Udio Pankh Pasar #6

Dayanand! You are tired of doing religion, but you are not yet tired of doing; you still want to do something more. You ask, “What should I do now? I have come to your refuge to ask this.” Only when you are tired of doing itself will revolution happen.

Religion is not a doing; religion is your nature. Had it been a matter of doing, you would have done it by now. It is not about action at all. There is no fault in vows or fasts or yamas or niyamas. The fault lies in the mistaken notion that religion is an act, a karma.

Religion is non-action. Religion is resting in the void, settling into your own nature. In action there is hustle and bustle, running and racing. Action is the process of the ego. The ego lives by doing; it cannot live without doing. Do something and it thrives. The more you do, the bigger it grows. Do something “big,” and the ego swells even bigger. A peon has a small ego; become a president and the ego grows large. Do a great deed! Anyone can be a peon; but one in six hundred million may become a president. Be poor, and the ego is small; become rich, and the ego expands.

The ego survives through doing; therefore it always longs—let me do this, let me do that; let me show the world I am somebody; let me leave my mark on the pages of history! Into children’s minds we pour this poison: Do something so your name is written in golden letters in history! Do something so your lineage is remembered! This craving for name is just another face of the ego.

You made vows and fasted—but for what? You believed you were doing religion. But religion has never had anything to do with doing. Religion is meditation, and meditation is not an act. Meditation is dropping all doing and abiding as a witness. Not running—just sitting. Not walking—coming to a halt. Not speaking—falling silent. Not words—emptiness. Not thoughts—no-thought.

Look at the definitions of meditation: they are always negative. Thought is affirmative; meditation is no-thought, negative. Action is affirmative; meditation is non-action. If you grasp this fundamental point, you will see: if religion were somewhere far away, we could reach there by walking. Then the faster one walked, the sooner he would arrive; the stronger his vehicle, the swifter the arrival; the more forceful he was, the more he could push through the crowd and become first in the queue. But religion is your own nature—never far. Even to call it “near” is not right, because “near” still implies distance. The very notion of nearness presupposes far and near. That which we call “very near” only means “not too far.”

Religion is you—your very innermostness. Even “near” is not correct. So where are you going to search for that which already abides within—what forest, what garden, what Kaaba, what Kashi?

What will you achieve through vows? You will impose a discipline on yourself, set a regimen—rise at this hour, sleep at that hour. But no matter what time you rise, you remain you. Whether you rise at five in the brahma-muhurta or at ten in the morning—what real difference does it make? Do you imagine religion will happen just by rising early? All animals and birds rise at brahma-muhurta. Then rishis and munis are doing nothing new; they are merely joining the ranks of animals and birds. It is uniquely human to sleep on while the sun rises. Animals have no blankets to pull over their heads, no sheet to curl into and turn over for another nap. If you too wake early...!

I am not saying do not rise early. There are benefits—but not religious ones. Your health improves, you breathe fresh air, perhaps you live a little longer. But it has nothing to do with religion. Living longer does not make one religious; living shorter does not make one irreligious. Otherwise Shankaracharya died at thirty-three—would that make him irreligious? Ramakrishna had cancer—should he then be called irreligious? Raman Maharshi too had cancer. Mahavira died of dysentery. Buddha died from poisoned food. Buddha must often have been sick; a great emperor gifted him his personal physician—Jivaka, the most renowned physician of the time—who accompanied him constantly to safeguard his body.

No connection with living long or short, with health or illness. So I am not saying do not rise early; it has its own benefits. Just remember—none of it is religion.

A life of discipline has a certain grace, a beauty. There is order, not chaos. Like a well-kept, clean house, such a life has tidiness. So I am not saying do not give your life a form, do not become unruly, do not plunge into disorder—eating breakfast one morning, eating at midnight the next, eating at noon the third, making a mess of yourself. Not at all.

Regimen is good; it brings its own gains. But it is not religion. Discipline is good; it will cut many needless tangles from your life. An undisciplined life gets trapped in unnecessary complications. Notice how many needless things you say, and after saying them you get entangled—quarrels arise; later you regret it: “It would have been fine had I not said anything; there was no need to speak.”

I have heard: Mulla Nasruddin and three friends vowed to observe silence for seven days. They went and sat in a cave in the mountains, firm in resolve. After barely five to seven minutes the first said, “I am in great confusion—did I switch off the light at home or leave it on? And now I have to sit here seven days; the bill will go up!”

The second said, “You fool, we came here to be silent and you spoke!”

The third said, “You are a scoundrel too. If he spoke, he spoke—why did you speak?”

Mulla Nasruddin folded his hands to the sky and said, “Allah Mian, only I have remained silent till now.”

A little discipline is useful. Indiscipline is a kind of distortion; it makes life shapeless; its music is lost. So I am not against discipline—provided it arises from within, not imposed from outside. What another imposes is not discipline, it is dictatorship. What you decide with your own intelligence and discernment to shape your life—this is auspicious. It brings firmness and sharpness; it hones your sword. But it is not religion.

Sometimes fasting is also beneficial; humans overwork their stomachs more than anything else. When animals fall ill they stop eating; try what you may, they won’t eat. Even your dog is wiser than you. If he feels unwell, he will go out, eat grass, and vomit to lighten the stomach. When the body is sick, burdening it with food doubles the load—one load of illness, another of digestion. Better to relieve the body of digesting for a time, so it can deal with the illness. So occasionally fasting is beautiful; at times it is useful to give the stomach a holiday.

Even God got tired—the Christian story says so. He made the world in six days and rested on the seventh. Good that God rested on the seventh, or Sunday would have been impossible! If Christians gave anything truly good to the world, it is the Sunday holiday. If God himself rests, man should certainly rest.

