Bin Bati Bin Tel #19

As on any other day, to offer his teaching to the disciples, Lord Buddha came to the assembly hall in the early morning. The audience had already gathered.

Before he broke his silence to speak, a bird alighted on the window. It fluttered its wings, chirped, and then flew away. Buddha lifted his eyes toward the window and said, “Today’s discourse is over!” and walked out of the hall.

Kindly tell us what kind of discourse that was, and what was said in it?

Those who have known cannot say it—even if they wish to, they cannot put their experience into words. There is no way to say it—and yet it can be expressed, gestures can be made, indications can be given. And whoever has the sensibility will understand the hints; while one who is stubborn about not understanding will close his eyes even if the sun is rising before him.

Let me begin with another story. There was an emperor—deeply thoughtful, a lover of contemplation, a seeker of truth. He heard that in a distant village lived a great philosopher, a fierce logician, a very intelligent man. So he sent his messenger. He wrote a letter with his own hand, sealed it, and closed the envelope.

The messenger set out on that long journey with the emperor’s letter. He reached the philosopher’s door, knocked, handed him the letter, and said, “The emperor has sent this.” The philosopher, without even looking at the letter, put it aside and said, “First it is necessary to establish whether the emperor himself has sent this letter—or someone else. What proof do you have that you are the emperor’s messenger?”

The man said, “Is proof needed for that too? Look at my uniform. I am the emperor’s messenger.”

The philosopher said, “What good are clothes? Anyone can dress up, anyone can deceive. Did the emperor himself place this letter in your hands?”

The messenger also began to feel a little unsure. “That’s not possible,” he said, “because the emperor and I are far apart. The emperor must have given it to the prime minister, from the minister it went to a chief officer, and from him to me. I did not receive it directly.”

The philosopher laughed. “Have you ever seen the emperor with your own eyes?” he asked.

The messenger replied, “I am a very minor servant. I have never had the chance to see him.”

“So,” said the philosopher, “the one whom you have never seen, who has not entrusted you with the message—how can you speak with authority about his existence?”

By the time they had argued that much, the messenger himself was riddled with doubt. The letter was almost forgotten. The two set out together, saying, “Until it is proven that the emperor exists, what is the point of opening the letter?” They began to inquire of many people. On the road they met a soldier. “Who are you?” they asked. “I am the emperor’s soldier,” he said. “Can’t you tell from my uniform?” The philosopher replied, “This man with me was already deceived by a uniform. What do uniforms prove? Have you seen the emperor with your own eyes?”

The soldier wavered. “No, I haven’t; but my general has,” he said. “Have you seen your general with your own eyes?” the philosopher asked.

“That’s rich!” the soldier answered. “No, I haven’t even seen the general. I’ve only heard he meets the emperor. I am a lowly soldier. I have no such access. The palace gates are closed to me.”

Both the messenger and the philosopher burst out laughing and said, “Then you too should join us. Until it is established that the emperor exists, all this is a web of lies.”

It could never be proven—because whomever they asked had no direct experience. The great irony is that it could have been proven very easily, because the emperor himself had sent an invitation: “Come to my palace as my guest, and I will make you the grand teacher of the realm.” But the letter was never opened. There was no need to ask anyone anything. It was a direct invitation from the emperor. The palace gates were open—there was a welcome waiting.

For those whose minds are full of doubt, Buddha’s words are like that messenger with the unopened letter. The words will remain sealed. They will not open them—because first it must be proven that Buddha attained Buddhahood. And that is almost impossible to prove. Who will prove it? How will it be proven? So the words stay closed. How much has been said! But you have not listened. How much has been poured into words! But you never opened them. The keys were hanging right there, and yet your doubt-sodden mind could not open a single glimpse of Buddhahood. You shut your eyes at the sunrise and demand, “Where is the sun?”

