Udio Pankh Pasar #7

Pandit Tulsidas Shastri! The soul is neither old nor young. The body grows old. If you identify with the body, the illusion of old age arises. If the body is sick, the illusion of sickness arises. When the body dies, the illusion of death arises.

“I am the body”—in this very notion all our illusions are hidden. Drop this identification. Be in the body, but do not be the body.

I am not against the body. The body is a temple, a place of worship—just as sacred as Kaaba or Kashi; even more sacred, because Kaaba is still stone, while within the body the Divine himself resides. But remember: the one who is seated within as a guest is not one with the body, is other than the body, distinct from it. Then there is neither old age nor youth nor childhood. Then you are eternal. Connect yourself with the eternal. Be alert to the eternal.

The mind grows old. In fact, the mind is always old. The body is sometimes young; the mind is never young. The very nature of mind is old age. Understand this truth well.

Mind means memory. And memory means that which has passed, which is gone, which has become the past. The mind collects only what no longer is. The snake has gone; its tracks remain on the sand. The person has departed; footprints linger in the dust. So it is with the mind. The mind is the past, the spent, a collection of what has gone. Therefore the mind is always dead, a corpse, old.

We are tightly bound to the mind. We’ve staked our whole bet on it. There is a Hindu mind, a Muslim mind. The soul is neither Hindu nor Muslim. The day you wake up from the mind, you will see—what Hindu, what Muslim? What knowledge, what ignorance? The soul is pure consciousness. Mind settles like dust on a mirror.

And plenty of that dust has settled on you; your very name announces it. Even while asking the question you couldn’t let it go—you write, “Pandit Tulsidas Shastri.” Panditry will be old. Panditry is decayed and rotten; it cannot be otherwise.

Drop panditry. What will you do with it? What does panditry mean? Borrowed, stale! Collected from others. Gathered from the Upanishads, the Gita, the Koran, the Bible, the Dhammapada. Nothing of your own. And what is not your own does not liberate; it becomes bondage.

Buddha used to say: I know a herdsman whose entire job was to graze other people’s cows. He would count them and feel pleased—today I brought back this many cows, today that many. Buddha said, I asked him: “Madman, is even one of those cows yours?” He was startled. “Mine? Not a single one. All belong to others, to the villagers.” Buddha said, “If not even one cow is yours, of what use is this counting—how many you brought back?”

A pandit keeps counting other people’s cows: “The Gita says this, the Koran says that, the Bible says this”—always busy with such bookkeeping. He forgets that what Jesus knew is hidden within him too; why not know it directly! Why undertake such a long pilgrimage—two thousand years back to Jesus—whether he was or wasn’t is hard to determine today; circle back two millennia and then learn something. Even that learning—how authentic is it? Hard to say. Those who compiled had not known themselves. Jesus must have said something, they heard something else. This is natural.

We hear according to our own minds—our intellect, our experience. Then they compiled. Then for centuries others kept interpreting: people came, adding and deleting. Today, how much of what we hold is authentic? Very hard to say. There is no way to verify. The Gita has a thousand commentaries. Krishna was not insane. His meaning would have been one; a thousand meanings are impossible. Had there been a thousand meanings, what would have become of Arjuna? Krishna would be mad and Arjuna would have gone crazy! Even fixing the meaning would be impossible. Meaning would never settle; the matter would become an unsolvable riddle.

Ask these interpreters—each claims his meaning alone is correct. The same words, yet different grafts of meaning have been affixed by different people. From the same words Shankaracharya extracts knowledge, renunciation, sannyas—“abandon all action.” From the same words Ramanuja, Nimbarka, Vallabh extract devotion—“not knowledge but bhakti; knowledge is trash, devotion, feeling, tears of love, worship and prayer—that is how God is attained.” From the same words Tilak extracts karma—leaving aside knowledge and devotion both, he derives action: only the man of action, the karma-yogi, can know the Divine.

Were Krishna himself to read these thousand commentaries, he would become doubtful: what on earth did I mean? He would start brooding: what am I to do now—which of these is my true meaning? From this crowd of a thousand commentaries, will you be able to find what is true? Impossible! And whatever you find will be your commentary—the thousand-and-first. You won’t just leave it alone either; you’ll impose some meaning, you’ll fit some sense, you’ll try to establish yourself.

Every night, after his discourse, Buddha would say as a rule: “Bhikkhus, now go. The day’s end has come; complete your final task, so the day may be fulfilled. Finish your work before resting.”

There was no need to say it daily. The meaning was: meditate, then go to sleep. He had explained it once, a thousand times; afterwards it became a symbol—“Bhikkhus, now complete your final task and then go to rest.” One morning he said, “Do you know, bhikkhus, what happened last night? When I said, ‘Now rise, complete your final task—it has grown quite late,’ you all went to meditate. A thief also had come to the assembly—he was jolted; he was amazed: how did Buddha know I am a thief, and that my working hours have begun! He went off to steal—‘What a man this Buddha is, he warned me well: what are you sitting here for, get up and get to your work, or you will regret it later.’

“A courtesan had also come. She too was bewildered, stunned for a moment. She looked at Buddha in alarm: has he somehow found out—does he have spies? For she had altered her dress so none could recognize her—made herself look like a nun. How did he know? I must go; it’s getting late; clients will have started coming; I must complete my final task.

“The thief went to thieve, the courtesan to her trade, the monks to meditate. Buddha said one thing; three kinds of people made three kinds of meanings.”

Nothing will come from panditry. Panditry is hollow. The hollowest thing in this world is panditry. Panditry is not awakening. Awakening comes through meditation—through samadhi. Panditry comes through study, reflection, thought. The two processes are different. Awakening comes by becoming no-thought, carefree, beyond mind! In a state of no-mind, awakening dawns. Panditry is a game of mind. Panditry is parrot-like. To tell the truth, parrots may be brighter than pandits.