So sometimes fasting is useful. But fasting is not a way of life. Otherwise you are choosing slow suicide; you begin enjoying torturing yourself; you turn perverse and violent toward yourself. Such fasting is abuse—self-abuse—and no one can protect you from it. And your mute body already suffers so much at your hands. Do not imagine this abuse will bring you religion. Yes, the body will dry and wither—but do not fall into the delusion that the lotus of the soul blooms because the body withers. There is no necessary connection.

So all that you did—yamas and niyamas, vows and fasts—each has its own value in its own place. But when you take them as synonyms for religion, Dayanand, you go astray. They are not synonyms. Religion has only one synonym—meditation. Mahavira used an exact word for it: samayik. The Jains call the soul “samay”—the timeless time. Samayik means: abiding in the soul, settling in the self. No one has used a lovelier word than Mahavira. Patanjali says “samadhi”—where all problems are resolved, where problems drop, where you even forget there are problems. Such emptiness, such silence, such no-thought, such choicelessness—then meditation is experienced.

Dayanand, at least something has dawned on you. You say, “I am tired of practicing religion.” Good—fortunate! Blessed that at least you got tired of practicing. Some fools go on doing and never tire; and when nothing comes to hand, they discover endless arguments as to why.

They say past-life karmas are obstructing. Lifetimes of karmas block the way; that is why nothing comes—so work harder! They are trying to squeeze oil from sand, and think that oil doesn’t come because past-life karmas obstruct. Oil will not come from sand—no matter whether your past-life karmas were auspicious or inauspicious. First there must be oil in the sand! In the squeezing, you will be the one squeezed; if your own oil comes out, that is another matter. But sand yields no oil.

Yet people weave webs of argument. They need some explanation to pacify themselves, some consolation. That is why your priests and pundits exist—so that when you are tired or failing, they can stoke your little flame, encourage you: “Son, keep going, keep going; the goal is not far now.” They keep pushing you along and keep giving reasons why you haven’t arrived—even if your direction is wrong.

And in religion, in ninety-nine out of a hundred cases, the direction you take is wrong. Perhaps one in a hundred times it is not. But even then, the happening does not come through doing; it happens sometimes unexpectedly, spontaneously. You see the sun setting, and you are absorbed—you become so absorbed you forget everything: no memory of “I,” no awareness of the body, no other thought in the mind. Those gentle colors on the clouds, the unique beauty of the sinking sun, the redness spread over the sea—you stand dumbstruck, wonderstruck. For a moment, everything seems to stop—time halts—and there is a glimpse of joy, of beauty, of poetry. That glimpse arises from within you—but you think it came because of the sunset. No: it came because all doing fell away. When action stopped, a drop of religion fell into you. A single drop—but its taste is very sweet. One drop of nectar is enough.

Hence I say: often poets, painters, sculptors, musicians are closer to religion than your renouncers and ascetics. Your renouncers and ascetics seem to have little to do with religion. Someone playing the veena becomes so absorbed that it feels as if the veena plays by itself; the player is gone; action has ceased; the veena is playing of its own. In that moment something unique happens. Though the musician believes the rasa that arose came from the music—it did not.

The Upanishads are right: only one definition of the Divine has been possible—raso vai sah: He is rasa, essence, bliss-sap. Wherever rasa flows, know there is contact with the Divine. His form is rasa—such sweetness that every pore is filled, such a flavor that you are bathed and made fresh. But the veena player will err—he will think it came because of the veena; the sculptor will err; the painter will err. Their conclusion, their thought is wrong; but the direct taste they had was in the right direction.

Ascetics receive nothing. Emptier shells than they are hard to find. They are utterly hollow. Yet you hold them in high regard—and they feast on that. Their egos are gratified by your respect. Where else can one get such cheap ego? To earn money takes effort; competition is fierce, cut-throat; millions are at it—you must struggle, and even then nothing is certain. It’s a gamble; a few win, most lose. To get a position you must run madly. But to become an ascetic—there is no competition; there are no competitors. And to make money or gain office requires some skill, some quality, some intelligence. But to fast—does that require intelligence? To sit hungry—does that require intelligence? The unintelligent can sit; in truth only the unintelligent will. Why would the intelligent torture the body? Only the dull do such things—their skins are thick. Yet they will receive honor and respect. The wealthy, whom they could never become, will bow at their feet; those in high office, whom they could never be, will lay their heads at their feet. Their ego enjoys endless delight—but it is the delight of ego. It has nothing to do with religion.

Dayanand, one thing you’ve understood is good—that you are tired of practicing. But if one more thing dawns, all can still be set right. You are not yet tired of doing itself. You ask again: “What should I do now? I have come to your refuge to ask.” You must tire of doing too, otherwise you will go on wandering—from this doing to that, from that to another. People will be found to tell you to do this and that—a thousand tasks can be prescribed.

But here, if you have come, I teach non-doing. Everything here is arranged toward non-doing. People dance, sing, play music—but everything is pointing in one direction. Every arrow aims at this: that soon you learn simply to sit empty, doing nothing. Not even repeating “Ram-Ram”—that too is babbling. Religious babble perhaps, but babble is babble. If someone sat muttering nonsense sounds, you would not call it religious. If someone sat saying “Coca-Cola, Coca-Cola, Coca-Cola,” you would say, “Are you crazy? Be sensible. Stop this babble!” But if the same man says “Ram-Ram-Ram,” you think, “Ah, he is doing a religious act.” It is the same thing. There are as many “rams” in Coca-Cola as in “Ram”—perhaps a few more; at least there is a little flavor in Coca-Cola; “Ram” has not even that. Drink it and you’ll feel a brief relief; “Ram” gives nothing—you’re sucking on a dry bone. Yet when someone chants “Ram” you think he is doing something religious. No act is religious—if you can understand me.

Just sit, remain quiet. No prayer, no mantra, no japa. That ajapa state—where no ripple arises in consciousness, where there is not even the desire to attain anything. Then what will happen? Think a little: where there is no movement, you will drown into yourself. You will have to—there is nowhere else to go, nothing left to run to. You will be absorbed in yourself. In that absorption, that total immersion, for the first time you will experience religion.

