Utsav Amar Jati Anand Amar Gotar #8

Surendra Kumar, a man's ego takes many forms. The games of the ego are very subtle. To say directly, “I am great,” is difficult, so it is said indirectly: my religion is great, my country is great, my culture is great. Behind all these proclamations there is only one declaration: I am great!

And you think—only you think—that Indian culture is supreme? The Chinese think Chinese culture is supreme. Americans think American culture is supreme. There is no country in the world that does not think this way.

Consider this! Hindus think their religion is the highest; so do Muslims, Jains, Buddhists, Christians, Parsis, Jews. When everyone thinks so, it cannot be about religion; it must relate to some deeper thing hidden in all. In every matter we want, in some form or other, to prove our ego.

Of course there are excellences. Chinese culture has its own; it gave Lao Tzu, Chuang Tzu, Confucius. Indian culture has its own; it gave Buddha, Mahavira, Krishna. Arabic culture has its own; it gave Mohammed, Bayazid, Bahauddin, Jalaluddin... All the cultures of the world have their unique virtues; but “which is supreme?”—that very question is wrong, that very thought is delusion. And the root urge behind it is one: that in every way it be proved that I am superior. Whoever wants to prove he is superior is, somewhere within, afraid that he is not. Otherwise why the urge to prove it? It is the inferiority complex that claims superiority.

Ask the psychologists! They will tell you: the more inferior a person is, the more racket he makes about superiority on all sides. That’s why only those suffering from the inferiority complex are eager for politics—the lowest. For within, inferiority bites like a wound; somehow it must be covered with flowers, forgotten while seated on thrones.

I have heard a story. The head of the philosophy department at the University of Paris came to his class early one morning and announced, “I am the most superior person in the whole world!”

The students laughed. They already took him for a crank. A professor of philosophy in a university not taken to be a crank—such a thing never happens. To begin with, the notion is that only cranks take an interest in philosophy. And he would not be an ordinary crank either; being head of the department he must be an extraordinary crank. And today he broke all bounds. Who says it so bluntly? People usually say it in roundabout ways. This man simply came and declared, “I am the greatest person in the world.” The students were taken aback. But one student mustered courage, stood up and said, “Sir, you are a teacher of philosophy; whatever you say must certainly have reasoning behind it. What is the logic behind this declaration? Please explain.”

The professor said, “I knew someone would ask about the logical process behind it, so I came fully prepared.” He took a world map from his bag, hung it on the board, and said, “This is the map of the world. I ask you: which is the greatest country in the world?”

Naturally, they were all French. They said, “France! What is there to ask? It’s self-evident.”

The professor said, “Then let us drop the rest of the world. It is established that France is the greatest country. If you all agree, raise your hands. Now I have only to prove that I am the greatest in France, and I shall be the greatest in the world. Tell me: which is the greatest city in France?”

Then the students began to see where this was heading. Naturally, they were all Parisians. They said, “Paris.” The professor said, “Now we can drop France too; only Paris remains. We have to settle it within Paris. And which is the most superior institution in Paris?”

“Certainly the university! The seat of learning! The temple of Saraswati!”

“And within the university, which is the greatest subject?”

They were students of philosophy, so they all said, “Philosophy.” He said, “Is anything left to prove? I am the head of the department of philosophy. I am the most superior person in the world.”

This is the kind of reasoning: my scripture is supreme! My doctrine is supreme! My caste is supreme! My class is supreme! But why not say it straight? Say it straight, it’s better. If the disease is clear, it can be treated. When the disease comes hiding, treatment becomes difficult. When it keeps taking new shapes, diagnosis itself becomes difficult. Centuries have passed and the diagnosis is still not happening. If you say, “I am the greatest person in the world,” first you yourself will tremble: how to say it? And everyone will raise doubts. But you say, “Indian culture is supreme!” and those you say it among are also Indian; they will all nod their heads with you and say, “Absolutely right! You speak the truth, sir!”—because their ego is being proved in the very thing that proves yours. Then say among Hindus that Hinduism is supreme—naturally! And then among Brahmins that the Brahmin is supreme—no doubt will be raised. But who is entering your life by such hidden back doors? Only the ego.

