Es Dhammo Sanantano #1

Gautam Buddha is like the snow-clad Himalayas. There are other mountains, other ranges mantled in snow, but the Himalayas are incomparable. They have no analogy; the Himalayas are only like the Himalayas. Gautam Buddha is only like Gautam Buddha. Nowhere in the entire history of humankind does another name shine with such majesty. No one has plucked the strings of so many hearts as Buddha has. Through him, more people have awakened, more have realized the ultimate godliness, than through any other.

Buddha’s voice is unique—especially for those accustomed to thinking, reflecting, discussing.

People brimming with heart move easily toward the divine. But where are such people of the heart? And there is no method to fill the heart. If it happens, it happens; if it doesn’t, it doesn’t. You cannot rely on such an accidental, natural occurrence. Buddha awakened those who are the hardest to awaken—the ones filled with thought, the rational, the contemplative.

Those full of love and feeling bow effortlessly toward the divine; they don’t have to be bent. Even if no one tells them, they arrive; they don’t have to be carried. But they are very few, and their number has been dwindling by the day. You can count them on your fingers.

Human development has tilted toward the brain. Man is filled with head. That’s why where Jesus may fail, where Krishna’s grip may not hold, Buddha does not fail. Buddha penetrates into the innermost core of life even there.

Buddha’s religion has been called the religion of intelligence. Its beginning is with intelligence, not its end. The start is with the mind—because that’s where man stands. But the end is not in the mind. The end is the supreme transcendence, where all thoughts are lost and all cleverness dissolves—where only the witness, mere witnessing, remains. Yet Buddha’s impact is felt immediately by those skilled in thinking and inquiry.

With Buddha a new chapter of humanity began. Twenty-five centuries ago he said what still feels relevant today, and will remain relevant for the coming centuries. Buddha gave analysis—an analysis of an unsurpassed subtlety that no one had done before, and none has done again. He did not answer life’s problems by quoting scriptures; he answered through the process of analysis.

Buddha is the first scientist of religion. With him, faith and belief are not required. With him, understanding is enough. If you are willing to understand, you will embark on Buddha’s boat. If faith comes at all, it will be as a shadow of understanding. But Buddha does not demand faith before understanding. He does not say, “Believe what I say.” He says, “Think, reflect, analyze; search and discover through your own experience—then trust.”

All the religions of the world have put belief first—except Buddha. In all others, faith is primary; only then can you proceed. Buddha said, experience is primary; faith is secondary. If there is experience, there will be faith. If there is experience, there will be trust.

Therefore Buddha says, there is no need for belief; with experience it will arise on its own—you need not bring it. And what value can there be in a faith that you bring? Your imported faith will still hide your doubts behind it.

Even if you impose belief upon yourself, disbelief will stand behind it. You may try your hardest to believe, but your firmness will tremble. You will know within that what has not entered your experience—how can you accept it, even if you want to? And even if you do accept it, how can it be real? Your God will be mere verbiage until a ray of experience descends. Your idea of liberation will be merely verbal until you’ve tasted even a drop of freedom.

Buddha said: Do not trust me. Do not believe what I say just because I say it. Think, reflect, live it. Only if it stands true on the touchstone of your experience is it true. What can my saying make true?

Buddha’s last words were: appa deepo bhava—be a light unto yourself. And in your own light, whatever you see—then what else will you do but trust? Trust will be natural. Even to mention it becomes superfluous.

Buddha’s religion is the religion of analysis. But it begins with analysis; it does not end there. It culminates in supreme synthesis. Buddha’s religion is the religion of doubt. The journey begins with doubt; it does not end there. It culminates in ultimate trust.

That is why great misunderstanding arose in trying to understand Buddha. Because he spoke the language of doubt, people thought he was a skeptic. Even the Hindus did not understand—though they are the oldest culture on this earth. Surely Buddha must have been utterly unique—so unique that even the Hindus missed him. To them he seemed dangerous, unsettling. They feared he would pull down all the foundations of religion. And yet this is the man who, for the first time, laid the foundations of religion properly.

Can any foundation be laid upon faith? Only upon experience can a foundation stand. Faith blossoms as the fragrance of experience. Without experience, faith is blind. And with a blind faith, will you ever reach truth?

Buddha was supremely audacious. It is effortless to trust a man like him. There is authenticity in his every movement. There is weight in his every word. His very being is self-evident. It becomes easy to have faith in him. But Buddha said, do not make me your crutch. If you are lame and walk with my crutch—how far will you go? You will not reach the goal. Today I am with you; tomorrow I will not be. Then you must walk on your own legs. Do not walk by my light just because we are together for a while in this dark forest. In my light you may shine for a moment; then our paths will part. My light will go with me; your darkness will remain with you. Create your own light. Appa deepo bhava!

This Dhammapada of Buddha is an analysis of how that light of experience can be created. There is no demand for faith. There is no need for it. That is why people called Buddha an atheist—because he did not even say, “Have faith in God.”

How will you have faith? If you knew, you would already have faith. You do not know. In this ignorance, how will you believe? And any faith you construct in ignorance will be a temple built of bricks of ignorance; how will you call it God’s temple? You have built it out of fear. Death frightens you, so you grab a support. Life seems to be slipping from your hands, so you create dreams of heaven. But has anyone ever been liberated by such fantasies, by such beliefs built on fear? It is this that cripples man, that paralyzes him. That is why Buddha did not speak of God.

