Udio Pankh Pasar #8

Anand Maitreya! Precisely for that reason! Ram’s personality suited the scholars, the priests, the businessmen perfectly. There was no rebellion in him. No danger of revolt.

Ram’s life is a life of obedience. And this is exactly what vested interests want—that everyone be obedient. If people are obedient, rebellion dies. If people are obedient, they go on walking blindly—wherever you push them, however you push them, you can make them do whatever you wish. They have no capacity for their own discernment, no qualification for independent thought, no strength to say “no.”

The obedient person is extremely weak. It is as if his inner soul has been killed. And that is what all vested interests want. The state wants it, the church wants it, the temple wants it! Those who hold wealth, office, prestige—they all want obedience to be poured like poison into people so thoroughly that the very possibility of rebellion never arises in their lives. Even if they want to say “no,” they cannot. Whenever anything comes out of their mouth, only “yes” comes out.

Ram’s personality proved very convenient. Christ’s is not so convenient, nor Krishna’s, nor Buddha’s, nor Lao Tzu’s. With Krishna, Christ, Buddha, Lao Tzu, the pundits and priests had to whitewash and plaster them after their death to fit them to their mold. Even so, they could not manage it. Even if you bury the spark of revolt under ashes, it will still flare up. Heap on as much ash as you like; a little gust of wind and the spark glows again.

How many layers were plastered onto Jesus! But layer him as much as you wish, a man who was crucified cannot be an obedient man. Otherwise, how would he be crucified? If a man is crucified, there must have been something in his life that stood against established interests. And that person must have had such a blazing spirit of revolt that all the vested interests had to unite to finish him off. They killed him—and for two thousand years a continuous stream of interpretations has been forced onto him to make it appear that Jesus too was obedient. But interpret as you like, somewhere or other the truth shows through—in the small incidents. Christian preachers don’t mention those incidents; they skip them. But those incidents are in the Bible; they cannot be denied. All possible efforts have been made to correct them, amend them, pile new meanings upon them. Even so, the flame of Jesus cannot be extinguished; it breaks through.

Read the Bible and you’ll be amazed. Jesus’ mother comes to see him. He is standing, surrounded by a crowd. Someone says to him, “Your mother has come to see you.” Jesus says, “My kin are only those who have joined with my spirit. I have no mother and I have no father.” However much you plaster that over—how will you hide it?

Ram’s life is the very opposite. An old father, gone senile, makes a pointless demand—at the insistence of his youngest wife: that Ram be exiled to the forest for fourteen years. There is no rhyme or reason in it. It is sheer injustice. The father agrees. Dasharatha proves himself worth two pennies—without the strength to oppose even his wife, without the strength to stand against what is wrong. He becomes a slave. But Ram accepts it. The pundits liked it greatly. Parents liked it greatly. Priests liked it greatly. Those in power liked it greatly—that obedience should be like this.

That is why Ram has been extolled for centuries. That is why his story has been poured down people’s throats. Krishna people prune; no one is ready to accept the whole of Krishna. But Ram they swallow without sifting. There is nothing in Ram one needs to omit. With Krishna there are a thousand reasons that require a broad chest to accept.

Surdas sings of Krishna’s childhood, as if Krishna never became young! If a small boy breaks a pot, it passes. If a small boy steals women’s clothes and hangs them on a tree, that too passes. He’s a child after all. But if the adult Krishna did this, even Surdas would be in a fix; his devotion would wobble—how to accept such a man? So Surdas sang Krishna’s childhood songs and cut off his youth entirely.

Most people speak of Krishna only on the basis of the Gita. But the Mahabharata is not the sole source of Krishna’s life. Come to the Srimad Bhagavatam—and the real difficulty begins. There is so much in Krishna’s life that is hard to digest. Five thousand years have passed, and still man is not mature enough to digest it. So then we resort to interpretations. He had sixteen thousand wives; among them not all were his wives—he brought other men’s wives too. How will you swallow that? On what basis will you digest it? Your entire morality will be shredded.

And someone calls Krishna Maryada Purushottam! There is no personality more beyond convention than his—no one more unbound. So people devise devices to explain Krishna. They say these were not sixteen thousand women, they were sixteen thousand nadis! What tricks people invent! What cleverness people display! What arrangements they create to falsify truth!

There is a certain splendor in Krishna, something otherworldly. But whenever anything is otherworldly, it stands far beyond morality. Morality is a very ordinary thing—it is social conduct, an instrument of order. Hence those who uphold the order remain partisans of Ram. They may worship Krishna too, but even then they have to concoct all sorts of interpretations.

Mahatma Gandhi used to say the Gita is my mother. But even he had a difficulty: what about non-violence? To tell the truth, Arjuna looks Gandhian; he says, “I want to renounce this war. What is the essence of it? What gain in killing? And if by killing my own I win, what value has such a victory? If my throne is erected upon heaps of bones and rivers of blood, I will burn with remorse. No, I will not do this. I want to leave it all. I don’t want this kingdom.”

And Krishna persuades him: you must fight, you must wage war. This is the duty of a kshatriya. This is the dharma of a kshatriya. Gandhi had a big problem. So he interpreted at the outset: this is not a real war; it is the conception of a war between good and evil. It is merely a symbol of the struggle between the auspicious and the inauspicious. The Kauravas are the symbol of evil, the Pandavas the symbol of good. This war is inner; it is waged in the soul. It is not taking place outside.

With that little interpretation, there is no further obstacle to accepting the entire Gita.

