Diya Tale Andhera #16

The hardest thing in life is to accept oneself. Nothing wounds the ego more deeply than this. For the ego is always—something else, something more—the ambition to be more. However much wealth you have, the ego says, it could be more. Make it more. Your ability is greater and your wealth is less. It doesn’t befit you, it’s not worthy of you, to be satisfied with so little.

And it is not that when wealth increases you will be satisfied. Whatever the amount, the ego will keep saying, your ability was greater; the unworthy stand ahead of you. Those who should have been begging have become emperors, and you—who should have been an emperor—are stuck at this?

The ego keeps spinning the dream of more and more—and more. And the ego never agrees that you have received in proportion to your merit. It is practically impossible for the ego to agree, “I have received more than my merit.” Your capacity seems infinite; what you get seems very paltry. This is the race—non-acceptance!

Not only about wealth—about all relations, in all directions; whether it is knowledge, or fame, or position. With worldly things we do sometimes understand there is a race here—and it is worth dropping the race. For what does it bring but restlessness? And it is a race that never satisfies. It has no end. Wherever you are, you will remain as unsatisfied as you are here.

But the strange thing is, the same race enters religion too. Even when you begin to meditate—the same race! What will come from so little meditation? Your potential is great. In your life samadhi should be showering; and you got a small hush of peace—what will that do? Your mind became slightly buoyant—so what? In your life there should be an ocean of bliss. A tiny ray of light appeared—what of it? A thousand suns should rise together! The same race as before; earlier we called it worldly, now we call it religious. But its nature has not changed.

Can there be a religious race? Racing is precisely what the world is. So a religious race cannot be. Religion is the name for stopping, for coming to rest. Stopping, resting—not for some desire, some fruit. Stopping, resting out of the understanding that what is, is enough. Not only enough—perhaps more than needed. What is, is more than my capacity deserves.

The ego cannot accept this, because the moment you stop, the ego dies. The life of the ego is in your running; its death is in your stopping. Hence accepting oneself is very difficult. Accepting oneself means there is no longer any place for a race. You are as you are; nothing can be done. There is nothing to do. As you are, even this is more than needed. For this too you should be grateful, obliged. It is the compassion of existence that you are.

The so-called religious man is willing to admit, what will come from the race for wealth? But he is not willing to admit, what will come from the race for virtue? He says, the race for virtue must go on. Dishonesty must be dropped; one must be honest. Theft must be abandoned; one must be non-stealing. Restlessness must be renounced; one must attain peace. The race must continue—but now the direction will be ethical.

And here is the great discovery of Zen: as long as you run, you remain in the world. Religion is not a new race, not a new costume. Religion is the acceptance of the truth that you are as you are. There is no way to be otherwise. If you are restless, you are restless; if you are dishonest, you are dishonest; if you are a thief, you are a thief—what will you do? And if a thief tries to become non-stealing, he will steal even in that effort. Because the one who will try… the trying is done by the thief.

Mulla Nasruddin was standing a little way off on the road in front of a fish shop. He knew the fishmonger. He said, “Brother, throw two or three big fish towards me.” The shopkeeper said, “What need to throw? Come near, I’ll put them in your hands.” Nasruddin said, “No, there’s a reason. I may be the laziest fisherman in the world, but I am not a liar. If you throw them and I catch them, then I can go home and tell my wife I caught them myself.”

If a dishonest man undertakes honesty, he goes as the same dishonest one! A liar may speak truth—but he will speak it as a liar. The liar will find a way even out of truth. The dishonest will do dishonesty out of honesty. The violent will do violence even through nonviolence. His ways will change—outer arrangements will change, the framework, color, form—everything will change; but the inner vibration will remain the same. It cannot be otherwise.

If you are violent and you impose nonviolence upon yourself, you will begin to torment others in new ways. And the new way may prove more effective than the old. There are many ways to torment. You may place a knife at someone’s throat; or you may place a knife at your own throat and stand, saying, “If you don’t agree, I will kill myself.” It is the same thing: you are issuing the threat of violence. Against the first threat a person might even stand firm, but against the second you put him into a dilemma: if he agrees, he agrees to what he sees as wrong; if he refuses, for a small matter he is destroying your life—he does not seem worthy of that either.

Mahatma Gandhi went on a fast to bend Dr. Ambedkar. Ambedkar fell into this very dilemma. What Gandhi was asking was dangerous for the untouchables—harmful. What Ambedkar was saying was in their interest. What Gandhi said was in the interest of Hindus—and against the untouchables. What Ambedkar said was in the interest of untouchables—and against the Hindus. But Gandhi fasted. This is nonviolent violence: “I will die.” Then the burden on Ambedkar increased. Pressure from the entire nation began: is it right to lose such a precious man as Gandhi for such a small matter? And then, all your life you will feel guilty—because of you! You insisted.

And the irony is that the insistence was Gandhi’s. But nonviolent insistence is not visible as insistence—because within nonviolence violence can hide. On the surface it doesn’t show.