A pandit went to buy a parrot. He wanted a religious parrot. Being a pandit, he wanted a pious parrot hanging at his door, so the whole village would know. He had heard the story: when Shankaracharya first reached Mandan Mishra’s village, he asked the women at the well, “Where does Mandan Mishra live?” They laughed and said, “Is that something to ask! The house at whose door even parrots recite the Upanishads—that is Mandan Mishra’s.” Shankar entered—and indeed, a row of parrots sat there repeating the words of the Upanishads. This, then, was Mandan Mishra’s house.

This pandit too had heard the story; he also wanted a parrot at his door so the whole village would know. He asked the shopkeeper if he had such a parrot. The shopkeeper said, “Indeed—and what a parrot! But it will cost you. Not less than two thousand. I’ve trained him with great effort.” The pandit said, “Let me see first.” The parrot was beautiful, very charming. There were little black strings tied to both his legs. The pandit asked, “What are these for?” The shopkeeper said, “If you gently pull the left string—no one will even notice—he instantly recites the Gayatri Mantra.” The pandit asked, “And the right string?” “Pull the right string and he chants the Namokar Mantra. I have both sorts of customers—Hindu and Jain—so I have trained him for both.”

The pandit asked, “And if I pull both strings together?” The parrot said, “Hey, you fool—if you pull both, won’t I fall flat on my back?”

Parrots seem to have a bit more sense. Pandits are utterly hollow.

Tulsidas, first do this: let go of the bad reputation “Pandit.” Do not attach “Pandit” before your name. As soon as it drops, old age will bid goodbye. You will be fresh again. Shake off this dust. But you are pressed from both sides.

Kabir has said… I do not know what he meant, but it seems as if he said it seeing you: “Between two millstones, no whole grain remains.” In front “Pandit,” behind “Shastri!” It’s much that you’ve survived intact; it’s much that you’ve made it this far. From the front drop “Pandit,” from the back drop “Shastri.” “Tulsidas” is enough. Sufficient. You need only a name. It will do for practical purposes. A name is a formality. It has no reality. It’s just for getting by.

Nameless we are born, nameless we live, nameless we die. God has no name—and neither do we. We are all forms of the Divine. But these “Pandit” and “Shastri” are making you old. If you can renounce both, a revolution will happen in your life. You have carried scriptures long—what have you gained? If you have gained something, I would not say drop them. But reconsider—have you gained anything? No one has ever gained anything through them—how will you be the exception? There can be no exception.

From panditry no one has ever received anything. Yes, there is the deception of having received, the illusion of attainment—because rows of beautiful words line up, lovely sayings get memorized, and it isn’t hard for the illusion to arise that by much repetition these words have become yours. If you keep speaking a lie long enough, it too starts to feel true. That is the whole mechanism of self-hypnosis. The thing you keep saying for a long time—you yourself forget it was a lie. The greatest danger of lying is this—not only do others get deceived, the speaker himself is deceived.

I have heard: a journalist reached heaven. The gatekeeper said, “Forgive me, our quota is full. We never take more than twelve journalists. For ages we’ve had twelve. In any case, they’re not needed. We keep them only for formality. Newspapers aren’t published here, because newsworthy events don’t occur here—no one elopes with someone’s wife, no robberies, no elections. There is no news here.”

The gatekeeper said, “You must have heard George Bernard Shaw’s definition of news: if a dog bites a man, that’s not news; when a man bites a dog, that’s news. Here a man biting a dog never happens; even a dog doesn’t bite a man. Nothing newsworthy happens here. No papers are published. What will you do? There—that door leads to hell. Go there! Plenty of papers are printed there; every day new ones come out. Even so, the news is so much that papers fall short. Hell is nothing but news—news all the time. Hardly a moment passes without some commotion—somewhere a gherao, somewhere a strike, somewhere someone slit someone’s throat, somewhere someone ran off with someone’s wife, somewhere someone with someone’s husband. What is hell? Think of it as Delhi!”

Just yesterday I read in the paper: a man got off at Delhi station; someone disappeared with his luggage. He went to look for it; when he returned, someone had disappeared with his wife. His luggage went, his wife went. He should have run away quickly—otherwise someone might carry him off too. Still something was left—“life saved, millions gained—the fool returned home!” He grabbed a train and fled. Delhi is dangerous.

And hell—think not of just one Delhi; hell is Delhis upon Delhis. All the politicians are there.

The gatekeeper explained much, but journalists are stubborn. This one said, “Whatever it is, give me a chance—twenty-four hours. If I can persuade one journalist to go to hell, a spot will open up; then you can give it to me.” The gatekeeper said, “Fair enough—that makes sense. You may enter for twenty-four hours. If you persuade someone, you stay and he goes. To us it makes no difference—A stays or B stays, all are useless anyway. If you want to stay, stay.”

He went inside and at once began to spread a rumor to everyone he met: “A new newspaper is starting in hell. Huge salaries. They need an editor-in-chief, an associate editor, reporters. Salary, bungalows, cars, everything…” He made such a commotion in twenty-four hours that when he came to the gate after a day, he thought at least one or two would have gone. The gatekeeper immediately stopped him, leveled his rifle: “Stay inside; don’t go out—because the other twelve have all run off. They all went to hell. Now at least one should remain, for form’s sake; otherwise the Devil will brag, ‘You don’t have a single newspaperman!’ He boasts about everything. Do you see that wall between hell and heaven? Its bricks have fallen out. The devils on the other side pull them out. They keep pulling bricks and throwing them at each other, so the wall’s bricks have fallen, leaving holes. One day God said to the Devil, ‘Look, get the wall fixed; it’s your people who made the mess.’ The Devil said, ‘We don’t care whether the wall stays or not. No concern of ours. If there is no wall our people will take over heaven. If you want to protect yourself, get it repaired.’ God too got mad: ‘I’ll sue you.’ The Devil said, ‘Go ahead—file suit! All the lawyers are here. How will you file? Where will you get lawyers?’ He pulls such tricks in every matter. He will say, ‘You don’t even have one journalist now.’ So you stay inside.”

