddin said, “Son, I’m teaching you politics. In politics never trust even your own father. That is lesson one.”

Another day the boy returned from school with torn clothes and nail marks on his face—he’d gotten into a fight, a brawl. Instead of consoling him, Nasruddin thrashed him as well. The boy protested, “This is too much! Instead of sympathy, you’re beating me!”

Nasruddin said, “That won’t do. Learn from this. Fighting is no good. If you want to live in this world, you won’t manage by brawling; live by strategy, by cleverness. Even if you pick a pocket, pick it with finesse. Pick a pocket in such a way that the man whose pocket you pick feels it is in his own best interest. Even if you cut someone’s head, do it as if it were in his service, for his own good. Learn the lesson. Never again come back with torn, dirty clothes and a beating. Work with cunning, with intelligence.”

The next day the boy came home—neither beaten nor with torn clothes. But the marks he’d received at school that day were low. That was enough: Nasruddin beat him again and said, “If you are such a failure already, what will you do in life? You must always be number one! Practice being number one now, and one day you’ll be prime minister. No failure allowed! Your marks must be top—number one in your class! Cheat if you must, be dishonest if you must, copy if you must—it doesn’t matter. Means don’t matter; the goal must be achieved. That is the basic mantra of politics.”

The next day the son did exactly as his father had instructed. Sons are obedient—‘the tradition of the Raghu lineage has always been to obey the father.’ Even King Rama followed his father’s word, though his father was speaking pure nonsense. If he had used even a little intelligence, he would have refused: this is not fit to be obeyed. But Rama went, and this is only Nasruddin’s poor boy; he said, “All right.” He cheated. The next day he came first. He was very happy, walking home. He hadn’t fought, his clothes were neat and clean, and he was bringing a certificate that he had stood first in class. But without a word, Nasruddin beat him again! The boy burst out, “Now this is really messed up. Why are you beating me? My clothes aren’t torn, I didn’t get into a fight, and today I stood first!”

Nasruddin said, “Son, learn from this beating that this world is nothing but injustice; justice is nowhere.”

People will think in their own way, understand in their own way. The politician is right when he says, “Where is justice here?” Here, the one with the stick owns the buffalo. What question of justice! Once the buffalo is yours, that itself is justice—provided the stick is in your hand. Don’t you see, just now there was a people’s government—same courts and courts—and lawsuits upon lawsuits. Now the government has changed—same courts—and all those cases are being thrown out, all those suits are collapsing. The same courts now say the cases were baseless, there was nothing in them. What fun! Just open your eyes and see what’s happening: he who holds the stick owns the buffalo. The stick should be big and in your hand. These judges and so on—just buffaloes; they have no value. Law has no meaning. If the stick is in your hand, everyone is with you.

What I am saying is not politics. People understand the language of politics; they cannot understand the language of religion. For centuries, in the name of religion, politics has been poured down their throats, and they have come to take that as religion. But religion is a much bigger matter.

For instance, for centuries you have been told that Rama is the Perfect Man of Conduct because he obeyed his father. Thus, every son should obey his father. Naturally, every father wants that. This whole story is the fathers’ swindle. Priests and pundits are the agents of the fathers.

I say religion is rebellion, not obedience. For me, Rama is not a religious man, because there is no rebellion in him—not even a spark of rebellion. Yet for thousands of years we have called him the Perfect Man of Conduct. Who says so? The contractors of religion do—naturally, because if you obey your father, you will also obey whatever vested interests society has.

Gurdjieff used to say: Every religion says, “Obey your father,” because if you don’t obey your father, how will you obey God—the great Father? And how will you obey the great Father’s contractors and agents—the priests, the popes, the shankaracharyas, and so on? The father is just an excuse. Then whether the father is right or wrong is no longer for you to consider.

There is not a trace of religiosity in Rama. Many people come and ask me: You have spoken on Krishna, Mahavira, Buddha, Jesus, Lao Tzu, Kabir, Nanak; why don’t you speak on Rama? I cannot speak on Rama, because I don’t see any religion in him. Not a spark of revolt. Not a grain of revolution. Obedience! And obedience to what is wrong! I am not saying “Never obey”—that even if your father is right you should not obey. If it is right, obey—but you are always the final judge; your discernment is decisive. If it is right, obey; if it is wrong, do not obey. In this case it was wrong. But it was obeyed.