Dayanand, stop asking what to do. Understand “non-doing.” And when through non-doing you taste religion, know I am not teaching you idleness. Thereafter action will arise in your life—yet the entire quality of action will have changed. You will act out of joy, not to acquire—because you have already acquired. It will overflow from your inner rasa. You will become active—very active—perhaps more active than ever before. But the quality will be different. No goal, no ulterior motive. The action will be joy in itself. You will sing for the joy of singing; play the veena for the joy of playing; rise at brahma-muhurta for the joy of rising—not to get anything. You will discover these are joys in themselves—what is there to get? If you bow in a temple, it will be for the joy of bowing, not to bargain—not to flatter God, to coax Him, to praise Him in hopes of a favor.

This country cannot eradicate bribery easily, because it is ancient and very “religious.” We have been bribing even God—so what chance does man have? If God accepts bribes, what of small officials—the policeman, the station-master, the deputy collector—what is their stature? You even bribe Hanumanji: “Please have my boy pass the exams; I’ll offer a coconut.” And Hanumanji, it seems, does get your boy through for a coconut! What a Hanumanji! And you never think what you are saying.

Go to temple, mosque, church, gurudwara—but when you go driven by wanting something, that is one thing. One who has attained joy will also go—but not to get, to share. His life will overflow with compassion, love, kindness; many flowers will bloom in his life, but all of them “for one’s own joy.” If he hums the Upanishads, it will be for the sheer delight of their music, not to get anything; their speech is sweet. If he remembers the Dhammapada, it will not be because Buddha will be pleased and then some favor will be granted. No—those words are dear to him; his own experience is the same. Buddha has expressed so beautifully what he himself cannot; he lacks such words. Hence the Upanishads, the Quran, the Bible, the Dhammapada, the Jina-vani remain—but now there is no craving to get anything from them. If even God were to appear and say, “Ask for something,” he would be in a fix: “What to ask now? What needed to be asked has been received. If you need something, take it from me.”

But as of now, if even a witch or a ghost were to appear and offer to fulfill your desires, you would fall at its feet.

I have heard: Mulla Nasruddin suffered losses in business and faced bankruptcy. He decided to jump into the river. Midnight, silent streets, no one on the bridge. Just as he was about to jump, someone placed a hand on his shoulder. He turned—and he had never seen such an ugly woman! He’d heard of witches, but this was the first time he’d seen one. He wasn’t frightened of death; but he was terrified of the witch. She first burst into laughter. Her cackle pierced Nasruddin’s heart like a dagger. He trembled. “Leave me,” he said, “I am going to die.” She said, “First listen to me. Why die? I can grant you three boons—if you fulfill one wish of mine.”

“What are the three boons?” asked Nasruddin.

“Whatever you ask,” she said.

“Fine,” Nasruddin said. “First—let my bank balance be a million.”

“Tomorrow morning it will be so,” she said. “Ask the second.”

“Second—make me young again.”

“At sunrise, look in the mirror,” she said. “And the third?”

“Make my wife young too; if I’m young and she remains old, that will be trouble.”

“Tomorrow morning see for yourself—no actress will rival your wife,” she said. “Now fulfill my wish.”

“What is your wish?” asked Nasruddin.

“Make love to me tonight,” she said.

His life-breaths shook; his ribs rattled. With this skeleton of a woman—who knows if she was a hundred or two hundred or three hundred years old, alive or ghost or what! But in greed, what will a man not agree to do? Only on this condition would she grant his three wishes. He thought, “Shut my eyes and somehow spend the night. Repeat Allah’s name; it’s only one night. Morning will flip the dice—one million in the bank, youth, a young wife—wonderful!”

He went. The old hag took him to her house. All night she tormented him; she called it love, but from Nasruddin’s side it was suffering. He too had to make love to the old hag. He looked for the morning, but the night seemed endless; time would not pass. He stared again and again at the clock—today it seemed to move slowly. The woman harassed him till he was wrung out; whatever was left of him went bankrupt too. Morning came. Nasruddin got up; the hag burst into laughter. “Why are you laughing?” he asked.

“I laugh because I pity you,” she said. “How old are you?”

“Sixty,” said Nasruddin.

“You’ve gone senile,” she said. “Sixty years old and you still believe in witches—and think they will fulfill your wishes! Now go home!”

“And the bank balance? And the mirror? And my wife?” he asked.

“Go home,” she said. “And if you want to die, die now. But I pity you—sixty years old and you still believe some witch will fulfill your desires. You are a complete fool!”

By then it was too late. He went home—life saved, lesson learned! Even the desire to die vanished: having seen a greater hell in one night, what would dying achieve? He had already had a glimpse of hell here.

If even a witch or a ghost were to come and say, “We will fulfill your desires,” you would unfurl your list. But the one who has tasted religion will thank the Divine: “Your great grace, your compassion! Now I need nothing. What needed to be found was within me. I missed it because I kept running; I wandered because I kept trying to get. When I dropped all trying, I knew it, lived it, found it within. I have attained all. Your grace—thank you! I need nothing more. Having found myself, I have found all. Knowing myself, I know all. Winning myself, I have won the whole.”

Dayanand, drop this talk of doing. If you have come here, have compassion on yourself—you have already inflicted enough suffering upon yourself.

You say: “Vows and fasts, yamas and niyamas—I tried them all and found nothing.” You did them with the desire to get—that is where things went wrong. Here, learn to disappear. Not to get—learn to lose. Learn to become zero. And you will be amazed to discover that the very day you can be zero, the Whole descends within you. Everything is gained—what is needed is the readiness to vanish! The readiness to lose—and all is given. Then vows will also come, rules will also come, fasts will come.