But the journalist stood thinking, “Now I can’t stay.” The gatekeeper said, “You’ve gone crazy. You started this false rumor—what will you do going there?” He replied, “Whether or not it’s false, there must be some truth in it! If twelve men have gone, it can’t be entirely false. Granted, I started it as a lie, but by coincidence there must be some truth in it—if it were wholly false, so many would not be swayed. Satyameva Jayate! If there has been such victory, people say ‘Truth alone triumphs’—but what wins, people begin to call truth. If a lie wins, the lie becomes truth. Whether truth triumphs or not is hard to say; but whatever wins, people take as truth.” The journalist didn’t stay. He said, “Not a minute more than twenty-four hours. You yourself gave me that time; now let me out, or I’ll raise such a commotion!” “If twelve have gone, I am not staying. Think it over yourself. Often you begin something as a lie—and slowly you yourself start believing it. Repetition breeds belief.”

Adolf Hitler wrote in his autobiography: keep repeating any lie, again and again—it becomes true. Between lie and truth, he said, there is only this difference: lies repeated many times become truth. And truth—when said for the first time—appears like a lie.

What is panditry? You repeat borrowed statements. Repeating and repeating, you become self-hypnotized. That is why your so-called priests and mahatmas insist on “path”—recitation. No other book demands this. If you want to study geography or history, you read it—finished; not that you must recite it daily. What does “path” mean? It means repeat the same thing every day, keep repeating, so much so that it becomes a line carved on stone. And there are people who recite the Gita all their lives. They memorize it completely. Then they put the Gita before them and keep reciting. Often you will be amazed: the page they are reciting from isn’t even open; the page isn’t needed—any page will do.

One day Mulla Nasruddin was reading the Qur’an. I was surprised—the book lay upside down. I asked, “What are you doing, old man? The book is upside down!” He said, “What has the book to do with it? I know every word by heart. Whether the book is upright or upside down, what does it matter? Looks like my rascal of a son has meddled with it. I was reciting with my eyes closed; he must have turned it over. There’s nothing he won’t do.”

But what is the point? If you know it by heart, whether the book is upright or upside down, whether that page is in front or not—you go on repeating like a machine.

Panditry is mechanical. Break free, Tulsidas. Break free of panditry, of scholasticism—if you want to realize truth. Truth is not in books. Truth is within you. I cannot give you the truth. No one can give it to you. Those who have known can only indicate: you too will find it if you go within. No one can hand it over. Truth is not transferable. It is not an object to pass from one hand to another. Otherwise, just as every father leaves property to his son, every master would bequeath truth to his disciples. But truth is not so easy.

A master can only arouse your thirst, ignite your longing. He can deepen within you the aspiration for truth. He can create such an urgency that your every pore tingles with the longing to know. But the truth you will have to attain yourself.

The danger is that beautiful, seductive words of the scriptures can create delusion. It can seem as if you’ve attained—“I know it all!”

Among this country’s greatest misfortunes is this: here everyone has “Brahma-knowledge.” From the paan-seller to the prime minister, everyone has Brahma-knowledge—because who is there who doesn’t know a few couplets, who doesn’t know a few lines from the Guru Granth Sahib, who doesn’t know some verses of the Gita? Who is there who cannot utter a few things about Brahman and declare the world to be maya? Their lives may say something else, but their words go on repeating, “The world is illusion! Brahman is truth.”

These are empty words; there is no life in them. They are corpses. They are cages with no bird inside. However studded with jewels, however made of gold—beware, don’t get entangled in them.

You ask, Tulsidas: “What is your message for us elders?”

First of all, it is not necessary that you become old. Only if you insist. If you have stubbornly resolved to remain old—that is your choice. Otherwise, drop these two rocks you have hung from your neck—panditry and scholasticism. Become weightless. Even now your wings will open to the sky. Even now you can fly. Any moment you can fly.

Even at the final moment of death, if one truly desires, one can realize the Divine in a single instant. Courage is needed—the courage to drop hollow knowledge.

And here is the great irony: people are willing to renounce the world, wealth, position—but not knowledge! I see it: someone has left householder life, wife, children, shop; but after leaving all, he is still a Jain, or a Hindu, or a Muslim. Strange! He has not left “knowledge.” That hollow, mechanical, verbal knowledge—he hugs it tighter to his chest. There is no great virtue in leaving wealth, for wealth is outside. It is hard to leave “knowledge” because it feels as if it is inside. Knowledge too is not inside; it too is outside.

Where you truly are, at the innermost, there is not even knowledge; there is an innocent silence. There are no words there. There it is soundless—there is a music, a silent music, a zero-like music. Call it anahata nada—unstruck sound—or whatever you like. Call it samadhi, nirvana, kaivalya—use whatever word you wish. But keep in mind: it is that zero-like music. There are no words there, no knowledge and no ignorance. There is only pure consciousness. There you are only the witness. Before that witness, even knowledge is outside. Thoughts too, before that witness, are merely scenes.

If you sit with eyes closed, you can see—this verse of the Gita is passing by. Just as people walk along a road, so verses walk along the road of the mind. There is no difference. As a river flows outside and you can sit on the bank and watch, so within, you can sit and watch the flowing stream of the mind. One listens to a film song; another listens to scriptural knowledge—but there is not the slightest difference. What is the difference? Both are outside. You are the seer, not the seen. You are the one who sees, not that which is seen. Abide in this witnessing, Tulsidas; you will be free of old age. You will be free of all bondage.

And there is no need to go anywhere—not to mountains, not to caves. Right where you are, sitting where you are, settle into the witness. The more your inner witnessing stabilizes, the more you will remain here, in this very world, doing all your work—and yet you will be as the lotus in water. Nothing will touch you. You will remain untouched.

Anand Maitreya! Learning gratifies the ego. “I know—I know so much!” and the ego swells. The ego is utterly empty, hollow—something or other has to be stuffed into it: wealth, position, prestige, fame, honor, knowledge, renunciation—anything to fill it.

The ego is hollow. If there is nothing to fill it with, it bursts like a balloon. One has to keep stuffing it continuously—yet it never really fills. No matter how carefully you prop up the false, how long can you hold it up? Today or tomorrow it collapses. However much you try to make it walk, it has neither legs nor life.

