Bin Bati Bin Tel #13

The truths of life can no longer be given to everyone. For those who have no thirst, water has no meaning. They may stand right on the shore of a lake and still not see it. The hungry see food; the thirsty see water. And if such a deep thirst has not arisen within that the divine can be seen, there is no way to make it seen.
It is not for lack of compassion; only if your thirst is there will you become a vessel. And only when your vessel is ready can anything be poured into it. If your bowl is upside down, pouring anything is futile—the effort goes to waste.
First understand this: the deeper the thirst, the greater the truths you become eligible for. And it is not necessary that if there is thirst you should have to search for the master; if the thirst is there, the master will find you. One of the deepest mysteries of life is that whenever the disciple is ready, the master appears.
We search only because we are not yet ready. When we are ready, the master appears on his own—just as when a hollow is ready, the rains fall and the hollow fills. The rains fall on the mountains too, but they remain as empty as ever. The hollows become lakes. There is no lack of compassion in the rain, but the mountain will remain empty because it is already full of itself. The hollow will fill because it is empty.
To be filled, you must be empty.
To be, you must dissolve.
That is why I say I will work with a few. This does not mean there is any lack of compassion for the rest. In fact, on close look, it is precisely out of compassion that this must be done. The water thrown upon upturned vessels is being wasted. That water could be of use to those whose vessels are upright. The water being given to those who have no thirst could serve those who are thirsty. One should reach only those who are in need.
And many times it happens that if you are not hungry and food is given to you, even the possibility of hunger arising is killed. If you are not thirsty and someone makes you drink, the thirst that might have arisen tomorrow may not arise at all. The right, the compassionate thing is not to give water to the one who is not thirsty. Perhaps the lack of water will awaken thirst in him. And once the thirst is awake, water becomes meaningful.
Until now I was speaking among all. That was necessary so they could hear there is a well—and when thirst arises they can come to the well. Now that has no further purpose. But there is no reason to be frightened by this, and no need to be anxious. If at all you must worry, then only about one thing: to examine your own thirst and deepen your worthiness.
People ask questions and think that because they asked, they have a right to answers. A question by itself does not make one worthy of an answer. A question may be mere curiosity. If it deepens, it becomes inquiry. If it deepens still further, mumuksha—an intense longing for liberation—is born.
So first I was speaking for those filled with curiosity.
Then, from among them, I chose those who had inquiry.
And now, from among the inquirers, I am choosing those who have mumuksha.
Now my work will be for those who seek only liberation and will not settle for less. Those willing to settle for less—the world is vast for them. They will find other places; they will. Thousands are speaking to satisfy curiosity—they can listen to them. Hundreds are speaking to feed inquiry—they can understand them. Beyond all these, for those in whom mumuksha has awakened, my effort will now be.
And remember: digging pits in many places does not make a well; digging deep in one place makes a well. Until now I was digging pits in many places. Now with a few I will dig deep wells. Only then can your liberation bloom.
And in the final reckoning, if the flower of liberation blossoms in the lives of a few, the inquirers standing behind them will begin to have their inquiry transformed into mumuksha. And when the inquirers’ inquiry becomes mumuksha, the curious ones’ curiosity turns into true inquiry. You stand in a line. When you see the person ahead reach somewhere, movement arises in your life.
The liberation of a few is essential.
One important reason religion gets lost on this earth is that you do not find one in whom liberation has happened. How then will your thirst be kindled? You move among the unfulfilled. You get no taste of fulfillment, no fragrance of contentment. Nowhere do you meet one whose music seizes you and gives news of the beyond, whose very presence becomes a door to the new for you, in whose nearness you feel, “Until I become like this, my being is futile.” If the flower of liberation blossoms in a few lives, many will be struck by the idea that the flower can bloom.
So in the long run it is precisely out of compassion that I labor with a few so their trees may flower. Because of them, consequences will reach many. Because of them, many will become thirsty for liberation and enter a deeper search.
Of course this can feed your ego. You may feel you are among a chosen few. If this feeling arises, by that very feeling you are out. You may sit physically inside the temple, yet you have not entered the temple—because entry is only for one who leaves his ego outside.
On hearing such a thing, not ego but gratefulness should arise in you—anugraha toward the divine. You should feel, “I was not worthy, yet I have been accepted as if I were.” This will increase your worthiness. If you feel, “I am worthy, therefore I was chosen,” you have lost your worthiness.
And this worthiness is not some permanent asset of yours. In a moment you gain it; in a moment you lose it. It is still fluid, not solid. One instant of ego—and you go astray. The moment it arises, “I am something,” you are unworthy. The moment it arises, “I am nothing,” worthiness is available. Your virtue lies in your disappearance; your obstruction lies in your presence. The mind is forever seeking a foothold for ego. From anywhere it can, it tries to build the ego. And ego means an upturned vessel. Then you are upside down again. Even if I rain, not a drop reaches your bowl. When there is no ego, your vessel stands upright. Then even if there is no downpour, just a gentle drizzle—if not today, tomorrow you will be filled.
Hold to gratefulness. And whenever ego grabs you, seek the counter-element. If the feeling “I am chosen” catches hold of you, two roads open:

- “I am special; hence I was chosen.” Then you have gone astray. You miss at the very threshold.
- “By grace alone I, unworthy, have been chosen.” Then you are on the right path.

The Sufi mystic Junayd used to say in his daily prayer, “I am amazed—there is no worthiness in me, and yet I live. I have earned nothing, and this supremely blessed life has been given to me. I am amazed, for there is no reason why such peace should shower upon me. Where people burn in such restlessness, why does this peace rain on me?” There was a strange line in his prayer: “O God, I cannot believe You are just. You must be partial toward me—showering so much on one so unworthy.”
And that was his worthiness.
To see oneself as unworthy is worthiness on the path of the spirit. The day you take yourself to be worthy, that day you go astray. And the mind will always lead you astray. Just as you are about to arrive, the steps slip from your hands.
When the Zen mystic Bokujū neared death, he sent word in his monastery—about five hundred monks, the very cream of Japan: the wisest, most reflective, most meditative. He announced, “The time has come; I will depart. I must choose my successor. Whoever feels himself worthy to succeed me should write, in four brief lines, on my door tonight, a verse containing the very essence of religion.”
Those who were truly worthy remained silent, for the worthy do not proclaim their worth. They stopped going near the master’s hut altogether, lest the idea of writing arise. But the unworthy began preparing through the night. To put the essence of religion into four lines—how hard could that be? There were already verses containing the essence. And with so little, one could become the successor of so vast a monastery, famed far and wide—great resources, five hundred monks, hundreds of thousands of lay disciples.
Many spent their nights composing quatrains. Finally, the chief scholar, most learned in the scriptures, wrote one at night. Of course it contained the essence of scripture—whether or not the essence of religion. Scripture and religion are very different. He distilled what was written in the scriptures. He wrote:

“The mind of man is like a mirror.
Upon this mirror gathers the dust of karma.
Wipe away the dust,
and the pristine Brahman is revealed.”