H. G. Wells said of Buddha that it is hard to find on earth a person so godlike and yet so godless—so godlike and so godless! If you go searching for godly genius, where will you find anyone more godly than Buddha? So godless! And yet so empty of God-talk! He did not speak of God at all. He considered the word itself polluted. He would not utter it. Do not imagine from this that Buddha was anti-God. He did not utter the word because the ultimate cannot be uttered.

The Upanishads say nothing can be said about God; but even so, they say at least that much. Buddha did not say even that. He is the ultimate Upanishad; beyond him the Upanishads cannot go. Where the Upanishads end, Buddha begins. After all, they could not restrain themselves: “God is without attributes.” But then “without attributes” became his attribute. “God is formless”—formlessness became his form. They could not remain silent. Even the seers of the Upanishads spoke! That treasure had to be held only in silence; by speaking, they squandered it. A closed fist held a gem of great price; opened, it became worthless. It was a matter that ought not be said. Because whatever you say will be wrong. Even to say that the divine is formless is wrong—formlessness is still a concept, linked to form. If it is the opposite of form, it remains related to form.

What does formless mean? Whenever you define it, you will have to use the idea of form. What does without-attributes mean? Whenever you define it, you will have to bring attributes into the definition. What kind of “without-attributes” is it that requires attributes for its definition? What kind of formlessness is it that needs form to be explained?

No one spoke more than Buddha; and no one was more silent. He spoke so much! Scholars wonder: how could one man have spoken so much? They fear much of it was interpolated later by others. Nothing is interpolated. In fact, not all that he spoke has been preserved. He spoke abundantly—and yet no one has been more silent. For where silence was required, he remained silent. On God he did not say a word. He risked being misunderstood as an atheist. To this day people think him an atheist. And yet no greater theist has ever lived.

Buddha is a great theist. If nothing can be said about the ultimate, then Buddha did say something—by remaining silent; he pointed.

A great Western thinker, Wittgenstein, wrote in his remarkable Tractatus: “That which cannot be said must not be said.” If he had seen Buddha, he would have understood. If Buddha had read Wittgenstein, he would have smiled and nodded. In the West, even Wittgenstein was thought to be an atheist. He was not. But what cannot be said—better not to say it. Saying distorts. Saying falsifies.

Even Lao Tzu, who says in the very first line of the Tao Te Ching that truth that is spoken becomes untrue, still goes on to say many things about truth. Buddha does not. You may ask, then what does Buddha talk about? He never spoke a word about health; he only analyzed illness and prescribed the remedy. He said, I am a physician, not a philosopher. I will analyze your sickness, diagnose it, suggest the medicine; and when you are well, then you yourself will know what health is. Of that I will say nothing.

Health is known; it cannot be said. Illness can be eliminated, explained, even manufactured; it can be treated—rightly or wrongly—much can be done with illness. Health? When illness is not, what remains is that. Toward that there can only be hints—silence, gestures—indirect, never explicit.

Buddha’s religion has been called the religion of emptiness, of shunyata. But do not think that his message ends in emptiness. No, that is only where it begins.

Buddha is a peak so lofty that we cannot see its summit. Our eyes go only so far; our necks can only tilt so high. Beyond that, Buddha disappears—far away… snow peaks beyond the clouds! His beginning is visible; his end is not. That is his glory. Those who mistook the beginning for the end fell into error. Begin from where you are; but as you climb, more and more opens before you—farther and farther.

Many have spoken. Many have analyzed man’s sickness—but not with such precision. Others have spoken beautifully, with deep symbols and subtle images—but Buddha’s manner of speaking is altogether different. The style of his saying! Whoever hears once is seized. Whoever meets his eyes once cannot wander again. Whoever has even a glimpse of Buddha is transformed.

Twenty-five hundred years ago, the day Buddha was born, there was celebration in the palace. A son was born to the king; the whole capital was decked out. All night lamps were lit and people danced. It was a festive hour. A son had been born to an aging monarch. A long-cherished desire of the entire kingdom was fulfilled. Hence he was named Siddhartha—meaning, “the fulfillment of desire.”

On that very first day, when bands played at the gates, shehnai pipes sang, flowers rained in the palace, and prasad was distributed in all directions—a holy man, old and ascetic, ran down from the Himalayas and stood at the gate. His name was Asita. Even the king honored him; yet Asita had never come to the capital. Whenever there was occasion to see him, Shuddhodana himself had to go to the forest. They were childhood friends. Shuddhodana became a king and got tangled in the marketplace; Asita became a great ascetic, famed to the horizons. Seeing Asita at his gate, Shuddhodana said, You? Here? What happened? Why have you come? Is there trouble? Any obstacle? Speak. Asita said, No, no trouble, no obstacle. A son has been born in your house; I have come to see him.

The king could not comprehend his good fortune—that such a sage should come to see his son. He ran inside, brought out the newborn. Asita bowed and placed his head at the baby’s feet. It is said the child entangled his feet in the sage’s matted locks. From then on, Buddha’s feet have been entangled in the matted hair of mankind—ever since, man has not been able to get free. Asita laughed—and he also wept. Shuddhodana asked, Why do you weep in such an auspicious hour?

Asita said, The son born in your house is no ordinary soul; he is extraordinary. Centuries pass by before such a one comes. He is not Siddhartha only for you; he is Siddhartha for innumerable beings—countless desires will be fulfilled through him. I laugh with joy, for I have had his darshan. I rejoice, for he has entangled his feet in this old man’s hair—a blessed moment! I weep because when this bud opens into a flower and its fragrance spreads to the horizons, and under its shade millions find relief—I will not be here. My body is nearing its end.

