Udio Pankh Pasar #9

Sahajanand! Whether idols, delusions, or concepts—these are all different facets of the mind. With these very bricks the prison of the mind is constructed. Only by removing the bricks one by one can you enter the state of no-mind. Whatever you believe, whatever you worship—everything will have to be taken away from you. It feels harsh. It hurts. Wounds happen. The cowardly run away; only the courageous can remain with me. And it is not a question of whether your concept is right or wrong. No concept is right. Concept means wrong. Concept means: you have believed what you have not known. What you have not experienced, not encountered, not realized—you have adopted it: out of fear, out of greed, out of conditioning, out of society, out of convenience, out of consolation. Because it was taught since childhood. Because it was repeated again and again. Because it has had centuries of propaganda. Then you begin to think these concepts are yours, and you become so entangled with them that their breaking feels as if you are breaking. Panic arises, restlessness arises—as if someone pulled the ground from beneath your feet.

But the very work of the true Master is to take away all your supports. Why? Because only when you become supportless will you receive the support of the Divine. As long as you have your own props, the support of God cannot reach you. Become without any crutch, and that supreme support is found. When you are empty of all concepts, then you are filled by Him. Your emptiness is your eligibility to receive Him. Your pot must be empty; only then can His nectar fill you. You are so full—and full of rubbish! Do not think that because you have adorned yourself with beautiful words, how can they be called rubbish? You have memorized the Gita, you remember the Quran, you know the Bible. Naturally you think—and it seems logical—that these noble aphorisms of the Gita, these lovely verses of the Quran, these wondrous utterances of the Bible—how can they be junk? In Krishna’s mouth they were not refuse. On Krishna’s tongue they were nectar. In your hands they have become junk; the moment they come to you, they turn into garbage.

Truth cannot be transferred. And this is precisely the delusion of concepts. One who has known—when he speaks, he does not utter mere words; behind the word stands his meaning. The word has a soul. The word has life. And when you repeat that same word it is lifeless, a corpse. Corpses decay. When there is life, the body does not rot; when the soul is within, the body stays fresh—it refreshes itself day after day. In the same way, words decay when there is no soul of meaning in them. And from where will you bring the soul of meaning? You have no experience. The words that are so sweet on Krishna’s lips become utterly futile on yours. The words are the same, a hundred percent the same; but you are not the one Krishna is. And if this illusion breaks, you yourself will drop all concepts; there will be no need to make you drop them.

But even if you drop one concept, instantly you grab another. If a theist drops the concept that God exists, instantly he grasps another concept—that God does not exist. That too is just as much a concept. You had no experience of the first; you have none of the second. The atheist thinks he is right, because he has dropped the theist’s concept: “I have not experienced God, how can I believe?” But have you experienced the non-existence of God? You have believed that too. You discarded the Gita and the Quran, and accepted Karl Marx’s Das Kapital. No difference at all. One book went, another book came to hand. You change books. A Hindu becomes a Christian, a Christian becomes a Hindu—nothing changes. Whether you go to a temple or a mosque, you remain you. You will defile the mosque too; you have been defiling the temple. Wherever you go, you will carry your filth.

I want you to become conceptless. Neither theist nor atheist. Neither Hindu nor Muslim. Gather the courage to say: I do not know—so what can I say? I am neither a disbeliever nor a believer. When I do not know, what belief and what disbelief?

If you accept your ignorance, the first ray of revolution will descend into your life. Because to accept ignorance means the death of the ego. It is the ego that does not allow you to accept ignorance. You escape from here, it traps you there; you escape from there, it traps you here.

One day Mulla Nasruddin was standing in a bus queue. He said to the man standing next to him, “What times have come! Look at this boy standing in front—what clothes he is wearing; he looks exactly like a girl.”
“Sir, that is my daughter,” the man said.
“Oh, forgive me!” said Nasruddin. “I did not know. How was I to know that you are her father?”
“What nonsense are you talking!” the man said. “I am not her father; I am her mother!”

Even if you change the concept, you will still be you; nothing will really change. You used to make one mistake, you will make another. Who will balance the arithmetic?

I have heard of a professor of mathematics who was very absent-minded. While solving a problem on the blackboard in class, he would forget where he began and what the problem was. Before the answer came, he would forget the statement. So the problem would be one thing and the answer something else. The boys would laugh and clap; it was very embarrassing. One day he came fully determined that whatever happens today, he will bring the correct answer. So, before starting the problem, he flipped the book to the back and looked at the answer. Keeping the answer in mind, he set up the problem. The answer also came out correct. Still, the boys clapped; still they laughed. Today he was very angry. He said, “Keep quiet, you ill-mannered fellows! Today the answer is absolutely right.”
The boys said, “The answer is right, but it is the answer to another problem. We saw you turning the book to the back; we saw that too. But you are doing the fifth problem—this is the answer to the sixth.”

From this side a man will save himself; on that side he will get entangled. An absent-minded man—he will forget again.

Your mind is restless, agitated, full of anxieties. Such a mind has no capacity to know truth. This mind must become quiet, free from anxieties. This mind must descend into the silence of thoughtlessness. When this mind disappears, then what you will know will not be a concept; it will be an experience. And for that experience all your concepts will have to be broken.

And many times it causes me pain, because I am breaking that concept of yours which I know is not false. But my knowing is my knowing. Still, it has to be snatched away from you. And there is only one way to snatch it: to tell you it is wrong—otherwise you will not let go. With that trust I go on saying it is wrong, that when you come to know, then you will understand why I had said it was wrong, why I wanted to take it away from you. If I say it is right, you will cling to it to your chest even more tightly. I call it wrong, and still you do not let go; if I call it right, then you are never going to let go. Then it will become impossible.

I’ll deal with him—don’t you worry! If there’s a bow-bearing Ram to handle, I’ll see to it. I will have to deal with many. The moment I slip this earth, who knows how many I’ll have to face! Archer Ram included. But you don’t take any anxiety. As for you, I’m going to take everything away. I’ll keep stripping you; the more willing you are, the more I will take.

