Diya Tale Andhera #7

Before we enter this parable, a few things must be understood.

First: the signature of your life does not lie in grand acts, but in the tiny ones. Anyone can be a martyr for a moment; to live a whole life in renunciation is difficult. When the whole world is watching, it is easy to be a saint for a while; to be saintly in solitude, in utter aloneness, is very hard.

Anyone can pull off big deeds. The real identity shows in the small. Your little actions reveal who you are. Go on a fast—nothing will change; that too is a performance for others’ eyes. Stand naked—again, it’s the other you are addressing. But in unguarded moments—how you rise, sit, walk—when you are not conscious, not staging anything, in those moments your exact glimpse is caught.

You walk down the road—no one is watching, you aren’t even aware of how you walk, with no urge to show anything. In that moment your act is the expression of your soul.

The true master doesn’t keep account of the acts you staged; all arrangement carries deception. He reckons the acts that happen unarranged, spontaneous—when you had no time or chance to manage. In events that happen as a response to the call of the moment, there, for a little while, your real face appears. That’s the mirror.

Someone insults you; the very first flash of expression on your face—that first indivisible instant—there the insult, here the response. So brief that even the one who insulted you may not notice, being full of his own anger. But a master, whose life has cooled from all fever, waits exactly for such instants—to see the disciple when he is not arranging. Why? Because your tiny acts become windows to your soul.

You are truer when you sleep. Psychologists do not study your waking self; they study your dreams. Your dreams are truer than your personality, because your personality you have deceived—false smiles stamped on your face; it’s hard to detect what you are there, shrouded behind so many veils you are almost lost. So the psychologist must enter your dreams; perhaps there, for a little while, one can meet your true person.

In the day you may sit in temples and mosques and pray; those prayers have little value. But in the night, in the aloneness of dream, where none enters, where there is no fear of the other, no one watching—you are alone—what do you do there? Does prayer happen there? Have you ever dreamt of praying? Perhaps you have dreamt of visiting brothels, drinking wine, stealing, even murdering—but did you ever pray in a dream? Did you ever knock at the door of a temple in a dream? Dream gives the true news about you. You have not yet learned how to falsify dream—it is unconscious.

But in your twenty-four-hour waking life too, many moments are unconscious—when, for an instant, you are revealed.

I have heard: a Catholic priest and a friend were playing chess. The priest blundered a move. An ordinary man might swear, show anger, be mad at himself. But a priest cannot do that. He merely bit his lip—pressed it tight. The friend said, “I have seen many kinds of peace, but never a more profane peace than this.” Inside, the echo of abuse; outside, all calm.

Mulla Nasruddin vowed, under much persuasion, to stop abusing. Abuse was his catchphrase; he could hardly speak without it. It was difficult to find a sentence of his without a curse—began and ended with one. He took the vow—and immediately fell into trouble. The very first day, at a friend’s house for a meal, the maid spilled tea on him, soaking his clothes and scalding his hand. He had vowed not to swear—and vowed only today! Fresh in mind. He jumped up, fuming like fire, and said, “Gentlemen, will one of you kindly stand up and say to this woman the words I would have said, had I not taken a vow?” You get caught at such moments.

You walk; if your mind is in conflict, your feet reveal it. You want to go and also not go—both tendencies show in the feet. You reach for something and also don’t want to—the hand hesitates. You may not notice, but one who observes as a witness will see your hand hesitate.

One evening I went to Mulla Nasruddin’s house. I knocked; he opened and peeped through the crack. I too saw him through the crack—and he saw that I saw him. I said, “Nasruddin, what’s going on?” He wore only a Turkish cap, otherwise completely naked. He said, “Come in. You are your own, nothing to hide.” “Why naked?” He replied, “No one ever comes at this hour—no need for clothes.” I said, “If so, why the Turkish cap?” He said, “Well, someone might come!” Such is the dilemma—half-and-half.

If you are divided in any relationship, your action bears the stamp of the division. You will speak and stutter; you want to say and also not say—how can both fit? Your talk will lack the ease that comes when heart is wholly with the speaking. Then it also happens that you intend one thing and something else slips out.

Freud made a great discovery: why do people say something other than what they intended? What works within so that one word was sought, another arrives? You were divided; the division created confusion—one leg pulled in, the other out—and you got entangled.

