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Chapter 5: Perfectly Imperfect

Mahavira is so perfect that he does not urinate, does not defecate; these things are for imperfect human beings. You cannot imagine Mahavira sitting on a toilet seat, impossible! But then where does all his shit disappear to? Then he must be the shittiest man in the world.

I have read in the medical journals about a man - the longest case of constipation: eighteen months. These medical people are not aware of Mahavira. This is nothing; forty years! This is the longest period that any man has been able to control his bowels. This is real yoga! The greatest case of constipation in the whole history of man.and I don’t think anybody is going to defeat him.

These stupid ideas have been perpetuated just to make humanity suffer. If you have these ideas in your mind then you will feel guilty about everything. Pissing, you are guilty - what are you doing? Sitting on a toilet, and you are falling into hell! If blood comes out of your body, a deep humiliation.

Jesus walks on water, tries to revive a dead friend, but cannot himself survive on the cross; tries to cure blind people, deaf people, but cannot make a single stupid man enlightened, cannot help a single fool to come out of his foolishness, cannot save a single human being by hitting him hard on the head and saying, “See, the goose is out!”

I am very fallible because I am not a neurotic, I am not psychotic, I am not a perfectionist. And I love my imperfections.I love this world because it is imperfect. It is imperfect, and that’s why it is growing; if it was perfect it would have been dead. Growth is possible only if there is imperfection. Perfection means a full stop, perfection means ultimate death; then there is no way to go beyond it.

I would like you to remember again and again, I am imperfect, the whole universe is imperfect, and to love this imperfection, to rejoice in this imperfection is my whole message.

The psychiatrist leaned back and placed the tips of his fingers together while he soothed the deeply-troubled man who stood before him. “Calm yourself, my good fellow,” he gently urged. “I have helped a great many others with fixations far more serious than yours. Now, let me see if I understand the problem correctly. You indicate that in moments of great emotional stress you believe that you are a dog, a fox terrier. Is that not so?”

“Yes, sir,” mumbled the patient. “A small fox terrier with black and brown spots. Oh, please tell me you can help me, doctor. If this keeps up much longer, I don’t know what I’ll do.”

The doctor gestured toward the couch. “Now, now,” he soothed, “the first thing to do is lie down here, and we’ll see if we can’t get to the root of your delusion.”

“Oh, I couldn’t do that, doctor,” said the patient. “I’m not allowed up on the furniture.”

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