I don’t tell you to renounce the world, I tell you to drop the mind. How will you drop the mind? If you keep clutching your beliefs, the mind won’t go.

Sahajanand, you said rightly that I am a breaker of concepts. An idol too is a concept—therefore I am an iconoclast. What is an idol? An idea imposed upon a stone. Sit a stone by the roadside, smear it with vermilion, offer two flowers, crack a coconut, and begin to chant with closed eyes. You’ll be amazed: whoever passes by will bow down. In a little while someone will come to offer flowers. Then someone will come to light incense. Soon someone will arrive to make a vow: “If I have a child, O Hanumanji, I will do such-and-such!”

A Sufi fakir once stayed in a village. One man served him devotedly. When the fakir was about to leave, he gave that devotee his donkey—the one he rode during his travels. The devotee was overjoyed: the fakir had nothing else; this was his only donkey. And surely this donkey couldn’t be an ordinary donkey—the donkey of an accomplished fakir must itself be accomplished! So he treated the donkey with great reverence. Then the donkey died, and he wondered what to do. “It’s the fakir’s donkey, an accomplished donkey, a siddha donkey!” So he built a samadhi for it. No sooner was the shrine ready than people began to come—someone offered flowers, someone lit incense, someone offered money! The man was poor. He thought, “This is a fine enterprise!” By evening he felt, “This is working out.” In five to seven years a large temple had risen around the shrine.

Ten years later the fakir returned to the village. He asked, “There used to be a devotee of mine here—where is he?” People said, “He himself has become an accomplished fakir. Do you see that marble temple in the distance? That’s his. He’s very miraculous. And who knows which enlightened being’s samadhi he built there—he won’t reveal the secret. If anyone asks, he goes completely silent—keeps a vow of silence. He smiles and laughs but doesn’t speak. There’s some mystery. Offerings keep increasing; people now come from far and wide; every year there’s a fair. An urs is celebrated, qawwalis are sung. There’s a constant bustle. The village has come alive; the dust of this dead village has been shaken off. The whole village is benefitting.”

The fakir arrived and saw the marvel. He called his disciple aside and said, “At least tell me—whose samadhi is this?” The disciple said, “What’s the use of hiding it from you! That siddha donkey you gave me—what an extraordinary donkey! What a gift you bestowed! Luckily I was intelligent: if I had taken it merely as a donkey, I would have missed. I took it as a perfected being—and here is the fruit I enjoy today.”

The old fakir laughed. He said, “Indeed, it was a perfected being. Not only that—its father too was such a perfected being. After all, on whose samadhi do you think I sit? Its father’s! It runs in the family.”

It makes no difference if you paint a stone and sit it down. In the end, what are your idols—only stones! It also doesn’t matter what sort of delusions you nurture. These days I get letters almost daily from Africa. A new trouble has begun. I would rather not receive letters from Africa. But when people come from all over the world, how can Africa be spared? We can’t be spared from Africa either. We don’t answer such letters. I’ve instructed: don’t reply to Africa. Because the letters from there all say, “My wife is possessed by a spirit, a ghost; a witch has ensnared my child. We need an amulet, a mantra. Somehow I got your address, so I’m writing to you. You are our only hope now.”

In Africa, people are still living, so to speak, three thousand years in the past. There the business is still mantra-tantra, spells and sorcery. That is what religion means. There a religious teacher means a conjurer. If someone like Satya Sai Baba goes there, there will be a huge crowd, great fame. Even in looks they seem more African. Have you seen his hair? The intelligence too is African. There must be a share of Negro blood in the veins.

And these are not uneducated people—professors, doctors write letters saying the same thing: “Send an amulet, send a sacred necklace, send a mala; send some mantra; do something so the ghosts and spirits leave my house.” In someone’s house there’s a possession; in another’s, an enemy has cast a spell that needs to be countered. That is what religion means in Africa.

But even where such illusions have been shed, other illusions are cherished. It makes no difference which illusions you hold. Until you awaken, you will keep nurturing illusions. Until you awaken, you will keep dreaming. What you dream doesn’t concern me much; I don’t take it too seriously. I want to break your dreams. Whether you dream A or B or C—a dream is a dream.

Sahajanand, only if you can drop all your beliefs do you become my sannyasin, only then do you come close to me. The fewer your beliefs, the nearer you are to me. The day there is no belief standing between you and me, that day is the meeting.

Dharm Shraddha! Courage is complete in you. There is no lack of courage. Your trust is unique. Your feeling is total. You did not become a sannyasin out of formality; it happened from the heart. This surrender was not out of greed or fear. It is a flower of love.

But this nectar of the divine is such that however much you drink, there will still be more left to drink. However much you know, there will still be more left to know. Drinking this sweet elixir does not quench the thirst—it increases it. This is not your fault. Nor is it your helplessness. It is the very nature of this wine that by drinking it the thirst will increase, become more intense, and go on increasing. There is no end to it. That is why the divine is called the Infinite.

You say: “From this tavern, the more we drink, why does it feel the less it is?”
The more you drink, the more it will feel too little. Because the more you know, the more you will discover how infinitely much remains to be known. The ignorant feel, “We have known it all”; the wise feel, “What have we known? We haven’t even learned our ABC.” The ignorant feel, “We have reached the other shore”; the wise feel, “We have hardly left this shore—the other shore is not even in sight.” To tell you the truth, there is no other shore. Once you leave this shore, there is only midstream upon midstream. Then you enter the infinite, which has no shore anywhere.

Drink—drink to your heart’s content! But do not drink with the hope that there will be satiation. That which brings satiation is ordinary. That by which satiation never happens and the unslaked thirst grows denser—until one day you are nothing but thirst—only then know that your hand has knocked at God’s door; only then know that prayer has arisen, that the platter of worship is set.