This is where a huge obstacle has arisen. Mahavira fasted, so Jain monks fast. But a great misunderstanding has occurred. Mahavira fasted because he had experienced religion. From that experience, fasting became blissful for him. Do you know the meaning of upavas (fast)? It means “dwelling near”—abiding close to your own self. It does not mean hunger strike. Mahavira practiced upavas; Jain monks practice anshan—starvation. I would not call them upavasi. Upavas means: they came so close to themselves, became so absorbed, that days came and went and, in their ecstasy, they simply forgot—forgot hunger, forgot thirst.

You know this too: when you are in joy you forget hunger and thirst. You will be surprised to know that in sorrow, hunger never forgets—hence sorrowful people eat more and grow fat. That is a symptom of sorrow. You will not find fat animals. No animal looks like “Nityananda Maharaj” or “Akhandananda Maharaj”! If you see a line of a thousand deer, their bodies will all be proportionate. What a wonder! Do you think they do push-ups and sit-ups, yogasanas and headstands, follow Patanjali’s sutras? No—they are not unhappy. It is curious that your so-called saints are either Jain monks who dry to the bone, or Hindu saints who keep swelling.

Have you seen a picture of Nityananda Maharaj? If you do, you will be shocked. People have bellies; in his case you will find the opposite—it is a belly that has a person! You cannot say a man has a belly; there is a belly, and a small man attached: a head attached here, two legs there, two arms there. The reality is the belly. That is a sign of a sorrowful person.

Today America’s biggest problem is obesity—people are getting fatter and fatter. Why? Great sorrow—mental distress. Psychologists have concluded: the more mentally troubled and empty a person feels, the more he stuffs himself with food. Filling with food is a way to forget sorrow. He will sit all day chewing—if nothing else, he will chew betel or tobacco—something must keep going into the mouth. Americans eat five times a day; and leave aside those five; what they do between them is another story. Whenever they get a chance, they head to the fridge.

A woman had grown very fat. Her doctor said, “Do this: take this beautiful picture.” He gave her the nude photo of a film actress—proportionate body, every limb as it should be, exquisite form. “Hang this picture on your fridge. Whenever you open it, you’ll see the picture and remember—don’t eat. You too can have such a figure.”

On this psychological basis, in America now... I read two months ago: fridges have been made that, when you open the door, they speak immediately: “Have mercy on yourself! Take care! What are you doing? Reconsider.” You’re reaching for ice cream and the fridge says, “Have mercy. Think once more. You will regret this”—and so on.

This story is from before that. The woman liked the idea, hung the picture, and indeed it worked—her weight began to drop. Every time she opened the door—women are very jealous of each other, they even envy pictures; a real woman isn’t necessary—she would fume, “I’ll do it too,” and shut the door—“No, I must restrain myself.” But a surprise: she got thinner and her husband began to get fat! She asked him, “What is going on?” He said, “Since you hung that photo, whenever I get a chance I go to look at it—and while I’m there I think, let me take a little ice cream; maybe a cob of corn. Take that picture down or I’m done for. You are getting thin and I’ve been handed a death sentence. I can’t find peace. I’m reading the newspaper and I think: Let me go see that photo you brought!”

People are empty; they try to fill themselves any which way. They sit and chew; in America, if nothing else, they chew gum—the mouth must keep moving. If it doesn’t, they grow restless. It’s a kind of mantra—chewing gum. Someone chews betel; someone inhales cigarettes—taking smoke in and out. A kind of pranayama—dirty and foolish perhaps, but pranayama nonetheless.

The unhappy eat more; the happy eat less—they are filled with happiness.

Have you noticed how women begin to put on weight right after marriage? Before marriage their bodies keep a certain shape; once married, the fat begins to pile up. People say, “Now that they are married, they are living happily ever after.” I have my doubts about that statement. The wife certainly seems unhappy—even if she won’t say it. Many things we do not say; we shouldn’t say, so we don’t. We show one thing; another is the case. After marriage, women grow stout; their bodily beauty fades; their bodies become flabby.

I have heard: Tun Tun was riding in a bus. Finally the man next to her said, “Madam, how long must I endure this? Why are you jabbing me with your elbows?” Tun Tun flared up, “Elbows? I’m not elbowing you! Should I breathe or not?”

When Tun Tun breathes, you are bound to get elbowed.

Mahavira attained such bliss that for long stretches hunger didn’t exist for him; thirst disappeared. That was upavas. But how can imitators fast? They only see from the outside. That’s the imitator’s misfortune—he sees only the outer; how can he see within? The innermost is hidden, invisible. He saw from outside: Mahavira did not eat; days passed and he did not eat. “This must be their secret of attaining God. I too will not eat—and I too will attain.” But that was not the secret of attaining God; it was an aftermath of having attained. And so, for twenty-five hundred years these poor fellows have been starving. This is not upavas at all—for Mahavira it was; for them it is anshan—hunger strike. That is why you see a freshness in Mahavira’s body that you do not see in theirs. They look pitiable, wretched—inside there is no joy, only sorrow; and they have even stopped using food to muffle their sorrow. They are like Trishanku—belonging neither to this world nor the other, hanging in between. These are your “great souls”!

Vows will come, fasts will come, yamas and niyamas will come—but as consequences. They are the natural outflow of meditation. A meditative person is not unruly, not chaotic; there is a deep order in his life, a design. But the design is not forced; it is uncontrived, spontaneous. And when it is natural and un-imposed, such a person is not fanatical. He will not insist, “I must rise at brahma-muhurta every day—even when ill.” There is no such need. If ill, he may rise late. His life moves by spontaneous promptings; he lives moment to moment according to the need of each moment. A lamp burns within him, giving light to his steps, clarity to his eyes. In his own light he shapes his life.