The ego is like a shadow. There is no substance to it, only delusion, a mere appearance. You are the soul, not the ego. The soul is full—so full there isn’t even a hair’s breadth of space left to fill. The Divine is brimming; where would there be room to add anything? The whole of existence is contained in That.

But the ego is utterly hollow. Hence it is always scheming to fill itself—anywhere it can find something it will grab it. It is constantly on the lookout: “What do people say about me? They speak well of me, don’t they? They praise me, right?” The ego is ready to do anything if only it gets praise. You can make a person do any stupidity, just give him admiration. He will agree to every kind of foolishness—only keep the praise coming. For a little applause he will eat once a day, starve, fast, stand on his head, twist and contort his body in all sorts of exercises—call it yoga if you like. You can make him crawl on his belly to the holy places.

I once went to a village. Someone told me, “Do you know? We have a very famous saint here!”

“What is his claim to fame?”

“For ten years he has been standing. His very name is ‘Khadeshri Baba’—the Standing Baba!” Whether he has stood for ten years or a hundred—what is the virtue in that? He must be a fool who doesn’t even know how to sit down. He’s lost his wits.

People protested, “What are you saying! Thousands come for his darshan.”

I said, “It’s precisely those fools who come to see him that keep him standing. Let them stop coming, and then we’ll see how long he stands! He’ll run away. But because thousands are coming, the offerings keep piling up.”

When I passed that way, I saw a huge crowd. Kirtan goes on there twenty-four hours a day. Better to call it a racket than kirtan—running it round the clock has made the neighbors’ lives miserable. But they can’t say a word; it’s a “religious” event! No one dares object. And they have to keep the singing going day and night so the Baba won’t fall asleep. When I saw his condition, his legs had become like those in elephantiasis. In that disease the blood pools in the legs—and of course it will, if you stand for ten years! The body had withered, the legs had grown huge. Now, even if he wanted to sit, he couldn’t. His knees wouldn’t bend. His legs had become entirely rigid, veins bulging. He had given himself a terrible disease with his own hands. He could still fall though; sleep is natural. So they had propped him with crutches, and tied the crutches to the rafters so that even if he tried he couldn’t fall—he’d just hang from the ceiling. And his attendants never let him sleep; they serve him day and night to keep him awake.

I asked, “What is this madness for?”

Someone said, “Didn’t Krishna say in the Gita, ‘yā niśā sarvabhūtānāṁ tasyāṁ jāgarti saṁyamī’—the man of restraint stays awake when all beings sleep? This is the pinnacle of restraint.”

I said, “Then they have outdone Krishna! I’ve never heard Krishna was a ‘Khadeshri Baba.’ There is no such incident in his life. There is a story that when Duryodhana and Arjuna went to him seeking his participation in the Mahabharata war, he was asleep, lying down. He was not standing like a ‘Khadeshri Baba.’ He was reclining. Duryodhana, full of pride, stood by his head; Arjuna stood at his feet. If Krishna had been standing, it would have been quite a problem—where would Duryodhana stand? Out of compassion for Duryodhana, he lay down. Otherwise, a man of restraint should stay awake! Seeing Duryodhana coming, perhaps he had closed his eyes: ‘The poor fellow will insist on standing by my head. If I too stand up, where will he stand? He’ll have to climb onto the roof!’”

There is no such mention in Krishna’s life. So Krishna’s meaning must have been something else; these “Standing Babas” haven’t understood, nor have those who advise them. The point is simply this: for one who is meditative, even in sleep, in deep sleep, the inner witnessing remains awake. He is a seer even of his dreams. His witnessing does not drop—whether he is waking or sleeping, standing or sitting, the witness is continuous. Not for a single moment is it lost. There is no need to keep standing. Even Lord Vishnu is seen reclining in the Ocean of Milk—what a leisurely repose! Had he lacked sense, he too would have become a “Standing Baba.” This particular stupidity dawned on this fellow for the first time!

When I saw his face, it was pitiable, worthy of compassion. His eyes were dull, faded. They would be—his blood had drained away. His face was lifeless, like a corpse standing up. No bloom, no light. Then where is the juice? Only one juice remains: the thousands who queue up day and night, the honor that comes from it. You can make people do any stupidity—just give them respect.

In Russia there was a Christian sect that used to cut off their genitals because that brought them honor. They were the “true” celibates. Each year their congregation gathered, and those who wanted to become their disciples assembled. Huge crowds came to watch. In that frenzy—bands blaring, loud tumult, incense burning—the onlookers would become so inflamed that sometimes people who had only come to watch would leap up, throw off their clothes, grab the swords that were kept there, and cut off their genitals. Later they repented—but what use is repentance once the birds have eaten the seed! By then the honor had been gained. They had become sadhus; turning back then is very difficult, it becomes disgraceful.

So we don’t let a sadhu return. Nothing is considered more shameful than a sadhu going back to ordinary life.

A woman used to come to me weeping. Her husband had become a sadhu. I told her, “Wait. I know your husband; I’ll catch him.” I went to Kashi; he came to see me. I counseled him. By then, after eight months of being a sadhu, his wits had returned. He too had realized there was nothing substantial in it, that he had been foolish. But now, “With what face can I go home?”

I said, “Don’t worry. We’ll arrange a welcome for your return—what more do you need! You’ll be received with bands and drums; a procession from the station itself. Bigger than the one when you became a sadhu!”

So he agreed. I brought him back, informed friends, gathered a crowd, put garlands on him. All went well—until I was stunned to find his wife refusing to let him enter the house. “You became a sadhu and now you become corrupted! Shameless! First one mistake—becoming a sadhu; now another. You’ll drown me with you!”

I said, “You’re too much. You were after me! I spent three days persuading this man. I mustered this crowd—had to hire people! And now you say he can’t come in...”

She said, “Never! He became a sadhu—now I can’t see him as a husband. I won’t let him touch my body. That would be utterly corrupt. What’s done is done.”

The poor man stood there. I said, “This is trouble. Brother, come to my house. We’ll arrange a second marriage for you—what else can we do? We’ll find you a better woman!”