Good is happening, Shraddha. There is no question of complaint in this. You may feel, “Perhaps I’ve formed a habit of complaining; that’s why I complain.” No, there is no question of complaint. Whoever drinks will have this experience. And at first it will feel just this way. It is also an auspicious sign to feel, “Perhaps the fault is mine—perhaps it is my lack of courage, perhaps a habit of complaint.” There is neither a lack of courage nor a habit of complaint. It is the very hallmark of the divine that the more we drink of it, the more there is to drink—more and more! One door of mystery opens, and more and more doors open. There is an endless chain of mysteries. Light one lamp, and then lamps upon lamps go on being lit! Then it is a whole Diwali. There is no end to this line. These lamps never come to an end. The divine is boundless, the divine is infinite—bottomless, immeasurable, unfathomable!

Shantiswaroop Bharti! Murder is bad, whosoever’s it is. Killing itself is bad. Destruction is adharma. So whoever did it is mad.

But for another reason too this murder was utterly futile: there was nothing in Nirankari Baba Gurbachan Singh that called for killing him. Those three bullets were wasted. If someone were to kill Krishnamurti, at least it would make some sense. To kill Baba Gurbachan Singh had no substance in it—sheer pointlessness. There was no life in the “issue.” Now, for no reason at all, this man has created an uproar by killing him—turning him into a martyr, a messiah. There was nothing of that sort. He was a decent man, not a bad one. If someone crucifies Jesus, that makes sense; if someone gives Socrates poison, that makes sense. But there is nothing in this Nirankari Baba that merits crucifixion or hemlock. Needlessly wasting poison! Needlessly giving the cross a bad name!

The killer was both deranged and foolish. And because of fools like this, who knows how many people in this world get worshipped for no reason at all. Now it will be hard to get rid of Baba Gurbachan Singh: otherwise he would have died in time, as everyone must, and been forgotten. But now forgetting will be very difficult. This madman has stamped a seal on him.

You say Baba did not criticize any religion. These are political manipulations; they are not the marks of a religious person. A religious person will speak the truth; if it criticizes someone, so be it; if it praises someone, so be it. A religious person will speak the truth. These are the calculations of political people. Like Mahatma Gandhi singing every day, “Allah and Ishwar are your names; O God, grant everyone good sense”—that was only a political hymn, not religion. All his life he said, “Allah-Ishwar tero naam,” but he called the Gita his mother; he never called the Quran his father. If there is a mother, there should be a father too. And when the bullets struck Gandhi, it wasn’t “Allah” that came from his lips, it was “Hey Ram!” What was hidden within—the Hindu conditioning—emerged. In that moment he forgot, “Allah-Ishwar tero naam.” At the moment of death, who remembers politics? Then conditioning speaks; the fixed disposition of the mind speaks.

All this is political trickery. If it were true that a religious person does not criticize, then when Buddha criticized the Vedas he would no longer have been religious; when Mahavira criticized Hinduism he would no longer have been religious; when Shankaracharya criticized Buddha he would no longer have been religious; when Muhammad criticized idol-worship—and all religions were idol-worshippers—he would no longer have been religious. Then why was Jesus crucified? Jesus criticized—deeply. He criticized the beliefs of the Jews as deeply as anyone could.

A religious person speaks truth. And truth is a flashing sword; it has an edge.

These are blunt people. They keep praising all religions, giving everyone their due—“You’re right, you’re right.” Their concern is to get as many disciples as possible. And now it’s obvious: everyone is already divided—where will you find new people? It takes great courage to find them. One is Hindu, one Muslim, one Christian, one Jain, Buddhist—how will you find someone who still belongs to no religion? So if you want to set up a new gurudom, where will you bring people from? Praise the Guru Granth, so a few Sikhs are ensnared; praise the Quran, so a few Muslims are caught; praise the Gita, so a few Hindus are caught. After all, people are divided; you have to bring them in from their shops.

Someone like me does a job very few will do. Only those can come to me who are truly ready to risk everything in search of truth. Because I’m not here to flatter anyone or to confer respectability. I am here to say what is true. If someone listens—fine; if no one listens—fine. If you are there—fine; if not, I will speak alone. What difference does it make? I will talk to the walls, but I will say what needs to be said. No compromise.

These are all compromisers—grin-and-please people. Wherever they go they stand there grinning: yes, yes, exactly, that’s the truth. A little praise of the Quran, a little of the Gita, a little of the Ramayana—they will praise everything. They are buttering you up. They are greasing your ego, saying, “Come, you too; your religion is also perfectly right.”

You say, “Baba did not criticize any religion.”
Critique is not condemnation; condemnation is not critique. But people take critique to be condemnation. How can I tolerate Ram having molten lead poured into a Shudra’s ears! I will criticize that strongly, whatever the price. It is wrong. Whether Ram did it or someone else, what difference does it make? I cannot accept it, because I have no politics to play.

Your so‑called Nirankari Baba are only political players, nothing more. I too oppose their being killed—but for a different reason: three cartridges were wasted; they could have gone to some worthwhile use. If you had to kill, at least kill someone worth killing. Why are you swatting flies? They aren’t even worth killing.

But the Sikhs were angry—naturally. This is something to understand. Gandhi was not killed by Muslims; he was killed by Hindus. Ask why. One would think Muslims should have killed him—that would be logical. But Muslims did not. Even in Noakhali, where Muslims were killing Hindus, Gandhi roamed unarmed, and they did not kill him—didn’t even throw a stone, let alone a bullet. Why? Because Gandhi was praising the Quran. If a Hindu praises the Quran, how will Muslims be angry? Their hearts were delighted. Muslims praise the Quran anyway; but a Hindu—this first Hindu, this Hindu Mahatma—was praising it! So Muslims did not kill Gandhi. Hindus did. Hindus will kill, because to them he is a turncoat, a deceiver: he is praising the Quran—while the Gita exists! While the Ramayana exists! The Vedas, the Upanishads exist—and he is praising the Quran!

Understand the simple point. Muslims feel good because a Hindu is praising their book; what could be better? It proves the Quran is superior. But Hindus feel hurt: one of our own is abandoning our books and praising the Muslims’ book—and praising the Bible—and singing the glories of Mahavira and Buddha!

