Okay.
I was just trying to remember the man. I can see his face, but perhaps I never bothered about his name so I don't remember it. I will tell you the whole story.
My Nani, seeing that I was unteachable, and sending me to school was just creating trouble, tried to convince my family, my father and mother, but nobody was ready to listen to her. But she was right in saying, "This boy is an unnecessary nuisance for one thousand other boys" -- that was when I entered high school -- "and every day he is up to something. It would be better to have a private tutor for him. Let him `visit' the school, as he calls it, once in a while, but that is not going to help him learn anything worthwhile, because he is always creating trouble for others and for himself. There is no time left."
She tried as hard as she could to teach me the basics, but nobody in my family was ready to get a private tutor for me. In that town, even today, I don't think anybody has a private tutor. What for? The whole family was saying, "Then why are these schools here if we have to have private tutors?"
She said, "But this boy should not be counted with others -- not because I love him, but because he is real trouble. I live with him, and I have lived for so many years that I know he will do everything that is possible to create trouble. And no punishment can prevent it."
But my father and mother, my father's brothers and sisters -- and I mean the whole Noah's Ark, all the creatures -- disagreed with her. But they were all shocked when I agreed.
I said, "She is right, I will never learn anything in those third-rate schools. In fact, the moment I see those teachers, I want to teach them a lesson that they will never forget in their whole life. And the boys, so many boys sitting silently... it is unnatural. So I just do some small thing and immediately nature takes over, and nurture is left far behind with all its culture. She is right; if you want me to at least know language, mathematics, something of geography or history, then listen to her."
They were more shocked than if I had exploded a firecracker, because that was absolutely expected. People of my family and neighborhood, everybody expected trouble, so much so that they even started asking me, "What is up your sleeve today?"
I said, "Can't I even have a holiday? What is up your sleeves? Are you paying for it? The whole town should pay me if you feel it is of any value. I can produce every possible thing in the world."
Only my Nani was really interested, and I told my family, "I should know the basics. Listen to her. I am going to have a tutor whether you listen or not. All that she needs is my agreement, and I totally agree with her."
She said, "Have you heard what you were expecting? You were not expecting this, but this is his very quality, the unexpected. So don't be shocked or feel insulted. If you feel shocked or insulted he will do more on the same lines. Just do what I say: fix up a private tutor for him."
My poor father -- poor because everybody laughed at him -- said, "I wanted to agree with you, but I was afraid of everybody else in the family, even of your daughter, my wife. I was afraid that they would all jump upon me. You are right, he needs some basic training. And the real problem is not whether he needs it or not; the real problem is, can we find a tutor who will be ready to teach him? We are ready to pay; you find him a tutor."
She had somebody in mind. She had already asked me what I felt about the man. I said, "The man looks good, just a little henpecked."
She said, "That is not your business. Why should a child be worried about that? He is a good teacher. He has been given the governor's certificate as the best teacher of the province. You can depend on him."
I said, "He depends on his wife; his wife depends on his servant; his servant is just a fool, and I have to depend on him? A great chain! But the man is good; just don't ask me to depend on him, instead ask that I should remain available to him. That's enough for teaching -- why dependence? He is not my boss. In fact, I am his boss."
She said, "Look, if you say this to him he will leave immediately."
I said, "You don't know anything about him. I know him. Even if I actually hit him on the head, he will not go anywhere because I know who has his ears in their hands."
In India, donkeys are caught by their ears. Of course they have long ears, that is the easiest thing to hold to catch them. "He is a donkey. He may be educated, but I know his wife, and she is a real woman. She has many donkeys under her like him. If he creates any trouble I will take care of him, don't be worried. And remember the monthly payment that you have to make to him has to go via me to his wife."
She said, "I know you! Now I understand the whole logic of it."
I said, "Then go ahead."
I called the man. He was really henpecked -- not just so-so, but multidimensionally. When I brought him to my Nani, first he tried to escape. I said, "Listen, if you try in any way to escape, I'm going directly to your wife."
He said, "What? No! Why to my wife?"
I said, "Then just keep quiet, and whatsoever salary my Nani is going to pay -- because the envelope will be closed -- I will deliver it to your wife. The arrangement is already made. I'm not interested in the money part, but the envelope has to reach your wife, not to you. So before escaping, think twice at least."
He was trying to bargain, this much or that, but that moment he immediately agreed. I winked at my Nani and said, "Look! This is the tutor you have found. Will he teach me, or will I have to teach him? Who is going to teach whom? His salary is fixed; now the second question is far more important to me."
The man said, "What does it mean, Who is going to teach? Are you going to teach me?"
I said, "Why not? I am paying you; obviously I should teach and you should learn. Money can do everything."