When I said, “We’ll find another wife,” she started. “There’s no need to go anywhere!” For when the matter of another woman arises, even a dead wife comes to life at once: “No! That will never be tolerated. Come inside! And live peacefully at home!”

Later she forbade him from coming to me: “Don’t go there. That man corrupts you—and now he’s set on corrupting you further by finding you another wife!”

We make sadhus into sadhus once more by giving them such welcome and honor, filling their egos so much that they get stuck. The noose tightens. And if they try to return, we heap terrible disgrace on them—so that those still enjoying the honor stay wary, seeing what awaits. All this is ego-stuffing. Learning fills the ego. The simplest way to stuff the ego is with knowledge—the cheapest route: cram yourself with scriptures. It costs nothing. It requires no real intelligence.

You ask, Anand Maitreya: “Why does unlearning seem even more difficult than learning?”

Because unlearning means emptying the ego—preparing it to die, letting it die. The moment its nourishment stops, the ego dies.

A German philosopher once told Ramana Maharshi, “I have come from far away to learn from you. Please teach me.”

Ramana said, “Then you’ve come to the wrong place. Go elsewhere. We don’t teach here; we unteach. If you want to unlearn, then stay—because the whole process here is to take away what you think you know. Your knowing is deluded; it isn’t yours; it’s hollow, stale, borrowed, worth two pennies. If we take it away, you become innocent. And only an innocent mind can truly know.”

A scholar’s mind is not innocent. Sinners can arrive; a scholar—one has never heard of it!

I’ve heard that once a scholar reached heaven. He was astonished—such a welcome! Bands played, all the residents of heaven assembled. On the same day a great saint, a great rishi also died and arrived. They both came almost together to heaven’s gate. No one welcomed the rishi. The gatekeeper simply took him inside: “All right, come in.” The scholar was amazed. In his heart he thought, “It’s true—scholarship is honored everywhere! Today I’ve seen with my own eyes—even in heaven. That man was a great sage; I myself respected him. Honey flowed from his words. But no one cared about him. And all my knowledge was borrowed. Astonishing, the power of scholarship! They say the emperor is honored in his own land; the scholar is honored everywhere. Even in heaven it’s the same.”

Seeing his face, the gatekeeper said, “Don’t be mistaken; don’t be deluded. The matter is different. Rishis and munis come here every day; you are the first scholar ever. Till today, no scholar has come. Somehow there’s been a mix-up; a file error; you’ve been brought in place of someone else! That’s why there’s such a celebration—because it’s an unprecedented event. It’s never happened before. Rishis and munis come daily; why welcome them anymore? There’s a queue of them. But you are unique, one of a kind—you’ve done the impossible. You’ve broken all the rules. You are the exception. Centuries have passed since heaven was made—no one like you has come. And we doubt anyone like you will ever come again. Sometimes a mistake happens. You’ve come by such a mistake, so we’re celebrating. Don’t imagine that scholarship is being honored!”

A scholar is an egotist—supremely so. He may think, “I am very humble.” He may even display humility: “I am the dust of your feet.” But look into his eyes—he is saying, “See how humble I am! Is there anyone more humble than I?” And if a scholar says to you, “I am the dust of your feet,” and you reply, “Brother, that much we know—you are worse than the dust of our feet,” watch how angry he gets! He’ll buzz with rage: “What did you say?” And if you say, “We’re only affirming what you yourself said,” know that he never said it to be affirmed. He said it so you would protest, “No, no—dust of our feet? You are the peacock-plumed crown! You are the diadem! You are the Kohinoor diamond! Dust of our feet? Never! It is your humility that proves you are our crown!”

Three Christian fakirs met at a crossroads. One said, “In our ashram, the renunciation, the austerity, the discipline—there’s nothing like it anywhere.”

The second said, “That may be so. But in our ashram, the stream of knowledge, the brilliance of scholarship, the purity of scripture, the research—there’s nothing like it anywhere.”

The third just smiled. The two asked, “Won’t you say something?”

He said, “No need. Our ashram is humble. We needn’t speak. We are humble people. In humility no one is ahead of us. In humility we are the very summit of Everest. All this talk of renunciation and scholarship—two-penny stuff. Humility is the real thing. Didn’t Jesus say: ‘Blessed are the meek, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven’? In the end you will regret it—when you see heaven’s kingdom is ours. Then all your knowledge and all your austerity will be left lying useless. You will repent and weep. There’s still time. Come over to our side; become humble now.”

Such are the ways of the ego—who can say through what subtle devices it will fill itself! Knowledge is the subtlest device. That’s why unlearning feels hard—like death. No one wants to let go. We cling; and to justify our clinging we gather all kinds of arguments, reasons, structures. It’s not that we cling idly—we weave a whole web of logic around our grasping. We prove that clinging is necessary, not unnecessary. “What will happen without knowledge? How will we cross without the scriptures? One crosses only with the help of the scriptures.”

And what are scriptures? Paper boats! If you want to drown, sit in them. If you want to cross, perhaps learn to swim—that will help. Swimming helps. Don’t set out seated in paper boats—there’s great danger. They look like boats—that’s the danger. And you have never seen a real boat, only paper boats. Hindu, Muslim, Jain, Buddhist—each has paper boats. Different colors, different styles, different flags—but all paper boats. And the other danger is that paper boats don’t sink at the shore. It takes a little time to get waterlogged; by then the shore is far behind—and when the sinking begins you will be shocked to find you don’t know how to swim. You never learned to stand on your own legs. You never learned meditation.

Meditation is like swimming; knowledge is a paper boat. And if the matter can be settled cheaply, who would bother with the hassle of learning to swim! Swimming takes courage and heart—because the opposite shore is not visible; there is storm and gale, and one has to plunge into the unknown. On this shore, everything feels safe. And when everyone is boarding boats, if you speak of swimming alone, people will call you mad: “Go where the crowd goes! Don’t go alone—you’ll get lost. This is the ocean of becoming; stick with the crowd.”