And Asita said a very unique thing: Until now I had longed to be free of birth and death—and that has been fulfilled. Today I feel regret. If I had one more life I could sit at the feet of this Buddha, drink his fragrance, drown in his intoxication. I regret that I am already free. This is my last birth; I will not be able to take another body. Always I had yearned to be rid of the body, to be free of coming and going—today I regret that I did not linger a little longer…

Understand this a little.

When Buddha’s flower blossoms, Asita says: even if liberation has to be wagered, what harm? Since then twenty-five centuries have passed. Many men of wisdom have come. But Buddha is incomparable. His uniqueness is that he gave a religion for this century and for the future. However much Krishna is explained, he does not quite fit our age—the distance has grown too great. The minds he addressed and the minds that hear him today are far apart. Buddha speaks in such a way that it feels as if he has just said it. His words do not need to be made contemporary—they are contemporary. Speak on Krishna, and you must drag him into the twentieth century; Buddha needs no dragging. He stands already in our century. And it will remain so for many centuries, because the mode of being that man has adopted—the way of the intellect—is here to stay; it will not go away. Along with it, Buddha’s path will endure.

The Dhammapada is his analysis. It is the distilled result of his deep investigation into life’s problems. Try to understand every word carefully. These are not doctrines to believe in; these are conclusions drawn from experiment. You will grasp them only if you think along with him. This is not a matter of blind acceptance; it demands deep reflection and contemplation.

Ordinarily, what is a man’s life? A few dreams! A few broken shards of dreams! A few still intact, stuck in the hope of the future! What is a man’s life? Ruins of the past, fantasies of the future! What is our completeness? We go, we rise, we sit, we work—but we have no clear sense of why. Nothing is obvious—where are we going? We rush, as if in great hurry. There is a fierce longing to arrive, but no clarity about where we want to arrive. Which way are you going?

Yesterday I was reading a song by Sahir:
“No path, no destination, not even a hint of light—
my life wanders in the void.”

No road; no destination; not even a clue of light—not a single ray. The whole life wandering in dark valleys, in emptiness.

“My life wanders in the void…”

Such has always been man’s condition. We even invent false destinations for comfort. One needs something to lean on! Truth is very bitter. Stand face to face with truth and even standing feels hard.

Sigmund Freud has said man cannot live without lies. Lies are supports. So we create false goals. There is no knowledge of the real goal; but it is impossible to live without one. How will you live without a goal? If it becomes certain that you do not know where you are going, how will your feet move? How will the journey happen? So we imagine a destination, make a false goal. That gives relief; it seems we are going somewhere. There is no path—because do false goals ever have paths? When the goal itself is a lie, how can there be a way? Then we also make a path. We invent the path and the goal—everything imagined, mind’s webs, dreams! And thus we stuff ourselves inside. It seems the emptiness is filled; life feels full.

Someone died recently. A friend came and said, Have you heard, so-and-so passed away? He had such a full life! I said, Wait. He passed away—nothing can be done about that. But who told you his life was full? He must not even have thought about what he was saying. He hesitated a bit and said, I just said it. That’s what people say. I said, If you said it, you must also think it—that he had a fulfilled life. I knew him. If you ask me: nothing ever happened, because he was dead already. Now if the dead man dies, what great event is that? He was never alive. Life is only available with truth; there is no other life. But those who live with lies also think their life is full.

How many lies you have woven! The son will grow up; he will marry; he will have children; he will make money; he will earn fame—and you are dying! And your father died like this too—waiting for you to grow up, to marry, to earn. And your son will die like this too. Life is going beautifully “full”!

The father dies for the son. The son dies for his son. And so they keep dying for each other. No one lives. Dying is so easy—living is so hard.

People think death is difficult. They are wrong. What difficulty is there in death? In a moment you are gone. Life is difficult. Seventy years must be lived. And since you do not know how to live without lies, you erect a thousand lies—fame, status, success, wealth. When you tire of these, then religion, liberation, heaven, God, soul, meditation, samadhi. But something or other—so you can keep yourself filled. Remember, Buddha’s whole emphasis is on emptying yourself of lies. There is no need to fill with truth. Empty of lies, and what remains is truth. The illness gone—what remains is health.

Yet countless have tried to wake you; you do not wake. Man’s habit of manufacturing lies is so deep that even around Buddha—though he is present to awaken—you arrange your sleep’s comfort. Buddha tries to wake you; you turn even his attempt into a narcotic. You can distill alcohol out of anything. There is nothing from which you cannot make wine. That is why Buddhas come and go; awakened ones are born and depart; you remain fixed, unmoved, rooted in your lies. Perhaps you even incorporate what they said into your stock of lies.

What is the secret of your lies? Ego. The ego is sheer falsehood. There is no such thing anywhere. You are not; only the whole is. The entire existence is one. This delusion that you are separate is the ego.

Yesterday I said to a friend: Now wake up. He said, I try hard; my mind fills with self-condemnation; I feel guilty, dishonest—because I understand what should be done and still I don’t do it. I told him, Do me a kindness: drop this idea of doing. The one who created you is breathing you; leave the doing to him too. He said, I can accept that he gave me birth—but that he is doing all the rest? That I cannot accept. I cannot accept that even my dishonesty is being done by him.

Think about this a little. It may sound as if he is trying to save God’s honor—how can I attribute dishonesty to God? But no, that’s not the point. It’s still the ego he is trying to save. Remember: if you are the doer of dishonesty, then you will also be the doer of honesty. But when your birth is not yours and your death is not yours, how can anything between the two be yours? When both ends belong to the other, when before birth you are in someone else’s hands and after death as well, then in this short span in between, to imagine yourself in control—that is the delusion. That ego will not let you awaken; it keeps inventing new devices to sleep.