In the Hindu scriptures there isn’t even mention of Mahavira—the neglect was so great they didn’t even mention him. Forget condemnation or critique. They didn’t grant even the respect due an enemy; at least they could have said, “You are wrong!”—they didn’t even say that. They simply ignored him, as if not worth two pennies. Buddha they condemned bitterly; for a thousand years Hindu scriptures were full of that condemnation.

Gandhi praised Mahavira—the Jains were thrilled. You’ll be surprised to know: as many Jains wore khadi in this country, no one else did; as many Jains spun the charkha, no one else did—because for the first time a Hindu Mahatma had endorsed their “ahimsa paramo dharmah,” declaring, “This is the true religion.” In proportion to their small numbers—only around thirty to thirty-five lakhs—the Jains went to jail more than anyone else. They danced with joy. For two, two-and-a-half thousand years no Hindu Mahatma had praised them. Praise? They hadn’t even been criticized. At least Gandhi gave them respect—and what respect!

Naturally the Jains were happy—but the Hindus were angry. The Muslims were pleased; the Christians were pleased—they even hoped to make Gandhi a Christian. They tried hard. There came a moment when Gandhi too began to think he should become a Christian. In Africa the missionaries wooed him—if a man praises Jesus so much, why not make him a Christian?

Gandhi acknowledged three as his gurus: one was a Jain—Shrimad Rajchandra, so the Jains were happy that a Jain ascetic had been accepted as Gandhi’s guru—and the other two were Christians—Tolstoy and Ruskin. The Christians were happy too. Not one Hindu among them. These were his three gurus: one Jain, two Christians.

Therefore Muslims did not murder him; Hindus did.

You’ll be surprised—I was born in a Jain household—and no one is as angry with me as the Jains are. Naturally, they hoped I would propagate their religion to the whole world. I poured water on their hopes. I have criticized them more than anyone else—for a clear reason: I know them more intimately than I know any others. I know their every fiber, every quirk. So naturally I have criticized them more than anyone else. To criticize, one must know; to praise, one need not know so deeply—praise can be superficial; but for critique you must go to the roots. So the Jains are more upset with me than anyone.

If the Akalis were angry with Baba Gurbachan Singh—if the Sikhs were angry—there was a reason. The reason was this: when Gurbani exists—the words of the ten Gurus are present, embodied in the Guru Granth Sahib—how can you, in its presence, give equal honor to other religions’ scriptures? Aren’t you ashamed? It is insulting! And most of his followers were Sikhs—he himself was Sikh—so he had ties with Sikhs. He had slowly been splitting the Sikhs. They felt: here, within us, is a traitor who is breaking our people away. The very “giving respect to all” that he was doing was the cause of Sikhs’ hurt, the Akalis’ hurt. That hurt sought revenge. This had nothing to do with religion per se.

In the Nirankari Baba’s discourses there is nothing that can be called valuable—worn-out sayings, the stale stuff that the line-followers of this country have always repeated. Not a single statement that is original, experiential, standing on one’s own realization. But he was skilled, clever, political—running his shop well. There was no need at all to kill him.

By killing such wrong people, we put them in the row of the right people. Now even someone like Shantiswaroop feels the throat of truth has been throttled. There was no truth; only a throat was throttled. Throttling a throat does not always mean truth’s throat has been throttled.

You ask, “His only fault was that he did not accept the Guru Granth Sahib as the final Guru-bani.”
That is precisely the fault. That is precisely what irked the Akalis—because every religion makes a claim. The Jains say, in one kalpa there are only twenty-four Tirthankaras. A kalpa means from one creation to dissolution—endless time. Only twenty‑four Tirthankaras. The twenty‑four have already been.

A group of Jains came to see me in Calcutta. They said, “With a person like you, our religion could become universal, reach every corner of the world.”
I said, “Very difficult—because you won’t be able to accept a twenty‑fifth Tirthankara.”
They said, “What do you mean—yourself?”
I said, “I am the twenty‑fifth Tirthankara!”
They said, “What are you saying! There can only be twenty‑four; twenty‑five is impossible.”
I said, “I say there can be twenty‑five. I myself am saying it; I am the twenty‑fifth! First think about that.”
After that I never saw them again. They wanted me to propagate Jainism worldwide, and a tiny thing—and I was joking. I have no desire to be the twenty‑fifth; when I can be the first, why be the twenty‑fifth! Am I mad to stand twenty‑fifth in a line? Even if they had agreed, I wouldn’t have. It was a joke. I have no taste for small jobs—why be the twenty‑fifth!

But they panicked, because “twenty‑four”—the Jains have shut the door.

This has been every religion’s device—the politics of religion. You have to shut the door; if you don’t, those who come later will make revisions. Suppose Mahavira is the twenty‑fourth Tirthankara and a twenty‑fifth comes—he will revise Mahavira. Two thousand years later, circumstances change, people change, concepts change, the world changes. How will he keep repeating Mahavira’s set lines? If he has any life, he will say something new—bring fresh insight, a new vision, new ways of living and being.

Mahavira said, “Do not eat at night.” I accept that it was right for the time. There was no electricity. Even today in villages where there is no electricity, people eat in the dark; not even a lamp—kerosene is scarce. Even the gods may long to visit India, but kerosene does not. In the dark, a moth can fall in, a lizard can fall in, bugs—anything. So Mahavira rightly said: no meals after sunset—scientific, healthful, sensible. But today it is meaningless.

I was a guest in the home of a big Jain magnate, Sohanlal Dugar—entire house air‑conditioned, soundproof: no flies, no mosquitoes. But once the sun set, no dinner. I said, “Are you crazy? Did Mahavira know there would be a man named Sohanlal Dugar living twenty‑five centuries later in a soundproof, air‑conditioned house? He would have said, ‘Brother, eat whenever you like—no flies, no mosquitoes.’ Why are you afraid?”
He said, “It’s a rule…What you say is right, but my conscience pricks; as long as possible, we keep it to daytime.”
I said, “There is more light in your house than in the sun.”