The essence of all scriptures was there. This is what Patanjali, Buddha, Mahavira—everyone—has said: your mind has become dirty because of karma, because of a long chain of doing. Like a traveler walking for years on dusty roads, without a chance to bathe—dust upon dust gathers. Then he leaps into a lake and all dust is washed away; he is fresh and clean again, for inner cleanliness is never destroyed. Dust can gather only outside, never within. The inner Brahman is eternally pure. Dirt can come upon the outer garments; that which you are can never be defiled. The lamp that burns without wick and oil never smokes; smoke arises from oil and a wet wick. Where there is no wick, no oil—how can smoke arise? There the flame burns pure. Nothing ever reaches within; it only settles outside.
So he did state the gist: the mind is like a mirror. The grime of karma gathers—this is the scripture’s essence. Wash it off—conduct, yoga, character, dharma, discipline are the methods of washing. Then you are purest—just as you have always been. What you never lost is regained. Your supreme purity reappears. It is a rediscovery, not a new attainment. Only the dust is to be brushed away.
In the morning the master saw the verse on the wall and said, “Which fool has done this? Catch him! Don’t let him escape.”
Naturally, the great scholar was afraid. A pundit never escapes fear, because however much he may understand, he knows within that he has not yet known. However many scriptures are memorized, they have never gone below the throat; they cannot. The heart remains empty—and the throat gets strangled by scholarship.
He knew this verse was from scripture, not from experience. And it is impossible to deceive the master. He had not signed his name: if the master approved, he would claim it; if not, he would deny it. Still he feared he could not escape; the master would immediately recognize the hand. So after writing in the night, he fled outside the monastery, telling friends to inform him if the master accepted it—he would be hiding nearby.
The master saw it and said, “Which fool wrote this? Catch him! Don’t let him run. I will have to give him a beating.” A hush fell over the monastery. Many who had prepared verses lost courage. “If the chief scholar failed, what chance have our verses?” The whole monastery buzzed: “What does the master want? Something impossible? The essence is already written here.” Some even doubted whether the master himself could do better. “What else would he write? Everything is there: the human condition, the cause, the remedy, and the supreme state after the remedy.” Just as Buddha spoke of four truths—there is suffering; its cause; the way to end it; and the state when it ends—all four are here. Suffering is the dust on the mirror of mind, caused by your doing—your sense of doership, your ego. Wipe it with meditation, prayer, pure conduct, yama, niyama. Purity is attained—that is nirvana.
While this was being debated, the monks passed the place where the monastery’s rice was pounded. The rice-pounder too was a monk. Twelve years earlier he had come, bowed at Bokujū’s feet, and asked to be accepted in the search for truth.
The master had said, “Do you want to know about truth, or do you want to know truth?” These are two different quests. To know about truth is easy—a little play of intellect: study scripture, memorize sutras, become a scholar. But remember, that is like knowing all about diamonds without ever seeing one, like hearing much about water without a single drop going down the throat. What do you want: ‘about’ truth, or truth itself?”
The man said, “Since I have come to seek, what is the point of ‘about’? I want truth itself. However long the road, however many lives, I am ready.” The master said, “Then do this: this is the kitchen where food for five hundred monks is prepared. Take charge of pounding the rice. And now don’t come again. When needed, I will come.”
Twelve years passed. Neither he went to the master nor the master to him. He simply pounded rice. He rose in the morning and began; at dusk he slept; then again. No one counted him in the monastery’s scheme. Monks passed by without so much as a glance, no one greeted him. People forgot him. He was the rice-pounder—what could anyone have to do with him? Gradually no one spoke to him; all were prestigious—he was a rice-pounder. When no one spoke, he slowly became silent. People thought he had gone mute—ignored and forgotten.
For some days old thoughts drifted in his mind—memories of the home and market he had left. But for how long? There was only one thing to do: pound rice from morning to night. That pounding became meditation. The work itself became prayer. The master had said only one thing—pound rice; so he put his whole life into it. He fixed his mind there, as if this alone were prayer, worship, sadhana, yoga. And nothing was left, for the master had said, “Do not come again. When needed, I will come.” So even the future brought no worry—nothing remained in his hands. Surrender became complete. People forgot him.
That day, as the monks debated and passed by, saying, “It seems the master is being a little unjust. Even he could not write a better verse,” analyzing the verse among themselves, the rice-pounder heard—and laughed out loud.
This was the first event in twelve years. Startled, the monks looked at him. “You laughed? Why?”
He said, “The master asked me long ago: ‘Do you want to know about truth, or truth itself?’ Whoever wrote that verse knows about truth; he knows nothing of truth.”
They mocked him: “So, pounding rice you became enlightened! We are breaking our heads—so many postures, so much austerity, and you attained by pounding rice? You too think this is about truth, not truth. Then what do you say?”
He said, “It’s a bit difficult. In twelve years I have even forgotten how to write. The little intellect I had has stopped working. I only see rice. Pounding, I have become no-mind. But if someone will write, I will speak; you write it on the wall.”
They said, “Come along.”
He replied, “I won’t go that far. Just write this: ‘Mind is no mirror on which dust can settle. Since no dust has ever gathered, what is there to wipe? One who knows this has known all.’”
Someone went and wrote it on the wall.
The master came out and said, “Catch the rice-pounder, for none other could have spoken this.” He ran to him. The man was pounding rice. The master said, “The time has come for me to come to you. You have arrived. One who knows this knows that there is no mind, no mirror, no dust. He knows it was all a dream that has broken. When one awakes in the morning, does he ask whether the dream was true or false? Does he say, ‘I committed murder in the dream; I am stained with its dust and must wipe it off’? On waking, it is seen: the dream is gone, the mirror is gone, the dust is gone—only I remain. You have seen rightly. Take this key. You are my successor.”
He said, “But I know only one trick—pounding rice. That alone I can teach. What will you do with so much rice? There are five hundred people. By pounding rice I arrived—your great grace. You gave me no knowledge, no mantra, no scripture—your compassion! I just pounded rice. But am I to set five hundred to pounding? What will we do with all that rice?”