And then we praise Lakshman no end, that he abandoned his wife—his newly-wed wife—to follow his elder brother in service. For the elder brother, sacrifice your wife. So Lakshman is precious—ready to sacrifice! He offered his wife on the altar of sacrifice. No one even mentions Urmila. No one keeps any account of what that poor woman went through. Is this civilized conduct? The woman he had just married—this is direct injustice to her. But a woman had no value—worth two pennies. She was a shoe: wear it when you wish, take it off when you wish.

Then a washerman said, “I suspect my wife. I am not some King Rama that you can stay out all night, come back in the morning, and I keep you at home.” That washerman’s one statement was enough; Sita must be sent away! No value for the wife—none! No value for a pregnant woman—none! And these are called religious acts! You have been fed such things for centuries, so if my words sound rebellious to you, if you feel fear, unease—no surprise. Your patterns of thinking have become decisive, fixed like lines. My words cannot fit into them. Either you must drop your lines—leave the beaten track—then you can understand me; otherwise there is no way.

A stock speculator was engrossed in reading the trading column in the newspaper. Suddenly his wife tumbled down the stairs with a thud. The speculator’s accountant shouted, “Sir, your wife has fallen down!”

The speculator blurted out in panic, “Don’t delay—sell immediately!”

For a speculator, whatever falls—sell! The speculator has his own world, his own way of thinking.

A Marwari’s maid came running and said, “Master, master! Your wife’s had a heart failure in the bathroom.”

The Marwari dashed off—not toward the bathroom, but toward the kitchen. The maid said, “Master, are you in your senses? The mistress fell down in the bathroom with a crash! She had a heart failure there. Where are you going?”

“Hush!” he said. He ran straight to the cook: “Listen, today make breakfast for one only. Your mistress is no more!”

A Marwari will think in his own way. Make breakfast for two and one goes to waste—now the mistress is gone, gone; at least save the breakfast.

An actress’s mother advised her promising daughter that whatever happens, she should never go before a hero without wearing something. The obedient daughter tied her mother’s words to her heart. Whenever she went before a hero, she made sure to wear something—if not a dress, then a watch or a ring; once she even went wearing only slippers.

An actress has her own way of thinking. Wearing a ring—enough, the rule is kept. Naked otherwise—no problem. A ring is worn; what more do you need? If a loincloth can cover modesty, why not a ring!

People will find it difficult to understand my words, Dharmanand. It is perfectly natural, because what I say does not fit their fixed beliefs. It cannot fit them. My compulsion is that I can only say what I have experienced as truth. Their compulsion is that they can accept as truth only what they have always accepted as truth—whether it is truth or not. I cannot bend, because truth for me is my own experience, not borrowed. I cannot compromise on it. I will say only what I say. However cleverly someone may question me, I will still say the same. Those who have courage—only a few—will leave their old lines and agree to walk with me. My words are not for the Pritakjan; they cannot be. Only for a few Arya—noble ones.

That is why Buddha constantly said that only the Arya understand—Arya meaning the noble, the excellent, the intelligent, those skilled in reflection, those whose lives carry talent and brilliance—only they can understand religion. Hence Buddha called his religion Arya-dharma and his truths Arya-satya—the noble truths. Arya does not mean a race; it means the gifted, wherever they may be born. Those with such talent are coming from the far corners of the world. They will come. This place will become a Kaaba. Hundreds of thousands will come here, but I can relate only to the talented. The common crowd will have difficulty, will face obstacles. And I am not angry about it. I understand their compulsion. I understand their pain. What can they do? All their vested interests to which they are tied—if they accept my words, each of those vested interests will be shaken. If they accept my words, they will be neither Hindu nor Muslim nor Christian nor Jain nor Buddhist. That will be troublesome.

People come to me and say, “What you say feels right to us, but we have two daughters at home; we have to get them married. Once we get them married, then we will declare that we agree with you. Because if we declare it now, their marriages will become difficult. We won’t find boys.”

It isn’t that boys are hard to find. Are there too few boys here? But they also have fixed notions about the boy: he must have a good job, a high position, wealth, status, prestige; he must be of their own caste. Lines are fixed! Even if some of my words feel right, in other matters complications arise. And here those complications become acute.

A Jain lady came here. She had been writing for a long time that she wanted to come. I was putting her off, because I knew her; it wouldn’t suit her here, it wouldn’t digest. And things went wrong on day one. On the very first day she went to the dining hall and met someone—Radha Mohammad. Radha Mohammad! She immediately wrote to me: “What kind of name is this? Is this woman a Hindu or a Muslim?”