There are excellences in cultures—all cultures have excellences. Religions too have excellences—all religions. If the Vedas are beautiful, the Quran too has no equal. If the Quran is beautiful, the Bible is unique. These sources are all incomparable. But don’t compare them. Neither is the Quran superior to the Vedas, nor the Vedas to the Bible, nor the Bible to the Dhammapada. They are all so unique that comparison is impossible. How will you compare a rose to a marigold? And how will you compare champa to jasmine? Champa is champa, jasmine is jasmine. Jasmine has its own fragrance, champa its own. And there are lovers of champa and there are lovers of jasmine too. That is personal taste.

The lilt in the Quran, the song in it—you won’t find that in any other scripture. The clarity, the crystal expression of the Upanishads—two plus two equals four—nowhere else. In the language of the Bible there is the fragrance of earth, a rustic freshness—found nowhere else. In the words of Buddha there is a peace, a unique music of serenity, of emptiness—where else will you find it? They are all incomparable; don’t weigh them. The very gaze that weighs is wrong. These are not things to be put on a scale. Leave such work to madmen.

But this earth is full of madmen; hence such talk goes on.

I have heard: once two opium-eaters met. The first said, “My grandfather’s house was so tall that once a child fell from the top and by the time he reached the ground he had become a man.” Why would the second keep quiet! He had taken a little less! He burst out laughing: “Oh, come on! From my grandfather’s house a monkey once fell and by the time he reached the ground he had become a man.”

Opium-eaters can be forgiven. But this is the state of those whom you call sensible—pundits and priests, your mahatmas. They are all opium-eaters. Certainly they have taken a subtler opium—the opium of ego. And what greater opium is there than ego?

Wake up! Free yourself from such futile talk.

Whenever there are shouts of victory on the royal road,
a man on the footpath faints.
The crowd runs along lost roads
when the guide of the journey is silent.
A golden serpent once told us—
there is a sac of venom in a man’s tooth.
Mile-stones stand uninscribed and mute—
yes, that is history’s pent-up rage.
When lips that chant mantras begin to burn—
the fault lies in the conduct of the priests.
Let us call out to them together, O “Mayukh,”
those in whom ardor has a little awareness for company.

There are two kinds of people in the world. First, those who have zeal but no awareness. They are many—ninety-nine percent. They are highly active, but have no peace; greatly industrious, but have no intelligence. These are the people who cause the world’s disturbances—mindless, but energetic. Not a trace of awareness, but lots of zeal. “Hindu culture is in danger!”—and the hotheads gather: “Even if our lives go, we will save it.” They know nothing of culture, not even the meaning of the word, but they have zeal! And zeal needs an outlet. A Hindu-Muslim riot gives an outlet. India and Pakistan fight—an outlet. Some upheaval, a siege, a strike—some outlet.

On the other side are those who have a little awareness, but no zeal. They know, yet they sit like corpses.

I want my sannyasin to be one in whom awareness is joined with zeal. I want the man of the future to carry both, hoś and joś, together.

This has been the accident of the past: the aware people were not the zealous; the zealous were not the aware. So the Buddhas stayed outside history, and the fools wrote history. Tamerlane, Genghis Khan, Nadir Shah, Alexander, Napoleon, Hitler, Mao Tse-tung—such people wrote and shaped history. And Buddha, Lao Tzu, Chuang Tzu, Zarathustra—remained on the margins. The world now needs people who have awareness and ardor, in balance; in whom there is a rightness; in whom action and wisdom flow together.