The master said, “That is your problem!” Through this man, many reached nirvana. His entire method was: if you are digging in the garden, then only dig the hole. You do not remain—only the digging remains. You dissolve; the act remains. If you are cutting wood—the wood is cut, you are not. If you walk on the road—let walking happen, but no walker. Drawing water from the well—let water be drawn, but let no drawer be found.
His disciples attained remarkably. When asked about their realization, people were amazed. One said, “By drawing water—I first drew water with a doer. Then I dissolved the doer into the drawing. Water kept being drawn; I was not. Then—satori, the breakthrough, samadhi happened.”
Another said, “By cutting wood”; another, “By digging”; another, “While grazing cattle.” Through this disciple of Bokujū, many attained—through the simplicity of life itself.
One thing is to know about truth—that is inquiry. Another is to know truth—that is mumuksha. And one who wants to know truth must dissolve—whether pounding rice, melting into the sound of Om, or sitting in his shop.
Kabir kept weaving cloth—he remained a weaver and attained there. Later when people said, “Now leave it. You have reached the ultimate; why go on weaving?” Kabir said, “Why leave that by which I reached? This is the very means.” Weaving thread upon thread, Kabir dissolved.
Gora was a potter; kneading clay and shaping pots, he attained. Ravidas, the cobbler, went on making shoes.
A Hasidic mystic, Balsen, was approached by a cobbler who said, “I am in trouble. When should I pray? I am poor. Twelve children, a wife, an old father, a widowed sister—their care is on me. I know nothing but shoemaking. I must begin work at dawn—otherwise customers go elsewhere. That is the hour of prayer. When should I pray? I must work late into the night to feed them.”
Balsen said, “If you make shoes, what need of prayer? Just make shoes—that is your prayer. Whoever comes as a customer—see God in him.” And they say the cobbler, making shoes and seeing God in each customer, dissolved—and arrived.
You will find when you dissolve. How you dissolve is secondary. If you remain, you will miss. How you manage to remain is secondary. Some think they are something because they have wealth; some because they hold high office.
You might think you are among a little chosen circle—you will miss. Your worthiness can become unworthiness at any moment. Do not let your worthiness turn into unworthiness. The one formula: be grateful.
That is why all sages have said: the divine is not obtained by effort but by grace. Understand this well. The divine never comes through effort—because in effort the ego remains: “I am doing.” As long as there is any doing, there is “I.” And while “I” is, “That” is not. The one who reaches by effort may reach the moon, may stand atop Everest, but by effort he never reaches his own self.
Ego and the Self are in opposition. The more you take yourself to be, the more you cover your Self. The more your ego is lost, the more your Self is unveiled. The unveiling of your nature is what we call the divine. When your whole being opens, naked and innocent—when you fully blossom—that flowering is God.
So you may think you are something. Even Buddha’s closest disciple was deprived till the last moment. Ananda, who was by his side for forty years, remained unfulfilled until the final day. He wept, “Now you are leaving—what will become of me? I stayed with you forty years and gained nothing.” Buddha said, “What can I do? Your stiffness—that you are with Buddha—became the barrier. Your insistence on staying close became the barrier. Your idea that you are the Buddha’s cousin—not only cousin, the elder cousin.”
When Ananda first came for initiation he said, “Listen—after initiation I will be your disciple; before initiation I am your elder brother. I ask a few things as my elder-brother’s command. One, after I take initiation, wherever you go I will stay with you. You must not be able to say, ‘Ananda, go elsewhere.’ I will not reside anywhere else. I ask this as an elder brother. After initiation I won’t be able to ask. Give me this word. Wherever you sleep, I will sleep—in the same room. I will not leave you for a moment, and you must not say you need solitude. Third: even if I bring someone at midnight, you must meet him; you must not say, ‘Is this an hour to meet?’ Fourth: whatever question I ask, you must not evade; you must answer.”
Then Ananda was initiated, and Buddha fulfilled these four things always—meeting people at odd hours, answering incongruent questions, keeping Ananda by his side for forty years. But that stiffness—“I am Buddha’s elder cousin”—remained within. The rope may burn, but its twists remain. Buddha said, “Until I die, Ananda, you will not be free—because I cannot push you away; your stiffness does not leave. There is only one way: I must disappear so you are left alone.”
The day after Buddha died, Ananda attained Buddhahood. All crutches vanished; ego had nowhere to stand. You can make even Buddha a throne for your ego.
Keep to gratefulness. Truth never comes by effort, for in effort you remain. Thus the sages say: by prasad—by his grace. It is a very sweet thing.
What will happen by your doing? How small is your doing! What will you do—turn beads? Chant a name? Ram Ram Ram Ram—what are you doing? Parrots can do that. What will you do? Not eat this, not drink that—how much value is in that? Wear this cloth, not that—what is the meaning? What depth has your doing? Wherever ego does, it is shallow; its actions are shallow. No wave can dive into the ocean’s depths; however much it leaps and shouts, it remains on the surface. Ego is on the surface. It cannot go within; it cannot take you deep. Whatever you do remains on the surface.
Hence there are two approaches—and truly they are two ways of speaking about one thing. One: do nothing; become inactive; be absorbed in non-doing. The Buddhas say: do nothing—so the wave subsides. When wave-form dissolves, depth becomes accessible. Inside the ocean there are no waves—there is supreme stillness. Until the wave quiets, you cannot go within. This is the path of the knower.
The other: let the divine be the doer; leave all doing to that. Become only an instrument. This is Krishna’s path. Krishna says to Arjuna: “Become a mere instrument, a nimitta. He is doing; not you. He makes it happen. The notes are his—you are only a hollow bamboo, a flute. He plays. However he wishes to play, be played. Do not create obstacles. Do not stand in between saying, ‘These notes I will play; those I won’t. This song I like; that I don’t.’ Don’t stand in the way. Be a hollow reed. Let his music flow. Do not obstruct, do not interfere. Do not decide on your own. The decision is his; the act is his. You are neither doer nor decider. You are merely a means, an instrument.”
This is the devotee’s path. The other is: become inactive; do nothing; be as if you are not—shunyavat, like emptiness. This is the path of the sage.
There are only these two—and both mean the same. Whether the divine is the doer or you become inactive, both end the ego. And where the ego is not, everything is revealed.
Anything more?