I said, “She was a Muslim—now she is not. We have kept ‘Mohammad’ in her name as a remembrance.”

She said, “Then this place is not for me. I cannot even eat here. Nothing is certain about who is who!”

She said, “I came with great courage, thinking that even if they are not Jain, at least the food must be cooked by Hindu Brahmins. But Radha Mohammad is cooking!”

So she stayed hungry here for a day. Naturally, how many days can one remain hungry! Then she left. After that she stopped writing. She no longer comes or goes. Even her letters have stopped.

Beliefs are fixed; if you let go of one belief, you will find twenty-five nets entangled with it. Who knows what webs there are! No belief stands alone. With each belief come a thousand other beliefs, and all their webs are interconnected. You will not be able to tolerate it if your daughter marries a Muslim, or a Christian, or a Parsi. It will become difficult, troublesome. Nor can Muslims tolerate it, nor Parsis.

So even if my words feel right, such notions have been dissolved in your blood for centuries that unless you truly have the courage to be transformed and to stake everything, Dharmanand, there is no way.

But there are courageous people in the world. There always have been. After all, some people stood with Buddha, some with Jesus, some stood with Nanak, some even stood with Kabir. A few will stand with me too. But these are matters for the few. Religion has always been the concern of the few; for the many, religion is a formality, a social etiquette. For those for whom religion is social etiquette, there is no place here. I can have no relationship with them. I am not for them, and they are not for me.

Anand Mohammed! This is the magic of meditation, the magic of sannyas. Only the one who steps into this world of magic will know it.

One way is to drop alcohol by effort; that has no real value. You can force yourself to quit, but it will be repression. Inside, the craving will go on burning, and it will keep looking for a way, for an excuse. If you don’t drink alcohol, you’ll start taking something else—some substitute will be needed. You will get intoxicated by something or other. Only if another kind of intoxication happens can you drop alcohol; and even then, the desire to drink can lie buried within. If an opportunity comes, everything can collapse.

Mulla Nasruddin was in court, because he’d been caught on the street, blind drunk, babbling nonsense. The magistrate asked, “Why did you drink so much?” Nasruddin said, “Because of bad company—call it the wrong kind of ‘satsang’.”
“What do you mean?”
“We were four men and there was one bottle. Three were teetotalers. We opened the bottle and lost the cork. So I had to drink it all. Those three should be punished, Your Honor! If the cork got lost, what am I to do? And those three good-for-nothings were so stubborn. I pleaded with them: ‘Share it, otherwise I’ll have to drink too much and there’ll be trouble.’ And trouble did come. Now I’ll have to bear the punishment though they are responsible. But I swear I won’t drink again. There’s just one compulsion, Your Honor: the tavern lies right between my home and my office. However firmly I resolve at home, by the time I reach the tavern, the resolve breaks. Still, I give you my word in open court: forgive me this time.”

The next day, he set out from home with total resolve, having performed his namaz properly, remembering God intensely. He quickened his pace. As the tavern came nearer, his steps began to wobble a little. He said to himself, “Whatever happens—am I not a man? I won’t bend!” Right in front of the tavern he was reeling, but he mustered courage and passed by, didn’t even glance toward it. His heart was going there, his eyes too. Laughter from inside reached his ears. People were making merry; someone was singing, someone sat with a goblet in hand. The scenes inside were flashing in his mind. But he ignored it all and walked on—went a good hundred steps ahead. Then he patted his back: “Bravo, Nasruddin! You’ve done something amazing. Now come, let’s celebrate—with a feast today!” He turned back and drank double.

When you even drink to celebrate not drinking... whatever is repressed will, sooner or later, find a way out. Whatever is pushed down keeps searching for an exit.

Look at your so-called religious festivals—Ganesh festivals and the like. What happens there? Vulgar, obscene, lewd dances—crude and naked! But because it runs in the name of religion, it’s all considered fine. The repressed is looking for an outlet; if it can’t come out elsewhere, it will come out under the banner of religion.