Ambedkar yielded. I say, in yielding Ambedkar showed himself more nonviolent. If he had been violent he would have said, “Let whatever happens happen. So long as I am right, and until I am shown by argument and reason that I am wrong—until I am understood and persuaded that I am wrong—I will not yield.” But history books will say otherwise. They will say: Ambedkar was obstinate; Gandhi was nonviolent, and his nonviolence won. It did not win at all. Gandhi’s method was entirely violent; its wrapper was nonviolent.

Violence means: forcing the other. How you enforce it is not the question. To press the other, to put the other in such a position that he is compelled to agree. And it is worth pondering: if you are violent, whatever you do will carry violence into it. Then what to do? Zen says: accept the violence. We fear that if we accept it, how will it end? That fear is your mistake.

If you fully accept, “I am a liar,” and if you do not set even an iota of an opposite goal, “I will speak truth,” then the lie will not survive. Why? Because where there is total acceptance, where there is such truthfulness that you have accepted your entire lying—what greater truth can there be than to accept that you are dishonest, you are a thief, you are violent? The first step of truth has been taken. In the face of this truth the lie will fade on its own—just as darkness fades when a lamp is lit. You will get nowhere fighting darkness. You can only go anywhere by lighting a lamp.

The first event of truth is: to accept oneself as one is, in complete nakedness. And revolution follows behind this. The moment you accept your fault, you find change has begun. You do not have to make the change.

Here lies the fundamental difference between Zen and other religions. All religions say: change yourself. But who will change? You will—who are wrong. All your change will arise from the wrong person and become wrong. Zen says: who will do the changing? Who is the doer? You will do it. The violent will try to become nonviolent; it will be a deception. The dishonest will impose honesty—he will become a hypocrite. The possessive will become non-possessive, stand naked—but now he will hold non-possessiveness as a possession. It will become his property. Yesterday he hurt people by lying; now he will hurt them by truth. What he was doing through untruth, he will do through truth. But the work will remain the same—because the person remains the same.

Zen says: first, as you are, strip yourself and accept it; do not suppress. Do not lean toward the opposite, do not set any goal. First, unclothe yourself into your nakedness. Drop all garments and know yourself as you are. And whatever you are—first accept it. Do not hurry to change.

From this acceptance a great pain will arise. Because when you see your lie, your dishonesty, your violence, your anger, lust, greed, you will be filled with great pain. To avoid this very pain the ego creates an opposite goal. It says, “Today you are a thief—never mind. Tomorrow non-stealing will be achieved. Today there is violence—but you are giving it up; what is there to worry? Why suffer? It will take a little time—today, tomorrow—you will be nonviolent.” The cloak of nonviolence saves you from passing through the pain of violence.

Gurdjieff gave a very precious insight in this century: man creates “buffers” to protect himself. As there are buffers between two train carriages, so if there is a jolt the buffers absorb it; as springs between the car and the wheels absorb shocks so the passenger is not too hurt—so, Gurdjieff said, man constructs buffers all around to protect his mistaken condition. You lie, but you have a buffer: “I lie today—compulsion, circumstances; but I am fully trying that tomorrow I will speak truth.” That tomorrow’s truth, which you will never speak—because tomorrow never comes—helps you lie today. It gives your ego a passage: lie today; compulsion, bad times, circumstances—if you don’t, trouble will follow. Tomorrow for sure! And every day you keep postponing till tomorrow. This is a buffer. It prevents life’s blow from reaching you and preserves the lie.

You are violent—you strain your water. That is a buffer. Straining water does not hurt your ego; rather it supports it. Straining water does not end violence. What relation does purified water have with the ending of violence? It benefits health. And having strained the water you gain confidence that you are nonviolent. You don’t eat at night—what difference will that make? Was violence hidden in eating? The forms of violence are vast; it hides in every relationship of your life. It comes out of every corner.

Hence you will notice a curious fact: if one person in a house becomes religious, he starts troubling everyone. He will do it in such a way you cannot object—very Gandhian ways! He will fast; he won’t eat at night; he will strain his water. He will take ghee prepared only for so many hours; he will eat in this manner, sleep, sit like this. But you will find his violent nature is not vanishing—it is increasing. He becomes more irritable. Religious people become even more irritable.

Read Gandhi’s life and you will see. For it’s hard to find a life more opposite to Zen. On one side he is practicing celibacy; on the other, one night in the South African ashram he put his pregnant wife out of the house. Such violence! And on one side, so scrupulous—if a cup of hot tea or hot water is kept, he covers it lest the steam kill any germs. And on the other side, in the middle of the night in a foreign land, putting a pregnant wife outside the house…?