Buddha spoke daily. What he said every day, he said that morning too. He came and sat. People had gathered to listen. A bird came and sat on the window. It fluttered its wings. It hummed its song and flew away. Buddha watched that bird—sitting, fluttering, singing, taking flight. Then he said, “Today’s discourse is complete.” That day he did not say a single word—but he said, “Today’s discourse is complete.”

And it is among his deepest discourses. This is exactly what Buddha says: the world is your windowsill. Sit upon it, but don’t make it your home. Rest there for a little while, but it is not the destination. And don’t, while sitting there, forget the fluttering of your wings—otherwise the open sky will be lost forever. If a bird lingers too long on the ledge, it loses the capacity of its wings. If it lingers too long, it may even forget that it has wings—because we remember only those capacities we use.

What we do not use sinks into oblivion. And what we do not use gradually becomes inactive—the power is lost. If you stop walking, in a few days your legs will go lame. If you confine yourself to dark rooms and stop looking, your eyes will soon go blind. If you never hear words, if no sound waves ever strike your ears, you will soon go deaf. Whatever you do not do, you lose the capacity to do.

How many births have passed since you last flew! You have not fluttered your wings. How long since you took your place on the window and mistook it for home—since you stopped at the doorway and thought it a palace! You halted under this tree for a night’s halt, and how much time has passed since you declared it your house! Flutter your wings. If you do not learn to flutter your wings in the presence of Buddhas, there is nothing else to learn there.

This is the discourse: this is their message—that you can fly in the free sky. You are birds of the boundless heavens. Your fear is pointless. You have simply forgotten that you have wings. You trudge on your feet. You could have been flying. Flutter a little—so that trust can be born.

Meditation is the fluttering of the wings—those wings that can fly, that can go far into the sky.

Meditation is only to create trust, so that forgetfulness dissolves and remembrance returns. The saints—Kabir, Nanak—have used the word surati. Surati means remembrance: let what you have forgotten come back to mind. You have not lost anything—you have only forgotten. In truth you cannot lose it. A bird may forget that it has wings; how can it lose them? And even if it has not flown for many lifetimes, if the thought of flying returns, it can fly again.

Vivekananda used to tell a little story. A lioness was leaping from a cliff. She was pregnant, and in mid-leap her cub was born. She bounded away; the cub fell among a flock of sheep passing below. The sheep raised him. He was a lion’s child, but who was there to remind him? Who would give him recognition? Where would remembrance come from? He grew up among sheep. Naturally he assumed, “I am a sheep.”

You take yourself to be those among whom you grow. Among Hindus you become a Hindu; among Muslims, a Muslim; among Sikhs, a Sikh. You take yourself to be what your surroundings say you are. That was exactly the lion cub’s mistake; he was not smarter than you! He concluded, “I am a sheep.” He walked with the flock, feared as sheep fear, grazed on grass.

One day a lion saw them: a line of sheep passing—and among them a lion! The lion was astonished. This was impossible. The sheep were not frightened of him, nor was he eating them. He was slipping along right in the middle of the flock—walking as they walked. The lion entered the flock. The sheep scattered, shrieking. The lion-cub also ran, bleating as he fled. Even his voice had become a sheep’s.

Because you learn language, too, from those you live with. No one is born with a language. Language is learned; it is a lesson. You speak Hindi, Marathi, English—whatever is spoken around you. You are born like a blank slate.

He had known only the language of sheep—heard it, learned it. So he bleated, cried, ran. The wild lion chased him down and, after a struggle, caught him. The cub begged and pleaded to be released, terrified, as if death stood before him. But the lion dragged him along. He told him many times, “Fool! You are not a sheep!” But how could he believe it? It smacked of trickery. This lion was saying something that could not be true. It contradicted his lifelong experience.

When someone tells you, “You are not the body,” do you trust it? When a Buddha tells you, “You are the soul,” do you believe it? It is no wonder the cub did not. But the other lion must have been stubborn—and Buddhas are stubborn. Whether you wake or not, they keep trying to wake you. However much you run, they drag you back.