So Buddhas come. Their arrows fly straight from the quiver toward your heart. But you slip aside.

“Hazarō Khizr paida kar chukī hai nasl-e-Adam ki—
ye sab tasleem, lekin aadmi ab tak bhatakta hai.”

Mankind has birthed thousands of Khizrs—prophets, tirthankaras—yet man still wanders. All this is acknowledged, and still man wanders. He wants to wander. He says he does not want to. You come to me saying you want peace, truth, simplicity. But do you really? Or are you searching a new complexity in the name of simplicity? Or new lies in the name of truth—of heaven, liberation, hell, God, the beyond?

Go to temples—you will find maps of heaven hanging there: first heaven, second heaven; first realm, second realm, third realm, up to “realms of truth”—maps hung up! Is there any limit to human stupidity? You cannot even make a map of your own home without an architect. You cannot map yourself—what you are, where you are, who you are—and you have made maps of heaven!

A hunter was buying supplies in a shop. He was going to Africa to hunt. Lest he get lost in the jungle, he bought a device—a compass. All was fine; he opened it. But there was a mirror attached on the back. That baffled him. Is this a compass or a lady’s vanity kit? What is a mirror doing here? The shopkeeper said, That’s for when you get lost. The compass will tell you the location; the mirror will show you who it is that got lost. Where you got lost the compass will reveal—but who got lost, that you must see in the mirror!

You do not know yourself, and you’ve made maps of heaven! People argue—how many hells are there? The Hindus say three; the Jains say seven. Buddha made a great joke: he said seven hundred. It was a joke; Buddha had no interest in such foolishness. But even the joke is missed. There are Buddhists who insist there are seven hundred—why else would he say so? I tell you: seven thousand!

Man extracts lies even from truth. That is why he wanders.

Buddha is a pure explorer. His search was immaculate. He left home and went to all the teachers available. The teachers got tired of him—for only when a true disciple arrives do you discover whether the teacher is a true teacher. With false disciples, you can never tell.

People ask me, How can we recognize a true master? I tell them, Don’t worry about the master. If you are a true disciple, you will know. The false master will avoid you, run away—this true disciple will create trouble. Don’t fret about the master. If you are genuine, false masters cannot stay with you—you stay, they will flee.

Kahlil Gibran tells a story: a man went from village to village proclaiming he knew the way to heaven; whoever wished, come with him. No one went; people have a thousand other things to do, and no one is in a hurry to go to heaven. People become “heavenly” only when forced—when their hands and feet no longer work and they are carried to the cremation ground, then they are “late lamented.” No one was willing to go to heaven. They would say, We like your message; when needed we will use it—but for now, please, not yet. The guru’s business thrived. Those who didn’t want to go to heaven still had to offer guru-dakshina to avoid him. He would come to the village and preach; they had to serve him, touch his feet; they’d say, You are absolutely right, but we are ordinary people, entangled in the world; when we are free, we will remember your words. His business went well; there was no trouble.

One village caused a disturbance. A real disciple appeared. He said, All right, you know the way? Sure? Absolutely sure? Since no trouble had ever arisen, the guru said, Completely sure. The man said, I’m coming. How many days will it take? The guru got nervous. This one is a troublemaker. Touching my feet is fine—coming along is another matter! But he couldn’t refuse in front of everyone. He thought, We’ll lead him astray for a year or two; he’ll get bored and leave. Six years passed; the disciple stuck like a shadow. When will we arrive? The guru finally said, I beg you—until I met you, even I believed I knew; now, because of you, I too have realized I don’t. When a true disciple appears, the guru’s pretensions fall away.

False masters abound because false disciples are many. False masters are byproducts; they are manufactured by false disciples.

Buddha went to every teacher. The teachers were disconcerted—because this man was authentic. Whatever they said, he did—so completely that even they felt compassion: “We ourselves have never done this!” As long as no one did, all was fine. But with him they could not say he had failed to do it—he did it totally, not a grain short. Finally they folded their hands and said, This is as far as we can take you. Further we do not know.

Buddha exhausted all teachers. Not one proved sufficient. Then there was no way but to search alone. That is why there is such freshness in Buddha’s words—he discovered by himself. He did not receive from any teacher. He did not repeat what he had heard. He set out utterly alone—without any support. Scriptures failed him; teachers failed him; all withdrew; the seeker was alone.

It is always so. When your search is real you will find scriptures don’t work. They work only as long as you chant them. The moment you begin the journey you will find a thousand errors in them. It must be so—over thousands of years countless hands have repeated and revised them. Much has been lost, much added. But you will know this only when you travel.

If you sit at home worshiping the map, how will you know? Start walking and you will discover: the map shows a river, but there is none; it shows a mountain, but there isn’t one; it says turn left—but a ditch lies to the left; if you turn right, the road continues. Only in the journey is the map tested.

Whoever has journeyed has found scriptures insufficient; whoever has journeyed has found teachers insufficient. Whoever has journeyed has discovered one inevitable fact: each must find his own path. Another’s help is good—if you can get it. But no one can give you your path. The path another walked you will never walk. It was his; it suited his nature.

Each person is unique.

Buddha declared that each person is unique. Therefore all cannot walk one royal road; each will have his own footpath. A true master does not give you the path; he gives you the discernment to find your path. He does not hand you a detailed map; he gives you light, so you can see for yourself and chart your way—because the maps are changing every day.

Life is not static; it is not inert. Life is flow. What was yesterday is not today; what is today will not be tomorrow.