People talk twenty-four hours—born talking, die talking. But place a man on a stage and say “Speak”—the mind goes blank. Otherwise it keeps churning day and night. On the podium—the skull shuts. What blocks it? So many people! Your spontaneity is lost; you’re eager to impress.

A film director coached a new actor who feared speaking, was hesitant. The director said, “Don’t hesitate. These people around—think of them as your family, your own.” The actor said, “I can imagine that, but if I see expressions of disapproval on their faces, my attention goes.” The director said, “Fool! Who pays attention to family? Who looks at relatives’ faces? Does a husband look at his wife’s face? He looks everywhere else! Does a wife look at her husband’s face? She looks everywhere else! No one cares about relatives. Think of them as relatives—and forget attention.”

Churchill wrote in his memoirs: when I first began public speaking, it was very difficult. I saw the people and panicked—will what I say impress? Will I fumble? Will what I prepared stay with me? I asked a friend, a great orator. He said, “You’re mad. My rule is: first I look around the hall and say to myself, ‘Well, here they are—the fools and donkeys of the village.’ Then I feel assured. Why fear? What’s there to impress?” Whenever you want to impress the other, you become artificial. The presence of the other instantly makes you artificial. Hence you feel restless in another’s presence. Even if he says nothing, even if there is no conversation—mere presence—your freedom vanishes. Someone just watching you silently—neither praise nor blame, even an indifferent eye—and yet.

You hum in your bathroom; if you suddenly realize someone is peeping through the keyhole, the song stops. The other’s presence changes you at once; you are no longer what you are—an artificial layer comes, acting begins.

But even in this twenty-four-hour acting, you also often slip, forgetting the other is there. It happens in little acts, because you think no one notices small things. The actor thinks people notice what he performs; the speaker thinks people notice what he says. But if a curtain is down and I gesture “Lift that curtain,” you won’t bother about who’s watching; who would notice such a trifle? You’ll just lift it. In that lifting you will be natural—and in that very moment a glimpse of your real can be found.

Watch your natural acts, for there you are revealed. Don’t worry much about acts you do keeping others in mind—they are false. That’s why everyone seems to smile, though life is mostly sorrow.

But if you watch lips closely, you will catch that the smile is false. A false smile carries tension on the lips; a true smile carries blossoming. A false smile shows effort—just a strained nerve; a true smile arises from the heart, bringing a glow to the lips, blood flushing through. The pull upon the lips in a true smile is not strain; it is bloom.

If one forcibly pries open a bud, that is your smile when it is false—no deeper than the lips, superficial. When genuine, it is like the bud’s own flowering into a blossom.

Your smile is false; the radiance on your face is borrowed. Inside you are laden with sorrow; outside you keep yourself covered.

You may play the saint to impress; but if violence lives in your getting up and sitting down, Mahavira said the true monk is mindful even in rising, sitting, walking. What does it mean? You can walk in a way that is aggressive; you can walk in a way that is non-aggressive. You can walk with violence. Those who have repressed violence everywhere will have violence seep into their small acts—the smallest!

Even in the way you look there can be violence. You can look at another in a way that sends him to hell—and you won’t even know. You don’t eat at night, you filter water, you are vegetarian, wherever you spotted violence you removed it—but in your small acts violence may lurk. When you take off your shoes at the door, the way you throw them can be violent. When you open a door, the push can carry anger. You know well that when you open a door in anger, it is different from when you open it full of love.

A man came to see Bokuju. He flung his shoes down with a thud, pushed the door hard, and entered. Then he bowed very humbly, touching Bokuju’s feet. Bokuju said, “No, I cannot accept that.” The man asked, “What do you mean?” Bokuju said, “First go and ask forgiveness of the door and of your shoes. Surrendering to me is easy—everyone does that. What harm have the shoes done that you thumped them so? What has the door done that you opened it as if to take its life? You are an angry man—that is your reality. This bow is false. Until you have asked forgiveness of the shoes and the door, I will not speak with you. Up!”

The man said, “What are you saying? I’ll look mad. Others are sitting here—what will they think? Ask forgiveness of my shoes?” Bokuju said, “When you were angry at your shoes and violent at the door, you saw no madness. Now what madness in asking forgiveness? Go.”

He went. At first it felt foolish to fold hands before shoes—yet because Bokuju had said it, he did. He asked forgiveness of the door too. When he returned and bowed, the bow was different. Now it was a different bow—not a show. There was a naturalness to it, a meaning that hadn’t been there before. Earlier anger filled him inside while he bowed outside.