Just yesterday I received two articles at once—by coincidence. One appeared in Germany’s famous magazine Stern, against me. Their reason: I am like Adolf Hitler; I have total control over my sannyasins. They rise and sit at my signal; they have no freedom of their own. Nothing could be farther from the truth. I barely step outside my room. I have never even gone all through this ashram. From this place to my room—I know no other path. I have never been to the office; I don’t know the accounts; I don’t know who is doing what. If you blindfolded me and dropped me somewhere and removed the blindfold, I would have difficulty finding my own room; I would have to ask the way. Yet Stern needs to prove me Adolf Hitler, because in Germany there is such a terror of Hitler that you can label anyone “Hitler” and trigger fear.

At the same time, I got another article. In Nasik, a gentleman I do not know—Acharya Shivajirao Bhonsle—said about me: “This person is very great; his ideas are extraordinary; he carries a message to transform all humanity. But his followers do not listen to him; they are ruining his work.”

Both statements are false. I impose nothing on anyone; so being Adolf Hitler does not arise. And when I impose nothing, how can it be that sannyasins do not listen? Not listening would arise only if I told them “Do this,” and they refused. I tell no one how to rise, how to sit, when to eat, what to eat, what to drink. I do not get entangled in such useless nonsense. I only make a request—this too is a request, not an order—that through a little “non-doing” I have found; you also take a dip in the direction of non-doing. And when light happens to you, walk by that light—so your individuality is not lost, your freedom is not lost.

So I exercise no control—neither like Adolf Hitler nor like anyone else. And since I do not control, it is also untrue that my sannyasins “do not listen.” There is no question of listening or not. I have never told anyone how to live.

Dayanand, if you have come here, learn the art of non-doing; that is meditation.

Raj Bharti! No special secret. It’s simple: the poor fellow is dead—why beat a dead man! While he was alive, people were after him. There was rivalry, there was conflict. Now he’s gone—no rivalry, no conflict. Even enemies will say nice things about him.

Voltaire died—France’s great thinker—and Rousseau had been his life-long opponent; the two fought pitched battles of argument, each proving the other a fool. When Voltaire died someone ran to Rousseau: “Have you heard? Rejoice—Voltaire is dead!” Rousseau said, “Is that so? He was a great man. If it’s true he’s dead, he was a great man. And if it’s false, I take my words back. If he’s alive, the duel continues. But if he’s dead—why hit the dead? Who fights a corpse!”

But there’s a longer story behind this—half-forgotten. People are afraid of the dead. They might become ghosts, spirits—something. Whoever dies, we call “the late, the heavenly departed.” Though ninety-nine out of a hundred could hardly be heavenly, we never say someone turned infernal. The one who dies—he becomes “heavenly”! Dear to God! God loved him so much He took him away! Why? A centuries-old fear: he’s dead—he might be a ghost, he might haunt and trouble us. We’re scared; we’re nervous.

Mulla Nasruddin and his wife were talking. The wife was ill, on her deathbed. She said, “Nasruddin, promise me this: if I die before you, and if I survive after death—as Hindus believe—I’ll come and give you proof that it’s true. Or if you die first, you come and prove it to me.” Nasruddin was alarmed. She’s dying now—not him—and what wild talk! He had been secretly thinking, “When will I be free!” and here she is, planning to come back even later, to give proof! He couldn’t argue, so he said, “All right—but keep one thing in mind: come by day, not at night. I’m already scared at night. And let me tell you: if you come at night, you won’t find me at home. I won’t even sleep alone in the house. I’ll sleep at a friend’s. So come in broad daylight—give proof not just to me but to the neighborhood, in front of four people. I don’t want private proof.”

That nervousness! Just think—your wife dies and comes back to give proof… She gave you proofs all her life, and even after dying she won’t leave you!

Often when we are afraid, we hide fear inside reverence. You know this: when you start your account book you write, “Shri Ganeshaya Namah”—salutations to Lord Ganesha. Why? You probably don’t know that at the very beginning Ganesh was notorious—a maker of obstacles. If any good work was happening he couldn’t bear it. He’d create a mess, cause a ruckus. He’s Shiva’s son—perhaps he brought some of Shiva’s wedding-party rowdies along! He’d stage gheraos, call strikes, create disruptions. The old scriptures mention that originally he was a deity of obstruction and mischief. What to do with such a one? The only way: remember him first—“Brother, just your grace, please! We’ll handle the rest.” Hence Shri Ganeshaya Namah first of all. Great gods and great incarnations are there, but this trunk-bearing Ganeshji must be invoked first, because if you put him second he’ll be offended—he’ll barge in and make trouble.

In school, whichever class I was in, they’d make me captain immediately. The teachers had discovered: if they don’t make me captain, I’ll create mischief. So they thought, “Shri Ganeshaya Namah!” If I’m captain, how can I make trouble? I’d have to stop others who tried. In any class I studied, the whole school knew: as soon as this student arrives, make him captain—otherwise he’ll stir up a storm.

You ask, “Why do people praise a person after he dies?” They have to. That’s why at weddings people offer blessings and congratulations. The elders send blessings, contemporaries send best wishes—because the poor fellow is as good as dead! Finished! The end has come. They say when an ant is about to die it grows wings—well, the wedding wings have sprouted; the ant is near its end! Henceforth no future. Only darkness ahead. So give all the congratulations and blessings now. Bid a final farewell: “Brother, from here on, it’s between you and God!”

That’s why you honor mahatmas and saints so much—the poor fellows are dead! Already dead! Walking corpses! If you don’t respect them, what else can you do? There’s nothing else left to do with them. If they were alive, there would be other ways to relate. Now all you can do is show as much reverence as you can. If only the dead knew…!

I’ve heard a politician died. Hundreds of thousands gathered. He was a politician—crowds had always been his passion. His soul sat on a tree, watching—and started beating its chest, wailing. An older politician who had died earlier asked, “Why are you beating your chest? Be happy—see how many have come to send you off!” “That’s why I’m crying,” he said. “If these rascals had told me earlier they loved me so much—why would I have died? In life none of them showed up. If they had come then, I might have become prime minister! I could barely manage to become an MLA; I would search for people and they would run away. I called, they said they were busy. And now they’ve left all their work and come.”