If the enlightened one does not accept the conditions of the unenlightened, the unenlightened is lost. Accepting them was precisely for his welfare. Ananda did become free—yes, after Buddha’s death; but had Buddha refused, Ananda would have wandered forever. His stiffness, his elder-brother ego, would not have allowed initiation. So Buddha accepted those four absurd demands—meaningless to him, but the only way.

The wise one often bends in order to lift you up. Naturally, when you fall on the path, the one who is standing upright must bend. How else will you bend to rise? The one who stands bends to raise the fallen.

Buddha bent. It took forty years, but forty years are nothing. In this infinite journey, forty years are no more than a moment. Ananda was liberated. But had Buddha refused and called those demands mad, Ananda would have turned back; he would not have agreed to be initiated.

If, after forty years in Buddha’s constant presence, he could not drop his ego, do you think he would have agreed to initiation had Buddha not accepted his conditions? If his ego did not dissolve in four decades at the master’s side, would it dissolve because Buddha refused? Impossible! He would not have been initiated at all—perhaps he would have turned against Buddha, remained himself without awakening, and even campaigned against Buddha, preventing many others from treading the path.

It was Buddha’s compassion to bend. And only one who knows can bend. How can one who does not know bend? The knower bends—so that slowly, slowly, he can win you over, so that you, too, learn to bend. The enlightened one will accept your conditions because you cannot even understand his; accepting them is a far cry!