The master gives you light, a lamp in your hand: take this lamp; now go, and search on your own. Remember, only what you find for yourself is truly found. What another gives is not truly yours. What is given can be taken away; what is found cannot be stolen. And what can be stolen—can that be spirituality? Only that which cannot be taken away.

The first verse:

“Mind is the forerunner of all states; mind is chief; they are mind-made. If one speaks or acts with an impure mind, suffering follows as the wheel follows the foot of the ox that draws the cart.”

A small sutra with long reach. Remember, Buddha is not repeating scripture. Scripture is being born from Buddha.

“Mind is the forerunner of all states.”

Any impulse arises… you stand on the roadside; a beautiful car passes by. What happens in your mind? An imprint is made. A black car glides by; a reflection reverberates. The passing car does not create desire—if you simply see and your seeing is neutral, like a camera’s eye. Let a car pass before a camera; it will click a photo—but then it won’t go shopping for a car, nor think of buying one. If your eye is camera-like—you just saw, the black car went by. An image arose and vanished—a shadow came and went—no problem.

But as the black shadow of the car moves outward, a desire arises within you: “May I have such a car!” A wave arises in the mind, like ripples in a pond when a pebble is thrown. The car has gone; the ripple is with you now. This ripple will drive you.

You will begin to earn money, or you will steal, or pick a pocket. Now you will act. The impulse has seized you. It will provoke anger if anyone obstructs you. Whoever stands in your way you will be ready to injure—ready to kill or die. Whoever helps will become friend; whoever obstructs will be enemy. Your nights will be filled with this dream—the car circling your mind. Until it becomes yours, you will not be at peace.

And the irony: after years of effort, the day it becomes yours, suddenly you find—the car is yours, but now what? You have cultivated the habit of restlessness over years. The car is yours, but the restlessness doesn’t go. Restlessness has become a habit.

Now you will find a new track for this restlessness: a bigger house! Diamonds! Something else—because the restlessness is habitual. What will you do with it? For years you nursed it; the car came, but whether it came or not is now the same. The restlessness has you in its grip.

That is why many people become rich and yet do not become rich. By the time they become rich they are practiced in restlessness. They imagined that once they had wealth they would rest. But peace is not so easy. If your habit of restlessness is strong, you may be wealthy, but where will peace come from? Then begins the race to become even richer. The mind says, “More—and then…” But it is all mind’s net.

Buddha examined each impulse and found that a vrtti is a wave in the lake of mind. Vrtti means a wave. It is the trembling of mind. If the mind remains unshaken, no impulse arises. If it trembles, a wave appears. It doesn’t matter what causes the trembling.

Twenty-five hundred years ago there were no cars; naïve people imagine those were peaceful days. No cars—so no worrying about cars. No airplanes—so no anxiety to buy one. You are mistaken. The anxieties were the same. Someone had a splendid chariot; that provoked desire. Someone had a magnificent horse; that provoked desire.

The subject makes no difference to anxiety. To raise waves in a lake, whether you throw a pebble or the Kohinoor diamond makes no difference. The diamond raises a wave just as the pebble does. Water does not care whether you tossed the Kohinoor or a common stone. Throw anything—that is enough. Let the mind toss something—and the turmoil begins.

“Mind is the forerunner; mind is chief; they are mind-made. If one speaks or acts with an impure mind, suffering follows like the cart-wheel follows the ox’s hoof.”

Buddha found a formula: there is suffering in life. We too suffer. And when suffering grips us, we ask: Who caused it? Who is creating my suffering—wife, husband, son, father, friend, society? Is it the economic system, the social structure? Who is causing my suffering?

Ask Marx and he says, suffering arises because the economic structure of society is wrong—there is poverty and wealth; therefore suffering.

Ask Freud and he says, suffering arises because if man is left completely free with his instincts, he becomes a wild animal. Suffering follows; civilization collapses. If he is trained, taught, refined—then repression happens. From repression comes suffering. So Freud said, suffering will never end. Leave man unrestrained—there will be slaughter, because animal drives abound. Restrain him to make him decent—repression results. Repression means suffering; instincts remain unfulfilled. Fulfill them—trouble; don’t fulfill them—trouble.

If Freud and Marx were our only analysts, then indeed man could never be happy. In Russia, the poor and rich were erased—but suffering did not vanish. New classes arose: those in power and those without; party members and non-members. Those in office became more powerful than any rich man ever was; those without office became more powerless than any beggar. The rich never had such power as an official in Russia; the poor were never as helpless as one outside the party. The struggle stands where it was. The divisions remain—old gone, new formed. It seems man merely changes illnesses in the name of revolutions. Only the disease changes its name; the inner sickness continues. The externals change; the inner malady persists.

All revolutions have failed; only Buddha’s revolution still holds meaning.

Buddha says: the cause lies in your own mind. If you go searching outside, your very first step is wrong; you will never be right. In your mind lies the cause of suffering. Whenever you want to give suffering to another, you will suffer. Whenever you follow a thought filled with the desire to hurt, you are sowing seeds of pain. Whether the other suffers or not, you certainly will. If today you suffer, Buddha says, it is the fruit of seeds sown yesterday. And if tomorrow you wish to avoid suffering, then please—do not sow those seeds today.

“If one speaks, thinks, behaves with a corrupt mind, or acts in that way, suffering follows as surely as the cart-wheel follows the ox.”

If there is even a trace of intent in your mind to hurt anyone, you are sowing for yourself. The seed is in your mind; it will fall in your own soil, not in another’s. The seed is within you; the tree will be within you; you will eat the fruit.