The elder politician laughed: “You don’t understand. They’re celebrating. They’re happy the nuisance is over—one more ‘heavenly departed’! Come on, let’s get him to Rajghat!”

Chandulal worked in an insurance office then. He had got the job, and then slept on his chair all day. The staff were upset—he neither worked nor let others work; his snoring disturbed everyone. The manager warned him: “Look, Chandulal, you don’t work, and your snoring keeps others from working. How long can this go on?” When it went too far, the manager asked for his resignation. Rather than change his habits, Chandulal wrote his resignation. The whole office thought, “He’s leaving—let’s throw a party!” At his farewell, everyone spoke. Someone said, “It’s hard to find such a colleague; thanks to him the office had a certain sparkle.” The manager, with tears in his eyes, said, “Chandulal, truly—you were the life of this office. We are deeply saddened by your leaving. Because of you, the office’s prestige rose.” Chandulal sprang to his feet: “To hell with that resignation! I had no idea you all loved me so much. I’m not going anywhere.”

Those who have died can’t return; otherwise, hearing your praises they’d come back, saying, “To hell with dying! We’re not dying now—so many are crazy about us! The wife is beating her chest, who made us beat our chests all our life. If only I had known she loved me so much! The sons are crying, whose hands were always in our pockets, trying to grab whatever they could. Even the neighbors mourn—the same who harassed us, sued us, dragged us to court. The village goons have come to the cremation, leaving their work. If only I had known they loved me this much—why would I die!”

If it were in a man’s power, he’d return at once. And if people started returning, Raj Bharti, the praise would stop. No one would praise the dead then. People are not afraid now; he’s dead—what harm can he do? Praise away! And there’s fear too: what if, after death, he harasses us—becomes a ghost? If anything should become a ghost, it’s people like these; gods and goddesses don’t show up so easily that you’d think these folks become divine. Their behavior makes it clear where they’re headed.

When Chandulal died, a big crowd went to carry him. By coincidence, in the jostle around the bier, a truck loaded with coal got stuck behind. It was going the same way, so it had to follow the bier. Nasruddin said to his friend, “This is too much. I knew for sure where he was going—but never in my life did I imagine you had to carry your own fuel along! Of course he’s going to hell—but the coal truck too? That’s new! Before, men died and went to hell—fuel was provided there. If the cauldron’s to be fired and you’re to be fried like fritters—fine. But bringing the coal yourself—that doesn’t sit right. They torment us and we supply the fuel!”

Nasruddin said, “It makes my heart sink. What’s this—paying the price for hell yourself! For the first time I’m nervous about hell. I thought we’d just go, chin up; what will be, will be. People will go to hell—you know that too—the same folks you call ‘heavenly departed.’ But there’s a nervousness, a fear—what if they come back and trouble us?”

Psychologists say the basis of ancestor worship is this fear: “You have died; we still have to live—please let us live, keep your grace!” So Hindus observe Pitru Paksha, the fortnight for ancestors. If no messenger is available, they feed crows—“Brother, carry the news to the ancestors: keep your grace! O ancestral deities, stay over there! Now that you’re gone—good! Don’t come back. We are fine. Don’t drop by to check on us.”

There’s no other secret.

In life, people will criticize, because the ego gets hurt. Praising someone is hard. If someone tells you, “So-and-so plays the flute beautifully,” you’ll instantly say, “Him? Plays the flute? A crook! At most he could blow a stick of bamboo, not a flute! I’ve known him for seven generations. A 420—he’ll play the flute?” You can’t tolerate even the statement that he plays well; you will find some fault. People are so skilled at finding faults. Why? Because fault-finding gratifies the ego. The more faults you find in others, the taller you feel. And the more you see qualities in others, the smaller you feel. Who wants to feel small?

An Arabic saying: even God jokes. When He sends people into the world, He whispers in each one’s ear, “I’ve never made anyone like you!” Each person carries that illusion inside. He can’t say it out loud—people would call him mad, egotistical. He has to hide it. But he also has to announce it somehow, because he can’t hide it completely. So he builds a big house, climbs tall ladders—of fame, rank, prestige, success—so that indirectly it gets proved: “I am extraordinary. What are you? You’re worth two pennies. What’s your standing, your reach?”

Hence we cannot praise the living. Praise is difficult; it goes against our ego. Slander is easy—and we’ll do anything to slander.

Chandulal’s house was by the river. After he brought his bride home, he found her very angry one day. “What’s the matter?” he asked. She said, “Some rascals in the neighborhood bathe naked at the river ghat—and the other day those scoundrels were cavorting completely naked right in front of me.” Chandulal looked out the window—saw nothing. “I don’t see anything,” he said. “Stand on the stool and look! How will you see otherwise?” she said. So he stood on the stool. When a wife says stand on a stool, you must stand; if she says sit on an elephant, you sit on an elephant. What a wife says a husband must do—that’s an eternal rule. Waver and you’re in trouble. He looked carefully from the stool—no ruffians, just local boys, eight or ten years old. If they don’t bathe naked, should they wear suit, tie and shoes to bathe? But what to say to the wife! He said, “I’ll go talk to them.” He did: “Brothers, don’t bathe naked here. I don’t mind, but my wife eats my life. Go a little farther down. The river is big—half a mile below, bathe to your heart’s content. There are no houses there. Then neither I nor anyone else will be bothered.” After a little back and forth the boys agreed. Two or three days later his wife said, “Those scoundrels have started bathing naked again.” “But now they bathe at the far ghat,” he said, “half a mile down.” She said, “But when you look through binoculars, they look just as close!”