My Nani said to the man, "Don't be afraid, he's not that bad. He won't create any trouble for you if you promise not to provoke him in any way. Once provoked, then I cannot do anything to prevent him because he is not under any salary. In fact I have to persuade him to accept some money for sweets, toys and clothes, and he is very reluctant about that. So remember, don't provoke him, otherwise you will be in trouble." And the fool did, the very first day.
He came, early in the morning. He was a retired headmaster, but I don't think that he ever had a head. But that's how people are divided in the whole world, into heads and hands. Laborers are called "hands," just hands, as if there is nobody behind the hands. And the intellectuals, those who call themselves intelligentsia are known as "heads" -- whether they have any heads or not. I have seen so many so-called heads of departments that I have always wondered whether this was a law: that anybody who has no head will be made the head of a department.
When this man came to start, he did what my grandmother had warned him not to. What he did... and I can understand now; at that time of course I could not have understood the whole psychology of it, but now I can see why he behaved the way he did.
The more I have known myself, the more I have understood the "robotness" of people. They function like machines. They are really nuts and bolts. Sometimes nuts and sometimes bolts, but both: if nuts are needed, they will be nuts; if bolts are needed they will be bolts. You know the nuts, but who are the bolts?
Now, this will be difficult, and will take me into a long diversion, and I may forget the poor man who is standing before me with folded hands. So, in some other circle we will talk about the bolts. But first, about this man....
He came into my room, in my Nani's house. In fact, the whole house was mine, except for her room, and the house had many rooms. It was not a big house, but it had at least six rooms, and she needed only one; the other five belonged to me... naturally, nobody else was there.
I divided those rooms according to my different kinds of activities. One room I kept for learning; I used to learn all kinds of things in that room, like snakes and how to catch them, how to teach them to dance to your music, which is not much to do with music at all. I learned all kinds of magical tricks. That was my room. Even my grandmother was not allowed to enter, because it was a sacred place of learning, and she knew that everything except the sacred went on in there. But nobody was allowed in. I put a notice on the door: NO ADMISSION WITHOUT PERMISSION.
I had found exactly the right notice in Shambhu Babu's office. I just told him, "I'm taking it away."
He said, "What?"
I said, "On this notice there is nothing written saying that you have to pay for it. It is free. Shambhu Babu, do you understand?"
Then he burst into laughter and said, "For years this notice has been up right in front of my eyes; nobody pointed out to me that the price was not written on the board. Anybody could have taken it away. And it was just hanging on a nail, nothing needed to be done. You can just take it away."
I said, "You are a friend, but in these matters don't bring your friendship in."
I had that notice on the door of my room. Perhaps it may still be hanging there.
That man, whose name I cannot remember all this time... I have been trying all kinds of memory exercises while talking to you. Nobody can help either, so we will just forget what his name was. What matters is not his name but the material that he was made of -- just rubber. You could not find another man like that. But he came with tie and suit, and it was a hot summer's day! From the very beginning he showed his stupidity.
In central India during the hot summer you start perspiring even before the sun rises. And he came dressed in socks, tie, long pants -- and you know I always disliked long pants. Perhaps this very kind of person has created in me a sort of sea-sickness about long pants. He is still standing before me. I can describe him in very minute detail.
He coughed when he entered the room, fixed his tie, tried to stand upright and said, "Listen, boy, I have heard many stories about you, so I want to tell you from the very beginning that I am not a coward." He looked here and there in case somebody might be listening and may tell his wife, and he was not aware that I was very friendly with his wife. He continuously looked from side to side.
I always think that is the way all cowards behave. Generalizations are not absolute truths, including this one, but they certainly contain some truth. Otherwise what is the need to look from side to side when there is only one child sitting there in front of you? Yet he was looking everywhere except at me: the door, the window, and yet talking to me. It was so hilarious and so pitiable that I told him, "You listen too. You are saying that you are not a coward; do you believe in ghosts?"
He said, "What?" -- and he looked all around, even behind his chair. He said, "Ghosts! Where did ghosts come into this? I am introducing myself to you, and you introduce ghosts."
I said, "I am not introducing them yet. Tonight I will see you with a ghost."
He said, "Really?" And he looked so afraid, he started perspiring. It was a hot summer morning, and he was so tied up, even more than I am right now.
I told him, "You simply start teaching. Don't waste time, because I have many things to do."
He looked at me absolutely unable to believe what I was saying -- that I have many things to do...? But he was not concerned with me, or the things I had to do or not do. He said, "Yes, I will start teaching, but what about the ghosts?"
I said, "Forget about them. Tonight I will introduce you."