Psychologists say that on days when women are angry, the household noise rises sixfold. Dishes break, doors slam, everything clatters. From outside one can tell whether the lady of the house is pleased or not. Cups fall; she doesn’t even know it’s due to her anger. She thinks her hand slipped—yesterday it didn’t, the day before it didn’t, tomorrow it won’t—why today? Sixfold is no small measure.

No—the unconscious wants to drop the utensil so it shatters. The conscious mind rationalizes: I didn’t drop it; it slipped. This is rationalization—surface logic. Deep down there is a longing to break—breaking relieves anger. You cannot break the husband, but you can break what he bought—it’s symbolic. You can’t hit him, but the blow must land somewhere. When anger fills you, fire shows from every finger; your gait changes. You are not the same; your mental state is temporarily deranged—argue as much as you like; even the insane argue cleverly, and their arguments seem consistent.

A madman went to a psychiatrist with the delusion that he was a dog. “Do something,” he said. “I’ve got this delusion that I am a dog.” The doctor said, “Bad—very bad. Since when?” He answered, “Since I was a little puppy!” Even madness has its logic. He calls it a delusion—that’s conscious—but unconsciously it has sunk deep. To free him will be hard; he will arrange every support to keep his delusion intact.

Everyone similarly takes himself to be something he is not. Not a dog—that’s not the issue—but you too take yourself to be what you are not. The unwise one thinks himself wise; the un-beautiful thinks himself beautiful; the powerless imagines he is powerful.

A man staggered into a bar, quite drunk, and shouted, “Listen! There’s no one stronger than me in this town!” No one replied; emboldened, he yelled, “Not just this town—no one stronger than me in this country! Challenge me and I’ll flatten you.” Still none spoke; the boldness grew—this is how bravado grows; people were busy drinking, who’d bother with a fool? So he declared, “Now I tell you the truth—on this whole earth no one is stronger than I!” Then someone got up and slapped him hard; he fell flat, lost consciousness for a few seconds, then opened his eyes and asked, “Who are you?” The man replied, “I’m the one you thought you were when you came into the bar.”

He too will meet someone one day and then he’ll know. Everyone imagines himself to be something he is not, and sets out to prove it. You build a big house to prove you are big; you hoard wealth to prove you are wealthy; you chase high positions to prove you are not a small man. Your whole life’s effort is to prove your delusion. Whether the delusion is of being a dog or something else—same disease, only names differ.

The truly religious person is the one who has no delusion of being anything—who accepts, simply, whatever he is. He attains godliness. But as long as you are proving that you are something—even if you don’t notice it—your gait, your postures will betray it.

A rich man will look for a seat fit for him. If he must sit in the back, you can see his anguish; if he gets the front seat, see his delight. One with ambition—if you greet him, watch how his face blooms; if you pass without noticing him, see how gloomy his face gets.

Study life a little. Studying yourself is hard—you have identified too much, there’s no distance, no perspective. First study others. Sit by the roadside sometime and quietly watch people. Don’t let them know you are watching; otherwise you won’t see truth. The moment they know, they change—you’ve seen it.

Scientists are amazed: not just man—an electron changes its behavior if observed. If you look at it under a microscope, don’t assume its behavior would be the same as if unseen. Physics’ basic assumptions were shaken. It seems the electron too is conscious; it changes under observation. It’s understandable if a householder changes when someone enters; but the electron? If your gaze falls on it, it changes. This means the whole existence is conscious, dependent on the observer.

Watch passersby in such a way that they don’t know you are watching. You will be surprised. Someone talks to himself—only madmen do that—and he is so engrossed he not only talks, he gestures, answers himself. Look at his face—he is fully engaged in discussion; actually there is no one around. If he sees you seeing him, he will immediately change; a borrowed face appears—a mask, for show.

In English there is the word personality—from the Greek persona, meaning mask. In old plays, actors wore a face—a mask. Even today, to make someone Ravana, you put a face on him; he becomes Ravana. The word “personality” is very telling: your personality is a mask, donned, not original. And you have worn so many masks that now it’s hard to find the original.

Hence Zen masters say: before you ask anything about God, first go and find your original face—for these false faces cannot meet the real. Only the real meets the real. Become authentic; find the original face you brought with birth.