The same happened with Buddha. To accept Buddha whole is very difficult. Krishna can be somewhat accepted; a few tweaks can be made. But Buddha directly opposed the Vedas. This was intolerable—that someone should oppose the Vedas, that he should say the Vedas are rubbish. How to accept such a man as God? Yet he was a precious man—there is no doubt. Whoever came to him was touched. So a way had to be found to swallow him. The Puranas concocted a story: God made heaven and hell. Thousands of years passed; no one went to hell, because people committed no sin. So Satan went to God and said, “Why did you make hell? I sit here for nothing. All my staff are idle. The office is open; not a single customer arrives. What is this shop for? Either send customers; we are tired of practicing torment with no one to torment—or shut it down and free us for some other work.”

God felt pity for Satan. He said, “Don’t worry. You did well to remind me. Soon I will descend as the Buddha and corrupt people. Then so many will come to hell that you will have nothing to worry about.” So God took the incarnation as Buddha and corrupted people. Since then there has been such a crowd in hell that if you go, you won’t get a place straightaway—you’ll stand in line for days.

See the cleverness of the pundit! He did a double job. He accepted Buddha as God—God’s own avatar—yet declared the purpose of his coming dangerous. So be careful. Don’t get entangled in his words; otherwise you will go to hell.

With Ram there is no such difficulty. Ram is exactly as the pundit, the priest, and the vested interests want him to be. Hence Ram was adopted. Hence the Ramayana entered every home. Hence we have made his name resound in every mind. Hence Ramlila began—and has continued for centuries. We feed children Ram’s story mixed into their milk. It’s a device: never rebel; be obedient; be disciplined; never be free. Those who are older than you—whether they are right or wrong is not the question—they are elders, therefore worthy of reverence. Do whatever they say. It is not your job to think what is right and what is wrong.

Parents like this too, because what parent does not want his sons to be obedient? The son may be a complete blockhead—still, it will do, provided he is obedient. And however talented a son is, if he is not obedient, parents begin to have trouble.

And the more the talent, the more difficult obedience becomes. Keep this in mind. These two things do not go together. Where there is talent, the person will naturally think for himself. He will agree where agreement is called for—by his own understanding, his inner intelligence; he will agree for his reasons, not because father or mother says so. And he will refuse for his reasons. Acceptance or refusal will arise from within him.

So parents liked it: pound in the tale of Ram. Explain Ram. Raise Ram as high as you can. It will be convenient to keep the children regimented. The men of wealth liked it. The rulers liked it. The kings liked it. The politicians liked it. The pundits and priests—all of them liked it. All those who hold power liked the idea that if we keep Ram enthroned, revolt will be cut down.

India is the only country where no revolution has taken place. And if anything happens here in the name of revolution, it is such trash that one feels ashamed to call it revolution. Just recently you saw it: a few years ago Jayaprakash Narayan made a revolution—and power fell into the hands of all the inert and the fools in the country. This was revolution! It was counter-revolution. It fizzled out within three years. We do revolutions galore! Ready-made, spent cartridges. They have no value.

The biggest reason there has been no revolution in India is that the values we have given India are anti-revolutionary.

In my vision religion is the greatest revolution, the supreme revolution. Because through that revolution you awaken from stupor, you rise from sleep. The soul that was slumbering within you turns for the first time and opens its eyes. For the first time you remember the divine, and for the first time you see that this social order is merely expediency. There is a far larger order—the order of existence itself. One must connect with that order. Social arrangements keep changing. What was right yesterday has become wrong today. What is right today will be wrong tomorrow.

Ram had molten lead poured into a shudra’s ears—because a shudra should not hear Vedic words. Will you call Ram a religious person? Then those who burn shudras today—all these people are religious. They are doing nothing wrong. They are merely following in Ram’s footsteps. They are putting shudras in their place. Shudras are getting too rebellious! A shudra had merely heard the Vedic chant—that became sin, a great sin! And a man like Ram had to have molten lead poured into his ears. Even so, we go on calling Ram religious. But that was the custom of the day. That was acceptable then. There was no objection to it in those days. The shudra was not even counted as human. The shudra was like an animal. What rights did he have? And a woman had no rights at all.

Therefore, in Valmiki’s Ramayana, when Ram wins—when Lanka is conquered—and he returns with Sita, at their first meeting Ram says, “O woman, take heed: I have not waged this war for your sake. This war was for family honor—for the honor of the lineage. Do not fall into the delusion that I fought for you.” Family honor! This ego! What is family honor? Just another name for ego.

There is no regard for Sita, no respect. The war was not for Sita. And that is why Sita is later thrown out so easily, like a fly lifted out of milk. Sita has no value, no status, no honor.

I do not accept such a Ram as religious—I cannot. His life fits the social order of his time; the prevalent values suited him, and he suited them perfectly. But such a view has no accord with the truth of life. To have no respect for womanhood, to speak so insultingly, such coarse words! There was no need to say anything. Sita was not even asking why he had fought. Yet he had to say it—so it would be clear to Sita, lest any delusion remain in her mind, that a man like Ram does not fight for women. What is there in women! Bones, flesh, marrow!...as if men are filled with gold!

And this same Ram, upon seeing a golden deer in the forest, ran after it. If you had seen a golden deer you too would think ten times—are there such deer of gold? Even the dullest man would hesitate for a moment: what am I doing, are there deer of gold anywhere? But he went. He set off after a golden deer! He forgot that the whole world is a mirage. Even a deer deceived him—so far is he from seeing the world as a mirage.

Lakshman cut a woman’s nose—no objection. It was coarse behavior, utterly coarse. But there was no protest. And those rishis and munis who told Ram, “We are being tormented; these rakshasas harass us; they disturb our sacrifices”—those rishis and munis were nothing but agents. Just as Christian missionaries are agents of the CIA. First the missionaries come. First they spread the net. First the Bible arrives; then behind it comes the gun. These were political rackets.

In Ram’s personality I find neither the sharpness of Buddha, nor the astonishing totality of Krishna, nor the revolution of Jesus, nor Lao Tzu’s words—each word a diamond.