He now realized that I was serious. He started trembling so much I could not hear what he was saying, I could only see his long pants shaking. After one hour of teaching me nonsense, I said, "Sir, something is wrong with your long pants."
He said, "What is wrong?" Then he looked down and saw that they were shaking, and then they started shaking even more.
I said, "I feel that there is something inside them. I cannot see from my side, but you must know. But why are you shaking? And it is not just your long pants, it is you."
He left without finishing the lesson he had begun, saying, "I have another appointment. I will finish the lesson tomorrow."
I said, "Tomorrow, please come in shorts because then we can be certain whether it is the pants shaking or you. It will be in the service of truth, because right now it is a mystery. I am also wondering what kind of pants these are."
He had a beautiful pair of pants, at least it looked as if they were his, but I don't know whether they were his or not, because that night finished everything; he never came again. That's how my private tutor, as he was called, left. I had told my grandmother, "Do you think anybody, at any salary you are ready to give, will be able to stand me?"
She said, "Don't disturb things. Somehow I have managed to persuade your family, and you agreed. In fact it is only because of you that I succeeded."
"No," I said, "I am not going to do anything, but if something happens what can I do? And I ought to tell you this because tonight will decide whether you pay him or not."
She said, "What? Is he going to die or something? And so soon? He only started this morning, and he has only worked one hour."
I said, "He provoked me."
She said, "I warned him not to provoke you."
In the courtyard of my grandmother's old house there was a big neem tree. That house still belonged to us after my grandmother's death. It was really a huge, ancient tree, so big that the whole house was covered by it. When it was in season, when the neem flowers came, the fragrance was everywhere.
I don't know whether any tree like the neem exists anywhere else because it needs a very hot climate. Its flowers have a very sharp -- that's the only word I can find, "sharp" -- edge to their fragrance. I should not call it fragrance because it is bitter. The moment you smell it, it is brisk and crisp, but it leaves a bitter taste in the mouth. It is bound to because neem tea must be the most bitter tea in the whole world. But if you start liking it, it is just like coffee. You have to practice a little, otherwise it is not such that you can like it instantly.
Although instant coffee is available on the market you still have to learn the taste. The same is true about alcohol, and a thousand other things. You have to imbibe the taste slowly. If you have lived in a neem grove, and known the fragrance from your very first breath, then it is not bitter to you, or even if bitter it is sweet too.
In India it is thought to be a religious duty that one should plant as many neem trees as possible. Very strange! -- but if you know the neem tree, its crisp freshness, its purifying power, then you will not laugh at it. India is poor and cannot afford many purifying devices, but the neem tree is a natural thing and it grows easily.
This neem tree was behind my house. I used to call my Nani's house "my" house. The other house was for everybody else, all kinds of creatures; I was not part of it. Once in a while I would go to see my father and my mother, but rush out as quickly as was humanly possible. I mean that just as soon as the formalities were over I was gone. And they knew that I did not want to come to their house. They knew I called it "that house." So my house, with that big neem tree, was a really beautiful place, but I don't know who created the world, nor do I know who created this story about the neem tree either.
The story was -- and it made the neem tree a real beauty -- the story was that the neem tree had the power to catch hold of ghosts. How the neem tree did it I don't know, nor did my enlightenment help either. In fact the first thing that I wanted to know after enlightenment was how the neem tree did it, but no answer came. Perhaps it did not do anything at all. In India any story becomes a truth, and soon the ultimate truth.
But the story was that if any ghost has taken possession of you, just go to the neem tree, sit under neath it, take a nail with you, the bigger the better; then say to the neem tree, "I am nailing my ghost." Also take a hammer, or use any large stone lying around, and hit the nail hard. Once the ghost is nailed, you are free of it. There were at least one thousand nails in that tree. I really still feel sorry for it, although it is no more.
Every day people were coming and a small shop had even opened on the other side of the street to sell nails, because they were in such demand. What is more significant is that the ghost almost always disappeared. The natural conclusion was that the ghost had been nailed in the tree. Nobody ever took a nail out, because if you did the ghost would be released, and perhaps finding you close by, would get possession of you.
My family was very worried about me and that tree. They told my Nani that, "It's good that he sleeps at your place. We have nothing against it; he eats there and it too is perfectly okay. He rarely comes to see his family, that too is okay -- we know he is taken care of -- but remember that tree, and this boy. If he takes a nail out he will have much misery throughout his whole life."
And the story goes on to say that once a ghost is released from the tree you can't nail it again because it knows the trick, and it won't be deceived twice.
So my Nani was constantly alert that I did not go near the neem tree. But she was not aware that I was removing as many nails as possible, otherwise who was supplying the shopkeeper on the other side of the street? I had a great business going. At first even the shopkeeper was very much afraid; he said to me, "What! You have brought these nails from the tree itself?"