If you insist on looking, you’ll climb the stool and take out the binoculars. Then it’s tough. The ego is adamant: we will find faults—on that it lives. And after someone dies we also feel remorse: we picked faults all our lives—let’s settle the account somehow. Now praise—what’s the harm? The man is gone. No wound to the ego now.

That’s why the very Jews who crucified Jesus became Christians. The very Greeks who gave Socrates hemlock have sung his praises for centuries. The very people who threw stones at Mahavira, drove nails in his ears, now call him God. Those who tried a thousand ways to kill Buddha—let loose a mad elephant, rolled a boulder at him, perhaps tried to poison him—now call him an incarnation of God. The very same people! It seems astonishing, but there’s nothing astonishing—remorse grips them.

Jesus has the most followers in the world not because of Jesus but because of the cross. Had he not been crucified, such numbers wouldn’t follow him. The guilt after giving him the cross—so many felt: “What have we done? We shouldn’t have!”—now what to do? Do the opposite—so the matter gets settled. Who knows—perhaps he really was the Son of God, and later he might avenge it! Better to settle now.

They became Christians. Not that, becoming Christians, they followed what Jesus said; they just changed the label. They remained the same—today too they are the same; nothing changes.

Who are the people following Mahavira? The very same. Mahavira was naked. Imagine how much trouble that caused. He was driven from village to village. People set dogs on him so he couldn’t stay. Those same people now worship him. But if another person today stands naked, those same people will rush to condemn him—the very same! Yes, if he stands strictly in Mahavira’s groove, follows only Mahavira’s track, step by step, line by line, they’ll honor him—because he asserts nothing different of his own.

Why are Tirthankaras and prophets insulted in their lifetimes? Muhammad was not allowed a single day of peace while alive—and now millions remember him. The same people—repenting—trying to wash out bloodstains that cannot be washed. Honoring the dead is convenient—because with the dead you can invent stories; with the living it’s hard.

What stories haven’t been invented about Mahavira! The first is: he was originally conceived in a brahmin woman’s womb. But the Jains have been opposed to brahmins. They couldn’t tolerate that a Tirthankara be born in a brahmin family. So the first surgery in history—womb transplant—was performed for Mahavira: gods descended from the sky, removed the fetus from the brahmin woman, placed Mahavira in a kshatriya’s womb, and moved that fetus into the brahmin’s womb. The gods pulled a 420! Then Mahavira was “born” to kshatriyas, because Tirthankaras must be kshatriyas—twenty-three before him had been. So this hollow story had to be concocted—just to insult brahmins: “How could a Tirthankara be born in a brahmin clan!”

Of the Jains’ twenty-four Tirthankaras, one is a woman, Mallibai. But the Jains don’t say Mallibai—they say Mallinath. When I was a child I too thought Mallinath was a man—“nath” makes it obvious. Only much later did I learn Mallinath wasn’t male, but female. But the Jains had to change the story, because in their doctrine liberation cannot be attained in a female body; just as a Tirthankara cannot be born in a brahmin family, so too liberation cannot come through a woman’s body—it must be through a man’s. So they performed another miracle. Scientists are doing it now. That’s the beauty of our scriptures—we did long ago what these poor fellows are doing three thousand years later. We performed sex change ages ago! They now do it and think it’s news—turning a woman into a man and vice versa by altering vitamins and hormones. We did it first—we turned Mallibai into Mallinath—only to preserve a dogma: the male ego.

Mallibai must have been abused plenty—for many reasons. You hassle a man for being naked; Mallibai was a woman and naked—imagine what trouble you gave her. If a woman becomes naked—the “modesty of woman” is lost; your whole notion of womanhood is threatened. So in life she was insulted in every way. After death, you repented. You whitewashed. You said, “Let’s settle accounts.” The arithmetic was simple—just one trick: turn Mallibai into Mallinath.

In 1952 in the Himalayas, the nilgai (blue bull) had multiplied; it began to devastate fields. A question arose in Parliament: should we shoot them, otherwise crops are ruined? But if you kill the nilgai—even though it isn’t a cow, only called one—Hindus will erupt. Immediately there was protest: you cannot kill the cow. “Gau mata”—the word is enough. People live by words. Do you know what Parliament did? It renamed it “neelghoda”—blue horse. Then they shot them. Who objects to killing a blue horse? Not a single Hindu protested: “Kill a blue horse if you want—just don’t kill a blue cow!” The same poor cow was killed, disguised as a horse. People live by words.

Likewise Mallibai became Mallinath and was worshipped; as Mallibai she was harassed and tormented. Once people die, inventing stories is easy.

About Mahavira there are stories that he didn’t sweat. Tirthankaras don’t sweat. What nonsense! Are they made of plastic? Speak some sense. If anything, Tirthankaras would sweat more—naked, roaming under the blazing sun. Most Tirthankaras were in North India; Mahavira was in Bihar, where the sun pours fire. No sweat there?

And the Jains say Tirthankaras don’t bathe—no need. If there’s no sweat, why bathe? Bathing is for ordinary people. Such stories couldn’t be invented while they were alive—people could go and see. Once they’re dead, you can spin anything.

They say a snake bit Mahavira and a stream of milk flowed. I was speaking at a Jain gathering. Before me a Jain monk, Chitrabhanu, spoke: “This is entirely scientific.” Science has prestige today, so every stupidity is dressed up as science. Believers won’t see the foolishness; nonbelievers can see the madness at once. What “scientific” point did he make? Thunderous applause. Jains were ecstatic, eyes moist: “What a marvelous thing, Maharaj!” He said: “If milk can come from a woman’s breast—and the breast is part of the body—why can’t milk come from the foot?”

I spoke after him. I said, “That’s a most precious point—an insight for the blind, far into the darkness! It means Mahavira had a breast on his foot. And not just on the foot—who knows where the snake might bite? He must have had breasts all over. If he lived today, it would be sensational—every film would clamor for him; wherever he went crowds would gather—breasts upon breasts! What more could one want!”