Therefore I am not telling my sannyasin to leave the world. Leave the world and you may become Buddhas; you will have awareness, but the ardor will be gone. And I do not want my sannyasin to remain merely worldly either—full of zeal but empty of awareness. I want you to live in the world and be a sannyasin. Don’t become Buddhas only by sitting under bodhi trees; you have to attain buddhahood in shops, in the marketplace, in houses, surrounded by wife and children, in the midst of all the struggles of life. Here, in the hubbub, you must cultivate meditation. Here, amid the press of problems, let your samadhi ripen—then you will be able to inaugurate a new humanity. This inauguration is urgently needed.

People are trampling the light,
people are setting before their time.
Tall statures and narrow doorways—
see how much they stoop to pass.
Bodies look intact,
inside themselves people are melting.
Inside a blind tunnel
for ages people have been walking.
Even close to these crosses,
how happy they are—how they leap!

People are pleased with their illnesses. They have hoisted flags for their diseases. This pride in being Hindu, this pride in being Muslim, this foolishness of being Indian, this madness of being Chinese—understand them as gallows. Yet seeing these gallows, people prance and parade. You are carrying your own corpse on your shoulders. You are arranging your own death with your own hands. Cancer is spreading through your life-breaths; and you take that cancer to be your treasure of life.

No, Surendra Kumar, Indian culture is not the greatest culture in the world. Nor is any other culture. The very way of thinking is wrong. There are many flowers in God’s garden; great diversity. And because there is diversity, there is beauty. This world is beautiful. If it were filled only with roses, even the rose’s beauty would be destroyed. The rose is beautiful because there is also the screw-pine. The rose is beautiful because there is also the lotus.

There is a deep urge in people’s minds to destroy this diversity. For centuries people have tried. Hindus want the whole world to become Hindu. Muslims want the whole world to become Muslim. Christians want the whole world Christian. Jains want the whole world Jain. But no one asks—if diversity vanishes, life will become very insipid.

Let all kinds of people be. Let different kinds of cultures be. Let different songs be, different instruments. Do not erase this diversity—enhance it, adorn it, refine it. And yet know that within, man is one. Clothes differ, garments differ; within, man is one—because within man God abides. God is no one’s private property—neither the Indian’s nor the Pakistani’s.

Abdul Latif, how could it be the same! There is no way it can be one. The masses are the asleep; in their sleep they have dreamed—God too is a dreamlike projection of theirs.

The God I speak of is not a notion, not a fantasy, not an idea, not a philosophical proposition. I speak of the God who is—who is present—who is green in the trees, red in the flowers; who is invisible in the winds; who stands with head held high in the mountains, meditative; who undulates in the rivers; who resounds in the waves of the sea; who is present within you; who is present within me. For me, God is synonymous with existence. Therefore with me, there is simply no way to be an atheist.

Atheists come to me and ask, “Can we also become sannyasins?” I tell them, certainly. They say, “But we are atheists—who will accept an atheist into sannyas?” I tell them, I accept you! Because my God is another name for existence. You at least accept existence, don’t you? Do you accept the moon and the stars?
They say, yes.
Do you accept rivers and mountains?
They say, yes.
Do you accept me? Do you accept yourself?
They say, yes. All that is, is. We only don’t accept that God who is neither visible nor provable.
I tell them, I too don’t accept that God. I call the entire totality itself God. Come—the doors of my temple are open for atheists just as for theists. Can a temple have a condition? Can it say, “Come only if you are a believer”? A temple can only say, “Come—and you will become a believer.” If you were already a believer, what need would there be to come at all?

If a physician were to hang a sign on his door, “Come only when you are healthy, for I treat only the healthy,” we would call that physician mad. It is the sick who go to a physician. Yes, they will leave healthy.

I tell them: You are an atheist? Come! This doorway is for you. You don’t accept God? Come! You don’t accept soul? Come! Because in the one who does not believe I see a certain strength—more than in the one who believes. The believer is weak; he is feeble, cowardly; he has yielded to others’ pressures. What is his God except the projection of his fear! He is shaken, afraid—so he accepts God. As death comes near, he accepts God. In youth people don’t care much about God; with old age, they begin to believe. By old age, atheists don’t remain.