Look closely: when you want to hurt another, you have already begun to hurt yourself. You have already started to suffer. You are angry; you want to destroy someone with anger. Whether you destroy him or not is another matter; but you have begun to destroy yourself.

Buddha said, there is no greater stupidity than anger. For another’s fault, you punish yourself. Someone abused you—his fault, perhaps; but you get angry—you punish yourself. What can be more foolish? He abused you—that’s his issue; why do you get in between? Do not accept it. It depends on receiving. It is not necessary to take it. You can abuse me—but can you force me to accept it? Giving is in your control; taking is in mine. No one can ever rob me of that authority. I can say, I do not take it. Then what will you do? Your abuse will return to you. You bore the suffering in preparing to abuse; now, when it returns, you will bear the suffering again.

Only when we accept something into our minds does it become active. And you need not take anything from another; you keep producing enough seeds of suffering within, for no reason at all.

I was a guest once in a friend’s home in Calcutta. He had the finest mansion in the city—or so I should say, he had. Now there is a bigger mansion next door. When I stayed there, he would always show me around his home. He had already shown me many times; still he would show it again and again—his delight never ended. The swimming pool, the garden—he showed me everything. I humored him—each time I pretended it was all new to me. But the last time I visited, he did not show me the house. I was surprised—has he changed? I asked, What’s the matter? Won’t you show me the house? He said, Show you what!

What happened?

Don’t you see the big house next door? Until I build a bigger one, I have no peace. What is there to show now!

His house is exactly what it was—the neighbor’s house has changed nothing in it. It is just as beautiful as before. But the neighbor has built a larger one; someone has drawn a longer line—and without touching his, his line has become shorter. No one touched it, no hand laid upon it; but a longer line was drawn beside it.

His wife told me, Please explain something to him; he neither sleeps nor rests. That house next door lies on his chest like a weight. Perhaps the neighbor does not even know someone is burning up, someone is dying. But this man has sown a seed inside. It did not come from that house; his wife, living in the same house, is untroubled. It is his own inner disease—envy. The ego has been hurt.

I told him, I always knew this trouble would come. You took such delight in your house that if anyone built a bigger one you would not be able to bear it. You live for the house, not the house for you. You are not the master; the house is. You have handed your very being over to things; you have become a slave. I feared: someday this would happen—a bigger house would rise next door, and you would not be able to cope.

He became ill when that house rose. The whole game is in the mind.

“This same life is misery, this same life is joy;
this same life is reality, this same life is a tale.”

It all depends on the mind—how you see, how you interpret life.

“Mind is the forerunner, mind is chief. If one speaks or acts with a pure mind, happiness follows like a shadow that never leaves.”

If you are unhappy, know yourself as the cause. If you are happy, know yourself as the cause. Do not place the cause outside. That is the deception. I call this the religious revolution. The person who sees all causes of his life within himself—that person has become religious. The matter is now in his hands. If he wishes to be miserable, he knows which seeds to sow. If he wishes to be happy, he knows which seeds to sow. There is no compulsion. Then if someone wishes to enjoy misery, let him sow accordingly—no one can stop him. But one thing he will no longer be able to do: sow the seeds of sorrow and also complain, “Why am I suffering?” Drink poison with your own hands and wail, “Why am I dying?” If you wish to die, drink happily. If you wish to live, do not drink. It is your hand, your cup, your poison—and it is you who will live or die.

“He abused me, he beat me, he conquered me, he robbed me”—those who keep such knots in their mind, their enmity never ends.

He did this! Those whose eyes are fixed on the other—“He abused me, he beat me, he conquered me, he robbed me…”

Buddha had a disciple, Purna Kashyapa. He was indeed “purna”—complete—hence Buddha called him Purna. One day Buddha said to him, Purna, now you are truly complete. There is no need to keep wandering with me. Go now—move from village to village and town to town. Carry my news. Share what you have found with me.

Purna said, Lord, in which direction shall I go? Please indicate.

Buddha said, Choose for yourself. Now you are capable. You no longer need even my indication.

Purna said, I will go to a region in Bihar called “Sukha.” Buddha said, You are risking danger. That place is not good. People are not gentle—they are wicked; they enjoy tormenting. In these yellow robes they have never seen a monk. They are wild. Do not go there.

Purna said, That is precisely why they need me. Someone has to go. How long will they remain wild? How long will they live like animals? I must go. Give me permission.

Buddha said, Go—but answer a few questions. First: if they insult you, abuse you, what will happen in your mind? Purna said, You ask me what will happen? You know well—I will be happy. I will think, How kind these people are—they only abuse; they do not beat. They could have beaten me.

Buddha said, Good. But if they beat you, what then? Purna said, You ask? You know well I will rejoice: blessed am I that they beat but do not kill. They could have killed me.

Buddha said, One last question, Purna: if they kill you, then at the moment of death what will be in your mind? Purna said, You ask me? You know well that as I die I will think: blessed am I—they freed me from a life in which I might still have erred.

Buddha said, Now go. Now no one can insult you. Not that they won’t hurl abuse—they will—but no one can insult you. Not that they won’t beat you—they will—but no one can hurt you. And who knows, someone may even kill you—but you are deathless now. Your death is not possible.

The whole game is of the mind—how we see!

“He abused me, he beat me, he conquered me, he robbed me”—those who do not keep such knots in their mind, their enmity comes to peace.

And enmity is hell. There is no other hell. To live in hostility is hell. The more hostility you weave around you, the larger your hell. The more friendship you create around you, the more heaven arises. Heaven is the name of living among friends; hell is the name of living among enemies. And all depends on you. Neither hell nor heaven is a geographical place. Do not get lost in maps. They are states of mind.