And over what? Consider and Kasturba doesn’t seem very mistaken. The issue was small. Gandhi insisted everyone should clean the latrines; he himself did—there the trouble doubled. When a man does it himself he says, “You too must do it.” But if it seems right to you, do it. What meaning is there in forcing your right upon others? Gandhi wanted Kasturba to carry the latrine pails for the whole ashram and clean them. She was a woman from the old mold. She had never imagined she would have to clean latrines—and not just her own, but the entire ashram’s, carrying them on the head. She refused. She was not willing. Then, at midnight, Gandhi locked her out and said until she came to her senses, she would not be allowed in.

Think: a man striving for nonviolence, celibacy, non-anger—why is there such violence in his heart? Why can’t he forgive the other? Why does he take the other’s fault so seriously? Why isn’t he compassionate? The heart is hard because there are buffers. Yours are weak; Gandhi’s buffers were very strong. If your cart has four springs, his had forty. So he never felt the potholes.

Man saves himself by making goals in the future—and thus prevents real change. Zen says: make no goal. As you are—the first thing is: accept yourself without buffers. You will suffer heavy jolts. Sit in the cart with all the buffers removed—and you will know how painful life is. The buffers were saving you. Moment to moment you will find: you are a devil. Because of the buffers you looked like a saint; because of the buffers sanctity appeared, though inside a devil was hiding.

If you remove all plans for the future—goals, ethics, religion—what will you find within? A hidden animal. Worse than animals. This will bring great pain. Pain to the ego—because the ego is not willing to admit, “I am an animal.”

That is why Darwin was opposed so fiercely. Religious gurus are never opposed—because they tell you, “You are divine in essence.” This is sweet to the ego. There may be small errors—but within I am the Self, pure consciousness! Pure Buddha-nature is hidden within me. So this little mud on top—any day we can shake it off. But inside I am the Supreme Brahman.

Therefore religious gurus cannot bring revolution to your life. What they say may be true—but give a truth to a liar and he will turn it into a lie. He will—because his bottle is full of bitterness; if you put a drop of sugar in a bottle full of poison, the sugar too turns bitter. You are full of bitterness. Your sweetness is only on the surface, a garment. Inside is poison. Seeing that poison is the hardest austerity for the ego. Your entire idol is shattered. All your masks fall. In your nakedness you will see: there is no animal like you. No one as violent as you, as lying, thieving, dishonest; no one more sinful. If this realization dawns, where will the ego stand? You have erased the ground on which it stood.

And remember: as the ego falls, revolution begins. Because the ego is the root of all sin. It hides and covers them; it protects them, gilds them with gold. So vices become golden vessels.

The seers of the Upanishads sang: “O Lord, remove the golden lid that covers the vessel.” What is that vessel covered with gold? It is your ego; it is you. The ego has carved beautiful patterns on the outside. Hence when Darwin said man arose from animals, the whole world protested. Your ego cannot accept you sprang from animals. Your ego had imagined God himself made you in his own image. Before Darwin, man was just one step below God; Darwin placed him one step above the monkey. The gulf widened.

But I tell you, if you understand Darwin rightly, you may reach God faster—because whoever accepts his truth, as it is, with that acceptance revolution begins. Why? Because first a great pain arises, a fire burns. In that fire your selfhood melts, the ego melts. You see, there is no point in declarations. What am I? This is my reality.

The ego’s race ends. And when the race ends—for whom will you lie? You were lying for the ego. Where there was no love, you proclaimed love. Where there was no smile, you smiled—the whole arrangement was to hide and protect the ego. Now when there is no ego, what is there to protect? For the ego you declared celibacy while lust was within. Now when the ego is gone, what is there to protect? What is there to declare?

Your root is gone; the roots are cut. The branches will wither on their own. First a moment of great suffering will come in which your life becomes hell. It is hell—covered with gold. The gold will break; you will become hell. And you must pass through this hell—that is the austerity. Do not worry about changing; only try to know.

Because the urge to change is also a way to hide. When you think violence is bad, you start covering violence; nonviolence is good—you start wearing it. When you think lust is sin, you hide it, press it down. Celibacy is good—you write on the walls, “Brahmacharya is life.” Whatever seems good you put on; whatever seems bad you conceal.

But when you agree to accept—whatever is—then you will take down those placards from your walls. Then you will know lust is; celibacy is only written on placards. And when…

These are the greatest lies that torture your life: celibacy, nonviolence, non-possessiveness, non-stealing—these are lies for you. For Mahavira they were true. Another’s truth cannot be your truth. For you it is a lie. Do not carry others’ words.

First pain will come—hell will come. You will pass through a time when all happiness seems lost; only sorrow remains. You will boil—as if placed at the mouth of a volcano. But if you keep courage and do not start covering your wounds again, if you remain willing to accept whatever is, then you are ready to be natural. You will not cover any perversion, nor wear any culture. You choose to be natural.

In a few days you will find the pain passing, the conflict fading. The ego had already fallen; now the things with which you had covered and concealed it begin to fall. There is no reason left to lie. You are a liar—so what point is there in telling others you are truthful? You are dishonest—why convince anyone you are honest? Hypocrisy is no longer necessary; it can be dropped. And when you are willing to endure the inner pain, you will think: now let truth be visible in the eyes of others too; I will face that pain as well; I will pass through that too.

