I never saw Jawaharlal again, although he lived many years. But, just as he wanted it – and I had already decided it; his advice only became a confirmation of my own decision – I have never voted in my life and never been a member of any political party, never even dreamed of it. In fact, for almost thirty years I have not dreamed at all. I cannot.
I can manage a sort of rehearsal. The word will seem strange, a rehearsal dream, but the actual drama never happens, cannot happen; it needs unconsciousness, and that ingredient is missing. You can make me unconscious, but still you will not make me dream. And to make me unconscious needs not much technology, just a hit over my head and I will be unconscious. But that is not the unconsciousness I am talking about.
You are unconscious when you go on doing things without knowing why; during the day, during the night – the awareness is missing. Once awareness happens, dreaming disappears. Both cannot exist together. There is no coexistence possible between these two things, and nobody can make it. Either you dream, then you are unconscious; or you are awake, aware, pretending to dream – but that is not a dream. You know and everybody else knows too.
What was I saying?
“For almost thirty years you haven’t dreamed. ‘I never saw Jawaharlal again, even though he lived many years.’“
There was no need to see him again, although many people approached me. Somehow they came to know through various sources, from Jawaharlal’s house, secretaries, or others, that I knew him, and he loved me. Naturally they wanted something to be done for them, and asked if I would recommend it to him.
I said, “Are you mad? I don’t know him at all.”
They said, “We have solid proofs.”
I said, “You can keep your solid proofs. Perhaps in some dream we have met, but not in reality.”
They said, “We always thought that you were a little mad, now we know.”
I said, “Spread it, please, as far and wide as possible, and don’t be so conservative – just a little mad? Be generous – I am absolutely mad!”
They left without even saying thank you to me. I had to give them a thank you, so I said, “I am a madman, at least I can give you a good thank you.”
They said to each other, “Look! A good thank you? He is mad.”
I loved to be known as mad. I still love it. There is nothing more beautiful than the madness I have come to know.
Masto said before he left, “Jawaharlal has given me this man’s name, Ghanshyamdas Birala. He is the richest man in India, and very close to the family of Jawaharlal. In any kind of need he can be approached. And when he was giving me this address Jawaharlal said, ‘That boy haunts me. I predict he can become…’” and Masto remained silent.
I said, “What is the matter? Complete the sentence at least.”