But, Anand Maitreya, you are right to ask: why has Ram’s name lived for thousands of years? It will continue to live—as long as vested interests live; as long as the dishonest want to continue exploitation, they will keep Ram alive. Under his cover exploitation runs very easily, very conveniently. The Ram-katha is running, and behind it a very different story runs.

When I say this, it is natural there will be difficulty. When such an ancient belief is struck, you will bristle; there is nothing surprising in that. But I too am helpless: I can only say what I see, as I see it. I cannot alter it a hair’s breadth. If you like it, good; if you dislike it, that too is your pleasure. But in Ram I see nothing that resembles religion. He was a good man, a decent man. He was obedient. He conformed to the beliefs and values of his time. A gentleman, upright. But not a saint.

Understand these three words clearly:
- A villain (durjan) is one who goes against society’s values.
- A gentleman (sajjan) is one who goes along with society’s values.
- A saint (sant) is one who neither goes with nor against; he lives by his inner inspiration. Sometimes that inner inspiration will come out against, sometimes alongside—this is secondary. If it comes out against, so be it; if alongside, so be it.

But Ram is a strict line-walker. He walks the beaten track. He places each step with caution. He tiptoes. A washerman says a word…and is the washerman’s word to count for so much?…and Sita is thrown out! As if an excuse were being sought! As if the words were put into the washerman’s mouth by himself! If one man’s remark can cause so much panic, then what of the fire-ordeal Sita had already undergone? Even that became useless!

And have you ever thought: if Sita had to undergo the fire-ordeal, Ram too should have undergone it. What kind of justice is this? The argument goes: “Who knows what happened to her character while she was in Ravana’s place.” But Ram too lived so long without Sita—who knows what happened to his character! There are historians who believe Ram loved Shabari. There seems some truth in it, because only lovers can eat each other’s leftover berries; no one else can. And I doubt that Ram would eat Sita’s leftovers. A man who, on a washerman’s word, sends his pregnant wife to the forest—would he eat her leftovers? It is doubtful.

In Ramlila you must have seen Shabari portrayed as old. But those who have researched deeply say Shabari was young and beautiful—a wild, untamed beauty of the forest. If Ram wanted to test Sita, then simple justice demanded that he himself should also have passed through the fire—hand in hand, both together. That would be more fitting. But Ram did not undergo any fire-ordeal. The man is a man! People say, “A man is a man!” Must a man take any test? No question! Even if he errs a little, it will pass. As if it were impossible for him not to err!

But a woman must be pure. Why? Why these double standards? A religious person has no double standards. His measure is one. What is for others is for himself; what is for himself is for others. For him there is no separation between man and woman.

But women had no worth. Women were called “woman-property.” No value at all. Like a chair, furniture, a bed, bedding—just so a woman—footwear! So it is necessary to check whether this shoe has been worn by someone else! But one need not examine one’s own foot to see whether it is wearing some other shoe!

Even after the fire-ordeal, a single man raises a doubt and Sita is abandoned. As if a pretext was needed. If one man’s criticism hurt so much—as people say, Ram could not bear even one person’s slander, such was his stainless character—then he should have gone with Sita himself. Anyway he had lived fourteen years in the forest at his father’s word; he could have spent a few more years. He should have gone himself. Then I would place value on him. Then I would say, this makes sense. But he sat on the throne, and Sita was sent away. The kingdom is worth more! The position is worth more! A living woman has no value!

And he lied to her. He did not even tell her where she was being sent. He deceived her. And yet he is “Maryada Purushottam”! He deceived his own wife. At least he could have spoken. At least he could have been clear. And I feel Sita was a strong woman—indeed, in my heart Sita has more value than Ram. Had he told Sita, she would certainly have said, “Fine, I will go myself.” There was no need to deceive her at all.

Rabindranath wrote a poem about Buddha. When Buddha returned to the palace as a Buddha after twelve years, Yashodhara—his wife—asked him one question only: “Tell me just one thing, which has been cutting my heart—if you had told me before you left, do you think I would have stopped you? Tell me just this much! Did you trust my being a kshatriyani so little? Have kshatriyani women not tilaked their husbands and sent them to the battlefield? You were going in search of Truth, in search of samadhi, in search of Buddhahood. I would have washed your feet, offered flowers at your feet, and sent you off. That fortune you should have given me. Did you suspect I would cry and scream and hold you back? Tell me only this. If anything gnawed at me these twelve years, it was only that—why did you not tell me? Did you not trust me even that much?”

And Rabindranath has done right to have Buddha stand with his head bowed. In the poem, an answer does not come from Buddha. What answer could he give? The deed was wrong. He had gone as far as the door, had looked with full eyes at his sleeping wife and child—and then silently turned back, lest any sound arise and his wife stop him!

Men have never trusted women. They have never accepted women as souls. They have always counted women as the second grade of the human species—second-rate. Man is first—male is first. The woman is nominal.

Ram suited the selfish. Hence his temples were built, the worship conducted, the Ramlilas staged. There is no other reason. And this honoring of Ram has erased revolution from India. Whoever held power over us, we did “yes-sir” to him. For two thousand years we remained slaves with great ease, because whoever is in power—he is God’s representative. He is God’s symbol on earth. Therefore, whoever the king is, we were ready to bow, to rub our noses at his feet.

Slavery became our propensity. In the making of our slavishness, our notion of Ram has lent a mighty hand.

Therefore I do not consider Ram a religious person. I call him a gentleman, not a saint. If you want to be a gentleman, follow Ram. If you want to be a saint, then you must take the hand of a more luminous being—some Buddha, some Jesus, some Lao Tzu—someone in whom a fire burns, in whom there is revolution, who has the courage to go alone. Even against all the values, if his soul says go, he goes. Whatever sacrifice has to be made, let it be made. Even if the world hangs him on a cross, it makes no difference. He will prefer the gallows to bending. He will prefer to break rather than bend. Compromise will not be his way. Struggle will be his life. Courage will be his quality.