Nietzsche has a marvelous saying: “He who would climb to lofty heavens must first descend to the lowest hell.” And this is that hell you must go through. Avoid it and you will never reach heaven. If you try to reach by avoiding it, your heaven will be false. Your saintliness will be only a surface layer. Your conduct will be a shell; your inner being will not change.

Keep these things in mind; then let us understand this little story.

One day Sehei’s disciple, Suibi, asked his master, “Master, what is the essential mystery of dharma?”

The master said, “Wait. And when none but we two are here, I will tell you.”

The essential mystery of dharma! Jews, Muslims, Hindus ask: Who created the world? What is the nature of God? But Buddha said, these questions are futile. Only one question is worth asking: What is svabhava—essential nature? Dharma does not mean religion; dharma means your intrinsic nature. So Buddha does not call Hindu, Muslim, Christian, Jain “dharma.” He says, just as fire’s nature is to burn—that is its dharma; water’s nature is to flow downward—that is its dharma. What is the nature of existence? What is the svabhava of the whole? Because until we know the nature of the whole, how will we try to meet it? And until we know the key of svabhava, how can we hope to unite with it?

Hence a Zen disciple does not ask his master, “Who created the world?” Whoever created it—what of it? Where is God? Wherever—what’s it to us? What does he look like? Whatever! Buddha said, these are irrelevant questions; a religious man does not ask them. Those who ask them are curious, childish—like little children who ask out of curiosity: Who made this tree? Who made the moon, the sun? Buddha said, the wise ask one question: What is nature? Svabhava—that is dharma.

The disciple asked, “Master, what is the essential mystery of dharma?”

The master said, “Wait.”

This is delightful. “Wait” can have two meanings. One: wait—that itself is the nature. This is svabhava. If you can learn to wait, you will arrive in svabhava, in dharma; the essential mystery will open. Waiting means: do nothing. Only wait. Do not try to change. For that would be impatience. Only watch the road, keep vigil. Nothing will happen by your doing. Just sit, and wait. And the mystery of dharma will reveal itself.

Once a man came to a Jewish saint and said, “I have twelve children, and the thirteenth is on the way. I am poor; I am in great trouble. What should I do?” The saint said, “Now do nothing. If you do anything, you will get into more trouble. Stop everything—otherwise the fourteenth will not be far. Do nothing; simply wait.”

The master said, “Wait.”

In that, the answer is already given. But the disciple may not get it. Seeing his eyes, the master must have noted the answer had not reached. So he added:

“And when none but we two are here, I will tell you.”

This is very subtle. Dialogue between master and disciple happens only when they both are. But that is difficult—because the disciple comes with a crowd.

A man took sannyas, knocked at the master’s door. The door opened; he entered alone. The master said, “Do not come in. Why have you brought a crowd with you?” He looked back—no one there. He had come alone. He said, “Master, you joke—I am alone.” The master said, “Close your eyes. Looking back won’t do; the crowd is not behind you, it is within.”

He closed his eyes—and indeed there was a crowd. The wife was crying; the father was advising, “Don’t go.” Friends were embracing him. The village had come to escort him to the outskirts. The entire crowd was present within.

Only when you are utterly alone with the master can he speak what you want to know. When there is no thought in your mind, no crowd, no other—when only you and the master remain, with nothing between you, no obstruction—then the truth is, in that moment the master need not say anything. Without saying, it is said; without words, it is heard.

So the master said, wait. If you cannot do that, at least do this: when none but we two are here, then I will tell you.

He did not say, when none but we two are here, ask me. He said: when none but we two are here, I will tell you. The question of your asking does not arise—because if you are filled with the idea to ask, we two will never be alone. The very thought of asking, the question itself, will become a barrier between us.

Buddha used to tell his disciples: as long as you want to ask, you do not give me a chance to answer. Drop asking so that I can answer. It seems contradictory: we think we need answers only as long as we want to ask; when we won’t ask, what is the use of answers? It seems Buddha is speaking illogically—but he is right. Because as long as the mind is full of questions, there is no space for the answer—no gap to enter. You are so eager to ask you are not ready to listen. You are so filled with the question—how can the answer enter? Emptiness is needed.

Kabir says, “A guest to an empty house.” Only when you become empty can the answer be a guest within you.

The mind was full—of questions. Therefore the answer cannot be given. The master did not say, “Ask me then.” He said, “I will tell you when we two are alone.” But this is where the mistake happens: the disciple thought, when we two are alone, then I will ask.

And that day many times such moments arose when they were alone in the hut, and each time Suibi repeated his question.

He could neither wait nor keep the patience that when master and disciple are alone the master will tell—no need to ask. It is because you are unprepared that you keep asking. An unfit vessel can receive no answer; and he who answers the unfit is as unwise as you. His answers have no value.