I said, "Yes, and no ghosts. We are friendly, very friendly." I did not want to get him disturbed because once my grandmother knew there would be trouble. So I told him, "The ghosts love me very much. We are very friendly."
He said, "That's very strange. I have never heard that ghosts love small children like you. But business is business...."
I was giving him nails at half the price he could get them from the market. It was a real bargain. He thought that if I could take the nails out, and the ghosts had not disturbed me at all, then they must be very friendly to me, and he thought that it is good not to antagonize the boy. The boy himself is a nuisance, and if the ghosts are helping him, then nobody is safe from him.
He used to give me money, I used to give him nails. I told my grandmother, "To tell you the truth, it's all hocus-pocus. There are no ghosts. I have been selling nails from that tree for almost one year now."
She could not believe it. For a moment she could not breathe, then she said, "What! Selling the nails! You are not even supposed to come close to that tree. If your mother and father find out they will take you away."
I said, "Don't be worried, I am friendly with the ghosts."
She said, "Tell me the truth. What is really happening?" She was a simple woman in that way. She was utterly innocent.
I said, "The whole thing is true, and that is what is happening. But don't be against the poor shopkeeper, because it's a question of business. My whole business will be finished if he escapes or becomes afraid. If you really want to protect my small business you could just mention to him, just by the way, something like, ` It is strange how these ghosts somehow love this boy. I have never seen them be friendly to anybody else. Even I cannot go near the tree.' Just tell him when you pass by."
In India they make a small platform of bricks around a tree, just to sit on. This tree had a big platform. It was a big tree; at least one hundred people could easily manage to sit underneath it on the platform, and at least one thousand under the shade of the whole tree. It was huge.
I said to my Nani, "Don't disturb that poor shopkeeper, he is my only source of income."
She said, "Income? What income? What kind of thing is happening? And I am not even told about it!"
I said, "I was afraid that you would get worried, but now I can assure you that there are no ghosts. Come with me and I will take a nail out and show you."
She said, "No. I believe you." That's how people believe.
I said, "No, Nani, that is not right. Come with me. I will take the nail out. If anything wrong happens it will happen to me, and I am going to take the nails out anyway, whether you come or not. I have taken out hundreds of nails already."
She thought for a moment and then said, "Right, I will come. I would have preferred not to, but then you will always think of me as a coward, and I could not accept that association in your mind. I am coming."
She came. Of course in the beginning she watched from a little distance. It was a big courtyard. The house had once belonged to a small estate. It had really beautiful statues beneath the neem tree, and a few in the house too. The doors were old but beautifully carved. Asheesh would have loved those doors. They made a great noise -- but that is another matter. Some ancient architect must have planned the house. The reason we could get it very cheap for my grandmother was because of the ghosts. Who wanted to live in the house with so many ghosts already living there, in the tree? We got it almost free of cost, for almost nothing, just token money. The owner was happy to get rid of it.
My father had told my Nani, "You will be alone there with, at the most, this small boy who is more trouble than any ghost. With so many ghosts and this boy too, you will be in trouble. But I know you love the river, the view, and the silence of the place."
It was almost a temple. Nobody had lived there for years except the ghosts. I told my Nani, "Don't be worried. Come with me but remember not to disturb the poor shopkeeper. He lives off it, I live off it; in fact many poor boys in my school are supported by me because of these ghosts, so please don't disturb it."
But she still stood a little way away. I told her, "Come on...." That's what I have been doing since then, telling everybody to, "Come on, come a little closer. Don't be worried, don't be afraid."
Somehow she came and saw that the whole thing was all invention. She then asked, "But how does it work? -- because I have seen thousands of people, not just one. They come from faraway places and their ghosts disappear. When they come they are mad; when they go, after the nail has been stuck into the poor tree, they are perfectly sane. How does it work?"
I said, "Right now I don't know how it works, but I will find out. I'm on the way to finding out. I cannot leave the ghosts alone."
That tree was between my house and the rest of the neighborhood, overlooking a small street. During the night, of course, nobody passed along that street. It was very good for me; there was no disturbance at night at all. In fact, just before sunset people started rushing back to their houses before it got dark. Who knows, with so many ghosts....
The poor tutor lived just a few houses behind my Nani's house. He had to pass along that street; there was no other way for him. I arranged it that night. It was difficult because during the day everybody passed along the street, and in the daytime it was difficult for me to persuade the ghosts to do something, but at night I could arrange it.