Strange things happen in this world. You won’t find a hippie after thirty—will you? By thirty the hippie is finished. Marriage happens, children arrive—then how to be a hippie! Then you run a shop, take a job—the old days are gone. Among hippies there’s a saying: don’t trust anyone over thirty, because after thirty a man is no longer the real thing. If he’s not a hippie, how can he be a man?

In youth you will find atheists. If not atheists, at least people who don’t care about God. But as old age comes, as the legs start shaking, people begin to believe in God.
This is not belief in God; it is only fear. Death is at the door; who knows—if after death there is an encounter with God, what then! What if there really is a God—what then!

One of my teachers was an atheist, a professor of philosophy. When he fell ill, I went to see him. I was astonished—he had hung a picture of Lord Ram in his room! I asked, “Your room—and a picture of Ram! I could not have imagined it.” He said, “When you are old, you’ll understand.” I said, “Still, give me a hint.” He said, “It’s simple. All my life I did not believe in God. Even now, I cannot honestly say I believe, because the doubt is still inside. But I can no longer loudly proclaim there is no God—who knows, there might be! Now death has come close; after dying, at least I will be able to say I remembered you at the end. I hung your picture at the end.”

Do you see what this “theism” is? What value does it have? This is not faith; this is impotence.

I told him, “If there is a God somewhere, he will refuse even to look at you. Take that picture down. If you meet God after death, tell him, ‘What could I do? You sowed doubt in me—I did not create it. And you never appeared directly in life—how was I to believe? You gave me strength, reason, the capacity to think—how was I to accept blindly?’ Don’t be afraid; speak your truth with courage. And I tell you, if there is a God, he will clasp you to his chest. Are cowards respected anywhere? Is there honor for them? All honor belongs to those whose courage is indomitable.”

Surely, Abdul Latif, the God I speak of is not the same God sought by those who run after amulets and charms, who celebrate urs at shrines and graves, the God of the weak, the frightened, the greedy. The God of the stupefied—how could that be my God?

My God pervades this entire universe. My God is not against the world. My God is the very life of the world. The heartbeat of this cosmos—that is my God. When the cuckoo sings, I hear God; when the pied cuckoo calls, the Upanishads, the Vedas, the Gita, and the Quran go pale in my ears. When a flower blossoms I know God has bloomed. And when the night is filled with stars, I know it is God scattered across the infinite, infinite stars.

My God is a poetry. My God is a music. If you wish to become acquainted with my God, come close to nature, for my God is hidden in nature; nature is his veil. Lift the veil and you will find the Beloved. Wherever you lift the veil, you will find him there.
Jesus has said, “Lift the stone and you will find me; split the wood and I am there.” I say the same to you.

But people live according to their own understanding. What understanding can a blind man have of light? Or a deaf man of music?

Mulla Nasruddin once went to hear classical music. His neighbors insisted: “We’ll even buy the ticket, but come, Mulla—at least once in your life listen to classical music! You’ve heard only abuse and rough talk—listen to music! Or will you die like this? A great artist has come.”
They wouldn’t take no for an answer. Nasruddin protested, “I’ve nothing to do with it—what classical, what music! I’m happy in my own way.” He had laid out the chessboard—friends were about to arrive; the hookah was set, ready to gurgle. “And you drag me to classical music!”
They dragged him along. His friends were amazed: as the musician began his alaap—his long, sustained notes—tears started dropping, drip-drip, from Nasruddin’s eyes. His friends said, “Nasruddin! We never imagined you were such a lover of classical music. Our eyes didn’t grow moist, and yours are flowing!”
“Classical music, my foot!” he said. “This man is going to die! Just like this—aaah aaah aaah—bleating, my goat died. All night it did classical music, and by morning the poor thing was dead. Do something for him, brothers—what are you sitting here listening to aaah aaah for! My tears are for him: his wife, his children—he’s done for. And you call this classical music?”

Understanding will be according to oneself.