Many times Suibi repeated his question. Whenever there was no one—people came and went, emptiness fell—he said, “Now? Please tell me now.”

What does this mean? It means the question remained standing. Suibi was not quiet. All the while he was watching: when will the people go so I can ask? Asking had become a sort of disease. The question gave him no ease to sit silently, to wait.

Answers are not given by the master—the master himself is the answer. If you sit silently, the master is the answer. If you are restless, the master may bang his head, but the answer won’t reach you. And your very quality changes the moment you become silent—without questions. Then your nature is different.

I have heard: a hungry man in a desert was dying—no water, no food. The devil, they say, looks for such opportunities. He appeared and said, “I will give you food and completely satisfy you—but one condition: give me your faith, your religion.” The hungry man said, “I agree.”

The devil gave him food and water; the hungry man was satisfied. Then the devil said, “Remember the condition? Give me your faith.” The man burst out laughing: “You are in a big illusion. Does a hungry man have any faith? And the promise was made when I was hungry; now I am full. This is another man. The one who made that promise—where is he? And the one I am now wasn’t there then. Even then, if I had been full, I would not have agreed. Now I won’t either.”

If there is so much difference between a hungry person and a full one, imagine how much between a mind crowded with questions and a mind empty of them!

When you are full of questions you are unfit to understand the answer. Your eagerness is so invested in the question that you cannot attend to the answer. Even if it is given, you will miss it. And I tell you: even that day, when Suibi kept asking, the master’s presence was answering at every moment. But the eagerness of the question was such that Suibi was not looking at the master at all. He was looking—when will people leave so I can ask? His mind was stuck elsewhere.

Each time he began his question, he could barely start before Sehei put his finger to his lips to hush him.

This gesture—finger on the lips—is a deep symbol. We use it too: to quiet someone we place a finger on our lips. But do you know what it means? What does the finger-to-lips mean? Closing the lips is obvious, but what is the one finger saying? It doesn’t only say, keep the lips shut—that is the outer symbol. Inside: be one. Lips closed—and inside, one. Do not be two within.

Again and again the master was saying: the crowd I spoke of—“when everyone has left, I will answer”—is not the outer crowd that comes and goes. Someone comes and leaves—that is not the point. The crowd is within you. Keep your lips closed and be one. Be one within; I am already one. If only two ones remain, the thing can happen. But the disciple thought, “He won’t let me speak; he won’t even let me complete the question.”

People come with questions thinking their questions are precious. Questions have no value. Value lies in the one who asks. What you ask is not the issue. Who are you? What is the state of the questioner? Is he prepared to bear the answer? Is he so integrated that when the answer enters, its resonance can echo in every fiber? Is he as thirsty as the chātak who awaits the Swati drop? If your whole being has become thirst, face upturned to the sky waiting only for that one drop—then even an ordinary drop of water becomes a pearl. The master’s slightest gesture becomes a pearl.

But if you are not a chātak, if you have become accustomed to drinking any filthy water, if you have never raised your eyes to the sky like a chātak—if you do not have that love, that thirst, that life—then even if the master rains nectar, no pearl will be formed within you. An ordinary drop becomes a pearl—because of thirst. It is the result of the one-pointed thirst and waiting.

Again and again the master put a finger to his lips. Evening fell; the master’s hut became quite empty. No one was there. The disciple again tried to ask—but again the same finger on the lips was his answer.

Now it was a bit much. Night descended. The day was gone. No one would be coming. “I have waited long enough.”

Is that waiting—when it feels, I have waited long enough? Waiting that feels “too much” was never waiting—it was tension. Tension becomes too much; waiting never does. Tension is excessive; waiting cannot be excessive—because waiting is a very quiet state. It cannot be “more.” There is never “too much” waiting. But you feel it because you have never known waiting. Within, you were taut, boiling. Inside, you kept asking. You were only watching for a chance: when will people go? But you did not sit quiet even for a single moment.

What does waiting mean? Waiting means: I have no hurry. None. If the answer comes today—fine; tomorrow—fine; day after—fine; if it takes eternity—fine. Waiting means time is not the issue for me. Waiting is anti-time. The more time-obsessed you are, the less able you will be to wait.

That is why in the West people are becoming incapable of waiting—aware of each second. The East knew how to wait, because life was not time—it was an eternity. No hurry. Where is there to go? You are already at the goal. What is there to get? What is to be attained, you already have. And in waiting this becomes visible: I am that which I was seeking. But I was in such a rush I never stood still to see who I am.

Notice: the more in a hurry you are, the longer everything takes. When you rush to catch a train, buttons go into the wrong holes, the right sleeve into the left arm; the left shoe onto the right foot. Everything goes awry. Does hurry ever hasten? The more you hurry, the later you get—because a mind full of hurry becomes chaotic. In this world, time rules; in that world which seekers pursue, you must drop time. Waiting is anti-time—time-free.