When you look upon the whole world as a friend—not that the whole world will become your friend, don’t be mistaken—but when you look on all as friends, then for you the world is friendly; your enemies vanish. If someone continues to be hostile, that hostility is in his mind; he will suffer it. But he cannot make you suffer.

“In this world hatred is never appeased by hatred. By non-hatred alone is hatred appeased. This is the eternal law, the ancient dharma.”

Nahi veeren verani sammantīdha kudāchanaṁ.
Averena ca sammantī—esa dhammo sanantano.

This is the eternal law. Hatred does not cease by hatred. Anger does not end anger. Hostility cannot end hostility. The more it increases, the more you build, with your own hands, a hell around yourself.

This world is your creation. You build your own climate around you. If you grasp this, if this hint lands in you, then no one can make you suffer. Your nature becomes happiness.

Spread friendship!

Mahavira said: “Mitti me savva bhuesu; veram majjha na kevaī.” My friendship is with all beings; my enmity is with none.

There were those who hammered nails into Mahavira’s ears, who stoned him, who drove him out of villages—yet he kept saying, “Veram majjha na kevaī—my enmity is with none.” Their enmity is theirs; let them settle their accounts.

Recently I told a story: two psychologists had offices in the same building. Every morning they came and rode the lift, often together. The liftman was baffled. Whenever they rode together, the first would get off around the 10th or 12th floor. As he exited, he would turn and spit on the second psychologist—and the second would calmly take out a handkerchief, wipe his face, tie, or coat where the spit had landed, put it away, and then prepare to get off at the 15th or 20th floor. At last the liftman could not hold himself. One day he said, This is going too far—what’s the matter? Why does he spit on you? The psychologist replied, That is his problem—ask him. I have nothing to do with it. It is his issue; ask him. Poor fellow—some madness must be upon him. Nothing happens to me; I wipe it off. Think of him! The real suffering is his—before spitting, while spitting, and after spitting—because the problem is his; he is doing something. I am merely a witness.

If you learn to see life this way, no one can make you suffer. Even if another tries to give you suffering, it remains his problem. And never fall into the illusion that you can end others’ enmity with your enmity. No one ever has. Only love ends enmity. Only compassion dissolves anger.

“In this world, hatred is never appeased by hatred; by non-hatred alone is it appeased. This is the eternal law.”

This is the foundation stone of Buddha’s religion.

Reflect a little: who has ever given you happiness, and who has given you suffering? It is all the arithmetic of your mind. A moment ago, the same thing gave pleasure; a moment later it gives pain. The same thing that now gives pain may, moments later, give pleasure. Your interpretation! How you hold it, what color you paint it, what shape you give it. If you see that no one else can give you happiness, then how can anyone give you suffering? Has anyone ever given you joy—do you remember? Has anyone ever given you bliss—recall? And if no one ever gave you happiness, then how will anyone give you sorrow?

I read a couplet yesterday that struck me:
“Why should I fear your anger? What was there in your love?
Why should I mourn the autumn, when spring itself had nothing?”

If the other’s love gave nothing, why be disturbed by his anger? If love could not give anything, what can anger take away?

“Why should I mourn the autumn, when spring itself had nothing?”

Now the fall has come, everything looks desolate—should I weep? But what was there even in spring? When spring was here, there was nothing then either; if even spring brought no joy, what is the point of sorrow in the fall?

But man is strange: from those who never gave you happiness, you still take sorrow. Those whose living presence never gave you peace—you weep when they die.

I know a couple. While the husband lived, husband and wife quarreled incessantly. Sometimes they came to me, but such knots are hard to untie—because they do not want them untied. Perhaps that is their life—their occupation, their fullness. If that too goes, life becomes very empty. Many times divorce was considered, but they could not agree even on that. Then the husband took to drink, and drank himself to death—he was young, barely thirty-six. When he died the wife came to me, beating her chest and weeping.

I said, Stop crying now. For the man because of whom you never laughed, why weep? And I know that a thousand times the thought must have crossed your mind: if only this man would die! Tell me—am I lying or telling the truth? She started, and said, How did you know?

What is there to know? How many times you must have thought, “If only he died, this trouble would end.” Now he has died—your wish fulfilled. Why weep now? From one who gave you no joy, what is the use of being sorrowful?

But that is the irony: you are miserly in receiving happiness, and adept at receiving sorrow. Happiness you accept with great difficulty; sorrow you welcome with open arms—“You are welcome!” You want to be miserable; you are a pain-addict. Otherwise, there is no reason for your suffering.

Those who know life recognize that neither happiness nor sorrow comes from another. Neither someone’s life gives you life, nor someone’s death gives you death.

“Why should I fear your anger? What was there in your love?
Why should I mourn the autumn, when spring itself had nothing?”

When both become clear, there is a revelation within—a lightning flash: It is I, seeing my own face in a mirror; others are only mirrors. I catch my own reflection, my own echo, my own shadow; others are mirrors—valleys that send my voice back to me.

Buddha calls this “esa dhammo sanantano”—the eternal law of dharma. Not God, not liberation, not the Vedas, not soul—none of these are the fundamental base of religion. Buddha says this small formula is: you are the cause of your suffering; you are the cause of your joy. By causing pain to another, you will never find joy; by tormenting another, you will never celebrate.

Hatred is not pacified by hatred; it is pacified by non-hatred. Let non-hatred rain down and the fire of enmity is extinguished. Whether the other’s hatred ceases or not is irrelevant; for you, it ends. The person who understands this has no hell; he enters heaven here and now. His heaven is not tomorrow; it is now.