A lover said to his beloved, “Truly, the hours of waiting are terrible.” She instantly replied, “Who told you to buy a waiting watch? My mother says Seiko watches are the best.”
A wife, angry, said to her husband, “I’ve learned that your relations with the office typist are not good.” The husband explained, “You’ve heard exactly right. For a long time I’ve been trying to make our relationship sweet, but there’s simply no success.”

You will know my God only when you come into my inner state—before that, no. That is why I keep saying: to understand the Gita, you must become a Krishna—before that it is not possible. The secret of the Dhammapada opens when Buddhahood blossoms within you. The day you are available to the Christ-consciousness of Jesus, that day lotuses bloom in every line of the Bible—a thousand lotuses in each word! The day you taste the rapture of Muhammad, the melody of the Quranic verses will fill your every breath. Then you will be touched by the music of the Quran; before that, it is not possible.

Abdul Latif, your God can only be your God—like you, he will be.

The great Western thinker Diderot wrote: if horses were to make an image of God, they would make the image of a horse; they could never, even by mistake, make the image of a man. After all, they would remember how man has treated horses for centuries—riding on their chests. Would they accept man as God? Their God would be a beautiful horse, a majestic equine form. That is exactly right.

I have heard: In Paris there lived a family. The father used to take his little son each day to the park. In the park there was a statue of Napoleon—mounted on a horse! A magnificent horse, forelegs raised to the sky, and Napoleon sitting astride. A great work of art. The son would daily say to his father, “Let’s go see Napoleon.” The father would take him to the statue.
Then the father’s transfer came. On the last day the son said, “Shall we not go to the park today? Let’s see Napoleon one last time.” The father couldn’t refuse and took him. That day the father asked, “Why are you so attached to Napoleon? What do you understand about Napoleon? Have you heard or read anything? Who was Napoleon?”
The boy said, “Who Napoleon was, I don’t care. I just want to ask you—never found the chance—who is that sitting on top of Napoleon?”
For the child, the horse was Napoleon. He believed in Napoleon the horse. He said, “The question came to my mind many times, but I thought, why trouble you! Who is this sitting on Napoleon—why don’t they take him off? Poor Napoleon must be tired of carrying him.”
For the small child, Napoleon is a horse. We cannot go beyond our understanding. Beyond our understanding our God cannot be; beyond our understanding our truth cannot be. We are mirrors. If our mirror is dirty, whatever reflects in it will be sullied. If there is dust on our mirror, the dust will distort whatever appears.

Stop worrying about God; dust the mirror. Purify the mirror. Make this mind-mirror absolutely stainless. Then you will know—the reflection of the Supreme will form within you. That is my God. He is not a concept—he is an experience, a realization.

Do not ask how hamlets rose and how these fields came to be, my dear—don’t ask.
In this journey through darkness, don’t ask for moon or stars—don’t ask.
On a celebration with a spine like a broken back,
Why do colored balloons fly here—don’t ask.
In their gatherings candles burn the whole night through,
Why your own thresholds remain dark by day—don’t ask.
From hunger or earthquake or storm and gale,
Why countless people haven’t died—but from fear—don’t ask.
Now, cross-eyed fairs are spread all around,
In such a wretched time, friend, don’t ask for bright, love-lit eyes.

Where there’s a fair of ears, don’t speak of radiant eyes. Where there’s a fair of the blind, don’t even raise the topic of sight. Their notion of eyes is certainly wrong—how could it be otherwise?

Now, cross-eyed fairs are spread all around,
In such a wretched time, friend, don’t ask for bright, love-lit eyes.

And what is people’s God except fear?
From hunger or earthquake or storm and gale—
Why haven’t people died?
Don’t ask—countless have died of fear.

And remember: where fear is gone, death is gone. If there is fear, there is death. If there is fear, what kind of God is that? And where there is fear, there is no love. If there is fear, what kind of love? When fear disappears, love appears—or if love appears, fear vanishes. Love and fear do not live together. Do not bow before any idol out of fear, otherwise your bowing is false. The body’s calisthenics may do you some good, but no flame will be lit in your soul. And fear is what drives people.

