People are continuously obsessed with sex. And there are two ways to be obsessed with sex: one is the ordinary man’s way, the Playboy way; another the so-called religious man’s way. But both remain obsessed with lust – one for, the other against. Their constant fixation is sex; neither goes beyond it.
Bauls don’t belong to either category. They don’t belong to the worldly man because they go beyond sex; they don’t belong to the austere man because they are not against sex; they also don’t belong to the so-called religious man, the monk, because they say, “Sex is your energy; it has to be used. Of course, it has to be refined, but it has not to be condemned.” How can you refine a stone and make a diamond of it if you are condemnatory about it, if you throw it away? And if you start escaping from it, how can you refine it, how can you polish it, how can you make a valuable thing out of it? So there are two types of fixations in the world: the people who think sex is life, and the people who think to fight with sex is life – and both are wrong. To use sex creatively; that is the goal of the Baul.
Mulla Nasruddin constantly irritated his friends with his eternal optimism. No matter how bad the situation, he would always say, “It could have been worse.” To cure him of this annoying habit his friends decided to invent a situation so completely black, so dreadful that even Nasruddin could find no hope in it.
Approaching him at the club bar one day, one of them said, “Mulla, did you hear what happened to George? He went home last night, found his wife in bed with another man, shot them both, then turned the gun on himself.”
“Terrible,” said the Mulla, “but it could have been worse.”
“How in the hell,” asked his dumbfounded friend, “could it possibly have been worse?”
“Well,” said Nasruddin, “if it had happened the day before, I would be dead now.”
People are in a rut, repeating the same thing again and again and again. It seems their eyes are completely closed. It seems they have no idea of what is possible. It seems nobody has given them even a glimpse of the beyond. It seems that they have never looked towards the heights. They have not seen the sky; they go on crawling in the mud. Nothing is wrong essentially in the mud; it is beautiful if you can stand in it, rooted, grounded, and your eyes can move towards the heights. Then the very quality of the mud is transformed.
Never plunge into the river of lust, you will not reach the shores. It is a river of no coasts where typhoons rage. And you all must have felt that whatsoever you call love brings misery and nothing else: conflict, agony, suffering. Whatsoever you have called love gives you hell and nothing else. But still, somehow you manage to remain in it, you manage not to see beyond it.