Remember this too: no individual has ever strayed as badly as the crowd. The crowd has committed sins in this world that no individual could commit. Hindu crowds sin in ways no single Hindu could. Muslim crowds sin in ways no single Muslim could. If you ask one man to burn a temple, his chest will split; he’ll be pained: “What am I doing?” He will think. But if a crowd of Muslims does it—“Allahu Akbar!”—then responsibility dissolves. “What responsibility of mine? So many were doing it. Even if I hadn’t, the temple would have burned. It didn’t burn because of me. And when so many are doing it, it must be right. How can so many be wrong?”

Ask a man, one to one, “Could you stab a Muslim in the chest?” He will ponder: “After all, this Muslim—whom I’ve never even seen—there’s been no quarrel, not even an acquaintance, no enmity or friendship. Before being an enemy one must at least be a friend! I don’t even know him, never said hello. And I’m stabbing a stranger in the chest! He too has a mother waiting at home, as mine does. He too has a wife who will be widowed, perhaps begging for life or forced into prostitution. He too has children who will be orphaned. What am I doing? And what has he done to me?”

But if a crowd is killing him, then you don’t worry. The responsibility belongs to the crowd.

In a crowd the individual’s accountability vanishes. No one is responsible. That’s why the crowd has committed sins in this world that individuals have not. I am a supporter of the individual, an opponent of the crowd. I want the world to be only individuals—crowds to disappear. Let there be no Hindu, no Muslim, no Jain—let there be persons. Then do what draws your heart—as a person. If Mahavira’s path is dear to you, walk it as an individual. But don’t become a limb of a crowd. If Muhammad’s word moves you, fine—your life is yours; walk that path. But don’t become part of a mob.

If crowds vanished, ninety-nine percent of sins would vanish from the world. But in the name of crowds everything happens. “Islam is in danger!”—as if Islam could be in danger! How will Islam be endangered? Can you burn Islam? Drown it? What danger can you pose to Islam? But no one asks. “Islam is in danger”—and the mob goes mad. “Hinduism is in danger”—and the mob goes mad. Just remind people of the crowd and they start marching. Then you can make them do anything. In the name of India you can make any sin happen—huge crowd. In the name of Pakistan—any sin. In the name of Iran—any sin.

Just recently, the tomb of the Shah of Iran’s father, built at the cost of millions—a most beautiful building—was demolished. The mullahs had dynamite planted and blew it up; bulldozers ground that marvel of marble into dust. And in its place they are building public urinals—for the people. These are the mullahs, the ayatollahs! These are the pundits, the religious! A fraternity of madmen. But the crowd will do anything.

Against the crowd, we must give strength to the individual. And the courage to be an individual—that is religion. Drowning in the crowd is politics. Being a person is religion, spirituality.

The days of politics are over, spent. Now there should be a sunrise—a dawn of the individual, in which the dignity of the person is established. For this, the greatest work will be to unlearn the many things we have learned.

Have you ever thought what all you carry around as “learned”? You follow blindly. Ask a Hindu, “Why do you keep this tuft of hair?” He has never thought about it. And those who do think up reasons say even more foolish things. I was reading a book—“Why Hinduism?” Seven hundred pages, laboring to prove Hinduism scientific. Everyone today is trying to prove their thing “scientific,” because science has prestige. So however absurd, prove it somehow. The tuft is scientific, the author writes—a Hindu sannyasin! Sannyasins talk like this? But in a crowd, whether a man be sannyasin, saint, or sadhu, he is not speaking from spirituality. He wrote: Just as iron lightning-rods are mounted on tall buildings so that if lightning strikes the building is unharmed, the charge runs down into the earth—so Hindus discovered this science first. Tie a knot in the tuft and keep it standing; if lightning strikes you, you will be unharmed. It is a lightning-rod!

I met this gentleman at a religious gathering. I asked, “Wait—where is your tuft?” A Hindu sannyasin has a shaved head; he has no tuft at all.

I said, “If what you wrote is true, then lightning should seek out sannyasins—such smooth heads, like the racetrack! Lightning would have a field day.”

“How many sannyasins have been killed by lightning?” I asked him. Sannyasins should not survive—wherever they go, lightning should strike, because they lack that tuft that protects.

The same gentleman wrote that Hindus wear wooden sandals—khadau—because the peg between the big toe and the next presses a particular nerve, and that pressure produces celibacy.

What a wonder! If celibacy were so easy, India’s population problem would be solved instantly—just make everyone wear khadau. Why preach birth control? Just hand out wooden sandals; that would suffice. And if a toe-peg presses a nerve and produces celibacy, then what need is there for sterilization? Why not go to the hospital and have the nerve by the big toe pressed permanently? Press it once for all; then wear shoes or slippers as you like—you will have attained celibacy. No obstacle would remain.

So I asked him, “How did the rishis and munis have children? In this country, everyone claims to be descended from rishis and munis. So many descendants! Every rishi and muni had children. Hindu rishis and munis were certainly not celibates; they had plenty of offspring. They wore khadau—and still had children! So they must have known some charm: they wore the wooden sandals and still managed not to press the nerve. Or else their children must have been illegitimate, fathered by rascals while the rishis, in their khadau, upheld celibacy! Which is it?”

He bristled: “What kind of talk is this? You are an enemy of Hinduism!”

I said, “I am no one’s enemy, no one’s friend. I am only pointing out foolishness—and you call it science!”

But this is the effort of all religions today—to prove themselves scientific by any means, right or wrong.

The crowd tries to look intelligent, but it is not even contemporary—intelligence is far off. The crowd lives two or three thousand years in the past.

All this must be unlearned. Trivialities must be dropped. These are petty things. And it is precisely these petty differences that divide you—there are no great differences. Between Christian and Hindu, Hindu and Jain, Jain and Buddhist—no major differences. Petty, two-coin differences. Yet for these, swords have flashed, necks have been cut, murders done—because we take the differences to be significant.

Unlearn all this rubbish. Remove the junk. Difficult, yes—because as you remove it your heart will feel torn: “All is lost! This was our wealth, our ideas, our culture. What will become of our Indian culture? What of our religion? What of our ancient Sanatan Dharma?”