He dragged the cub to the edge of a lake. He would not let go. However much the cub sobbed and screamed, tears streaming, the lion pulled him along against his will.

Often the master takes the disciple to the mirror against the disciple’s will. Not often—every time. Because the disciple is afraid to come near the mirror: before the mirror all his beliefs will be shattered. Whatever he has understood will prove futile. All his assumptions will break and crumble. Everyone fears going before the mirror, fears seeing his true face—because you have all fashioned faces that are not yours.

So the cub trembled. But the master did not relent. The master-lion pulled him to the lakeside and said, “Look, fool! Look into the water at my face and yours—do you see any difference? What I am, you are. Tat tvam asi.”

This is what Buddha says: What I am, you are. This is what the Upanishads say: What I am, you are. Not a hair’s breadth of difference—look, see!

Trembling, the cub looked. It was like a dream. We call “real” only what has been repeated many times; the new seems like a dream. He could not trust it; he must have squinted, looked again. His lifelong experience said, “I am a sheep.” He must have wondered: “Is this lion playing a trick? Is he a magician? A hypnotist?”

When you first go to a master, you too will suspect many times: “Am I being hypnotized? Deceived? Is he trying to make me believe what is not true?”—because it contradicts your experience.

But the lion said, “Look carefully.” Then he roared. Hearing his roar, and seeing his own face reflected in the lake, the sleeping lion within the cub awoke. The sheep had only been on the surface; it could only ever be on the surface.

Conditionings cannot become your soul. Try whatever you like, you cannot truly become a Hindu. Try as you may, you cannot truly become a Muslim. You remain a soul. Try for lives on end, you cannot become the body. The body is on the surface, thought is on the surface, mind is on the surface. And any day the master shows you the mirror of the lake, and any day you hear the master’s roar…

With that roar the inner voice of the lost lion also awakened. Every hair shook off its sheepishness. A roar burst forth. The forest, the hills, the mountains resounded. In a single instant the sheep vanished—he was a lion!

He must have looked again into the water, smiled to himself: “What a play! What a deception! How I fooled myself!”

Buddhas have nothing but a mirror.

And when Buddha saw that bird flutter its wings, he was saying exactly this: remember your wings. Wherever you are confined, no one has confined you; you are confined by your own forgetfulness. You are not a sheep—you are a lion. Look at this bird, this bird flying in the free sky!

And the bird sang its song and flew away.

Songs can exist only in those lives where there is a possibility of freedom. What song in bondage? Birds sing—they can sing—because they can fly.

Man has lost his song, lost his dance. What song can there be in slavery? What dance? What joy? What celebration? Man is sad. A stone of gloom rests upon his chest. Even when you smile, your smile only reports your sadness. Your lips smile, but if someone looks deep there are tears hidden there. You walk as if chains are fastened to your feet. There is no dance there. You cannot dance—because only one who has tasted inner freedom can dance. Dance is a festival, an act of thanksgiving. Meera says, “With anklets on her feet Meera danced.” But you can tie anklets to your feet only when there has been a hint of the soul. Without that, there is no song. Without that, life is a burden, a torment, a sorrow, a long nightmare of sorrow—from which no way to wake seems visible, no path to step aside appears.

The bird sang its song.

The open sky was before it, and wings were at hand. What more is needed to sing? Wings—and the open sky. An endless sky, and an endless capacity to soar—what more does song require? The day you too spread your wings and fly into the open sky, a song will arise within you.

Have you ever watched at dusk the swallows in flight? They don’t even fly—they float with their wings held still. In their floating there is meditation. Watch them this evening: when swallows descend from their heights, they are scarcely even floating; there is no effort at all. They simply hold their wings in the wind. In that moment, their state of consciousness must be what the Gita calls sthitaprajna—steadfast in wisdom.

The day you too can fly in the open sky without any effort, that day dance will be born. That day song will be born. That day you will be able to give thanks.