Then, when they seated me to eat, they began to fan me with a hand fan. I said, “Are you in your senses? Why are you fanning me? Will you let me eat?”
He said, “No, no—when a saint comes, it’s an old Rajasthani custom to fan him.”
I said, “It may be an old Rajasthani custom, but why are you fanning here? There’s electricity, air‑conditioning, everything is cool, soundproof. There’s no noise to drive off, no flies, no need of air—and you won’t even let me eat in peace—waving the fan in front of me!”
He said, “You speak rightly; you always speak to the point. But conditioning!”

If there were a twenty‑fifth Tirthankara today, he would make many differences. Mahavira did not know a Jain monk would have to walk on cement and tar roads. Walking barefoot on raw earth is one thing; on tar, entirely another. If he had known that, he would not have insisted on bare feet. Today a twenty‑fifth Tirthankara would say, “At least wear canvas shoes—no leather, no sin. What harm in canvas shoes? Stay naked if you must, but at least wear canvas shoes! And you’ll look good too: a mat hat in Japanese style, canvas shoes, and naked otherwise—a sight to see.”

One evening a couple knocked on Mulla Nasruddin’s door. Dusk. Mulla opened it just a crack. They peeked in and were shocked: Mulla stood stark naked—wearing only a tie. But what to do? To leave at once would be rude, and for Mulla to slam the door would also be rude. So Mulla said, “Come in, come in!” They had to step inside. The Indian wife hid behind her husband—what a mess we’ve walked into! The husband acted as though he hadn’t noticed Mulla was naked. “So, how are you?”—this and that—small talk. But the wife had only one concern: all this chatter—when will the real point come up? Finally she said, “Enough of this nonsense! First ask why he’s naked. If you won’t, I will. Why are you naked?”
Nasruddin said, “No one ever comes to see me at this time. And it’s hot. If I can’t be naked in my own home, whose home should I be naked in? It’s my father’s house, not someone else’s. I’ll live as I like. And no one comes at this hour anyway.”
The husband said, “All right, but then why the tie?”
Mulla said, “In case someone shows up by mistake—like you—at least wear something!”

If I were to give a Jain monk a prescription today, I’d say: canvas shoes, a mat hat; beyond that, roam naked—no problem—roam carefree.

So they had to stop the line with the twenty‑fourth Tirthankara. Similarly, the Sikhs had to stop with the tenth Guru—lest an eleventh come and make mischief. Muslims had to stop with Muhammad—the last prophet. Christians had to stop with Jesus—God’s only begotten son. God sent him once; the message was given; now there is no need. Everyone should walk according to that.

Every religion has had to do this—only so that no one born later could revise their tenets. Therefore, if the Nirankari Baba said the Guru Granth Sahib is not the final Guru‑bani, the Sikhs would be hurt—because their belief is that it is final. What God had to say, he said through the ten Gurus; it is all contained in the Guru Granth Sahib; there is nothing further to add. And if a Sikh says otherwise and incites and confuses Sikhs, they will object strongly. So the likelihood that a Muslim killed him is low; that a Hindu did so is low; that a Christian did so is low. The likelihood is that someone from the religion he was born into did.

The Jews crucified Jesus—no one else. Socrates was given hemlock by the Greeks—no one else. Gandhi was killed by Hindus—no one else. This is worth understanding. Why does it hurt those of the same religion? Because when your own turns against you—it is betrayal. To praise others, you must compromise to that extent!

Gandhi had to say, “The Quran also contains truth—the same truth as in the Gita.” Hindus cannot tolerate this. Muslims rejoice.

All this is political trickery. Gandhi needed the votes of both Hindus and Muslims, their alignment; both had to be behind him.

Nirankari Baba wanted Hindus, Muslims, Christians, Jains, Sikhs—so he had to honor everyone. But these are political ploys.

Jesus did not praise everyone—he praised truth. Buddha did not praise everyone. Mahavira did not. No true man, one who has known truth, will do politics; he will stake everything for truth. There are no tricks in it.

Therefore I do not consider the Nirankari Baba a worshipper of truth, Shantiswaroop. What has he to do with truth? It’s all a bazaar of lies. But you feel afraid: “In this way a worshipper of truth won’t be allowed to speak.” So—someone throttles a throat, and he becomes a worshipper of truth? That makes it very cheap. If you want to be a worshipper of truth, just arrange a throat‑throttler and you are one! And you’ll find plenty of fools to throttle; there’s no shortage of good‑for‑nothings. Don’t even look for them; they’ll still show up. Even if you try to avoid them, they will find you.

You ask how to be free of those who throttle truth. You can never be free of them; nor is there any need—no necessity. The very presence of truth is a revolution. Whenever truth appears, there will be turmoil—because most people live in untruth, so their lives are disturbed. People are asleep; truth wants to wake them. Who wants to wake up? No one. The sleep is sweet; the cool morning breeze is blowing; the dreams are pleasant—and you come to wake them! No one likes those who wake them.

Drop this worry, Shantiswaroop. And truth suffers no loss. Jesus being crucified did not harm truth. The danger is not that truth may be crucified; the danger is when, by mistake, the false is crucified. As now—this Nirankari Baba was shot. Now the danger is that, because he was shot, countless foolish people will think, “This must have been truth; otherwise why shoot!” Now a falsehood has received a certificate of truth. If truth is crucified, there is no loss—only gain—because then truth reverberates for centuries. The danger arises when falsehood is crucified.

As with Gandhi: he was shot. Now he sits upon India’s chest. It is hard to bring him down. India is dying, but Gandhi is hard to remove. Those who shot Gandhi also hang his picture—the Rashtriya Swayamsevak Sangh people. Earlier they hung Shivaji and Rana Pratap; now they hang Gandhi’s picture too. And to deceive people they made a new Janata—the Bharatiya Janata Party! There you will be surprised to see Gandhi’s photo, Jayaprakash Narayan’s photo. You won’t see Shivaji or Rana Pratap. In their hearts are Shivaji and Rana Pratap. They are all Jana Sanghis. But people wrinkle their noses at the name Jana Sangh. Gandhi’s name sells, so even Gandhi’s killers stand behind Gandhi’s name. They too become Gandhi’s devotees. They go to Rajghat and take oaths. They too claim Gandhi.