And milk doesn’t just appear in a breast. There’s a whole mechanism that turns blood into milk. That mechanism would have to be in the foot for milk to be made. The breast isn’t a can filled with milk—press and a squirt comes out. There’s a system. Otherwise men would nurse too—men also have nipples; small ones at least—let them feed kittens if not full-grown children! But the mechanism isn’t there.

And if you think Mahavira’s body was full of milk, by the time the snake bit him it would have turned to curd long ago. The stench would be such that no snake would dare come near. Not just snakes—animals, birds, humans—everyone would flee. Wherever Mahavira arrived, there would be an upheaval, as if doomsday had come!

Yet this is explained as “scientific.” It’s pure poetry! The point is lovely: even if you wound him, compassion flows from him—that’s all. Insult him, and only kindness streams forth—that’s the meaning. Take it as symbol.

But once you start spinning stories afterward, you keep no accounts. Whatever fancy occurs, you invent it. Make Jesus walk on water, make Moses split the sea—the sea stood parted in two and Moses and the Jews passed through. The living man can’t do these things; so you cannot praise the living prophet. The living are denied, rejected. After death, in remorse and guilt, you begin to fabricate stories. Then those stories are worshiped, believed. On the basis of those stories you spin more stories. Slowly the real man is lost; a counterfeit, entirely false figure stands in his place.

Now Jesus born of a virgin—another wonder! Not as amazing a surgery as they did for Mahavira, but still. To be born of a virgin—how? Impossible. But once the storytelling starts, there’s no limit. You’ve done it for centuries; you do it today. If Mahavira were alive, you’d insult him today. If Jesus were present, you’d crucify him again. If Buddha stood before you, your worship would vanish in a flash. But a dead Buddha you can bend to your convenience.

Understand the secret, Raj Bharti: a dead person you can turn into whatever you like, because he is in your hands. Color him as you wish, shape him as you wish. But a living person is of his own color and cut. With the living you can’t fabricate tales. And people like Buddha, Mahavira, Jesus won’t let you— they’ll smash your stories instantly. Such people are eager all their lives to show truth, not to weave lies.

Sagar! Not absolutely useless; in its own place it has significance. But it has limits. Don’t drag it beyond its boundaries.
In relation to matter, logic is useful; in relation to consciousness, it is not. Logic lives on doubt; doubt is its very soul. And to experience consciousness, you need the flowers of trust.
Someone asked a professor of logic: Who rules in your house?
The professor said: Everyone rules—each in their own place.
The man said: I don’t quite understand. Please explain a bit.
The professor said: Listen. My wife disciplines the children—scolds and corrects them. My children always boss the servants around. The servants in my house lord it over their own wives. And whenever I get angry at anyone, I take it out on my dog and give him a good going-over. In this way everyone rules in their own sphere.
This is a professor of logic—he has laid out precisely the hierarchy of who should rule whom. Everyone has staked out their own domain.

One day I asked Mulla Nasruddin: Nasruddin, don’t you ever have quarrels at home?
He said: Never! Because right after marriage the first thing I decided was that we should divide things up!
I said: What sort of division?
Nasruddin said: We divided it so that the big problems of life I would handle; the small, petty matters my wife would handle.
I said: Remarkable! And your wife agreed?
He said: She agreed completely.
I said: I just want to ask: what are the big problems and what are the small ones?
He said: Small problems are things like which house to buy, which car to buy, which school to send the children to, what clothes my wife will wear, what clothes I will wear, which doctor to consult—these are the small things.
And I asked: And the big problems?
He said: Whether God exists or not, whether there is heaven or not, whether rebirth happens or not—these big problems I decide. There is never a quarrel. We’ve divided it up.
If logic can divide the spheres, there is no quarrel. Logic is the method of science, not of religion. Don’t inject trust into science and don’t inject logic into religion, and then both can coexist.

For a long time Guljan had been after Nasruddin to buy her a sari, but Nasruddin kept putting her off. When one day he finally agreed, Guljan’s joy knew no bounds. Nasruddin took her to a sari shop and asked the shopkeeper to show saris. The shopkeeper showed many. Guljan very much liked two at a hundred and fifty each, and one at three hundred. Nasruddin told the shopkeeper to pack the three-hundred-rupee sari. When he brought it packed, Nasruddin said: Pardon me, sir—please, instead of that one, we’ll take these two saris at a hundred and fifty apiece.
The shopkeeper set the other aside and packed the two one-hundred-and-fifty-rupee saris. As Nasruddin was about to leave with the parcel, the shopkeeper said: Sir, the money?
Nasruddin said: What money?
The shopkeeper said: Why, the full three hundred rupees for these two saris!
Nasruddin said: But we took these saris in exchange for the three-hundred-rupee sari. Tell me, did we or did we not?
Now the shopkeeper got flustered. He said: You’re right; you took them in exchange for the three-hundred-rupee sari—so pay for that one.
Nasruddin said: But I never took the three-hundred-rupee sari—so how can I pay? I returned that sari long ago.
Logic has its place. Don’t let it enter everywhere.

If you want to know what happened next in Nasruddin’s story, you’ll have to go to Ruby Hospital. Several fractures—already set. The shopkeeper pounced. His servants pounced too. Bandages all over the body. I went to see him. I asked Nasruddin: Nasruddin, it must be very painful, must hurt a lot?
He said: No, not really. Only when I laugh.
I said: Why do you laugh?
He said: I laugh because what a fool I was to land at that shopkeeper’s! Just thinking of the incident makes me laugh. But what a beating those rascals gave me! And my wife—she just stood there watching!
Logic has its place. Leave it in its place; it is useful, not useless. But don’t let it go beyond its boundary. If logic does not undermine your trust, then you have used it well. Logic means mind. Trust means heart. Logic means thought. Trust means feeling. Logic is an outward journey. Trust is an inward journey.
That’s all for today.