The bird sang, spread its wings, and flew into the open sky.

Buddha said, “Today’s discourse is complete.”

What more is there to say?

It must have been hard for the listeners to understand, because they had come to hear words. And the one who comes to hear words is usually deaf. They had come for doctrines—and the one who comes for doctrines is usually unintelligent. Doctrines attract the unintelligent; the intelligent are drawn to truth, not doctrine. What will you do with doctrines? Will you eat them, drink them?

If you are thirsty and someone explains the doctrine of water—H2O—what will you do? If you are thirsty, H2O does not quench thirst. The formula may be perfectly correct, but what will you do with it? Hang it around your neck? Your throat will not grow cool. You will say, “I need water, not H2O.” Water is not a doctrine.

Truth is not a doctrine. Truth is an experience—like the sensation when cool water slips down your throat. That experience is altogether different.

Those who came to Buddha for doctrines must have been shocked. They could not understand the water he offered. They had come for news about H2O—some doctrine, some analysis, some proposition, some concept, some intellectual construct. They must have felt utterly baffled. Buddha must have seemed a little deranged. Unreasonable. “What kind of discourse is this?”

We came to hear—and Buddha tried to show.

We came to understand—and Buddha placed a living symbol before us.

Buddha did not speak in symbols; he pointed. He said, “Look! This bird sat on the windowsill—do not make it your home. In just this way, sit upon the world, but do not make it your house. Flutter your wings. Don’t forget them—don’t let forgetfulness overtake you. Keep remembrance alive. Sing—for song is prayer.”

Only if you can sing can you be a devotee. Only if you can sing can you build any bridge to the Divine. From your desolate faces no road leads to the temple. From your heavy hearts no note rises toward God. You are full of sorrow, weary, defeated! From your heart no fragrance rises that could touch the feet of the Divine. Only when you sing does your heart fully blossom.

Songs are the flowers of birds. Trees bear flowers; birds bear songs. Where is your song? Unless your song has blossomed, you are incomplete, crippled. Your tree has not reached its fullness.

What is your song?

Religion is the search for that song. Religions have called it prayer, worship, adoration, meditation, praise, samayik, namaz—so many names, but the matter is one.

The day a song of gratitude and wonder rises within you toward existence—the day you can say, “I am blessed, because I am”—that day your very being becomes sufficient fulfillment; nothing more is needed. As long as you ask for more, complaint persists—because in your asking is the hidden message: what you have is not enough. Your asking says, “Give me more, then I could give thanks. What I have is too little.” Prayer says, “What I have is more.” What I have received exceeds what my capacity deserved. In every circumstance I give thanks. My being is sufficient contentment.

Just think a little. How would you obtain even a single instant of being? This breath going in and out, this your being, this your awareness—if you were granted even a single instant of being, would you not be ready to give in exchange the empire of the entire world?

But you do not remember. Sitting on the shore of the lake, you cannot understand how precious water is in the desert. At the time of dying it becomes clear how valuable being was. When the last breath breaks, you will scream and cry, “If only I could be for one more moment—I will give everything.” But now? Now you are—and there is no gratitude in your heart.

Prayer is wonder and gratitude. As incense rises to the sky carrying its fragrance, so from your heart rises a feeling toward the Infinite carrying all your fragrance—that is prayer. The song that bird sang…

Buddha said enough—more than enough. Enough to see you through the journey. He built the entire bridge, laid out the path completely. And the bird sang its song and flew into the open sky.

The day you can pray, that very day the sky of liberation will be available to you. The day you can sing, the day your whole body-mind, your entire life-breath can express gratitude and you can say, “Blessed am I!”—that day liberation is yours. Songs cannot be kept in chains. There is no way to imprison prayers.