Buddha returned home after twelve years. He said to Ananda, “I must go to the palace. Yashodhara has waited for twelve years. I am no longer her husband, but she is still my wife.” This is the understanding between the wise and the unwise. “I am no longer her husband. Now I am nothing. Not anyone’s husband, nor anyone’s father, nor anyone’s son; but she is still my wife. Her feeling is still the same. And she is sitting there, angry. Twelve years of anger have gathered. And her anger is natural, because one night I suddenly fled the home without telling her. She is worthy of honor, of a royal house, a princess, very proud. She has been deeply hurt. She did not utter a single word to anyone; she is not a woman of a small, uncultured household.”

After Buddha left, Yashodhara never spoke a word against him. She remained silent for twelve years, never raised the matter. Buddha’s father was astonished; the family was astonished. A woman of an ordinary home would have beaten her chest, wept, wailed—and in doing so, become lighter. She was extraordinary. This matter was not for anyone else. It was between Buddha and her alone. Honor! A Kshatriya’s daughter, a princess of a great royal house! Tears being seen—such a thing was unthinkable. Yet she kept smiling. She raised the child. Rahul became twelve. She never said anything to the boy about his father. She remained silent, as if the matter were finished. But inside, the fire kept burning. Had it come out, she would have felt lighter. Kept within, great anger piled up. And there was no one on whom she could vent it. It could only be settled when that very man returned. With anyone else, there was no point; there was no longer any relationship with anyone else.

So Buddha said, “She is waiting; there is twelve years of anger—I must go.” The whole town had come to receive Buddha. His father came, the family came; Buddha looked and saw, but his wife was not there. Buddha said, “She will not come either, because it was I who left her and fled. I must go.”

This is how the wise one bows. To raise the unwise, the enlightened must bend. Entering the palace Buddha said to Ananda, “Of the four conditions of yours that I accepted, if you grant me permission, leave me alone with Yashodhara for a little while. I know her well. In your presence, tears will not fall from her eyes; in your presence, she will not utter a harsh word to me; in your presence, she will maintain decorum. And that would be a slight injustice on my part. Your presence will not allow her to unburden herself. She has waited for twelve years. Be kind. If you can, stay a little behind, so that, finding me alone, she can pour out all her anger.”

This was the only occasion when Buddha sought permission from Ananda—contrary to the old pledge that Ananda’s word would be honored. And Ananda, too, raised the question: “After attaining supreme knowledge, attaining Buddhahood—who is wife? Who is husband?” Buddha said, “I know this; but Yashodhara does not. I know it; but she does not. And if she too is to know it one day, I must walk a few steps toward her.”

Buddha went in. Yashodhara went wild. She screamed, shouted, wept, was angry, complained. After a while it dawned on her that Buddha stood there silent. He had not answered a single thing. Her eyes were nearly blind with rage; she could see nothing. Tears that had been dammed for twelve years poured like rain. She wiped her eyes and looked at Buddha carefully. “Why don’t you speak? Have you lost your tongue? Had you asked me, I would have given you permission. Did you not trust me that much? I am a Kshatriya’s daughter. Had you said you must renounce everything and go alone, I would not have stood in your way. Or had you said that I too must be left behind, I would have accepted that. But this was a bit too much—that you slipped away in the night like a thief. What sort of betrayal of trust is this? I had kept a reverence for love, and you broke it.”

Buddha kept listening. Seeing him silent she said again, “Why are you quiet? Have you lost your tongue?”

Buddha said, “No; let it all come out. Let your catharsis happen so that you can see that the one who left this house twelve years ago has not returned. You are speaking to someone else. The one who fled was not me; that one has finished, vanished, dissolved. Now someone else has come. You can see him clearly only when your eyes are washed of anger. Let it out; do not hold it. Do not let decorum become a hindrance. Say whatever you must so that you can be light. And that is why I have come: so that you may recognize what I have lost in these twelve years and see what I have gained. And as for that man who ran away leaving you—what answer can I give on his behalf? He has died; you will not find him anywhere. That dream has shattered. So there is no one left to answer you. I can answer you, but that is not his answer, because that stream has been severed. I am altogether different.”