Ishwaranand! You are a pure Indian! This is exactly the hallmark of Indian culture—the foundation stone. Talk of Brahman, nirvana, Vedanta—and inside? Inside, all kinds of snakes and scorpions. Inside, all sorts of turmoil. We keep the discussion about Vedanta, nirvana, Brahman going in order to press down that inner upheaval. You keep yourself entangled in these discussions so that your inner realities do not become visible.

But here that discussion won’t help. Breaking that discussion is one of the essential experiments here. Here I want you to come face to face with life’s real questions; your real problems should be revealed.

Look closely at your so‑called religious people. They talk religion, but in their lives you will find just the opposite. They go to the temple to worship God, and if a woman comes along they cannot refrain from giving her a shove—though they will shove in a religious manner. They will do it so no one can even suspect they did. Chanting “Ram‑Ram, Ram‑Ram,” they will shove; turning the rosary, they will shove. They will keep waving the platter of worship, but their eyes will not be on God—those eyes will be roaming everywhere.

The more women visit a temple, the more men go there. Where no women go, men stop going. Either men go behind their wives so that no one else can do the shoving, or they go behind others’ wives so they can do the shoving themselves. It is hard to see them going for any other purpose. They will smear sandalwood paste, wear the sacred thread, drape themselves in the Ram‑naam shawl. They put on such devotion that you’d never imagine they would be up to anything else!

It’s good, Ishwaranand, that on coming here your reality has shown itself. It will show itself here, because this is not a dead ashram. In some other ashram, where the already‑dead are sitting, seeing them you’d feel even more like talking about Brahman. Looking at them, you would feel panic that death is near—“Soon enough this will be my condition too”—and a dreary dispassion would arise.

This is a living place. Not a temple—more a tavern, a madhushala. There is youth here. Beautiful young women, beautiful young men. If you can meditate here, then know you have meditated. Up in Rishikesh at Sivananda’s ashram, there’s no obstacle to meditating—what else is there to do? Look at the mountains, look at Mother Ganga, and meditate! Here you face obstacles, I understand. Your Vedanta was swept away, your talk of nirvana lost. The mind must have said: “Hold on, Vedanta and nirvana we’ll see later. Life is only four days long. And Vedanta should be talked about only when the teeth have fallen out—that’s why it’s called Ved‑anta, the end of teeth! And nirvana means extinguishing—think of that when you’re dying. Right now, live a little—sow some wild oats!”

Here you will be in big trouble. You will sit to meditate, close your eyes—and they will keep popping open. You say you are married and have never gone near any woman but your wife. At home, you sit—and seeing the wife, your eyes naturally close. Vipassana dawns immediately! You see the wife and lofty thoughts arise—renunciation, austerity! They must be arising.

Under that illusion you came here. You should have brought your wife along; if she sat right next to you, she wouldn’t let you open your eyes. Out of fear you wouldn’t dare. Wives can keep one well intimidated!

Chandulal’s son wrote him from the university: “I’ve fallen in love with a girl—very beautiful. I’m sending a photo. We’ve decided to marry. Please give your blessings.”

Chandulal’s wife was delighted. “Write to the boy at once! The picture is lovely, and she’s from a wealthy family, with a well‑known name—an aristocratic house. When will such a chance come again? Don’t miss it!” So Chandulal wrote, “Son, God’s grace is upon you. Hurry! Do not let this opportunity slip. Marriage is the sweetest bond in life! This is life’s very joy!”

All the nice things one should write, he wrote. And when the letter was finished, quickly in a postscript he added: “You fool, your mother has just stepped out. Look at me—look at my state! And do not, by mistake, get into this mess. I can’t write more; she’s coming back. So I’m sealing the letter. Take little for much. You idiot—did we send you to the university for this? Save yourself if you can!”

In front of the wife he had to shower blessings—but in the postscript he told the truth. This same Chandulal’s son, when little, once asked him, “Papa, why are grooms seated on horses—why not on donkeys?” Chandulal said, “Son, so the bride can tell who the groom is. If he sat on a donkey the bride would see two donkeys and wouldn’t know which one to garland! So they seat him on a horse so it’s clear who is the donkey and who is the horse.”

Ishwaranand, next time you come, bring your wife. Let her sit right beside you. She will not do vipassana herself, but she will surely make you do it.

Wives have one virtue: they make husbands religious, thoroughly virtuous. One has to become so—out of compulsion. If there were no wives, the world would be utterly corrupt. All men would prefer to remain unmarried.

George Bernard Shaw used to say: The world would be full of joy if all men remained unmarried and all women were married. But how is that possible? The two can’t go together.

And here, the dam that has held your whole life will break. You sit to meditate and some beautiful maiden dances by; some couple passes, hand in hand. More than once you will wonder whether you have reached heaven—are these apsaras? You will rub your eyes to see what the matter is: am I still alive? These Menakas, these Urvashis!

But this is good. Thus you have discovered your truth. What is suppressed within you—that is the truth. What lies on the surface is false; it is only an arrangement to cover the truth, a bandage—a wound covered with a flower. Accept your truth. Do not deny it. You have been denying it your whole life; that is why it still haunts you. Accept it. There is nothing wrong in it.

It is astonishing: you feel no shame seeing a beautiful rose; no guilt at dawn when the sun rises; no objection when birds sing. But when you see a beautiful woman, why do you object? And if appreciation of beauty arises in you, where is the sin? The one who made the rose made that beautiful woman too—and the handsome men as well. The same brush paints all these plays: the sun at dawn, the sunset at dusk, the nights filled with stars.