In Germany there was a very precious thinker in the Second World War—Bonhoeffer, a Christian fakir. Hitler put him in prison. He spent many years there. In the letters he wrote from prison there is a sentence I can never forget. He wrote, “They have put me in prison—but who can imprison my prayer? My prayer is as free as it was outside. I call upon God with the same joy as I did outside; not a whit of difference. You can put me in prison, but how will you imprison my prayer?”

Prayer is far greater than you. Chains can be placed upon you. Prayer is vast; there is no way to bind it. Whoever has prayer has a soul. No one can imprison the soul. And for one who can fly, the sky of liberation stands wide open. You ask, “Where is moksha?” You should ask, “Where are my wings?” You ask, “Is there God or not?” You should ask, “Can my wings fly or not?” God and liberation are not things to be asked about. If you can fly, you will know them. If you can fly, they are here and now. They appear far only because you cannot fly.

There was a Jewish fakir named Majid. One night he dreamt a voice saying, “Majid! Why do you starve? Why do you thirst? Why do you suffer? Your wife is always sad; your children beg. Go to Warsaw, the capital. Near the bridge in Warsaw, after so many steps, a sentry stands; exactly behind him is a tree; behind that tree a great treasure is buried.” In the morning Majid woke, desire stirred in him, but he said, “Who can trust dreams? It’s only a dream. What Warsaw? What treasure?”

The second night the same dream returned, the same voice: “Majid! Don’t miss it; we will not warn you again and again.” He saw the Warsaw bridge, the sentry, the tree, the treasure behind. The next day he again pacified himself: it is not wise to chase dreams. But the third night, the same dream—and the same voice: “This is the last warning. Enough! Go—dig up the treasure.”

On the third day it was hard to resist. Majid thought, “Perhaps this is no ordinary dream. If a dream returns three times, it begins to feel almost true. The same voice, the same bridge—everything matches.” He set out. It was a journey of hundreds of miles. He arrived.

As he neared Warsaw he felt: this is no mere dream. The bridge was exactly as in the dream. His hands and feet trembled: “Am I dreaming again? Have I fallen asleep?” The tree was there; the sentry was the same. “The treasure must be here,” he thought, “but how to dig it up with the sentry standing guard, the road busy—what if I am suspected?” Still, he circled the tree and looked. The exact spot from the dream—clear as day.

Just then a policeman seized him. “You look suspicious,” he said. “What are you looking for here? What are you doing? And you are a stranger. Speak the truth.” The policeman took him home. “Tell the truth,” he said, “and I’ll let you go.” Majid thought it best to be honest. He told the whole story: three times the dream had come, and he had come here; the strangeness was that everything was just as in the dream.

The policeman laughed. “Fool!” he said. “If I were as crazy as you, today I would be in a village named Krakow.” “What do you mean?” asked Majid—because he had come from Krakow. The policeman said, “I have also dreamt three times: ‘What are you doing standing here under this tree? In the village of Krakow there is a fakir named Majid; inside his house, right beside his stove, a treasure is buried. Go—don’t miss it!’ And I thought, dreams are dreams. If I were as mad as you, today I would be in that village. And then how would I find Majid? How many people must be named Majid! And even if I found him, how could I enter his house? The treasure is buried beside his stove!”

Majid was in even more of a fix. But the policeman released him: “You are mad, not a criminal.” Majid ran home, dug beside his stove—there the treasure was buried.

Dreams are strange. They show you the treasure far away—while it is buried right by your hearth. Dreams always point into the distance—to Warsaw, to the capital—while the treasure is beside you. Someone there also sees, but to him too the treasure appears far away. Everyone’s treasure appears far away.

God appears very far. None is nearer—and yet you cannot see the near. You have grown blind to the near. Buddhas make gestures to say: the treasures are at hand.

The bird sat right there on the window. And it spoke in a way even Buddha could not have spoken. But perhaps no one saw it.

The bird fluttered, sang, opened its wings, and flew away.