“We shall not remain in this world; ordinary people do not know this. Those who know it, their quarrels are stilled.”

We are here but briefly—a night’s shelter. The morning comes, and travelers move on. This caravan will not remain. These are tents that you have mistaken for houses. Just pitched—and soon to be uprooted. How many caravans have passed before you! Not even their footprints remain. They are gone utterly. Not even the dust raised by Alexander’s armies is visible now.

Here we are for a moment. Many like us were here before. Scientists say beneath each person lie the bones of at least ten others. Where you sit, ten people have died. Everyone sits on the cremation ground, on a pile of corpses. How long will you live? A little while. Soon you will become the eleventh corpse, and a twelfth will sit upon you. The dust of caravans is invisible; the caravans themselves have turned to dust.

The one who realizes we will not remain forever here, that one learns how to live here. The one who sees that life is a dewdrop—now fallen, now gone; a bubble at dawn—now afloat, now sunk. A moment’s play. Then what is there to worry about? Whom to hurt? Whom to torment? With whom to be at war? We take enmity upon ourselves only because we live as if we are here forever.

Think a little: if a message came right now that by evening you will die—a certain message—would you not go and ask forgiveness from your enemies? Would you not apologize to those you were ready to destroy? Would your enmity not vanish? For a departing man—what enmity? Whose hostility? When the moment of farewell arrives, you will ask forgiveness of all. But it is not certain when that moment will come. It could come now. One thing is certain: it will come. There is not much time. The bud that has bloomed—how long before the flower withers? Morning has come, the sun has risen—how far is evening? With morning, evening has already begun.

One who sees thus does not sow seeds of enmity. He becomes a beneficent friend. He sows friendliness and reaps a crop of heaven around him.

“We shall not remain in this world; ordinary people do not know this.”

They live as if they will remain forever. That is the mistake.

“Those who know it, their quarrels are stilled.”

Life is fleeting. A blink, a moment’s dream. Do not trust it too much. The more you trust it, the more you will be lost. Do not sleep in it. Do not be drowned. Stay awake.

Sleep feels natural—because sleep has become a habit of ages. Awakening feels difficult—because you have never awakened. But once you awaken, this life becomes momentary and the gates of the great life open. Once awake, you will laugh—what dreams we dreamt, while the treasure of truth was at hand!

Yet Buddha says nothing about those treasures. He fears: if you hear of treasure while asleep, you will dream of it and deepen your sleep. Therefore he will not speak of that. He will only say: where you are, you are wrong.

Buddha is negative. His religion is of negation. He does not speak of Brahman, for that belongs to what is seen with open eyes. He does not speak of liberation—for what to say to you of liberation when you are so deeply drunk on the world’s wine? In drunkenness, even if you hear of freedom, you will misunderstand; there will be harm. He says only this: you are lying unconscious in the gutter—wake up!

Buddha does not talk metaphysics; he is a physician. He speaks only of your illness. And his diagnosis is exact—hundred percent right. Reflect on it.

Buddha’s religion is not of belief; it is of deep thought, reflection, contemplation—and of meditation arising from that reflection. God, soul, liberation—these words are foreign to Buddha. He will dissect your mind, because your mind is the only question. If you awaken from mind, then all that the Upanishads, the Vedas, the Koran, the Bible have spoken—you will attain.

But Buddha does not speak of it—remember this. What is to be attained will be known only by attaining. Discussion about it is futile—and dangerous.

The Zen monks in Japan—lovers of Buddha, worshiping him morning and evening—still warn: if too many thoughts of Buddha arise, if too much attachment to Buddha develops, beware! A new dream may be arriving. The Zen masters say, If Buddha meets you on the road, draw your sword and cut him down.

Bokuju was with his master. The master said, Look, the danger is near when Buddha will appear on your path. Do not be afraid. Do not cling. Draw your sword and cut him in two—slice him into pieces. If you want, bow afterward—but first cut him down.

Bokuju said, But a sword? Where will I get a sword there? The master said, Do not worry—where you brought Buddha from, from the web of imagination, from there bring the sword too. Take the sword and cut. Do not let Buddha become a new dream.

Buddha gave no support to any dream. There has never been a greater iconoclast. And the great irony: no one’s images have been made more than Buddha’s. There has been no greater iconoclast!

In Urdu, the word for idol is “but”—a deformation of “Buddha.” So many idols were made of him that “Buddha” became “but,” and “but” came to mean idol. And yet none greater than he at breaking idols!

Buddha’s sword will cut you—into pieces. It will shatter your beliefs and convictions so that only you remain in your innocence, your pristine purity, your virginity. Only that remains which cannot be cut—nainam chindanti shastrani—what no weapon can cleave, what no fire can burn.

Buddha will cut and burn so that whatever can be cut is cut, whatever can be burned is burned—and then you remain in your utterly pure state. That is the Brahman of the Vedas, the kevala of Mahavira, the moksha of Kapila and Kanada, the nirvana of Buddha.

Nirvana is a negative word—it means to blow out a lamp. In the dark night a lamp is burning; you blow upon it and it goes out. Do you ask, “Where did the flame go?” Buddha says, so is nirvana. I would have you blow and put yourself out—and then do not ask, “Where have I gone?” You have dissolved into the infinite, become one with the One. But do not ask where. You have become one with the formless. But do not ask. Saying spoils it. Understand in silence, and in deeper silence.

Thus we will descend into Buddha’s profound analysis and negation. If you courageously enter Buddha’s analysis, he can bring you to the state of ultimate health.

Enough for today.