Bayazid went to his master. For twelve years… The master said, “Sit; when the time comes, I will tell you.” They say Bayazid sat for twelve years. After three years the master looked at him for the first time. Bayazid was blessed; overjoyed—the master’s grace! After three years—just a glance. Three more years passed—the master not only looked, he smiled. Bayazid danced—blessed! Three more years passed—the master placed a hand on his shoulder, smiled, looked. Bayazid rejoiced. Twelve years passed; the master embraced him and said, “Bayazid, it is done.”

For the one willing to drop time, the mind drops. Mind is time. When you are not in the mind, time ends. When you are silent, there is no time. The clock keeps ticking—inside, nothing moves. Within, everything comes to rest. So Bayazid did not even ask, “You said wait—then tell me now.” He touched the feet and left. Other disciples said, “Now at least you could have asked.” He said, “What is left to ask? Sitting silently at the master’s feet—everything happened.” In those twelve years thousands came and went; Bayazid sat.

One day the master said, “From where you enter, there is a big hall; in a niche are some books. Bring such-and-such book.” Bayazid said, “Let me go and see—I never noticed there was a niche or books; my attention is on you.” The master said, “No need to go; I only wanted to see whether your attention goes here and there.”

When all questions drop and the focus rests only on the master, then that aloneness arrives for which Sehei told his disciple. But he was in a hurry—just like you. He wanted the answer quickly. We want answers the way they are given in schools. These answers are not like that. These are like pregnancy—when a woman conceives, she must wait nine months. These answers transform your life. They are not information. You must learn a pregnancy-like waiting.

Night came; the hut was empty. The disciple tried again; again the finger on the lips. Then the full moon rose. At last Suibi said, “How much longer should I wait?”

He had not waited at all. When you say, “How much longer should I wait?” you announce you have not been waiting. True waiting never says that. Waiting does not tire you; activity tires you. Therefore he asks, “How much longer?” He is exhausted—from his inner activity misnamed as waiting.

Imagine you await someone—friend, beloved, husband, wife. Sitting by the door, waiting is very tiring—as you do it. A footstep—you start; shoes—you peek; someone passes—you get up and look. Soon you think, “How much longer must I wait?”

Just like this the disciple had been—someone leaves, the room is empty, “Now the time has come; now the answer will come.” He asks; the finger silences him again. He remains all day in restlessness. His “waiting” had no peace; it was not the chātak’s. It was a monkey’s waiting. Watch a monkey on a tree—he can’t sit still: jumping from branch to branch, plucking leaves, tasting fruits, throwing this, grabbing that, swinging—always doing. Darwin is right: man came from the monkey. If you watch the human mind, it matches the monkey more than anything else.

When he said, “How much longer should I wait?” he was defeated.

A master answers in two conditions: either you are defeated—then he takes pity and gives an answer. Or you are victorious—victorious means you have fulfilled waiting—then he answers. The first produces philosophy; the second produces religion. If the master answers out of compassion for your trouble, scriptures are created—beautiful doctrines are born. If he answers out of your fulfillment, revolution is born in life; realization dawns.

The disciple was tired. Remember, the answer is the same whether given out of pity or out of your fullness. The answer does not differ—but you do. The master will say the same whether you ask anxiously or in tranquility. Ask in tranquility—then that drop of water will become a pearl within you. Ask in restlessness—you will carry away a net of words and think you know enough.

Ask in tranquility and the master will speak by his will—not under your pressure, not by your insistence, not by your “satyagraha”—he will speak by your fullness, your receptivity; then a pearl is formed. Your life is transformed. If he gives seeing your trouble, because “the poor man has waited enough,” then no pearl. You will take some information and go.

Then Sehei took him outside the hut, leaned to his ear and whispered, “These bamboos here are tall—and those bamboos there are short.”

Some trees are tall—see; some are short. And each is as it is. The short are short; the tall are tall. The tall are not anxious to become short, nor are the short aspiring to become tall. Total acceptance of this is being established in nature. What is, is.

Total acceptance of what is—this is the establishment in svabhava. Accept yourself as you are—the race disappears; you become established. You come to rest; no ambition remains. Ambition means: what I am not, I want to become. A wants to be B; B wants to be C—that is ambition. B is B; A is A; C is C—you stop. The race ceases. And “what is, is”—total acceptance of this is establishment in nature.

Svabhava is dharma. To abide in what you are is religion. To abide in what you are not is irreligion. If you are absorbed in wealth—it is irreligion. Absorbed in woman—irreligion. In man—irreligion. In position—irreligion. Even absorbed in God—irreligion. When you are absorbed in yourself—no other remains, no second—when attention returns to the self, self-delight happens—that is svabhava, that is dharma.

And self-delight is to become God. Your God is imagined—because he is other. Your God is outside. The God attained through self-delight is within—you yourself. Svabhava is dharma. Svabhava is the supreme reality. That is God.