In children you can see the original face—before the age of four. Somewhere between three and four the accident happens, and the face becomes false. A child plays alone—it doesn’t matter if you pass through the room; he is absorbed. The day your looking starts to make a difference—know the false face has arisen; childhood is gone; the child has become a cheat.

You hasten to make the child false, because once he becomes false, he becomes part of society. Until then he is outside. He hasn’t been initiated into society. He is wild—pure, simple, natural. He doesn’t care what others think. The day he begins to care what you think and behaves accordingly, falsehood has entered.

First observe others—because distance helps. When you succeed, do a small experiment before a mirror, alone. Before the mirror, imagine you are standing before your wife—what face comes? Bring exactly that mask you wear before your wife, and look at it. Then think of your beloved—what face comes? Look—and you’ll find these two faces are so different it’s hard to believe they belong to one person.

Then bring the face you wear before your boss. With a little practice you’ll quickly bring it—and you’ll see as if a tail has appeared and is wagging—you are flattering through your face. Then think of your servant—what face appears? A deep indifference—as if no one has come. You sit; the servant comes and sweeps; you behave as if a gust of wind came and carried the dust away. A servant has no personhood, no soul—no relationship worthy of respect. One face for the servant, another for the boss. One when you want something, another when you don’t.

Study this before the mirror. Bring each mask—and you’ll find they cover you. After months of practice, when you become skillful enough to shift gears at will—first mask, second, third—press a button and they appear and go—then do the final experiment: drop all masks. Imagine you are alone on earth—no one to see you: no boss, no servant, no wife, no beloved, no friend, no enemy—after a Third World War all have died; you alone remain. What face is then? Perhaps you will glimpse the original face. Then meditate upon that. As it emerges in your life, authenticity arises.

For the first time you are real—free of falseness. For the first time you are human. For the first time the play drops and life is true. For the first time you have roots; you are not superficial but deep. Sometimes it takes years to find the original face. Whoever finds it becomes divine—for your original face is God’s own. And you are so foolish—you threw away the priceless for trifles; you collected pebbles and lost diamonds. The game continues as long as you remain unwise.

I have heard of a beggar at a seashore. For years a game went on: people would place a currency note and a bright coin before him—“Take whichever you like.” He always picked the coin and left the note. People laughed at his foolishness: “What an idiot—doesn’t know the value!” Someone asked, “You’ve been doing this for twenty years. Haven’t you understood the note is worth a hundred, and you pick a penny? Is it the shine?” He said, “I understood the first day. But the day I pick the note, the game ends. One penny at a time, I’ve gathered thousands. A note I could pick only once—the game would stop; these people aren’t fools—they wouldn’t return. They enjoy my foolishness; that’s why the game runs.”

But your game is very costly. That beggar was clever; you are not. In this game you have lost all that is worth having and collected all that is not. At death you will have only a heap of masks. People don’t drop masks even at the last breath.

A Marwari, dying, told his lawyer: “To every servant who has served me for five years, I bequeath fifty thousand rupees.” The lawyer couldn’t believe it—he knew the man; he never gave five paise. Fifty thousand to each—and there were many servants. He asked, “Are you in your senses?” The Marwari said, “More than you. There is no servant in my house I let stay for five years! I’ll give nothing—but the news of my charity will spread.”

Even at death, the relish is in reputation. The mask doesn’t drop, not even in the last moment. What people say after you die is important; what you are is not. You have no taste for being—only for others’ opinions. That is the mark of the householder. The sannyasin’s mark is: what I am is my relish. What people say—what is the use? That is their business. What I am—that is mine, between me and the divine. Masks cannot deceive the divine; there only the original face appears—naked like a child. The one who stands before the world as he would before the divine—that one is a sannyasin.

Now, let us try to understand this small incident.

Hogen, the master of Seiryo monastery, was about to give a talk before the evening meal when he noticed the bamboo screen that is hung for meditation had not yet been rolled up.

In a master’s life, even tiny incidents are valuable. How mindful could the meditators have been if they forgot even to roll up the meditation screen? The screen leftover is not the issue; it was for meditation—and there is a rule to put it away afterward. How mindful were those meditators who left it hanging?

Zen counts the small things. Mindfulness must pervade the smallest: you enter a room—how you spread the mat, how you sit, how you hang the curtain for meditation—and then, as you leave, how you take it down and open the room.