I will not tell you to close your eyes on seeing a beautiful woman. I will tell you: begin to see in the beautiful woman the brushstrokes of the Divine. She too is his artwork. In the beautiful woman’s throat it is he who sings—the one who sings from the throat of birds. The call of the cuckoo is the beauty of the beautiful woman. Why do you create this division? But for centuries you have been taught: “This is sin.”

“This is sin”—that notion is wrong. Nothing is sin. It is natural. It would be unnatural if a beautiful woman passed and no thought arose in you. Are you a stone or a man? Feeling must arise; poetry should awaken; the veena of your heartstrings should resound; some string must be plucked. But here is the difference between the religious and the irreligious: every beauty will remind the religious person of God, and it will make the irreligious person forget God.

Right now you are irreligious. Your name is Ishwaranand, but you are irreligious. On seeing beautiful women you say, “My good thoughts—Vedanta and nirvana—were all lost.” On seeing beauty, gratitude toward the Divine should arise: he created such a beautiful world; what great grace, what compassion! He gave you eyes—to see color, to see beauty; ears—to hear sound, to hear music; hands—to touch. Why are you so frightened? God was not afraid to give you all this, yet you are trying to raise yourself higher than God! That of which God was not afraid, your mahatmas are making you fear. Your mahatmas are all against God.

I am not against God; I am against your mahatmas. What is the problem? If a beautiful woman appears, look at her attentively. Why close your eyes then? If you force them shut—clench them tight—what will happen? Inside that beautiful woman will go on reverberating; she will become even more beautiful, and you even more sickly. That false eye‑closure has no value.

But we hear stories that Surdas gouged out his eyes on seeing a beautiful woman. What kind of thing is that! If Surdas did that, I can never forgive him. Gouged out his eyes on seeing beauty! What will happen by gouging out your eyes? Do you think blind men attain celibacy? Then blessed are those born blind! Stop pitying the blind—pity yourself. Great is God’s grace that he created the blind, because they are celibate already! A blind man does not become celibate. The man who tears out his eyes is only announcing that within him desire is fiercely ablaze; he is frightened, terrified. Lust is within—what will plucking out eyes do? Even if you bandage them tight, dreams will keep arising within. And lust will become more distorted and intense, because there will be no outlet left.

I am not in favor of repressing your lust. I am in favor of transforming it. I want your simple, ordinary, natural life to be accepted—without any prohibition anywhere. And into this simple life, slowly let prayer enter, let the Divine’s grace enter, let meditation enter.

What is the obstacle? Is meditation done only with closed eyes? It can happen while looking at a beautiful woman too. While looking, you can become absorbed in meditation. A beautiful woman can serve as a statue for meditation—and a beautiful man as well.

I am an advocate of life’s transformation. But until now you have been repressing; that is why you are facing obstruction here. Whoever comes here with repression will face obstacles. Then they take their revenge on me. They feel I am spoiling people. They feel I have spoiled them. Just as your Vedanta slipped away, your nirvana slipped away, you may get angry: “What kind of man is this? What kind of ashram? My Vedanta, my nirvana—all slipped away!” You will vent your anger on me, abuse me, and go tell people that place is not right.

The truth is: all your life you have been doing the wrong thing, and you have now recognized it. Be grateful—give thanks. There is still time. Transformation can still happen.

But there is no one to jolt you awake. Those to whom you go—your sadhus and saints—are worse off than you. They have repressed more than you.

Mulla Nasruddin was sitting with his wife in a garden. Evening fell, the sun set, stars appeared. Behind a nearby bush a young man and woman were making great love. Deep words were flowing. The two sat silently listening. At last the young man said, “I cannot live without you; I will die. You are my life, you are my breath! You are my poetry, you are my soul! If I gain you, I gain all; if I do not, all is lost. I ask for marriage—accept me. I am nothing, unworthy; but look at my love, recognize my soul!”

Mulla’s wife nudged him: “Cough—clear your throat—warn him! The boy is getting trapped.”

Mulla said, “To hell with the boy! Who warned me? Why should I warn anyone? When I was saying these same foolish things to you, no ‘bastard’ coughed or cleared his throat. He will suffer—let him. As you sow, so shall you reap. He is sowing his crop now; we are also sitting quietly, listening—fine, you will harvest your crop.”

Those to whom you go—no one warned them; why would they warn you? They are rotting, decaying. Seeing you, they are pleased: “You rot too, son, you decay too. O Ishwaranand, you too go to hell where we lie! Why wander here and there?” They will teach you: Whenever such thoughts arise, suppress them at once—quash them right there. At the very beginning, start chanting Ram‑Ram, turn the rosary. Read mantras loudly—Gayatri, Namokar. Create such a din inside that the thing that was arising remains pressed down. Fill the inside instantly with ‘good thoughts.’ Pounce on it. Do not delay—because if you delay a bit, the ‘bad’ thought may overpower you. Fall upon it with “Wahe Guruji ki fateh, Wahe Guruji ka Khalsa!” “Sat Sri Akal!” Do not let it go—because if you give it the slightest chance it will catch hold and won’t let go. So finish it right at the start.

Those you go to will advise you like this. I will tell you: No. Whatever thoughts are arising inside you—your Vedanta was false, your nirvana was false—the thoughts arising now are the true ones. Let them arise. Observe them. Ishwaranand, sit in witnessing and watch them. Stop condemning. If you condemn, you cannot be a witness. How can you witness something you have already judged as wrong? To be a witness, impartiality is essential. With neutrality, see: these thoughts are arising—fine. If the Divine has given them, there must be some purpose.

And there is a purpose—and a great one! The purpose is that you see these thoughts, wake up, become the seer. Not repression—witnessing. And as witnessing grows dense within you, you will be amazed: as witnessing thickens, these thoughts begin to dissolve—without being suppressed. And when something changes without suppression, the joy is different, the beauty different, the grace different, the fragrance different. Just by watching, slowly you will find: the mind has become quiet; all thoughts have gone—of wealth, of sex, of greed, of anger—gone. You have awakened. These run only in sleep. And when they all go, then you will understand their purpose. Their very purpose was to awaken you. Without them you would never have awakened.