I just sent a boy to the tutor's house. The boy had to go because in my neighborhood, any boy who was not ready to follow my advice, or whatsoever, was going to be in constant trouble, twenty-four hours a day, day in, day out. So whatsoever I said, they did it, knowing perfectly well that it was dangerous -- because they too believed in the ghosts.
I told him, "You go to the tutor's house and tell him that his father" -- who lived in another street -- "is very seriously ill, and perhaps may not survive. And say it really seriously."
Naturally, when your father is dying who thinks of ghosts? The tutor immediately rushed out; and I had made every arrangement. I was sitting in the tree. It was my tree, nobody could object. The tutor came past with his kerosene lamp -- of course he must have thought he should at least take a kerosene lamp so that the ghosts won't come too near, or if they do he would see them and escape in time.
I simply jumped out of the tree, over the tutor! What happened next was really great, just great! Something I never expected.... (LAUGHING OUT LOUD) His pants gave way! He ran away without his pants! I can still see him.... (ROARING WITH LAUGHTER).

Chapter # 50

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It is good that I cannot see, but I know what is going on. But what can you do? You have to follow your own technology, and with a man like me, naturally you are in a great difficulty. I am tied and can't help you.
Ashu, can you do something? Just a little laughter on your side will help him keep quiet. It is a very strange thing, when somebody else starts laughing the other person stops. The reason is clear, not to them, but to me. The person who was laughing immediately thinks that he is doing something wrong, and of course becomes serious.
So when you see Devageet is going a little off the road, laugh, defeat him; it is a question of female liberation. And if you give a good laugh he will immediately start taking his notes. You have not even started yet, and he has come to his senses.
I was telling you yesterday that I jumped from the tree that night, not to hurt the poor teacher but to let him know what kind of student he had. But it went too far. Even I was surprised when I saw him so terrified. He was just fear. The man disappeared.

For a moment I even thought to put an end to it, thinking, "He is an old man; perhaps he may die or something, may go mad, or may never return to his house," because he could not reach his house without again passing that tree -- there was no other way. But it was too late. He had run away leaving his pants behind.
I collected them and went to my grandmother and said, "These are the pants, and you thought he was going to teach me? This pair of pants?"
She said, "What happened?"
I said, "Everything has happened. The man has run away naked, and I don't know how he will manage to reach his home. And I am in a hurry; I will tell you the whole story later on. You keep the pants. If he comes here, give them to him."
But strange, he never came back to our house to collect his pants which remained there. I even nailed them to the neem tree so that if he wanted to take them, there would be no need to ask me. But to take his pants from the neem tree meant releasing the ghost that he thought had jumped on him.
Thousands of people as they passed the neem tree must have seen those pants. People came there as a kind of psychoanalysis, an effective -- what do you call it, Devaraj? Plassbo?
"Placebo, Bhagwan."
Plassba?
"Plas-see-bo."
Okay, but I will continue to call it "plassbo." You can correct it in your book. "Plasseebo" is right, but my whole life I have called it "plassbo," and it is better to stick to your own whether it is right or wrong. At least it is your own. Devaraj must be right, and I must be wrong about it, but I'm right in still calling it "plassbo" -- not the name, but to give it the flavor of how I have behaved.
Right and wrong have never been my consideration. What I happen to like is right; and I don't say that it is right for everybody. I'm not a fanatic, I'm just a madman. At the most... I cannot claim more than that.
What was I saying?
"You were talking about people coming to the tree as a kind of placebo for psychoanalysis, Bhagwan."
Marriage is a placebo. It works, that's the weird thing. Whether it is true or not does not matter. I am always for the result; what brings it about is immaterial. I am a pragmatist.
I told my grandmother, "Don't be worried. I will hang these pants on the neem tree, and you can be certain of its effect."
She said, "I know you and your strange ideas. Now the whole town will know whose pants these are. Even if the man were to come for his pants he could never come here again."
Those pants were famous because he used them for special occasions. But what happened to the man? I even searched everywhere in the town, but naturally he was not to be found in the town because he was naked. So I thought, "Better wait; perhaps late at night he may come. He may have gone to the other side of the river." That was the closest place where one would not be seen by anybody.
But the man never returned. That's how my tutor disappeared. I still wonder what happened to him without his pants. I'm not very interested in him, but how did he manage without pants? And where did he go? Naturally certain ideas came to me. Perhaps he died of a heart attack -- but still the body, without pants, would have been discovered. And even though he was dead, anybody who would have seen him would have laughed, because his pants were so famous. He was even called "Mister Pants."
I don't even remember his name. And he had so many pairs of pants. The story in the town was that he had three hundred sixty-five pairs, one for every day. I don't think that is true, but gossip. But what happened to him?