No one saw. All eyes were fixed on Buddha—far away, where the messages of words would come from. Words go very far, because they are a pale report, a reflection. And Buddha was pointing to a living symbol. He was looking at the bird.

If only the listeners had had a little understanding, they would have looked where Buddha was looking. It is not necessary to understand what Buddha says. It is necessary to see where Buddha looks. What Buddha speaks is secondary. How Buddha is—that is essential. What is shining in Buddha’s eyes—that we must seek. What glimmers through his words is very far. Buddha’s eyes are right at the treasure.

The Buddhists are right: that day’s discourse was complete. And Buddha said, “Today’s discourse is complete.” Such a sweet discourse he never gave again.

Your difficulty is the same as Buddha’s listeners’. My difficulty is the same as Buddha’s. If I sit silently, you will miss. If I speak, you will hear—and still not understand. Who has ever understood by words? Hints! But hints require your preparation. Anyone can hear words. To hear words you need no preparation—children can hear. But to see the hints you must be prepared; your consciousness must be ready. You need awareness, a wakefulness.

That day people must have gone home laughing. “Buddha has played a fine joke! Was that any way to teach? If that was the discourse, we could have stayed home. Birds sit on our windows too, flutter, and fly away. What new thing did Buddha do?”

Birds sit on your windows too. But when did you look? They flutter their wings; when did you retrieve the memory of your own wings from them? They fly into the sky; when did the longing to fly seize you? When did the sky reveal itself to you?

People like Buddha are needed to show you what is utterly obvious. The treasure buried right next to you—the treasure by your stove—still requires a call from beyond.

And remember, even Majid gained faith only after three dreams, to go to Warsaw and dig for the treasure. If the voice had said in his dream, “The treasure is beside your stove,” he would not have believed it. That is what I am telling you. He would have said, “Nonsense! What do dreams know? Treasure in my house?” Warsaw was far away, therefore faith was possible.

To help you find what is near, you must be led by a road that seems far. To show you the nearest, a long journey must be prescribed—because your desire can make sense of the distant; only meditation can make sense of the near. Desire seeks the far; meditation seeks the near.

After three dreams, Majid thought, “Perhaps—why not go? What do I have to lose if I find nothing?” But if the voice had said, “It is beside your stove,” he would have laughed freely in the morning: “What a joke! Dreams are teasing me. A treasure in my own house?”

If I tell you that God dwells within you, you will hear—but you will not believe. Therefore most religions say: God dwells in the heavens, beyond seven skies. Then your hands fold, your head bows. If God is far, perhaps he exists! But God within you? You simply cannot accept it. Within you—and God? Not just beyond belief—beyond imagination.

That is why religions centered on the inner self have never spread much, while God-centered religions have. Islam, Christianity, Hinduism are God-centered—God in the sky. The Jains are self-centered; their religion did not spread widely. Because they said, “The Divine is within you.” Mahavira reversed the dream and called to you: “The treasure is buried beside your stove.” And you were unwilling to dig. Treasure can be far, you think—how can it be near? If it were near, you would already have found it. If it were within you, you would have had it by now.

Buddha-like beings try unceasingly to wake you to that which is right beside you. As the ocean is to the fish, so is everything to you. Scripture is not in the Vedas, the Gita, the Koran alone; scripture is alive at every moment all around you—in birds flying, in flowers blossoming, in clouds drifting across the sky, in your eyes, in a child’s laughter—everywhere.

I was reading the life of a Jewish fakir. People thought him mad because he spoke in such a way. His sayings were very precious. Often the sayings of saints and madmen sound alike—because both go beyond your intellect. Someone asked this fakir to say something about the Bible. He replied, “What can I say about the Bible? All Bibles speak about me.” You would call such a man mad.

“Say something about the coming Messiah,” someone said.

He answered, “The coming Messiah will say something about me. He will interpret my life. All messiahs are appointed to my service.”