For Zen holds a deep conviction: your conduct toward even the inanimate must be compassionate. Lay the mat as if it too has life. And life is hidden in all; in this existence, nothing is truly lifeless.

But you treat even persons as if they were lifeless; you turn persons into things, exploit them, use them. As long as a person is useful—fine; when not, you throw him away like a fly from milk. To use a person is to reduce him to a thing—exploitation. Where there is exploitation, how can there be compassion?

The ordinary man makes persons into things; the sannyasin, says Zen, should do the opposite—make even things into persons, as if they have personhood. The point is not whether they truly have it. The point is: when you make persons into things, you lose your own soul. Your soul is refined by your way of relating. If you reduce persons to things—as people have done…

In India people say “wife is property.” There is no greater stupidity. Because she is property, you can stake her in gambling. Even “righteous” men like Yudhishthira staked their wives. If the “king of dharma” can do that, what to say of you! You too must have—only your story wasn’t recorded. The story is indicative and shocking: staked a living soul and still remains “Dharma-raja” in popular esteem! People are blind. To stake a living soul is to stake God. How did this become possible? The notion that “wife is property.”

So in China there was a law: a husband could not be prosecuted for killing his wife—just as if you broke your own chair, your whim; your house, your choice. Scriptures even said women have no soul; they are property. Soul belongs to men. A patriarchal society has exploited women for millennia—reduced them to objects, like slaves—useful, until not.

When someone behaves thus with a living person, something happens deep within: his own consciousness rusts. If nothing around you is conscious, how will you remain conscious? Your growth upward happens through the contact, the satsang, of other souls. Live only among things and you become a thing. Life is a challenge—live with the dead, you die; live with the living, you live; live among stones, you become stone-like. You become like what you live among.

This is why we seek satsang—being near one in whom God has awakened. Then hope arises that, in that company, your inner divinity too will be challenged into wakefulness. Where all around is darkness, your light will not burn long—it will go out. To keep your lamp burning, lamps are needed around.

Likewise, if you live in filth, how long can you remain clean? To be clean, cleanliness is needed around. To be beautiful, beauty around. To be peaceful, peace around. A person is not an isolated fragment; he is connected to all. The way you treat others is the way others will treat you.

Thus begins sannyas initiation: from now on, you will never treat persons as things; rather, the reverse—even things as persons. Touch a thing as if it is alive; accord respect, goodwill, compassion—even to things.

Hogen saw the bamboo screen still hanging. How had the meditators meditated—if they forgot this? Forgetfulness happened. But meditation means remembrance—awareness of the smallest. A meditator should have no occasion to say, “I forgot.” That would mean, for that much time, awareness was lost—you were unconscious.

He pointed toward it. Immediately, two monks rose from the assembly and went to roll it up. Observing that spontaneous moment, the master said, “The state of the first monk is good—not that of the other.”

A tiny, unplanned incident—the screen left hanging. The master gestures; two monks rise. But the way they rose must have been different. They rolled up the screen. The act is the same, yet the doer changes the quality. It doesn’t matter what you do; it matters what you are. Acts are determined by the soul; the soul is not determined by acts.

Mahavira places his foot softly lest an ant be crushed. Thousands of Jain monks also place their feet softly. The act is the same, but the joy in Mahavira is missing in the monks. The soul is different. For Mahavira, the act arises from within; for the monk, it is imposed by outer discipline. For Mahavira, wisdom; for the monk, scripture.

Mahavira steps carefully because for him, that ant’s life is as valuable as his own. When we cannot create life, by what right do we destroy it? It is reverence for life—what Schweitzer called “Reverence for Life.” It is a natural respect. One who has known the dignity of his own life will sense the dignity of all lives. Having seen the lamp lit within himself, he will see—even if faint—the same lamp lit in the ant. Mahavira’s respect for the ant is an extension of his respect for himself. Knowing his own glory, he knows everyone’s.

So Mahavira steps softly, not out of fear that he might go to hell if an ant dies. That is shopkeeper’s language. Then the ant doesn’t matter—hell does. If killing an ant still allowed heaven, Mahavira wouldn’t mind. If killing a man also led to heaven by some device, he wouldn’t mind? No! I tell you, even if he knew that compassion would lead to hell, Mahavira would choose compassion—and accept hell. He wouldn’t abandon compassion; it is not an outer discipline, it is inner knowing. He’d say, “Then hell is better—but I cannot kill an ant.” He would drop liberation rather than kill.