I asked his family; they said, "We are waiting, but he has not been seen since that night."
I said, "Strange...." To my Nani I said, "Certainly his disappearance sometimes makes even me suspect that perhaps ghosts exist. Because I was simply introducing him to the ghosts. And it is good that his pants should hang on the tree."
My father became so angry that I could do such a nasty thing. I had never seen him so angry.
I said, "But I had not planned it that way. I had not even thought that the man would simply evaporate. It is too much even for me. I just did a simple thing. I sat in the tree, with a drum, struck it loudly just so that he would take notice of what was happening and forget everything else in the world -- and then I jumped to the ground." And it was my usual practice. I had made many people run. In fact my grandmother used to say, "Perhaps this street is the only street in the town where nobody walks at night, except you."
The other day someone was showing me a few car stickers. One was beautiful, it said, "Believe me, this road really belongs to me." While reading that sticker I remembered the road that passed near my house. At least during the night I owned it. During the day it was a government road, but at night absolutely my own. Even today I cannot see that any road could be as silent as that road used to be at night.
But my father was so angry that he said, "Whatsoever happens I'm going to cut down this neem tree, and I'm going to finish this whole business that you have been doing."
I said, "What business?" I was afraid about the nails because that was my only income. He was not aware of that, as he was saying, "This nasty business that you have been doing, making people afraid... and now that man's family continuously haunts me. Every day somebody or other comes and asks me to do something. What can I do?"
I said, "I can at least give you the pants; that's all that is left. And as far as the tree is concerned, I tell you nobody will be willing to cut it down."
He said, "You don't have to worry about that."
I said, "I am not worrying. I am just making you aware so that you don't waste your time."
And after three days he called me to say, "You are really something. You told me nobody would cut down the tree. It is strange: I have asked all the people who might be able to cut the tree down -- there are not many in this town, only a few woodcutters -- but nobody is ready to do it. They all said, `No. What about the ghosts?'"
I said to him, "I told you before, I don't know anybody in this town who will even touch the tree unless I decide to cut it down myself. But if you want I can find someone, but you will have to depend on me."
He said, "I cannot depend on you because one never knows what you are planning. You may tell me you are going to cut down the tree but you could do something else. No, I cannot ask you to do it."
That tree remained without anybody being ready to cut it down. I used to harass my poor father saying, "Dadda, what about the tree? It is still standing -- I saw it this morning. Have you not found a woodcutter yet?"
And he would look everywhere to see that nobody was listening, then say to me, "Can't you leave me alone?"
I said, "I rarely visit you. I come once in a while just to ask about that tree. You say that you cannot find a person to cut it down. I know you have been asking people, and I know that they have been refusing. I have also been asking them."
He said, "What for?"
I said, "No, not to cut the tree down, just to make them aware what the tree contains -- the ghosts. I don't think anybody will agree to cut it down unless you ask me to do it." And of course he was reluctant to do that. So I said, "Okay, the tree will remain."
And that tree remained while I was in the town. It was only when I left that my father managed to get a Mohammedan from another village to cut the tree down. But a strange thing happened: the tree was cut down -- but because it may have grown again, and to remove it completely, he made a well in its place. But he suffered unnecessarily because the tree and its roots had gone so deep that they made the water as bitter as you can imagine. Nobody was ready to drink the water from that well.
When I finally came home I told my father, "You never listened to me. You destroyed a beautiful tree and created this ugly hole; and now what use is it? You wasted money in making the well and even you cannot drink the water."
He said, "Perhaps once in a while you are right. I realize it, but nothing can be done now."
He had to cover that well with stones. It is still there, covered. If you remove a few stones, just slabs, you will find the well. By this time the water will be really bitter. Why did I want to tell you this story? -- because the tutor, on his first day, tried to impress me that he was a man of great courage, fearless, saying he did not believe in ghosts.
I said, "Really! You don't believe in ghosts?"
He said, "Of course I don't believe." I could see he was already afraid when he said it.
I had said, "Believe it or not, but tonight I will introduce you." I had never thought that the introduction would make the man simply disappear. What happened to him? Whenever I went to the town I always visited his house to inquire, "Has he come home yet?"
They said, "Why are you so interested in it? We have forgotten the whole idea of his coming."
I said, "I cannot forget, because what I saw had such great beauty, and I was only introducing him to somebody."
They said, "To whom?"
I said, "Just somebody, and I could not even finish the introduction. And," I told his son, "what your father did was not at all gentlemanly: he just ran out of his pants."
The wife, who was cooking something, laughed and she said, "I always used to tell him to hold his pants tight, but he would not listen. Now his pants are gone and so is he."
I said, "Why did you tell him to keep a tight hold of his pants?"