Look at the “religious” calendars—so many of them would put film actresses to shame. The way they seat Mother Sita, or Shiva and Parvati—just look at your calendars! But since it’s Shiva-Parvati, everything is “fine,” and you hang it in your living room; who can object—“It’s Shiva-Parvati!” But why are you hanging it? Look at the face of Parvati, the manner she is depicted! What is the reason? The same old reason. If you hang up a film actress, people will say, “A religious, respectable man like you—and an actress’ photo?” But Mother Parvati—perfectly fine! Only now Mother Parvati outdoes the actresses. Who makes these, who sells them, who buys them? The label of religion lets it all pass.

Look at what happens in this country on Holi. Even the most respectable people hurl abuse—let it pour out. They must be collecting it all year; otherwise where does it come from? It lies within, waiting to be vented. Just as a house needs a drain to carry out the filth, Holi has to be created to carry out the inner filth. Holi is the excuse, but the yearly discharge is the need. A “religious” country—gods are said to long to be born here—and just look at the manners on Holi! You will not find such crudity, such vulgarity anywhere else. There is no festival as crude as Holi anywhere in the world; it can’t exist, because there aren’t such “religious” people elsewhere. To support such a festival, you have to be religious—religious people repress, repression demands a release.

Nowhere in the world do women get jostled and mauled in public as they do here. There is hardly another country so “religious.” And when a country is “religious,” women will be shoved around. Wherever a woman goes, taunts will be thrown, catcalls made, pebbles flicked, clothes tugged, elbows jabbed—whatever chance arises, whatever can be done will be done. In this country it is hard for a woman to move freely in public spaces.

And this is not just a modern problem. The scriptures say: in childhood, the father should protect; in youth, the husband should protect; in old age, the son should protect. Protection even in old age—what an extremity! Meaning: someone must always “protect” her. Protect from whom? If no one were misbehaving, would protection be needed? These scriptures are ancient; this is no new phenomenon of the Kali Yuga. It is a very “golden-age” business—going on from the beginning. But protection is needed—right up to old age. The reason? You are filled with repression.

Anand Mohammed, I am against repression; I am for transformation. And the alchemy of transformation is meditation. As you become silent, a revolution happens.

The real question is: Why does a person want to drink? Not whether he should or shouldn’t—that is secondary. He wants to drink because life holds so much misery, so much restlessness, so much tension; he wants to forget it, to become oblivious. No other method seems available. With alcohol, for a little while, an hour or two, he forgets. Even that little forgetting, you moralists don’t want to allow—“Don’t drink!” You’ve made life so troublesome that it is tension upon tension, and if somewhere a little relief appears, you brand it a sin.

A man drinks because there is so much worry, so much anxiety; for a while he forgets the world, forgets himself. The worries don’t dissolve; but even forgetting them briefly—how can that be called small? Tomorrow will be tomorrow; we’ll see then. The worries will still be there, perhaps multiplied; then he’ll need a bit more, a larger dose—the quantity will keep increasing. It is no solution, no answer—but temporarily there is relief.

Meditation will dissolve your restlessness, and the need to drink disappears. Meditation will dissolve your tensions, and the need to drink disappears. I do not say: “Don’t drink.” I say: Meditate. We will cut at the root. When the root is cut, the alcohol falls away by itself.

Now you say, “For thirty years I drank and smoked...” These are all of a kind. Someone smokes cigarettes, someone chews tobacco, someone chews betel. And it’s not just you; the scriptures describe how even the gods in heaven chew betel. So it’s not only you—even the gods do it! And your so-called monks and sannyasins—saints and mahants—have been smoking ganja, bhang, opium for centuries. This is nothing new; it’s a religious habit!

That’s why people say I spoil religion. Such “religious” acts you were doing—drinking and smoking—and I’ve upset it all, Anand Mohammed. Since your cigarettes have gone and your alcohol has gone, you’ve also slipped free from the circuit of pundits and mullahs. Why would you go to them now? No need remains. No purpose remains. You used to go to ask how to get rid of your entanglements; and whatever tricks they taught never solved anything. They enjoyed condemning you, arranging your passage to hell. Their relish lies there. You used to go to them filled with guilt. Now there is no guilt in you. Now you can walk with your chest out in dignity. This will anger the pundits and mullahs. All the priests are angry with me. I am “spoiling” their people. I am helping them drop the religious habits on which the priests’ prestige depends—habits that keep people touching the priests’ feet.

You say, “A thirty-year habit of drinking and smoking has ended suddenly.” When it falls suddenly, then there is joy; when it falls unforced, then there is joy. If it falls by effort, there is danger—it can return. If it drops by itself, there is no way back.