Understand it like this: you have to get up at five in the morning to catch a train, so you set the alarm. Though you set it yourself, when it rings at five it feels awful. I know people who have smashed their clocks—and quickly silenced the alarm and rolled over to sleep again. Then at eight they get up and regret: “We missed the train.” But at that time they are angry with the wretched alarm—as if the alarm were at fault! You set it yourself, then slept—and got angry at it.

All these thoughts running in you, Ishwaranand, are like an alarm. Because of them you will awaken; otherwise there is no way. Their sting will awaken you. Because of them you will become a witness; otherwise, why would you?

If there were no problem, there would be no need for a solution—no need for samadhi. These problems have been given by the Divine; they are challenges. Accept them with courage. Do not run. Do not be a deserter. Do not repress, do not hide. Let them come face to face. And if you have come here with courage, then know this is the one place where there is no reason to suppress anything. I accept you as you are. I honor you, I welcome you, I respect you—as you are. Unconditionally. I place no condition that only if you become such and such will you be respected. Learn to respect yourself as you are. If the Divine has made you this way, there must be some secret. If not today, tomorrow you will know.

Keep calmly watching all the processes within. Sometimes you will forget witnessing; sometimes you will be swept away by a thought, become absorbed. Sometimes identification will happen. When remembrance returns, stand again as the watcher. When it is lost, let it be lost. Do not repent. Do not fill yourself with guilt.

Guilt is profoundly irreligious, because once guilt arises, self‑contempt begins; one starts to see oneself as low and mean. How will such a person ever understand “Aham Brahmasmi”? How will he understand Vedanta? How will he understand nirvana? How will he see that Buddha dwells within, that the capacity for Buddhahood is within? It is impossible for him.

The first thing: drop the guilt your priests have given you. Nothing is bad. Everything is beautiful. As it is, it is beautiful in every limb. I call this acceptance astikta—true theism.

I have heard: in a village there was a donkey—very theistic. Donkeys are often theistic. His specialty was that his owner took him around, and whatever you asked—“Is there God?”—he would nod yes. “Is there a soul?”—he would nod yes. “Is there a hereafter?”—yes. “Rebirth?”—yes. People gave the owner money: “Wonderful! Even people don’t know such wisdom, such Vedanta—and this donkey knows so much!” The owner had taught him only to nod. He would always ask the sort of questions where saying “yes” showed faith.

A crowd had gathered. People were listening to this Vedanta. The donkey was performing wonders; money piled up. People said, “He isn’t a donkey; he is a mahatma fallen from yoga in a past life—a great yogi!”

Nasruddin was standing there. He said, “I too want to try something. Let me whisper in his ear—and then let me see him nod yes.”

The owner agreed—he knew the donkey would nod anyway. He didn’t know what Nasruddin would say. Nasruddin whispered in the donkey’s ear; the donkey immediately shook his head no—absolutely not! The whole crowd was startled; the owner was shocked. “Brother, tell us—what did you ask?”

He said, “I asked, ‘Will you get married?’”

…“He won’t!”

Even a donkey has that much sense! Though he was theistic, he had that much intelligence. There is a kind of theism that is donkey‑like—just the habit of saying yes. And there is a theism that comes from search, from discovery. One is learned—mere head‑nodding; any donkey can do it. The other is born of self‑experience.

I stress experience, not belief. I do not say: believe what I say. I say: experiment with what I say. If through experiment you come to experience, only then accept. Accept your experience, not my words. What is the value of my words? Who knows—I might be deceiving, I might be speaking untruth, I might have my own purposes. There is no need to trust me. Why should I ask you to trust me? Because what I tell you is validated by experience, I say: you too can experience. And if I could, you can. I am a person just like you; you are a person just like me.

Ishwaranand, the troubles you have—I had the same. The bliss that is mine can be yours. There is not the slightest difference. We are all born with the same capacities. God has been a communist since ancient times—always a communist. He gives everyone the same endowments. Some come to experience them; some never touch them, let them lie there—they rot, they gather rust.

Do not cling to belief. Vedanta will come—through experience. Nirvana will come—through experience. But first you will have to pass through this mire. Lotuses will bloom—but first you must pass through the mud. You want to avoid the mud and still have lotuses? That cannot be. You pay the price by passing through the mud—then lotuses bloom. It is in the mud that lotuses blossom.

You ask, “Please show me a way.”

Witnessing is the only way.

Prashant Yogi! What happened was not wrong. This is precisely the sign of an intelligent, reflective person. I am not asking you to be blind; I am asking you to be discerning. I don’t tell you to believe; I tell you: doubt to your heart’s content! If there is any truth in what I say, even breaking through all your doubts, it will reach your heart—it is bound to.

So don’t think you made a mistake. Don’t say, “Forgive me.” You committed no error; why would I forgive? My blessings. What you did is right. The mark of discrimination is that one does not accept everything indiscriminately.

And remember, Prashant, whatever we accept without any reflection has no value. It is emasculated, impotent. What we accept after doubting and doubting—what we have to accept despite our doubts—that has strength. It has life. It has energy.

Good that for a moment you felt: perhaps this is hypnosis! If you are thoughtful, you should feel that. And in the very next moment you realized: there is no question of hypnosis here. No one is hypnotizing anyone. People are swaying in their own ecstasy. Had the first doubt not arisen in you, perhaps the second happening—the ecstasy—would not have occurred; you would have missed it.