She said, "You don't understand. It is simple. He had all his pants made when he was young, and now they were all loose because he had lost weight. So I was always afraid someday or other he would create an embarrassing situation where his pants would suddenly fall down."
I then remembered that he always kept his hands in his pants pockets, but naturally, when you meet ghosts you cannot remember to keep your hands in your pockets and to hold on tightly to your pants. Who cares about pants when there are so many ghosts jumping out on you? He did one more thing before he left.... I don't know where he went. In this world there are many things which are unanswerable, and this can be counted among them. I don't know why, but before he left he put out his kerosene lamp. That is another question about that tutor which has remained unanswered.
He was a great man in a way. I often wondered why he put out the lamp; then one day I came across a small story, and it was solved. I don't mean that the man returned, but the second question was answered.
His little boy would not go to the bathroom without his mother standing at the door, and if it was night-time, then naturally she had to keep a lamp there. I was visiting the house and heard the mother say to the boy, "Can't you take the lamp yourself?"
He said, "Okay, I will take the lamp because I have to go. I can't wait any longer."
I said, "Why use the lamp in the daytime? I have heard the story of Diogenes; is he another Diogenes? Why the lamp?"
The mother laughed and said, "Ask him."
I said, "Why do you want the lamp during the day, Raju?"
He said, "Day or night, it does not matter; ghosts are everywhere. When you have a lamp you can avoid clashing with them."
That day I understood why the tutor had put out the lamp before running away. Perhaps he thought if he kept the lamp on, the ghost would find him. But if he put it out -- and it is only my logic -- if he put it out, at least they could not see him and he could dodge and escape. But he really did a great job. To tell you the truth it seems he always wanted to escape from his wife, and this opportunity was his last. He used it to the fullest. This man would not have come to such an end if he had not started with his fearlessness, and by saying, "I'm not even afraid of ghosts."
"But," I said, "I am not asking you." And his pants were trembling when he said the word "ghosts."
I said, "Sir, you have very strange pants. I have never seen anything tremble like that. They look so alive."
He looked down at his pants -- I can still see him -- and the legs were going completely berserk.
In fact my primary school days had ended. Of course thousands of things happened that cannot be talked about; not that they are worthless -- nothing in life is worthless -- but just because there is no time. So just a few examples will do.
The primary school was just the beginning of middle school. I entered middle school, and the first thing that I remember -- you know me, I see strange things....
My secretary collects all kinds of crazy car stickers. One was "Warning, I brake for hallucinations." I liked it. Really great!
The first thing that I remember is this man who -- fortunately or unfortunately, because it's difficult to know which -- was not at all sane. He was not even insane like me. He was genuinely insane. In the village he was known as Khakki Master. The meaning of khakki is something very close to what you mean by "cuckoo," crazy. He was my first teacher in the middle school. Perhaps because he was genuinely insane we immediately became friends.
I have rarely been friendly towards teachers. There are a few tribes like politicians, journalists, and teachers whom I simply cannot like, although I would like to like them too. Jesus says: "Love your enemies." Okay, but he never went to any school so he does not know about teachers. That much is certain, otherwise he would have said, "Love your enemies, except for teachers."
Of course there were no journalists or politicians, no people whose whole work it was to somehow suck your blood. Jesus was talking about enemies, but what about friends? -- he said nothing about love your friends. Because I don't think an enemy can do you much harm, the real harm is done by the friend.
I simply hate journalists, and when I hate I don't mean anything else; no interpretations, simply hate! I hate teachers! I don't want teachers in the world... not teachers in the old sense; perhaps a different kind of elderly friend will have to be found.

But this man who was known as a madman immediately became my friend. His full name was Rajaram, but he was known as Raju-Khakki, "Raju, the mad." I had expected that he would be what he was known to be.
When I saw the man -- you will not believe it, but that day for the first time I realized it is not good to be really sane in an insane world. Looking at him, just for a moment it was as if time had stopped. How long it lasted is difficult to say, but he had to finish writing my name and address, and registering things, so he asked these questions.
I said, "Can't we remain silent?"
He said, "I would love to be silent with you, but let us finish this dirty job first, then we can sit silently."
The way he said, "Let us finish this dirty job first..." was enough to show me that here is a man who at least knows what is dirty: the bureaucracy, and the endless red-tape-ism. He quickly finished, closed the register and said, "Okay, now we can sit silently. Can I hold your hand?"
I was not expecting that from a teacher, so I said, "Either what people say is right, that you are mad, or perhaps what I am feeling is right: that you are the only sane teacher in the whole town."
He said, "It is better to be mad; it saves you from many troubles."
