Seventh. A great esoteric number, seven. I want it to be given to a really esoteric fellow, Shiva, the Hindu concept of Ultimate Goodness. Many books carry the name of Shiva; many of them are not true, they are just using the name to become respectable. But this book is one of the most authentic, Shiva Sutra. I have spoken on it in Hindi; I am thinking of speaking on it in English too. I have even decided the date, but you know me….
This book Shiva Sutra contains the techniques of all meditations. There cannot be any other technique that is not included in this book. Shiva Sutra is the very bible of meditators.
Ashu, I know why they are laughing. Let them laugh. I know I am speaking very, very slowly, that’s why they are laughing. But I am enjoying it and they are enjoying their laugh. So good, Ashu…only once in a while one can find such a good woman. There are many beautiful women in the world but good women are, my God, very difficult to find. Let the fools laugh. I will speak as slowly as I want.
I was talking about Shiva Sutra. This book is like no other, it is unique, incomparable.
Eighth: The most immensely beautiful work of an Indian mystic, Gaurang. The word gaurang itself means “the white one.” He was so beautiful…I can see him standing right before me, just white, or rather snow-white. He was so beautiful that all the girls in the village fell in love with him. And he remained a bachelor. One cannot get married to millions of girls. One of them is too much; millions, my God! – that will kill anyone! Now you know the secret of why I am a bachelor.
Gaurang used to dance and sing his message. His message was not of words, but much more of a song. Gaurang has not written a book; his lovers – and there were many, too many in fact – they collected his songs. Those songs are one of the most beautiful collections; I have never come across anything like it before or after. What to say about them…just that I love them.
Ninth: Again another Indian mystic, you may not have heard about him. He was called Dadu, which means the brother. He was so loving that people forgot his real name and simply remembered him as Dadu, the brother. There are thousands of songs that Dadu sang, but they were not written down by him, they were collected by others, just like a gardener collects flowers long fallen.
What I say about Dadu is true about all saints. They are averse to writing. They sing, they speak, they dance, they indicate, but they don’t write. To write something is to make it very limited. A word is a limitation; only then can it be a word. If it is unlimited it will be the sky, containing all the stars. That’s what a saint’s experience is.
Even I myself have not written anything…just a few letters to those who were very intimate to me, thinking, or perhaps believing, that they will understand. I don’t know whether they understood or not. So my book A Cup of Tea is the only book that can be said to have been written by me. It is a compilation of my letters. Otherwise I have not written anything.