I see this again and again. Here there are Indian friends and non-Indian friends. The Indian friends’ faith is formal. They have learned it with birth. When they come to me, whether they have reverence or not, they will bow, they will touch the feet. Touching the feet is like saying namaskar, or like people on the phone saying “hello.” It carries no meaning, no purpose. It has become a habit.

When I was small, wherever my father took me, if there was any elder, he would tell me, “Touch his feet.”
I would say, “Because you say so, I’ll touch them. Otherwise my own inclination is to give him a good slap. I know this man very well. If you say so, fine. He’s a thorough cheat.”
He would say, “Be quiet! This is not to be said in front of everyone. Say it at home.”
So I said, “Then don’t tell me like this—to touch the feet of this one and that one, of anyone and everyone! Why should I touch anyone’s feet? If someone seems to me worthy of having his feet touched, I certainly will—but I know this person well; I will not touch his feet. Because you say so, I will touch them, but remember, only because you said it. I am not touching; I have nothing to do with it.”

They would take me to the temple: bow down, pay your respects! I would say, “It’s only a book kept there…” Because in the family I was born into, there is no idol in the temple—only the scripture. I would say, “Why salute this book? It’s paper, a little ink, a binding, fine. We have plenty of books at home; if bowing is the point, we’ll bow there. What need to come so far to the temple?”

But they would tell me, “When you grow up you will understand.”
I said, “Let me understand a little now—if only a little—then by and by, growing up, I will understand more. But if I don’t understand at all now, when will understanding begin?”

Once they took me to a Jain monk; of course my father bowed, and I stood straight. The Jain monk looked at me with great anger, and my father said, “Bow down, pay respect.”
I said, “I would have bowed, but the way this man has looked at me—now even if you say it, even if the whole world says it—my bowing is another matter; I would not allow this man to touch my feet. I’ve now met him! While you were touching his feet, the way he looked at me—his eyes are the way rascals look!”

“Do you understand the word luchcha?” Luchcha comes from the same root as alochak—from lochan, the eyes. One who gapes and gawks—who ogles—is called luchcha.
I said, “Don’t be offended. And tell these venerable monk-maharaj not to be offended. Luchcha means one who stares and stares. That is why he’s called luchcha. When a man leers at a woman, we say, ‘He is a luchcha!’ Luchcha means an ogler—turning the eyes into tools to bore into you.”
I said, “This man is absolutely luchcha! And he’s wearing glasses too—double eyes—and the way he looked…”
After that they never took me to any Jain monk. They said, “You are not fit to be taken anywhere; I end up humiliated.”
They hurriedly took me home: “Come, let’s go. This is the last time; now we are not taking you anywhere.”

People bring people to me. Women come. Their children don’t want to touch the feet, they grab them by the neck and force them. I say, “What are you doing?… ‘Touch, touch—touch his feet!’” The child stiffens and the mother presses him down. In this way, pressing like this, one day the poor fellow will start touching; it will become a habit. There is no value in it.

Indians come, they touch the feet; it is formal. People come from the West; there is no custom of touching the feet there. For them, touching the feet is very hard, very difficult. But when a Westerner touches the feet, the feeling is worth seeing. Because he does it only when something arises in his very life-energy to do it—when his very being agrees—never out of formality. Out of an innermost longing. Out of a joy. Out of a feeling of ah!

Prashant, you are a thoughtful young man. It was natural that for a moment you felt, “Am I being hypnotized?” There is no need to feel guilty about it.

Never, for any reason, feel guilt with me. Let doubts arise—no problem. I have attained truth by doubting and doubting. So I can never call your doubt bad. I have not found truth through belief. I have not found truth through faith. I have found truth by doubting in every way, to the ultimate. Therefore all your doubts are welcome to me, accepted.

Do not ask forgiveness. Good that it happened. And then afterward, when understanding dawned on you by itself, an ecstasy descended. If you had gone on swaying in the Indian way… Indians have learned to imitate. If four people are swaying, they too start swaying. I see it every day: one Indian will do something, and the next Indian will do the same. If one Indian comes and pulls out a ten-rupee note and puts it on the feet, the next one coming for darshan behind him also hurriedly begins to take out money. Because perhaps this is the rule; this must be done. What must be done must be done.

Your so-called saints and mahatmas arrange this. They plant two or four agents. One pulls out a hundred-rupee note and offers it. Two or four agents in the crowd keep offering notes, and the rest go on imitating them. Because when so many notes are being offered, then it must be offered; otherwise there will be doubt about faith, doubt about being a theist.

With me there is no opposition between being theist and atheist. Tie this firmly in your mind. Atheism is the staircase to the temple of theism. He who reaches the temple of theism by climbing the staircase of atheism—his theism has a different sharpness, a different luminosity. In his theism there is a consciousness, a knowingness.

Good, Prashant Yogi; neither ask forgiveness nor harbor the feeling, “What happened?” “I had surrendered everything—then why did doubt arise?”

However much you surrender, doubt will go only by going. Why do you surrender? You surrender so that doubt may go. Doubt is there—that is why surrender is needed. It will not go merely because you surrender. Surrender is only your message that “I am now preparing to drop doubt.” But it will drop only by and by; the thing will crystallize only gradually. But you are on the right path. Deepen this ecstasy.

Do not take on guilt, otherwise the ecstasy will be broken.

My sutra is joy, not guilt. If you keep going like this, one day you will be gone; surrender will be complete. In the beginning there is only the feeling of surrender; then slowly completeness comes. Slowly the ego will go, the mind will go.

Prashant Yogi, remember the famous words of Gorakh:
Die, O yogi, die—this death is sweet.
Die the death by which Gorakh beheld.

Die, says Gorakh! What death is he speaking of? The ego dies. The doubt dies. But first it must live; only then can it die. If it has never lived, what on earth will die?