We laughed and became friends. For thirty years continuously, until he died, I used to visit him, just to sit. His wife used to say, "I thought my husband was the only madman in the town. That's not right; you are mad too. I wonder," she said, "why you come to see this madman." And he was a madman in every way.
For example, you would see him going to school on a horse; that was not a bad thing in those parts, but sitting backwards...! I love that about him. To sit on a horse, not as everybody else sits but looking backwards, is a strange experience.
It was only later on I told him the story about Mulla Nasruddin, how he used to ride on his donkey also sitting backwards. When his students used to go out of town, naturally they felt embarrassed, to say the least. Finally one of the students asked, "Mulla, everybody sits on a donkey, there is nothing wrong in that. You can sit on a donkey, but backwards...! The donkey is going in one direction, and you are looking in the opposite direction, so people laugh and say, `Look at that crazy Mulla!' -- and we feel embarrassed because we are your students."
Mulla said, "I will explain it to you: I cannot sit keeping you at my back, that would be insulting to you. I cannot insult my own students, so that is out of the question. Other ways can be found; perhaps you could all walk backwards in front of the donkey, but it would be very difficult, and you would feel even more embarrassed. Of course you would then be facing me, and there would be no question of disrespect, but it would be very difficult for you to walk backwards, and we are going a long way. So the only natural, and also the easiest solution is that I should sit facing backwards on the donkey. The donkey has no objection to not seeing you. He can see where we are going and reach the destination. I don't want to be disrespectful to you, so the best way is for me to sit backwards on the donkey."
It is strange, but Lao Tzu also used to sit backwards on his buffalo, perhaps for the same reason. But nothing is known about his answer. The Chinese don't answer such questions, and they don't ask them either. They are very polite people, always bowing down to each other.
I was determined to do everything that was not allowed. For example when I was in college I wore a robe without buttons, and pyjama pants. One of my professors, Indrabahadur Khare... I remember his name although he died long ago, but because of this story I am about to tell you I cannot forget it.
He was in charge of all celebrations in the college. Of course because of all the awards I was bringing to the college, he decided that my picture should be taken with all the medals, shields and cups, so we went to the studio. But a great problem arose there when he said, "Do up your buttons."
I said, "That is not possible."
He said, "What? You cannot close your buttons?"
I said, "Look, you can see, the buttons are false; I don't have any button holes. They cannot be closed. I don't like to do up buttons, so I instructed my tailor to not make any button holes in my clothes. The buttons are there, you can see them, so the picture will show the buttons."
He was so angry because he was very much -- what do you say, concerned? -- concerned about clothes and things like that, so he said, "Then the picture cannot be taken."
I said, "Okay, then I will go."
He said, "I don't mean that" -- because he was afraid I would cause trouble and perhaps go to the principal. He knew perfectly well that there was no law saying that your buttons should be closed when you are being photographed.
I reminded him by saying, "Know well that tomorrow you will be in trouble. There is no law against it. Read all night, find out, do homework, and tomorrow face me in the principal's office. Prove to me that a photograph may not be taken without closed buttons."
He said, "You are certainly a strange student. I know that I will not be able to prove it, so please just get the photo finished. I will leave, but your photograph has to be taken."
That photograph still exists. One of my brothers, my fourth brother, Niklanka, has been collecting everything concerning me from his very childhood. Everybody laughed at him. Even I asked him, "Niklanka, why do you bother to collect everything about me?"
He said, "I don't know, but somehow there is a deep feeling in me that someday these things will be needed."
I said, "Then go ahead. If you feel like that, go ahead, do it." And it is because of Niklanka that a few pictures of my childhood have been saved. He has collected things which now have significance.
He was always collecting things. Even if I threw something away in the wastepaper basket, he would search to see if I had thrown away something I had written. Whatsoever it was, he would collect it because of my handwriting. The whole town thought he was mad. People even said to me, "You are mad, and he seems to be even more mad!"
But he loved me as nobody in my whole family did -- although they all loved me, but nobody like him. He may well have the photograph because he was always collecting. I remember having seen it in his collection -- with the buttons open. And I can still see the irritation on Indrabahadur's face. He was a man very particular about everything, but I too was a man of my own type.
I said to him, "Forget about the photograph. Is it going to be my photo or yours? You can have your photo taken with your buttons closed, but I never close my buttons as you know. If I closed them for this photo, it would be false. Either take my photo or else forget all about it!"
It was good, beautiful... but be vertical. With me, horizontal is not applicable. Good. When things are going so good it is better to stop. And Devageet, it is beautiful, but enough. Devaraj, help him. Ashu, do your best. I would love to continue but the time has gone. One has to withdraw somewhere.
Stop.