Yashodhara looked closely: surely this luminous being was utterly other. The one she had known—Siddhartha, tormented by desire—this was not he. The eyes that once held desire, the body that bore the world’s excitements—this was not it. This body is other; this frame is other. Through these eyes, something else is pouring. And Buddha has not come to meet his wife; now Buddha is no husband, and there is no wife. Someone has come to awaken the sleeping.

The wife bowed at his feet and took sannyas. She said, “Give me also the path to dissolution. For by being, I have only harvested sorrow; and it seems you have found the key to bliss.” She brought forth her son and said, “This is your son. Twelve years ago you left him. For him—some inheritance, a father’s legacy, tradition, lineage wealth?”

Buddha had left Ananda outside. He called Ananda and said, “My begging bowl!” He gave the bowl to Rahul and said, “You too are initiated, for this is my only wealth. Buddhas have nothing else to give. I am not your father, nor are you my son. That relationship once was; that was my dream, not yours. But for those whose dream has not yet broken, I will give support so their dream too may shatter.”

The twelve-year-old boy became a monk; the wife, a nun. Yashodhara must have been a woman of exceptional courage. After that we hear nothing of her name. What happened then? She was Buddha’s wife—she could have overshadowed the entire sangha, proclaimed her importance. But we hear nothing more. This is the last story concerning her. After this the Buddhist scriptures are utterly silent—what happened to Yashodhara? To Rahul? Being Buddha’s son, after Buddha’s passing he could have claimed: “I am the rightful heir of this vast organization.” There is no trace. The mistake Ananda made—leaning on being the elder brother—Yashodhara did not; Rahul did not. They took it as grace that Buddha came. Had he not come, nothing could have been done. Buddha remembered: he came to awaken even the companions of the dream. That was compassion.

The wise bends so that he can teach you to bend. The wise agrees to your terms so that he can win you to his terms. Of course the wise must begin, for how will you begin? Your doors are closed. The wise must be the first to knock at your door. And from where you stand, your demands arise. It is not even your fault. The wise knows your demands are futile.

Like the demands of small children—you know they are pointless: they beg for toys. But if you are to teach children, you must begin with toys. We give them toys and, through toys, we lead them into education. All of Montessori’s method plays out between the wise and the unwise as well. Little children are lured into school with toys. That is the temptation. Soon, from behind the toys, the whole world of learning will emerge. The toys will vanish.

What Montessori did for children, the Buddhas have done for the ignorant. First, they must distribute toys. Behind the toys, attraction and taste are born. Drawn by that taste, people come along—unaware that in the very same taste their ego will melt and merge; the drop will lose itself in the infinite, the ocean will remain.

Therefore Buddha accepted the conditions—knowing that this was the way for Ananda. Ananda found it difficult—because of himself. Even so, forty years are not a long time. Even forty lifetimes are short. Whenever truth dawns, it is early. Whenever a glimpse of nirvana comes, it is soon enough.

People come to me and ask, “When will I get a glimpse of samadhi?” I tell them, “Soon.” The more calculating ones ask, “What does ‘soon’ mean? A few years, months, weeks, days?”

I tell them, “Whenever it happens, it is soon. Even if it comes after lives upon lives, it is soon—because this affair is infinite. Time has no value here. What value have your seventy years? Even seventy lifetimes have no value. In this vast expanse you are not even a drop. So whenever it happens, it is soon. Whenever you awaken, that is dawn.”

And the wise must bend in the first steps. He must accept your conditions. Your ego arrives with conditions. You cannot be unconditional. In small things you carry conditions. Even when you touch the feet of a guru, your eyes look up to see whether the guru has accepted your inner conditions or not—even if you have not spoken them. Did the guru look at you closely? Did he accord you specialness? Were you not neglected?

The ego is always afraid of neglect, for in neglect lies its death. Ego always craves attention—someone should pay attention. That is why when people pay more attention to you, you are delighted; you are ready to do anything—so long as attention is paid.

Ten years ago in Spain a man committed seven murders at once. He went to the seashore and shot at people resting on the beach—people he did not know, some he had never seen, some he could not have seen because their backs were turned. He was caught after killing seven. In court they asked him, “What did you do?” He said, “I wanted to see my name printed in big letters and my picture on the front page of the newspapers. No other way occurred to me. Better to die—but what is the point of dying without being in the news? I have killed and I am ready for the gallows. But I am happy. The eyes of the whole world are on me. Everywhere there is talk of me. I have not gone unnoticed; I have gone celebrated.”