You say, “I can’t perform namaz.” There is no need anymore. What is there in namaz? Repeated words. If meditation has dawned, the wordless has arrived; what is the point of words then? Whether the words are from the Quran or the Gita—what difference does it make? Words are words. One who has tasted the wordless, who savors silence, no longer needs to say anything. His prayer is complete. He has reached the peak of prayer. Namaz has happened.

Becoming quiet is namaz. Namaz does not happen by saying something. People all over the world say namaz and offer prayers—what is the result? The same people who pray are the ones who stab with knives. Their namaz, their prayers burn temples and mosques. Their namaz, their prayers have left the earth blood-soaked. They’ve soiled the whole of history. What kind of namaz, what kind of prayer is this? They have turned the earth into hell.

What will come from speaking beautiful words? Teach parrots to repeat and they will chant “Ram-Ram, Ram-Ram.” Do you think the parrot will go to heaven for saying “Ram-Ram”? Neither the parrot will go, nor the person who parrots.

Namaz has been transcended now.

Meditation means emptiness, becoming silent. What is there to say? There should be stillness, there should be silence. Only in silence do we connect with the divine. The divine understands no language—not Arabic, not Sanskrit, not Latin, not Greek, not Hebrew. None. There are three thousand languages on this one earth. Scientists say there are at least fifty thousand such earths. Imagine how many languages! If God had to understand them all, he would have gone mad; his skull would buzz. He would have taken to drink himself—just to escape those who pray! He’d lie intoxicated: “Go on, say as much namaz as you want—I’m not listening.”

I had a friend, Dr. Katju. He was Chief Minister of Madhya Pradesh. Completely deaf—he could hear only with a hearing device. Whenever anyone came to talk, he would immediately take out his device, set it aside, and keep smiling. After watching him do this many times I asked, “What is this device for then?” He said, “Is it for listening to these donkeys’ blabber? Otherwise they’ll eat my head. From morning to evening, that is all I would hear. As chief minister, it’s all complaints—this one’s complaint, that one’s complaint. I just smile and murmur hmm-hmm. They all go away pleased. I’m saved, they’re saved. When they leave, I put the device back. I wear it only when I want to speak with someone. If I don’t want to listen, why keep it on?”

So either God has gone deaf too, and takes off his device to save himself: “Beware—here comes Anand Mohammed to say namaz—take it off!” But he won’t be afraid of you now, Anand Mohammed. When you sit for prayer, for worship, for namaz, he will not be frightened; he’ll keep his device on. No worry. There is no need to fear this man. He is a good man, a decent man. Neither Hindu nor Muslim—simply decent! You will remain in emptiness, in silence.

Silence is the only language the divine understands. And there is nothing to say to God anyway—you have to connect, not converse. What do we have to say? What do people say to God? Petty demands: give me this, give me that; do this, fix that; let this happen, let that happen. If you decode people’s prayers, their meaning is: we’ll add two and two and still want it to make five. That the lottery will open. “This time, just give me the number.”

I used to be in trouble whenever I returned from travels via Bombay. As soon as I entered my air-conditioned compartment, many friends would come to see me off. The AC attendants would notice the people—some looked like rich seths, moneyed men—and think, “Baba must know a special formula.” As soon as the train started, they would grab my feet: “This time you must tell us the number.”
“Which number?”
“Why spell it out, sir? You understand everything. Let it happen this time—just once. If the lottery opens once, then what more to ask!” I would explain to them a thousand times that I don’t know numbers, that I don’t even have a pocket on my robe; I don’t have money myself. They’d say, “We just can’t believe that. Otherwise why would so many people come to see you off? And some of them look wealthy—some bookies, some seths. They must be coming for some reason. There has to be something.”

What do people do in prayer? The same—“Give me the number. Cure my wife’s illness. Get my boy a job.” Or they praise him: “You are compassionate.” He knows that already. What are you telling him—“You are great”? He knows.

There was a lawyer better than this—he kept a written prayer by his bedside. Every night before pulling up the blanket he said, “O Lord, read this,” and went to sleep. More advanced still was another lawyer—he didn’t keep even that trouble; he would just say, “Ditto!” and get into bed. “What was said once in life—why repeat it every day? The same old thing, again and again. Why say every night, ‘I am fallen and you are the uplifter of the fallen’? Why eat his head?”