Have you taken a contract to save these things? What is your business with them? Save yourself—that is enough. Realize your own life—that is enough. And if this is junk, let it go. There is no need to save something merely because it is “Indian,” or “Hindu,” or “Jain.” If it is true, it will survive; if it is untrue, let it go. Truth will endure through your experience, not by your clutching at so-called scriptures.

If only we would scrutinize our scriptures once more, we would be shocked at how much garbage is piled up—yet we keep worshipping it.

Letting go is difficult, Anand Maitreya—but it is absolutely essential. Without dropping these foolish beliefs and superstitions, no one can make the inner consciousness pure, nor cleanse that mirror. If you are attached to the dust, how will you clean the mirror? And when the mirror is clean, the reflection of the Divine appears. God is present; our mirror is dirty.

Pramod! Being an Indian, you get shaken so quickly! Aren’t you ashamed? Never! Let our flag always fly high! Whatever happens, stick to your stand. People will say all kinds of things—why listen at all? Sit as if deaf. And when such dangerous things are being said, put your fingers in your ears.

Wavered! That is no sign of ours. This is not the mark of the Sanatan-dharmis. We haven’t wavered for centuries. We sit where we sit; we don’t budge an inch. Let the world shift, let it go wherever—it’s none of our concern. What we have grabbed, we keep. We are not cheats or traitors. Once we’ve got hold of something, then even if intelligence says it’s wrong, we’ll never listen to intelligence. Whatever discrimination says, ignore it.

You are going to undertake such a great act—marriage! And if you listen to discrimination you’ll get into trouble. Discrimination and all that can come after the marriage. First let the marriage happen. Then obstacles will come aplenty. How was I to know you were here too? Otherwise I would never have said such a thing. If I’ve blundered, forgive me. There are enough obstacles as it is, and now this one too! In an auspicious undertaking, a thousand hindrances arise!

Nasruddin was in love with a rich man’s daughter. They would steal time to meet. He had proposed to her many times, but each time she put him off. One day she said, quite flustered, “You know, Nasruddin, yesterday Papa went bankrupt!” Nasruddin said, “I knew it! That old man, that crusty miser, was bound to create some obstacle in our marriage!”

Obstacles can be a thousand! Is there any shortage of them? Hurry up! Before some obstacle arises—her father goes bankrupt, or the one you’re to marry gets eager to marry someone else, or you yourself lose interest. Don’t delay—never delay a good deed. What you plan for tomorrow, do today; what you plan for today, do now. In a moment the deluge may come—when will you do it then?

In Nasruddin’s office, as in all Indian offices, no one worked. People gossiped, rolled tobacco, chewed paan, spat with a flourish, sprawled on chairs and dozed, read newspapers—everything except the work. Nasruddin got worried and consulted a psychologist. The psychologist said, “Hang this maxim everywhere—on every desk. It will make them aware.” So Nasruddin had the couplet written beautifully and hung it everywhere, front and back, so it couldn’t be missed: What you plan for tomorrow, do today; what you plan for today, do now. In a moment the deluge may come—when will you do it then?

On the third day the psychologist met Nasruddin on the road: his arm in a cast, a bandage on his head, limping. “What happened?” the psychologist asked. Nasruddin said, “Don’t say a word. What’s done is done. Be glad my condition is so bad—otherwise I’d have given you such a thrashing you’d have remembered your mother’s milk. All thanks to your couplet.” “I don’t understand,” said the psychologist. “You wouldn’t,” said Nasruddin, “you’ve no sense. When no work was getting done, that was at least fine—everything was going on. But the day I hung your maxim, the real trouble began. The manager ran off with my wife and left a note: ‘In a moment the deluge may come—when will you do it then?’ He’d been thinking about it for a long time, but your warning spurred him. He even wrote that you were right. The assistant manager ran off with my stenographer. The cashier cleaned out the safe and hung the same plaque on the vault—the very one I’d hung in the office. And that was still okay; but then the peon barged in and gave me a beating. I asked, ‘What are you doing?’ He said, ‘I’ve been thinking about this for at least fifteen years; but when you hung that couplet I thought, Whatever is to be done, do it now! Who knows about tomorrow—you may not be here, I may not be here! So—you see my condition? Let me get a bit better; then I’ll come and teach you a lesson.’”

I didn’t know, Pramod, that you too want to get married; otherwise I would never have said such a thing. Hear it—and un-hear it. As if it was never said. Go and get married. Marriage is not only faults; there are great benefits too. Without marriage, dispassion would never arise in the world. All renunciation stands upon marriage! It is the disturbance of marriage that makes a man a renunciate. Otherwise, let the sages preach endlessly—who becomes dispassionate? It is wives who have sent countless people to heaven! Who knows what fool says women are the gates of hell. They are the gates of heaven! Amend that, correct it!

Yes, choose a wife with some care. Choose such that you get free of the wheel of coming and going. So you don’t have to choose again and again. Since you are choosing…

After much thought, Chandulal finally married a wealthy widow. Great celebration! Dhabbuji and Nasruddin came to congratulate him. Dhabbuji whispered in his ear, “I don’t know why you married this ugly, crabby old woman! Look—she hasn’t a single tooth, and her eyes are so cross-eyed one goes this way, the other that!” Chandulal said, “Friends, these are not things to say in a whisper. You can say them out loud, because by God’s grace her ears too are closed. She’s deaf! I searched and found her.”

Pramod, if you’re going to search, then search properly—so that after this life there’s no need to search again. Let such an experience happen that, however much you try, attachment drops away. There are benefits; it’s not all losses.

One day Nasruddin’s friend Chandulal came to see him. When Nasruddin saw him he was overjoyed—ran, hugged him, lifted him in his arms and began to dance. Great hospitality! His wife burned with jealousy. When Chandulal left, Guljaan said angrily, “Listen, aren’t you ashamed? When your friends come you go mad with joy, pick them up in your arms and dance. But whenever my girlfriends come, you act as if their coming brings you no joy.” Nasruddin said, “Foolish woman, I also feel great joy then; I want to run and pick them up, to dance, to embrace them. But the moment I remember you, all my joy is ruined.”