Now Gandhi is hard to remove. India is dying, rotting. A major reason is Gandhi sitting on its chest. Everyone could have clothes—but not from spinning wheels. Everyone could have bread—but not from village industries. Everyone could have houses and all amenities—as the whole world has. This is not only our problem. But they have come through science. And Gandhi was anti‑science—an enemy of science. He was against trains, against the telegraph, against the post office, against electricity. If Gandhi had his way, he would take you back to the time of Adam. He cannot take you that far, but he can at least keep you from moving forward.

It has been thirty years since India became free. China started on the path of progress ten years later, and today China has gone far ahead. The simple reason is that they don’t have a stone called Mahatma Gandhi on their chest. We are trying to swim with a stone tied to our chest. But how to drop it? The stone’s name—Mahatma Gandhi. And because Gandhi was shot, he became a worshipper of truth. Now it is hard to let go.

There is no danger if truth is crucified; the problem arises when the false is crucified. The same problem will now arise around this Nirankari Baba. Those who believed in him will go even more mad in their belief: There must have been some excellence—otherwise why a bullet! Any fool can fire a bullet. Does it require great intelligence to shoot? Do intelligent people shoot? Any dolt can. But that dolt has done his work. Now, because of that dolt, legends will be spun around the Baba. He has become a messiah.

I read an article in a newspaper: “The end of a messiah.” He became a messiah—because he was shot. Before the bullet, no one called him a messiah. All it took was a bullet.

This world is full of strange people. Their ways of grasping and recognizing things are strange.

I too oppose the shooting—but for a completely different reason. By shooting such people you keep increasing the burden on people’s chests. If you must shoot, then shoot someone of some stature—so that if his name remains for centuries, people will gain something from it. Where a needle would suffice, you swing a sword! You go to kill a bedbug carrying a gun! Use some intelligence! Who kills bedbugs with guns? And if you do, the bedbug becomes a saint—and people say, “The end of a messiah.”

Dharma Krishna! It all depends on you. On my side I’m doing my utmost. As much hammering as I can give you, I do. As many sticks on your head as I can rain, I rain. If sticks don’t make sense to you, I strike with a hammer too. I look at the patient—if the goldsmith’s touch will do, I become a goldsmith; if only the blacksmith will do, I become a blacksmith. A mallet if a mallet, a sledge if a sledge—whatever is needed. I don’t worry about that.

But there are some people so closed, so tightly closed, that it’s hard to find even a crevice in them. To enter inside is difficult.

Mulla Nasruddin phoned the doctor at midnight: “My wife has a severe pain in the stomach. Looks like the moment of childbirth has come—please come right now.” Midnight, rain, storm! The poor doctor got up somehow; the car wouldn’t start; after much pushing it finally started; he somehow reached. He went inside. Five minutes later he poked his head out the window and said to Nasruddin, “Nasruddin, do you have a hammer?”

Nasruddin was a little frightened—“A hammer!” He brought one. A minute or two later the clattering from inside continued. Nasruddin grew nervous: What is he doing with a hammer? Is the man in his senses? Has he been drinking? Is he a doctor or a veterinary doctor—what is this? Two minutes later the doctor came out again and said, “Brother, do you happen to have a saw?”

Nasruddin still said nothing; he brought a saw. Two minutes later the doctor came out again and said, “If you can find a big rock, bring that too.”

Nasruddin said, “That’s enough, Doctor! What on earth is the matter? What’s wrong with my wife?”

The doctor said, “Your wife doesn’t even arise as a question yet! My medical bag won’t open. Let me open my bag first; then I’ll examine your wife.”

There are many whose “bag” is so locked it just won’t open. Call for a hammer, call for a saw, bring a rock… In the end he thought, “Let’s smash the bag with a rock,” because the wife is in agony, screaming and shrieking. And Nasruddin is hearing her cries and the clatter from inside. He’s thinking, “What is the doctor doing? Is he hammering my wife, sawing her belly—what kind of operation is this?”

Here the neighbors have the same fear, because all kinds of sounds rise from the ashram. On someone a saw is being used, on someone a hammer. And here it’s not only a doctor’s bag that won’t open! First your box has to open; then anything else can be done. You have kept your box locked for centuries, for births upon births, through eighty-four million wombs; it has rusted so badly that opening it has become difficult. And the locks are so ancient that finding the key now is difficult.

From my side I do my best, Dharma Krishna. You say: Will we never understand what you say, or will that auspicious day also ever come?

If you stick around, it will come. It will have to come. After all, how long can it take? It’s only a box—we’ll break it open. We’ll put our blood and sweat into it, but we will break it. Every morning I get to work on breaking it. Every kind of device is employed here for the breaking. I also make you work at it so you break it from within while I break it from without.

But it is going to take time, because understanding… I will say one thing; you will understand another. That is natural.

Mulla Nasruddin had long been thinking of meeting Guljaan’s father, but couldn’t gather the courage. After many days he finally did, and said, “I want to marry your daughter.” The father looked Nasruddin up and down and asked, “But have you also met Guljaan’s mother or not?”

“Yes,” said Nasruddin, “I met her too—but I liked Guljaan more.”

Now what I will say and what you will understand—there is bound to be a gap.

Guljaan came running and said to Nasruddin, “Do something quickly—Munna has swallowed a ten-paise coin.” Nasruddin said, “Let him swallow it! What do you get for ten paise nowadays anyway? Even if we take it out, what will we do with it?”

In the same way one day he phoned the doctor: “My boy has swallowed my fountain pen—what should I do?” The doctor said, “I’m coming. It will take me half an hour.”

So Nasruddin asked, “But what should I do for that half hour?”

The doctor said, “What to do for half an hour? Write with a pencil till then—or use a ballpoint if you have one.”

Each person will go by his own understanding. You will hear me—but you will understand in your own way.