Svabhava is dharma, and to live in svabhava is the essential mystery of religion.

To live in oneself. No goal, no future, no image is important. No ideal is important. To live in oneself.

Imagine for a moment: if you were alone on the whole earth—what would you do? No one else—only you. That is the truth even now—you are alone. What would you do? Try to be beautiful? For whom? Try to speak truth? There is no one to speak it to. Try to be nonviolent? No one towards whom to be nonviolent. What would you do? You would breathe—and be as you are. The same state, if you can achieve it amid the crowd, you are accomplished. There is nothing else to do—live in yourself; live without race, without ambition.

To live in svabhava is the essential mystery of dharma. In words, the expression of dharma is “tathata”—suchness.

If we must put it in a word, the Buddhist word is “tathata.” It is a precious word—suchness. If you tell Buddha, “You have grown old,” he will say, “Yes. That is the nature of things. One who is young becomes old.” There is no pain in it. It cannot be otherwise. This is the way of being. This is suchness.

When Buddha died, that morning he called all the friends, monks, sannyasins, and said, “Today I will leave the body.” They all began to weep. Buddha said, “Why do you weep? One who is born dies—such is the nature of things. The day I was born, death was assured. Why do you weep?”

What is composed will decompose. What is made will unmake. What comes will go. This Buddha calls “tathata”—suchness. So it will be. Acceptance of this. No fight with death. One who accepts life accepts death. One who accepts life goes beyond life; one who accepts death goes beyond death. Whatever you accept, you go beyond. Whatever you reject, you get entangled with—conflict starts, duality starts, quarrel begins.

Tathata means to live in this world as if you were alone—nothing to quarrel with, no conflict, no struggle. Tathata is to accept things as they happen.

I have heard: The Zen monk Rinzai was passing along a road. A man came and kicked him hard in the back; the monk fell, and the man ran off. A friend was walking with Rinzai. Rinzai got up and began again from where their talk had broken off, walked on. The friend was astonished. He said, “Listen, I have forgotten what we were talking about—and now I am not even interested. First tell me, what happened? That man kicked you and ran—you said nothing!”

Rinzai said, “That is his problem. What have I to do with that? He has some inner trouble—let him deal with it! One thing is certain; if someone kicks, I am old; the body will fall. Such is the nature of things. He was young; I am old. He kicked; I fell. Why he kicked—let him think; that is his worry. He can ruin his night over it. What have I to do with it? I only say: the body has become weak. The body becomes weak.”

Such a state is called tathata. Therefore Buddha is called “Tathagata”—one whose whole life has become suchness. Whatever you say, he will say yes—such is the nature of things. And there is no desire to make it otherwise. What is, is wholly accepted. Total acceptance is tathata.

The master said: if in words we must speak of dharma, then “tathata.” Nothing expresses svabhava more closely than this word. Accept whatever happens in life and say, “Such is the nature of life.” Slowly, you will find all restlessness lost.

Restlessness means you do not accept. It means you say, “Something could have been otherwise.” You think: I could have remained young a few more days; I could have gotten a more beautiful wife; a better son; a bigger house; more respect. You assume things could have been different—then unrest remains.

Tathata means: what happened is the only thing that could happen. The wife you chose is the wife you could have chosen—so you chose her. It didn’t happen causelessly. The child you could give birth to is the one you gave birth to. He didn’t drop from the sky uncaused. So don’t beat your chest daily: he is stupid, dishonest, a thief. From you, a thief could be born—a thief was born. What you could get is what you got; what you could not get is what you did not get. Tathata means: there is no desire for otherwise. However it has happened, I am content—because it could not have been otherwise.

Then how will you be restless? What tension? Why meditation then? Buddha said: if you become content in tathata, meditation is useless. What will you do with meditation? What worship? What prayer? What is there to do? They are all devices to escape unrest. But tathata cuts unrest at the root—there is nothing to escape from. Tathata is the ultimate state.

The master said: “If in words it is tathata; if in wordlessness it is to be expressed, it is shunyata”—emptiness.

All day the master had tried the first way. The master sat as emptiness. Where there is emptiness, there is a true master.

But the disciple could not be alone as a questioner; he could not be quiet. Otherwise the master had been speaking all day. Each time he placed a finger on his lips, the disciple thought he didn’t want to answer. In fact, he was answering: “On this side, one; on that side, you too be one. Here—one emptiness; there—one emptiness.”

Do you know? Two zeros added do not become two zeros—they are one zero. That’s the wonder of zero. However many zeros you add, there is only one. Add numbers and they increase or decrease. But the union of zeros—if two persons become zero, only one remains, not two. Zero has no boundary, no circumference. One zero dissolves into the other.

When the master again and again put his finger to his lips, he was saying: “One here. You too be one there. Remove this crowd. Bring nothing in between.” He tried all day to convey through shunyata—but failed. Because the master was empty; the disciple was full of questions, taut—wanting answers. He was blind to the answer being given. So the master had to give the second kind.