What is the joy of the politician? What is the relish of the rich man? What is the delight of emperors? Specialness! Everyone’s attention is turned toward them. All eyes are fixed on them.

What is gained when eyes turn toward you? And when you walk down the road and no one looks at you—as if you do not exist—what is lost? Your ego feeds on the attention of others. The more eyes turn toward you, the stronger your ego becomes. The less anyone looks at you, the more your ego begins to die; its breath grows faint. If no one at all looks at you, and you pass along the road as if you were never there—how many days could you live carrying an ego?

Gurdjieff once conducted an experiment. He took thirty disciples to a forest near Tiflis. He shut them in a bungalow and said, “This is your practice: each of you is to understand that he alone is here—there are not twenty-nine others. Behave accordingly. Do not speak; do not look at another; make no gesture. If, while walking, you tread on someone’s foot, do not ask forgiveness—because there is no one here. Do not even signal. Do not let your eyes say that another exists. In three months, what you have been seeking for many lifetimes will happen.”

It seems a cheap bargain—three months. But three days became difficult. Gurdjieff said, “After the third day I will begin examining you. You have three days to settle into the understanding that you are alone; there is no other. Total disregard of others.” But there is no difficulty in disregarding others; you already do that. The difficulty is that then the others will also disregard you. Twenty-nine people will disregard you, and you will disregard twenty-nine.

They had thought it simple—just disregard; that is what we do anyway. The master ignores the servant, the husband ignores the wife, the mother ignores the children. Everyone ignores everyone else. We build walls of disregard because the more you disregard others, the smaller their ego becomes and the bigger yours grows.

The ego wants: “Let everyone attend to me, and let me disregard all.” So they thought it easy. But soon—after an hour or two—they realized the matter was difficult, because not only were they ignoring others, the twenty-nine were ignoring them. And while you disregard one, twenty-nine disregarding you will annihilate you.

By the third day twenty-seven had run away—before the examination. Three remained; they endured three months. One of them was Ouspensky. Later he said, “What happened in those three months—we cannot even hope for anything superior to that.”

What happened? The ego kept dying. Day by day its breath grew weaker. It lay on its deathbed. By the end of three months, you were no more—because for you, the presence of the other is necessary. The other has to keep provoking you. Like a fire: if no one stirs it, it gets buried in ash; the embers slowly die. Your ego needs constant stoking—someone to stir the ashes, prod the embers, add fresh fuel. In three months everything was extinguished.

When Gurdjieff entered that house after three months, there was a vast silence—as if no one was there. Three people sat there, and yet it was as if none existed—such emptiness. Because the waves of your thinking create a tumult around you. Even if you do not speak, your ego keeps causing disturbance. Even if you say nothing—stand near an egoistic person and you will feel he is troubling you.

You are egoistic; you stand near someone; you say nothing—and yet by merely standing you begin to cause pain, to torment. It is very subtle. Your vibrations begin to seize the other. If you sit long near an egoist, you will return weary and drained—because he is doing two things: pressing on your neck and siphoning off your attention.

In three months these three were erased. They had the first glimpse of being a nobody.

When you are a nobody, the All appears. When you are empty, the Whole manifests. Where you are not, the Total sits enthroned.

Vacate the throne. Two cannot sit there—either you, or the Divine. Climb down from the throne, and suddenly you will find the Divine seated there. Dissolving is the secret of attaining. Grace, benediction—not effort.

That is why the Zen masters say: effortlessness is the door. You tried—and you lost. You strove to get—and you wandered. You moved—and you missed the way. Do not move at all. Do not be at all.

If you can awaken a single feeling—“I am not”—try it for twenty-four hours. Walk as if there is no walker. Eat as if there is no eater. Look upon the road as if there is no one looking. Empty eyes, empty heart, empty mind.

Twenty-four hours—and you will find a peace beginning to descend into your life that you have never known. A stream of nectar flowing that you have never tasted. A new light dawning within—a lamp burning within you without wick and without oil.

But you must disappear—only then can you recognize it.

Enough for today.