Surely, you say, the man is crazy. If someone were to say, “Krishna and Rama are appointed to my service,” you would call him mad. If someone were to say, “The Vedas, the Gitas, the Upanishads all interpret me,” you would call him mad. Yet he was speaking exactly the truth. He hit the bull’s-eye. All Qurans, all Bibles, all Gitas, all Vedas interpret you—and you turn to them seeking yourself. It would be better to turn within.

What else is Buddha to say?

This wordless discourse—Buddha speaking without speaking…!

Reflect on the symbol of that bird. Let it descend into your dreams. The next time you see a bird sitting on your window, stop; look closely—just as Buddha must have looked that morning. Wait for the bird to sing, to flutter its wings, to fly. If you can look attentively, if you can meet the immediate without thinking, then when the bird flutters, you will find your own wings fluttering. When the bird sings, you will find a melody resonating in your heart. And when the bird flies, you will find you too have flown.

Life is one. Distances are only on the surface. Is there distance between you and the bird? Only the lines drawn on the surface divide. If, with total attention, you watch a bird fly—you have flown. If, with total attention, you watch a flower blossom—you have blossomed. Existence is one. Uselessly you rot within your self-made walls. Uselessly you have severed all your roots with your own hands.

Messages are written everywhere.

Scriptures are inscribed all around.

At every door, every lane, every courtyard, on every stone—the Veda is present. You only need to stop and look.

That morning Buddha stopped. Silently he looked at the bird. The bird flew away, and he said, “Today’s discourse is complete.”

Anything more?

Union is not possible. That is the dilemma. Darkness and light never meet. They cannot, because light is, and darkness is not. So how can that which is meet that which is not? Darkness is only lack, absence, the non-presence of light. Darkness is nothing in itself. Therefore, if you want to do something directly with darkness, you will not be able to. A room is filled with darkness and you want to remove it—what will you do? Give it a push? Tie it up in bundles? Scoop it out and throw it away? What will you do? No, you can do nothing directly. If anything is to be done, you will have to light a lamp. Whatever is to be done must be done with light. With darkness you can do nothing.

And if there is light and you want to bring darkness, what will you do? Can you buy darkness in the market and bring it home? Can you pour darkness onto a lamp and snuff it out? There is no way. Blow out the lamp and darkness will be there. Darkness is only absence. Hence darkness and light never meet.

Then what do the Buddhas explain to you? They do not mix their light with your darkness, nor can they. The Buddha simply shows you that your belief is mistaken—that you have assumed you are in darkness. You too are a lamp that burns without wick and oil; you too are light. The Buddha only reminds you of who you are. If you were darkness, you could never meet the Buddha. But you are not. It is only your notion, your belief.

So the Buddha breaks only your belief. You have identified with darkness—“I am darkness.” You have assumed you are ignorant, that you are lost, that you are a sinner. These are your beliefs. The Buddha can break these beliefs. And the day they break, you will discover that you are conscious light, pure light, an ever-burning light. Not even for a moment were you darkness. You cannot be darkness.

Understand with a small story. An emperor’s astrologer told him that the year’s harvest would be such that whoever ate or drank of it would go mad. “So make some arrangement to save yourselves.” The emperor said, “Then let us preserve last year’s grain.” But the astrologer said, “It is not enough for your entire kingdom to live on for a year. At most the people in the palace—you, me, your queen, your children, a few others—can be saved.”

The emperor said, “What is the point of saving a few? And when my whole kingdom goes mad, remaining sane among them will create even more difficulty. Do this: only you preserve the old grain; let the rest of us go mad. Keep one thing certain—you will not go mad. And you must shake every person you meet and tell him, ‘You too are not mad.’ Take just this oath.”

The emperor spoke well. If a madman is reminded—if his awareness is shaken—then what has come from the grain concerns only the body; it cannot reach the soul. That unconsciousness is on the outside; it cannot penetrate within. This is a Sufi story, and a very lovely one.