Nasruddin said anxiously, “Listen, Fazlu’s mother, by mistake Fazlu’s blanket slipped from my hands and fell from the balcony!”

Wife said to Nasruddin, “Oh no! What if Fazlu catches a chill now?”

Nasruddin said, “Don’t worry—Fazlu can never catch a chill. Fazlu is wrapped up in the blanket too.”

One night Nasruddin was saying to his wife, “Fazlu’s mother, there are many advantages to living in jail. One big advantage…”

His wife said, “What nonsense you speak! Advantages to living in jail! What advantage?”

Nasruddin said, “That no damned person wakes you at midnight to say, ‘Go see whether the back door is closed or open.’”

After his lecture Nasruddin said to the people, “Friends, if anyone has any questions, please write them on a slip of paper and send them up.” Only one slip came, on which nothing was written except: “Donkey!”

Nasruddin said, “Friends, some gentleman has sent up his name, but he has not asked his question.”

Dharma Krishna, I will keep trying. You also keep trying. In the trying and trying, perhaps the thing will click. And even if it doesn’t—what’s the harm? Eternity is available; in the next birth go on torturing some other Buddha. You’ve been doing just that all along anyway. Who knows how many Buddhas you have tormented! After all, Buddhas also need some work, don’t they? Otherwise whom would they liberate?

So a few of you please at least keep not understanding. However much I explain—even if it makes sense to you—don’t understand; the Buddhas-to-come also have to be taken care of.

Chandraprabhu! Be a brave man—men as brave as you are precisely what make India great! Blessed are you!

Since when did Indore become a part of Russia? What obstacle was troubling you in Indore? Who was putting a noose around your neck there? Who was chopping your head off? You found a nice way to hide your cowardice. This is what I mean when I say you hear only what you want to hear. In all these days you heard this one point: I said that in Russia my sannyasins live without mala and robes. Your heart danced: “Wonderful! That’s exactly what we were doing in Indore. If they can live like that in Russia, why not in Indore?”

But do you know, those sannyasins in Russia actually wanted to wear robes and mala; I forbade them. Did you ask me? For two years you hid like a coward. You neither informed me nor told anyone. If for two years you found you were not a sannyasin inside or outside, what was the need to hide? You could have simply said, “I am not a sannyasin.”

And what difficulty were you facing in Indore? Do you have any idea of Russia’s difficulties? Do you know that in Russia, if anyone is found doing the slightest thing contrary to the state ideology, that person simply disappears!

When Khrushchev came to power, he was addressing a meeting of communists. He was denouncing Stalin to his heart’s content—his lifelong suppressed resentment was pouring out. A man shouted from the back, “When Stalin was alive, why didn’t you speak? Then you kept flattering him your whole life! Now you are showing great courage!”

Khrushchev paused and said, “My brother, comrade—who are you? Please stand up. Let me see your face, and tell me your name.”

No one stood up; no name was given. Khrushchev said, “You see? As long as I am alive you cannot even stand up and tell your name. That was my condition too—just like yours. Had I spoken then, I would have been finished. If you speak now, you won’t reach home.”

In Russia it’s hard to say when someone will vanish right from his office. The walls have ears. A man cannot tell the truth even to his wife, because who knows—she may be a member of the Communist Women’s League. Parents cannot tell their children the truth, because the children are members of the Children’s Communist League. In the nation’s interest, everyone reports on everyone else. No one can speak to anyone.

Two Russians met on the road. One said, “Ah, what a beautiful car! Such beautiful cars are being made in Russia now!”

The other said, “This isn’t a Russian car. They don’t make cars this big in Russia—and you know that. It’s obviously an American car. Such big cars are not made in Russia. Don’t you have even that much sense?”

The first man said, “I also know where the car is made. What I don’t know is—who are you!”

Even saying as much as “This is an American car” is dangerous—you never know, the man may report you and you’ll be in trouble.

Three men were in jail. They asked one another, “Brother, what did you come in for?”

One said, “I was jailed because I reached the office late. They said I violated discipline. Why did I come late?”

The second said, “Outrageous! I was jailed because I reached the office early. They said, ‘You must be spying. Why did you come before time? You wanted to flip through some files, snoop around.’”

The third said, “Unbelievable! I was jailed because I reached exactly on time.”

The other two asked, “Then why were you jailed?”

He said, “They said, ‘You must have an imported watch. How else did you arrive exactly on time? A Russian watch could never keep accurate time!’”

You don’t know, Chandraprabhu, what the conditions in Russia are. That’s why I told them so. They wanted to wear robes. But what’s the point? There is no sense in getting them thrown into prison. If wearing the mala puts their lives in needless danger, the work will only suffer. They are meditating; their feeling is complete. Today they are agreeable—and the day I give the word they are ready to come out wearing the mala, whatever the consequences.

What trouble did you have in Indore? You are an outright coward! And you are dishonest too. Nor are you alone—there are many such dishonest people, and that’s why I am answering your question. Many are like this: when they come to Poona they wear ochre robes, they wear the mala; once they leave Poona, in the train itself they hide the robes and the mala. They reach their village in exactly the form in which they left; they won’t even let anyone know they are sannyasins.

That’s why I send Mridula from place to place, to see who is who… Because here you face no obstacle. And when you were never a sannyasin inside or out, what do you mean by “I returned my sannyas”? What was never there—what on earth are you returning? First there has to be something to return! There was no sannyas—so what did you return? Why had you kept the robes and the mala? So that when you come here you can deceive; you can strut as a sannyasin and take the benefits of being one.

Drop this cowardice! If you take sannyas, then be a sannyasin; if you don’t, there is no compulsion—no pressure on anyone. And Mridula spoke rightly that you can incur harm. But not because the compassion of a buddha turns into anger; rather, because your own dishonesty will throw you into pits. Your deceit itself… One who deceives even his master—what could be more degraded in this world! At least before me reveal yourself—as you are, in your nakedness, in your naturalness, in your simplicity; with whatever mistakes and lapses there are. If you cannot reveal yourself even before me, then where will you?