Anand Mohammed, it is good that namaz no longer happens for you, that words are forgotten. A meditative state arises. That is namaz. That is the real namaz.

“You feel an inner strength to speak the truth.” Only then is truth delightful. If you speak it under compulsion, it is not truth—inside, untruth still lurks. When truth comes effortlessly, it has beauty—an incomparable beauty. Such truth is liberating. Otherwise, you can try a thousand devices to speak the truth, and your truth will still hide some untruth within it.

You say, “Now lies don’t come out. I am deeply indebted to you.” No indebtedness is needed. It is my joy, my delight, to share what has happened to me. If anyone must feel indebted, it is I—to you. You gathered such courage, such strength, and you tried to understand what I said—not only to understand, but to do. I know your difficulty. To live among Muslims as my sannyasin is a hard matter—it is like standing amidst fire! But you have proved pure. I am overjoyed.

Narendra Singh! The occasion itself is such—blessings are certainly needed! In such a time of sorrow, in such dark days, only blessings are a support; what else! All else is darkness upon darkness. You are stepping into danger—I surely give you my blessings. I cannot say—I cannot give you the assurance—how far my blessings will work. That is very difficult, because marriage defeats even the greatest of blessings.

This marriage—think of it as a kind of Muhammad Ali. Blessings and the like are poor things, like flowers. But this one is a boxer; it will smash the flowers to pieces. It is a rock. Still, if you have decided to put your head into danger, then why fear the pestle now! Go on—get pounded! My blessing is that the Lord make your hide thick! That whatever little bit of intelligence still remains in you, may he snatch that away too! Because if intelligence remains, it will be difficult. This is such an ocean of existence that only the dull-witted make it across. The foolish don’t even feel the heat. They can take a hundred beatings with shoes, march right in to watch the show, and not worry at all. May God give you just such toughness! My blessings are with you.

And at such a dangerous time, who would not express sympathy with you! Generally I don’t give blessings, but at this time I too will have to.

One day I said to Mulla Nasruddin: Nasruddin, in your sitting room there is only one calendar—thirty years old, stuck on a single date. What’s the matter?
Mulla Nasruddin took a deep breath and said: Osho, this is our wedding year—the calendar year—and this is our wedding date, which I’ve marked in red. After that, it’s as if everything came to a halt. Nothing happened after that. That we’re still alive is a miracle! After that, time and all the rest ended. Now just understand: this is life after death.
People ask whether anything remains after death. Nasruddin said, I am proof that something does. The soul is immortal! Just look at me—thirty years since I died, and I’m still alive! Died and died, and still didn’t die.
May the Lord make you immortal in the same way!

One day I said to Mulla Nasruddin, “Big man, it’s striking twelve at night. Your good lady still hasn’t returned from marketing? She left at noon. What’s the matter? I hope there hasn’t been some accident?”
Mulla, releasing a deep sigh, said, “No, no! Where would I be so fortunate!”

At a mushaira a poet recited a ghazal whose opening line was: “I would have built the Taj, but I couldn’t find a Mumtaz.” No sooner had he read the line than Mulla jumped up in anger and said, “Sir, count yourself fortunate you’re a little late. Had you graced us a few days earlier, you could have found a Mumtaz. But now, unfortunately, I have already married her.”

Narendra Singh, now that you’ve settled on marriage, don’t run. Don’t become Ranchhoddas—don’t abandon the battlefield. Now grapple with it; what is there to look back for!

Dhabbuji asked his beloved, “Then what did your father say when he learned I want to marry you?” The beloved said, “He was very happy and said, ‘O God, the donkey I searched for my whole life—you’ve sent him right to my door!’”

Narendra Singh, what more shall I tell you? Now forget about being a Singh and all that. Now understand your reality. From here on, it will be only in name.

Two mice were trapped in a cage. Out of curiosity Dhabbuji’s child asked, “Papa, Papa, which one is the mommy mouse and which one the daddy mouse?”
Dhabbuji said, “The one wagging her tail, swaying this way and that, jumping around, and rubbing her face against the wall again and again to smear on some whitewash—that’s the mommy mouse. And”—he took a deep breath—“the one sitting silent, quiet, calm, and grave—that’s the daddy mouse, son!”

Now the days of being a lion and all that are gone. Consider them loaded up and gone. From here on, whatever comes, endure it. Keep patience. And may the Divine bless you!

That’s all for today.