The arithmetic is different. The Jain monk restrains himself lest liberation be lost. If assured—by written guarantee—that killing ants opens the gate to liberation because you freed many souls from ant bodies, he would go hunting ants—the more killed, the better the profit. The act may look the same—hence the great mistake. We see Buddha, Mahavira, Krishna—yet we don’t see them, for that requires eyes that can see oneself. Until you are like Mahavira, how will you see Mahavira? If you had the eye that could see him, it would have already seen you. We don’t have that vision; we only see what they did.

Like monkeys, we imitate. We think by doing what they did, we will become what they became. Don’t fall into this error. What they did came from their soul; their soul did not come from what they did. Conduct is born of the inner; the inner is not born of conduct. The center governs the periphery, not the other way. Acts are like waves on the surface; the soul is the deep ocean. The ocean can be without waves; waves cannot be without the ocean.

You grasp acts because they are visible; the petty, thus, falls into your hands. The so-called monks and sadhus you see are imitators—experts at imitation. So expert that if Mahavira himself came, in contest they would win—because Mahavira lives naturally; his acts vary moment to moment, fitted to circumstance. The imitator’s acts have nothing to do with circumstance—dead imitation, always the same.

A strange event: on Charlie Chaplin’s birthday, England held a competition—actors from across the country to imitate Chaplin. Three big prizes; the king himself to award them. Charlie had a joke—why not enter under another name? Surely he would take first prize; after all, he is Chaplin. No one imagined he would enter. He entered from another town—out of hundreds, he was among the finalists. Then the final—when the world laughed: he came third. The real Chaplin came third imitating Chaplin. Imitators win—because they stick to the rulebook; Chaplin stayed natural, and in the natural something new enters; the imitator clings to the old.

Mulla Nasruddin came to see me; he looked as if he hadn’t bathed in days, wearing dirty clothes. I said, “Nasruddin, at least remember your forefathers. People say your father had his suits tailored in Paris, his laundry done in London, and lived immaculately. Even twenty years after his death, those who knew him still talk of his elegance—and look at you!” Nasruddin said, “These are the very clothes my father wore. You are mistaken—this coat is the same.” But a twenty-year-old coat—however Paris-made, however London-laundered—time rots it.

All traditions rot with time—but the blind don’t see. They tread the beaten track. Since Mahavira, twenty-five centuries have passed; Buddha—twenty-five centuries. Everything has gone stale. When it arose from Mahavira, it was alive, fresh—just bathed—the freshness of morning dew, of a new blossom, a new bride. Then all goes stale. But track-followers, eyes shut, go on—wearing Mahavira’s coat—tattered, stinking—yet declaring, “This is Mahavira’s coat; how can we leave it? Mahavira looked beautiful in it; so do we.” Beauty comes from naturalness.

Two men stood up; both did the same act—rolled the screen. But the master distinguished; the act was the same, the doers different; the inner awareness differed.

Perhaps the first rose without aggression, without hurry—with patience—as if time were infinite, no impatience, no rush. The second jumped like a violent man: “Let’s get it over with!”—no respect for the meditation screen, a disdain for the object—impatient to finish so the talk could begin. From hurry, inner tension is revealed. The first rose without condemning those who forgot to roll up the screen—no thought about it. The second rose with judgment: “Fools! Who left it hanging? They delayed the discourse!” A subtle ill-will toward them—and everything changes.

All difference comes from within. The glass of your lamp is not valuable; the flame within is.

So the master, observing both, said, “The state of the first monk is good—not that of the other.”

We find it hard to understand, because we think two acts, if identical, are the same. Even if measurement shows the outer acts identical—the inner person differs; the act’s quality changes. Science cannot grasp this; only religion can.

Suppose you kiss a woman you’ve never loved and for whom you feel no love. Instruments can measure pressures, bodily effects. Then you kiss a woman you love deeply—with reverence. Science measures again and may say both kisses are the same. But you know they are not—because the inner feeling differs. There is no instrument to measure feeling.

A slap can come from a friend or an enemy; the slap is the same, but if from a friend, the matter is different; from an enemy, different. A father slaps his son—different; let a stranger slap and see. On the slap’s physicality science finds no difference; but hidden inside is feeling—and that changes everything.