But you seem to be a very clever man. Instead of taking Mridula’s words to mean that you are being dishonest—which is wrong and will harm you—you twisted it to mean: can a buddha descend from compassion into the ravines of anger? A buddha neither comes nor goes; where he is, he is. Compassion and anger are words from your world; a buddha is beyond both. There is supreme stillness, supreme silence, supreme peace. There is the ultimate emptiness. Where the mind is not, these are only attributes of mind—anger and compassion, love and hate. All these dualities belong to mind. Where there is no mind, what duality?

But you can harm yourself with your own hands. You yourself will harm yourself. Hypocrisy is catching hold of you. I oppose hypocrisy so much—and even as my sannyasin you remain a hypocrite! This is hypocrisy: that here you show you are a sannyasin, and you return to Indore and show that you have nothing to do with sannyas.

I even know people who will read my books in hiding, who agree with me—but cannot say so in front of anyone. In front of others they will even denounce me. Not even that much courage!

And now you say: “Kindly shed light on my state of mind…” It is obvious—what more light is needed? It is darkness and only darkness.

Learn to be authentic in life. If not sannyas, then not—it is no loss. But authenticity must be there. There must be at least this much truthfulness. Even now you are using the name given in sannyas. Drop that name too. It does not suit you. Go back to your old name; that is right—Lallumal, Kallumal, whatever you were! Chandraprabhu is a very lovely name, don’t spoil it. I will give it to someone else; it will serve someone else. You have returned the mala, you have stopped wearing the robes—now why cling to this name? Let this go too. As you were, so be. “Punashch mushako bhava!”—become a mouse again.

You have heard the story of the mouse, haven’t you? The mouse, greatly troubled, recited the Hanuman Chalisa and devoted himself to Hanumanji. In the end, Hanumanji had to appear. He said, “Why, you son of a mouse, why are you after me? You are Ganesha’s vehicle—why harass me? Why don’t you talk to Ganesha?”

The mouse said, “Ganesha does not listen; he is always sitting right on my chest. How can any words come out? Such a heavy body—my breath is going out; where will words come from? That’s why I remembered you. Just this much kindness: make me a cat. I am tired of being a mouse. If Ganesha doesn’t torment me, then the cat does. If Ganesha lets me go, the cat falls upon me.”

To get rid of him, Hanumanji said, “All right—be a cat.”

Two days later, he was again reciting the Hanuman Chalisa, meowing loudly. Hanumanji appeared again: “Brother, what kind of fellow are you? Be at peace now!”

He said, “Being a cat won’t do. All the dogs in the neighborhood are after me. Make me a dog!”

“Fine—be a dog,” Hanumanji said, “but now leave me alone. I have other work to do. I have thousands of devotees; I must look after them.”

But two days later he was again reciting the Hanuman Chalisa, now barking even louder. Hanumanji said, “Will you be quiet or not? What trouble now?”

He said, “This won’t do. Since I became a dog, a new misery has begun. Everyone beats me with sticks. Wherever I go, people drive me away, scold me. It’s impossible to live in peace. Other dogs attack me too. Among dogs there is much factionalism, much pulling and pushing, lots of politics. Please be kind and make me a mouse again. That was better. At least I had the satsang of Ganesha, and there was no such trouble. The troubles have only increased.”

Hanumanji said, “All right brother, become a mouse again. But now don’t recite the Hanuman Chalisa. Return the booklet.”

Chandraprabhu, now you become a mouse again. Indori mice are, in any case, very famous mice. But you found a pretext: you saw that if in Russia people can be sannyasins without robes and mala, then why not in Indore!

And you say, “I am not a sannyasin from within either.”

Then why get into this needless mess? Why come here at all? Why disturb yourself? Why waste my time—why waste your time? Here it is a matter of staking your life. Here, the work is for gamblers.

Vilas Kumar! Of course there is a possibility. I will need pandits too, won’t I! Very soon you will become Pandit Vilas Kumar Shastri—what more is missing now? You’ve read sixty books; by now they must be by heart. You have been loving me since 1964; by now that love must be well-cooked. The time for harvest must have come.

And you say, “You seem absolutely right to me.”
But this “absolutely right” must be only in the skull.
Because you say, “The feeling for sannyas does not arise.”
Do you even have a heart? Feel and see! Does it go thump-thump or not? Are you living only in the skull? Otherwise where would feeling arise from? Feeling needs a heart.

And what kind of lover are you that no feeling arises—and since 1964! What a remarkable austerity you’re practicing! This love-practice has been going on since 1964! When will the feeling arise? What does feeling mean? Love itself is feeling.

What is the meaning of sannyas? Only this: that you have fallen in love with me and been dyed in my color. Only this: that you have set out with me on the journey into the infinite, that you are ready to take risks with me, that you have sat in my boat with trust—that even if I drown you, it is fine. Even if I drown you, you will still have to be saved. Only when deliverance begins to be seen even in drowning is there love.

Love is madness! And if you don’t have even that much madness to become a sannyasin, then only one way remains: become a pandit, a shastri. And you are already preparing for that. There will be need. After I am gone many pandits and many shastris will gather. That has always been their work. Your number will be there too. Keep at your task. Don’t worry. That is the only possibility for you; no more than that.

And you say to me, “Do not doubt my faith and devotion.”
I do not doubt, but do you trust your own devotion and your own faith? Do you? Do you have faith in your faith? Do you trust your love? Then take the jump. Why should I doubt? I speak plainly, cut-and-dried: for now your relationship with me is of the skull. And a skull-relationship is no relationship.

There are many in this country who read books, who agree with ideas. But this is not a matter of agreeing with ideas. This is a matter of heart meeting heart, of heart joining with heart. This is the path of the crazy ones. This is the path of the mad ones. This is the path of the intoxicated. The flame is burning; the moths are being called, not the pandits.

Your possibility is to be a pandit. And in my view, to be a pandit is the greatest downfall. That is the great sin. No sin is greater than that.

Enough for today.