This is a very sweet story. He even whispered it in the ear—because a master uses words with great modesty. Whispering is symbolic: he spoke with great restraint. There was no need to whisper—if someone else had heard, no harm. But why whisper? Because truth carries great modesty. The moment it is spoken, it becomes like untruth. If not distorted, still diminished. Better no one else hear it—let only you hear.

That is why we say: the master whispers the mantra into the ear. It means: when a master speaks in words, he speaks with great hesitation. He knows, a mistake now begins. The moment I speak, half of the truth is lost. Then it will fall into your ears; you will mix your mind with it—it will break further. Then you will tell someone else—for it is difficult to hold it within—and whoever hears something inside has to expel it. Ancient tradition says: when the master gives a mantra, do not tell anyone. Because something already went wrong when it became word; if you tell others, it will be lost. What began as Ganga at the glacier will end as a filthy puddle.

The body-mind has a way: whatever goes in must come out. Food must become waste; how else will you draw nourishment? Similarly, when someone tells you a thing, you will not rest until you tell someone else—because whatever went inside must come out. That is why you hardly finish hearing before you run to tell. Whatever mind-body ingests, it must excrete.

Hence when a master gives a mantra, he says: do not throw this out. Let it remain within. This will create great restlessness. If you have the courage to hold it and tell no one, slowly the word-layer will melt, and emptiness will be born. But whenever you hear from the master, you try to tell someone—maybe you listen only to show off in front of someone. There you go wrong. What came in went out—wasted.

If something is important, hold it like a pregnancy—within. Do not give it to anyone. If you do not give it and keep it, many times the mind will urge, “Tell someone, explain it.” Don’t. If you hold it, the outer shell of words will melt and fall; the emptiness the master gave will appear. When emptiness is born within, you become worthy. Then you can give words to another—because then those words are not borrowed; they flow from the glacier. And to whom you give, tell him too to guard it—do not pass it as borrowed change. Make it living. Let it become cash within you—then give.

Thus there are two kinds of traditions in the world. One has long since died: words given by masters passed down generation to generation by rote; it is dead. The other tradition runs ear to ear, whisper by whisper. In Buddhism the broad religion has become distorted—but Zen remains a fine, living thread. In Islam the Sufis—this is the second tradition. In Judaism, the Hasidim—this slender path. The master gives to the disciple with the condition: until you become a master, do not give. Hold it. Assimilate the word. If you give it out, assimilation won’t happen.

Svabhava is dharma; to live in svabhava is the essential mystery. In words it is expressed as “tathata”; in wordlessness, as “shunyata.”

So when the master is not speaking, he expresses it in shunyata. Those who are able—who have cultivated a little silence—understand in his not speaking. Those who are not able—who can only understand in words—for them he speaks “tathata.”

The master’s word is “tathata,” and the master’s being is “shunyata.” And until you become empty, do not speak words to others—because your words will come from untruth. Even truth, if expressed, is only half truth; if it comes from untruth, imagine its distortion. Until then, guard yourself. Try to become empty—for there is the glacier.

The essence of the story: practice tathata, so that you may become shunya. And when you become empty, your words will carry suchness. For now, bring suchness into your life. Tathata means: accept whatever is, as it is.

Try it—it is a tremendous alchemy. There is no greater miracle. Accept yourself as you are. The ego will say, “You will get stuck. You will remain as you are. There will be nothing to do, nothing to become, nothing to attain.”

People are advising: become something; be someone; reach somewhere; leave your name behind. All madness. There is no name worth leaving—since you did not bring a name, how will you leave one? There is nothing to be attained—what is worth attaining you already carry. It breathes in your every breath. And that musk you seek…

Kabir says, “The musk is in the musk-deer.” It is within you. The fragrance that seems to come from outside is within.

And a true master is one who at first seems to be the source of the fragrance—but soon he turns your eyes and shows you, the fragrance is rising from within you. If I am anything, I am only a mirror in which you saw your own image. You are running with the fragrance on you.

“The musk is in the musk-deer.” Yet the musk-deer runs crazed: “Where is the fragrance coming from?” It is coming from within!

You too have been running for lifetimes—like the musk-deer. Stop. End the race. Tathata means just this: there is nowhere to go, nothing to become. Stop, wait. The moment you stop, the inner fragrance will seize you; the inner music will begin. Stopping, you will be astonished: for whom was I running? Where did I want to go? If the goal was not reached, the reason is this—that the goal was you.

Therefore the world fails—it cannot succeed. What you seek is not there; where it is, you have no leisure to seek. Leisure comes only when you stop completely. You need not become wealthy, nor an emperor, nor a holder of office, nor a saint, nor a great moralist, nor nonviolent, nor a meditator—you need not become anything. First stop.

The moment you stop, all that is supreme begins to happen. If you keep running, all that is futile will continue. Running is futile; stopping is arriving.

That is all for today.