It happened so. The whole kingdom went mad. Only the astrologer remained sane. His journey was very difficult, because it is hard to shake the mad. However much he told them, they would not listen. However much he warned them, they would not awaken. However much he shook them, they were fixed, unmovable. Yet some were shaken; some remembered. And to those who remembered the astrologer said, “You do the same—go shake others.” Because food cannot go within; it cannot become the soul. The stupor, the drowsiness, is only on the surface.

As when someone has fallen asleep—shake him and he wakes up. Awakening is never lost; it is only hidden within. Passion, ambition, desire have poisoned you; they have filled you with smoke. But that smoky sheath is only on your body.

Had you been darkness, your meeting with light would never have been possible. You are not darkness; you too are light. However dim the flame of your lamp may be, however much darkness surrounds it, the flame itself is not darkness. Someone is needed to shake you, to wake you, to give you awareness. Just that much awareness! Instantly you will see: revolution can happen in a single moment. In a single moment you become a buddha. You yourself become a buddha.

If you were darkness, there would be no way to be liberated. Darkness cannot be liberated. Why? Because darkness is not. Your liberation is possible because you are not darkness. Without wick and oil you are already burning. Within you there is a lamp that has been burning since the beginning. It will burn forever. However much it is covered—just as clouds cover the sun in the sky—the sun is not destroyed. Remove the layers of cloud and the sun appears again. A little breeze from the awakened ones is enough for your clouds to scatter, and you remember who you are.

Self-realization is not the creation of a soul; it is simply the remembrance of the forgotten soul.

So what I am attempting is to shake you. In that shaking you also become angry. For when someone is sleeping comfortably and you awaken him, break his drowsiness, he becomes angry. Disciples are always angry with the masters—until they awaken. And yet they cannot leave the master, because somewhere deep down they keep sensing that what the master says is right.

There are two layers within the disciple. On one layer he knows the master is absolutely right. But on another layer desires hold the mind, and he thinks, “What harm would there be in sleeping a little longer? The dream was sweet, and you broke it in the middle.” So he becomes angry.

One layer of the disciple fights the master; another layer cannot leave him.

Therefore, whenever you come to a true master, a great conflict is born. With half of yourself you will want to run away, withdraw, escape. You will search for ways to slip out. And with the other half you will remain; you will keep returning. Even if you run, you will come back. Because one half says, “There is no point in going anywhere else. The destination long sought has been found.”

The master is whole; the disciple is split. The disciple is two—dual.

What is useless in you must be discarded, so that what is essential in you can manifest in its fullness and clarity. You must be put into the fire so the dross burns away and your gold is refined. Gold does not burn; it only becomes more radiant. Your light will be revealed; your darkness will simply vanish.

Jesus said, “What you are not, that I will take away from you; and what you are, that I will give to you.” The saying seems contradictory, but this is the truth: I will take from you only what you are not. I too ask you only for what you are not, so that you are freed of it and that which you are can be revealed. And right now—here and now—the wickless, oilless lamp is burning within you, without cause. Its oil will never be exhausted, because there is no oil. Its wick will never be extinguished, because there is no wick. There is only the flame, only light. That pure light is your nature.

Darkness and light never meet.

Do you think the sheep of that lion ever met the other lion? That “sheep” of the second lion was false; it did not exist—so where is the question of meeting? The meeting was between two lions. How can a sheep meet a lion? There was no sheep there at all. But what did this lion do? He awakened the lion who had become a sheep—startled him, shook him, stirred him.

The Sufi fakir Bayazid used to say to his disciples: “Until I wake you up, I will go on tormenting you. And you will not be able to escape. I will pursue you. I will circle you like a ghost until you awaken! And the day you awaken, I will set you after others—go, wake them.”

The whole earth has eaten that harvest, for people are unconscious. Once in a while someone escapes that poisonous food. Such a one we call Buddha, Krishna, Christ. He goes on waking you. He has nothing to give you; he only makes you aware of what you already have.

That’s all for today.