Pramod, a man needs one woman—just to save him from other women. Otherwise you’ll be in big trouble. There should be one woman, or else a man is weak—he’ll be pushed and shoved. A protector is needed. Husbands imagine they are the protectors. Women are clever; they create the illusion that you are the protector. The truth is the reverse: the wife protects. Otherwise these men will fall into this pit and that, here and there, break their arms and legs—their condition worsening day by day.

Chandulal’s son asked him, “Papa, why has the government made the rule that a man can marry only one woman?” Chandulal said, “Son, the government exists to protect those who cannot protect themselves. This was made for the welfare of men. Otherwise men would get into such tangles and be beaten so much that life—already difficult—would become unbearable.”

So, Pramod, the wife will protect you. Your happiness will be ruined—that’s another matter; don’t worry about it. In fact, that’s a good thing—because when that happens, the desire to be free of the cycle of birth and death arises. In this country the longing for liberation from the round of coming and going is stronger than anywhere else. Why? Because here marriage is stronger than anywhere else. So elsewhere people still have a little hope. Here no hope remains.

O Devi, at least get your husband’s signature! Without the husband’s signature I won’t accept it. Why is the husband silent? Let him speak too! And the lady has written, “I felt very hurt that you spoke that way about marriage.”

If, in truth, life is so loving and so joyful, there would be no question of being hurt. Somewhere there must be a hitch. Some wound must have been touched. Some fear must have stirred. Otherwise words do not prick; there is no reason for them to sting.

I am not against love. I only want to point out that the fewer the bonds in life, the better. Love—love to your heart’s content—but why forge bonds? Why this insistence on bondage? Do you not trust love? In fact, no one trusts love; that is why we need law. If there is trust in love, there is no need of law. Love will suffice. Marriage becomes unnecessary.

Marriage is needed because love is a doubtful affair—how long will it last? Then the law will step in, the court will be there, the policeman, the magistrate, society, reputation—these will all restrain. If there is genuine trust in love, marriage is utterly unnecessary. But where is love? And how can there be love in this country where marriages are arranged?

Now this Pramod says he wants to marry. Do you want to marry, or do your parents want you to marry? And they have already married—what problem do they have now? Do you want to marry, or are two pundits sitting ready to match horoscopes, determined that they will get yours matched—won’t be at peace until they do? And look at the condition of those whose help you seek for matching horoscopes. Look at things between them and their wives—what “music” is playing there! They couldn’t match their own; they are matching yours!

In this country all marriages happen by matching horoscopes—and then what a great uproar ensues! Do marriages get made by matching horoscopes? Will pundits, astrologers, and parents decide? Yes, if you love someone, if there is affection, that’s fine. I am a partisan of love. I am so much on the side of love that I say: what is this haste for marriage? Why such hurry? Are you afraid that if you don’t marry for a few days, love might slip away? If that fear is there, then wait—because after a few days, whether you marry or not, it will slip away anyway. And once you marry and then it slips, what will you do? Then you will land in great trouble. Then you will feel very inconvenienced—then you’ll find a noose around your neck.

Love—wait a year or two. Live together. Don’t be childish; don’t rush. Give at least two years. And if you feel that your two lives are setting out together on a joyous journey—then the marriage has happened! If you then want to perform the formality, perform it. And until it is certain that your love is that steady, do not marry. And when it is settled that the love is steady, only then give birth to children! Because only the children who are born out of love are legitimate; all others are illegitimate. It makes no difference that you had the children with your own wife. If they are being born without love—if there is no love from you to your wife and none from her to you—if you are merely living together out of compulsion, just getting by, then in that getting by children keep being born.

Chandulal went to get a divorce. The wife at once grabbed him and took him inside. Chandulal is a thin, frail man; the wife is big and strong. She took him in and told the lawyer, “We want a divorce.”

Everything was being divided, but a snag came up: there were three children. The lawyer said, “There are three children—how will we divide them?”

So the wife said, “Get up, we’ll come next year! When there are four children, then we’ll divide.”

The lawyer was startled. He said, “What an amazing trick you’ve come up with! But what kind of child will this be, the one being produced for a divorce? What kind of child will that be!”

The wife said, “Don’t talk nonsense. You mind your law; I’ll mind my life. Who has any trust in this Chandulal? If I had relied on him, even these three wouldn’t be here!”

Children keep accumulating; the net keeps spreading. Then you must arrange for them, educate them. You get more and more entangled.

Pramod, if you want to marry—first love! First sow the seed; then harvest the crop. You want to harvest straight away! You say, “We will cut the crop!” What crop will you cut? You’ll go buy paper flowers from the market—plastic flowers. If you want real roses, then you will have to work.

Love is tapascharya. Love is sadhana. And the flowers that bloom from love—only they are beautiful. If marriage, too, arises from love, it is beautiful. I am not against marriage. I am against that marriage which proceeds on the belief that marriage will produce love. That has never happened, nor can it. Yes, sometimes by accident—as someone shooting arrows in the dark, fires a thousand and one happens to hit the mark. If it hits, it hits; otherwise it’s just a fluke. That is a different matter. Such flukes do happen sometimes, and the arrow finds the target. But the earth is empty of love.

I want—the earth to be full of love. I do not want you to ask for God out of weariness with life. I want you to ask for God out of the celebration of life. I want you to call upon God brimming with life’s joy. Call Him with thanksgiving. Call Him because: You have given me so much—with grace, with joy, with festivity, with awe!

I am not on the side of renunciation. I want you to call upon God after drinking the juice of this great gift called life, after drinking its nectar, intoxicated with its wine! Then a different kind of religion will be born in your life. I want to give my sannyasin that kind of life—not of dispassion, but of celebration; not of renunciation, but of blessedness!

If God comes as an expression of thanksgiving, only then is He true. If God is coming out of renunciation, out of sadness, out of indifference, then it is false. It is only your defeat, your tiredness. That is not real religion.

That is all for today.