First one has to learn doubt. First one has to hone doubt, the way one puts an edge on a sword. First the ego has to be made strong, nourished. Only then one day this understanding arises: now the moment has come to drop it; now the moment has come that it has become a burden; now the moment has come that it has begun to cut my very life—it is a sword that has begun to cut me. In that moment all falls away. You don’t even have to drop it—it drops.

The death of the mind is meditation. The death of the mind is sannyas.

For today, the sannyas you have taken, Prashant Yogi, is only a resolve to journey. For now you have merely pushed off from this shore. You still have to cross midstream. The far shore is distant; it is not yet even visible. You have not yet arrived. You are still tied to this bank. For now you are only untying the ropes—one by one they will have to be undone. Then the oars will have to be lifted. Then storms and tempests will have to be faced. But he who has had the courage has certainly attained.

There is no injustice in this universe. The divine gives, according to one’s capacity, exactly to the measure of one’s effort. Jesus has said: Ask, and it shall be given. Knock, and the doors shall be opened.

Prem Chaitanya! You’ve taken on a very difficult task. You will find God sooner; finding a girlfriend is far more difficult. And as long as you haven’t found one, count yourself fortunate. Once you do, you’ll come saying, “Osho, bless me—how do I get out of this now!”

A psychologist once went to visit a madhouse. The superintendent stopped by one cell and said, “See this lunatic?” Inside, a madman was clutching a photograph to his chest, tears pouring down like a monsoon. He was weeping, calling out, “Oh beloved, where are you? When will you come? It’s been so long. How long must I call, how long must I search?”
The superintendent said, “He neither eats nor drinks—he’s skin and bones; he just holds this photo.”
The psychologist asked, “Whose photo is it?”
He replied, “His girlfriend’s—and he never got her. In that grief he went mad.”
Then they stopped at a second cell. There a man was tearing at his hair and banging his head against the wall. “What happened to this one?” the psychologist asked.
The superintendent said, “That same woman who didn’t marry the first fellow—she married this one. Since then he’s gone mad. His condition is even worse.”

You say, “For nine years I’ve been searching for a girlfriend—one who can make the world and meditation one!”
Has that ever happened before? Will it ever happen? You’re out to make the impossible possible? It doesn’t happen.

A man searched all his life for a perfect woman. When he was dying someone asked, “Did you find her, the one you searched for all your life?”
He said, “Why not? Two or three times I did come upon such a woman.”
“Then why did you remain unmarried?” he was asked.
“What could I do? She was searching for the perfect man!”

You’re looking for such a girlfriend, but she too will be looking for a perfect lover. Will she be satisfied with you? Impossible! If you were perfect, why would you be searching for a girlfriend? And if she were perfect, why would she be searching for you? Perfection means there is no more search, nothing left to gain.

You’re fortunate you haven’t found one. Otherwise, one usually does.

Mulla Nasruddin was bragging grandly about his hunting exploits. He also claimed he knew how to make different calls to lure different animals—it makes hunting easier. “For instance, to call a deer, make a certain sound and any nearby deer will come running.”
A friend asked, “All right, and if you wanted to call a lioness, what sound would you make?”
Mulla immediately let out a special kind of roar. Instantly the sitting-room door flew open and Mulla’s wife, Guljaan, came out and said, “What is it? Today you’re making an unbearable racket! If you make even a bit more noise, I’ll swallow you whole!”

You say, Prem Chaitanya, that you’ve been searching for nine years. That’s quite an austerity. In nine years people cross nine worlds. In nine years nine chakras open. In nine years the thousand-petaled lotus opens. And you’re searching for a girlfriend! And such a girlfriend, who will make the world and meditation one! She’ll grind it all into dust.

Great is God’s grace upon you that you’re searching and still not finding. You must have the merit of past lives.

Now you say, “Bless me that I may get such a girlfriend, and until I do, I don’t force anything!”
What forcing are you going to do! The only fear is that some girlfriend may force herself on you. People often think they’re doing the forcing; they’re mistaken, deluded.

Mulla Nasruddin and his wife were at breakfast, arguing—as what else do husbands and wives do! His wife said, “Remember this always: you chased me; I didn’t chase you.”
Nasruddin said, “That’s true, because a mousetrap never runs after a mouse. The mouse, foolishly, gets trapped on its own.”

What forcing will you do? You won’t need to. If some woman’s eye falls on you… In fact, it’s surprising you’ve stayed safe for nine years. You must have some virtues that women keep their distance. Otherwise you would have fallen into someone’s net long ago; someone or other would have caught you by the neck. Now that you’ve remained safe this long, thank God!

And now think only of meditation—why worry about a girlfriend! In so much time, so much could have happened! Why go looking for small things? And if, after meditation, a girlfriend does come, there’s no danger. Before meditation, if a girlfriend comes, there’s great danger—she won’t let you meditate, remember. You’ll sit to meditate and she’ll jostle you. She won’t let you read the newspaper; how will she let you meditate! She won’t let you get mixed up in such things at all.

People keep running away from home, wandering here and there; they sit late at the office. Even when there’s no work they keep shuffling files, finding one excuse after another—anything to avoid going home!

A girlfriend won’t let you meditate. A girlfriend competes with anything. If you play the veena, she’ll break the veena—because it becomes her competitor: “While I’m here, and you have the nerve to play the veena! While I’m here, you sit with eyes closed in vipassana! While I’m here, you read the newspaper! I’m still alive, not dead! Give your attention to me; don’t take it anywhere else.”

You, Prem Chaitanya, first settle your meditation; then if a girlfriend comes, it will be fine. First anchor meditation, then she won’t be able to spoil anything. And after meditation, if a girlfriend comes, she will come to a meditator—and a girlfriend who prefers a meditator might even be able to harmonize.

In my view, everyone’s first task is meditation; then all other things. For the one whose meditation is established, everything else in life settles on its own.

Enough for today.