Don’t worry much about acts; care about feeling. Whether you went to the temple is not the question—feeling! Whether you performed worship today is not the question—feeling! If feeling is there, worship goes on even without ritual; if feeling is absent, all acts are superficial—show, hypocrisy.

Make this distinction clear, for in the final reckoning feeling is weighed, not acts. The world weighs acts; the divine weighs being. On the last day, the final examination, your feeling will be accounted for—not your acts. You may find in liberation those you never saw in temples; and in hell, those who spent life there. The world sees acts—it lacks the deep eye to see feeling.

A sannyasin, journeying in the Himalayas, saw a hill girl climbing with a fat child on her back. The girl was about nine; the child at least four and heavy. The sannyasin too was tired in the heat. Coming near, he said, “Daughter, that’s heavy—you must be tired.” Sweat poured from the girl. She looked up and said, “Swamiji, you carry weight. This is my little brother.” On the scale, what’s the difference between bedding and a little brother? The scale will show the same. If you see only the outside, your state is no more than a scale. The sannyasin wrote in his memoirs: the girl startled me—“You carry weight; this is my little brother.” Weight is there, but feeling cuts weight.

Your every movement—sitting, walking, eating, sleeping—are outer acts. Through each, your soul peeks out. Watch; don’t keep account of acts, keep account of feeling. As feeling becomes clear, acts change; imitation falls away, authenticity appears. Your inner light covers your outer acts; their quality transforms, their value changes. Masters don’t do grand acts.

Someone asked the Zen master Rinzai, “What do you do?” He said, “When I am hungry, I eat; when sleepy, I sleep—nothing special.” The man said, “But we all do that.” Rinzai laughed, “If only you did, liberation would not be far.” You don’t. While eating, you do a thousand other things; mind elsewhere, life elsewhere; eating is not your prayer. In sleep, do you only sleep? You travel far; dreams upon dreams.

Rinzai says: when I sleep, I only sleep; when I eat, I only eat. There is unity between my being and my act. I am one, non-dual. Whatever happens involves my totality. When hungry, I eat with my whole being—nothing remains behind. When I sleep, I sleep wholly—no part left to dream. Every act involves my wholeness.

This is the sign of the liberated while living. Then if death comes at any moment, no regret—everything is complete, always complete. He slept well at night, ate well in the morning—nothing remains to be done. If you are wholly in an act, each act is complete; if not, nothing completes. Your life is an aggregate of incompletions, and they haunt you. A little sculpture half-made hangs over you, a painting half-done dangles, two verses of a song echo—but nothing completes. You are a junk shop—nothing whole. How can you be at peace?

Two men rose. One must have risen with utter mindfulness—complete in his rising—like Rinzai in sleeping and eating. His whole being rose; he lifted the screen; in that lifting, no thought—only the act of lifting. In thoughtlessness it happened. Hence the master said: the first monk’s state is right; the second’s is not. The second lifted without awareness—mind elsewhere.

Before Buddha attained the ultimate, an incident occurred. He was walking with his disciple Ananda. Suddenly he stopped mid-path, raised his hand to his forehead and brushed something away. There was nothing. Ananda asked, “What did you do?” Buddha said, “While talking to you, a fly settled and I brushed it away unmindfully. Now I am brushing as I should have—mindfully, not in unconsciousness. A sin happened.” The fly was not killed, not hurt; it isn’t about the fly. Buddha said: any act done in unconsciousness is sin. I brushed it away in sleep; my whole awareness was not present in my hand. It happened as if done in sleep.

The one who lives in sleep is worldly; the one who lives awake is a sannyasin. Buddha said, “I am doing it again as I should have, so I remember. For the future, it is necessary to redo it mindfully.”

One monk must have risen with awareness. When you act with awareness, there is a different radiance about you. Your inner lamp is lit; an aura surrounds you. One with eyes will immediately see your gleam. In unconscious acts, you move as if hypnotized, in sleep, drunk—somehow doing.

What is done in unconsciousness leads astray—it is a bad state. What is done without stupefaction leads home—it is the right state. Even if the acts are the same, unconsciousness/awareness is decisive. Someone asked Mahavira to define a monk. He said, “Asutta muni”—the unsleeping sage. And the un-monk? “Sutta amuni”—the sleeping, un-sage. One who walks asleep is unholy; one who lives awake is holy. That is what Krishna says in the Gita: when all others sleep, the yogi remains awake; where all are stupefied, the yogi is aware.

Enough for today.