I have heard a Sufi tale. A Sufi fakir, Junaid, lived outside a village near Baghdad. One early morning he saw Death approaching. Junaid said, “Stop! What need is there for you to come here? Why enter Baghdad?” Death said, “Forgive me—you are an accomplished saint; what can I hide from you? I am to take five hundred people from this town. The death of five hundred has been fixed. I have come to fetch them.”
The fakir said, “Then fine—what is fixed will be.” Death went in.
Seven days later she returned. Junaid was very angry. He said, “Stop! I did not expect you to lie. You said five hundred—and five thousand died.”
She replied, “I killed only five hundred; four and a half thousand died of panic. For that, don’t blame me.”

People are utterly frightened; out of fear they bow anywhere. The same people who bow in temples and mosques bow before Stalin, Hitler, Mao. Make them bow anywhere—they are full of fear and ready to prostrate. In fact, they are seeking someone to make them bend. It’s hard for them to keep their backs straight. They are eager to kneel somewhere. Their excuse may be anything, but they want to kneel. They want to flatter. Their prayers and praises are nothing more than flattery.

Abdul Latif, my God is not the God of temples and mosques, nor of shrines and tombs. My God has no image, because all images are his. My God has no form, because in all forms, he alone is. My God has no shape, because in all shapes the formless has permeated.

But to recognize my God will not happen by going outward; it will happen by going inward. My God is found in the inner journey, at the final destination of the final pilgrimage—where you are absorbed in yourself. If for even a moment you are utterly absorbed, drowned—every fiber of your being submerged, nothing left undrowned—you will know which God I am speaking of. Knowing him is liberation. Knowing him is moksha.

The God people believe in they have only heard about—from scriptures, from pundits. Those from whom you heard don’t know either. Those from whom they heard don’t know either. People have been carrying borrowed goods for centuries. And each person spoils the loan a little, adding something of his own, showing off his “art.”

Nasruddin’s son, Fazlu, learned four new words at school: daru (liquor), hukka (hookah), randi (prostitute), and ullu ka pattha (son of an owl—an insult). He kept asking their meanings. Afraid the boy might go astray, Nasruddin said: daru means tea, hukka means coffee, randi means okra vegetable, and ullu ka pattha means guest. The very next day, an unbelievable incident occurred. Fazlu was sitting on the veranda when a friend of Nasruddin’s arrived. Fazlu said, “Come in, you son of an owl—have a seat.” The friend was shocked. “Where is your father?” “Papa? Oh, he’s gone to the market to buy prostitutes. These days he’s very fond of prostitutes. He’ll be back soon.”
Seeing a good chance to use his new vocabulary, Fazlu added, “Do you prefer hookah, or shall I bring liquor?” The friend was aghast. “Fazlu, what nonsense are you talking! Where is your mother? Call her. Your father will be here soon.”
Fazlu peeped in the door and shouted, “Mummy, a son of an owl has come. When I asked if he wanted hookah or liquor he said nothing—just told me not to talk nonsense. He says till Papa brings prostitutes and so on, call Mummy instead.”

What you have learned from scriptures is just like this—very far, very far from truth, thousands of miles away. What you have heard from pundits is like this. It may be false, but it cannot be truth. Truth can be available only to the one to whom it is revealed. Truth is found in satsang—in the company of the true—not in study, not in reflection, not in thought—but in meditation. Truth is found by plunging into the presence of a true master.

Abdul Latif, how long will you keep asking? Now dive! Much time has been wasted in asking; by asking you will get nothing. Here, God is happening. Open the doors of your heart a little. Understand me in silence. Let me enter within you—or you enter within me. Take my hand in yours. Look into my eyes. This dance, this celebration taking shape here; this great festival that is arising by itself—be a participant in it.

Abdul Latif, the moment for sannyas has come! Dye yourself in my color, and you will know what my God means. There is no other way to know.

That’s all for today.