Es Dhammo Sanantano #10

Even the thought of being free of the mind is the mind’s own thought. As long as there is a longing for liberation, liberation is not possible. Because desire itself—the very urge to desire—is the mind’s web and play. The mind not only creates the world; it also creates liberation. And the one who has known this is already free.
Ordinarily it seems: the mind has created the world, so if we get free of the mind, we will be free. There the mistake happened. There the mind deceived again. Again the mind played a trick. Again the mind cast a net. Again you got entangled. Again a new world was made. Even liberation becomes a world.

What does “world” mean? That which entangles you. What does “world” mean? That which turns into expectation, into craving. What does “world” mean? That which becomes your future. That on whose support and shelter and hope you begin to live—that is the world. If you sit in a shop you are in the world; sit in a temple and you’ll be outside the world—don’t fall for such cheap notions. If only it were that easy! Then there would be no tangle. The world is not in the shop, nor is freedom from the world in the temple. The world is in expectation, in longing, in hope; the world is in dreams. So if you dream of liberation, you are still in the world.

What is outside the world is only that which is here and now. But this means you will have to drop even the desire for liberation. Otherwise, in the name of liberation, through the lust for liberation, you will go on creating new worlds.

Understanding is enough; there is nothing to be dropped. Dropping—what from? If someone had bound you, you could be freed. No one has bound you. Where is the bondage? Don’t be in a hurry to get free of bondage. It may well be that there is no bondage at all! Then, by trying to get free, you will be bound. And if there is no bondage, how will you be freed?

Don’t try to escape bondage; try to know where the bondage is. Ask. Inquire. Don’t crave.

The desire for the opposite is also desire. You avoid the well and fall into the ditch. What difference does it make that you have changed the manner of falling? Whether you fall to the left or to the right—what difference does it make?

Inquire where the bondage is. What is bondage? Look at bondage with your whole eye. This is what the Buddha calls meditation, what he calls apramad—heedfulness: look at bondage with full attention. In the very act of seeing you will find the bondage melts, the bondage goes—because bondage is your stupor. If you look, awake, how can it remain? If bondage were real, there would be no way to liberation. Bondage is only a notion. Words have spun more words; there is nothing there.

A young monk came to Nagarjuna and said, “I want to be liberated. I am ready to devote my life. I am ready to die, but I must have liberation. Whatever the price, I am ready to pay.” From his side, he thought he was saying very wise things.
Chinmay has also asked the same in a later question:
The desire for martyrdom now burns within our hearts—
Let us see how strong the killer’s arm truly is.

He too must have said the same to Nagarjuna: “I am ready to die; now everything is in your hands. You won’t be able to say that I failed to make the effort. I am ready to do anything.” On his side he was sincere. Why doubt his sincerity? He was ready to die—what more can you ask of a man? But however sincere, he was mistaken.

Nagarjuna said, “Wait. Do a small experiment. There’s no hurry to die or to kill—such language is foolish. What dying and killing here? Do one small experiment for three days, then we’ll see.” And he told him, “Go to the cave in front, sit inside, and concentrate your mind on one single point: that you have become a buffalo.” A buffalo was standing there, so Nagarjuna thought of it: “You have become a buffalo.” The youth, a little worried, asked, “What has this to do with liberation?” Nagarjuna said, “We’ll think about that after three days. For three days, without eating or drinking, without sleeping, keep thinking only this: I am a buffalo. After three days I will come to you. If you succeed in this, liberation will be very easy. Then there will be no need to die.”

The young man staked everything. For three days he neither ate nor slept. Day and night he kept a single thought: “I am a buffalo.” If someone keeps thinking for three days that he is a buffalo—he becomes a buffalo! Not that he truly becomes one, but it appears so to him. A perception arises; a web of delusion is spun.

On the morning of the third day he opened his eyes and panicked—he had become a buffalo! And more panic: how would he get out? The cave’s doorway was small. When he came in he was a man; now he was a buffalo, with big horns. He tried, and the horns got stuck. He tried to shout, but no human voice came—only the bellow of a buffalo. Hearing that sound, Nagarjuna came running. He saw: the youth was there—no horns anywhere. Yet the horns were getting stuck! No horns anywhere. He looked exactly as he had when he came. But three days of autosuggestion, three days of continuous suggestion! Even suggest something three times and results appear; in three days he must have suggested it millions of times—and without food, without sleep!

When you don’t sleep for three days, your capacity to dream piles up. For three days you have not dreamt. Just as hunger accumulates if you don’t eat for three days, so if you don’t dream for three days, the power to dream accumulates. That three days’ dream-power, that three days’ hunger…!

In hunger, as much as the body grows weak, the mind grows strong. Hunger weakens the body but strengthens the mind. That is why many religions adopted fasting and night-vigils. If you stay awake all night, God appears more quickly—the dream-energy gets accumulated.

There has now been scientific research on this as well. Scientists agree that if you go many days without dreaming, hallucinations begin to arise. Then you start dreaming while awake. Your eyes remain open and you are dreaming. Dreaming is a necessity; it is the mind’s outlet, its catharsis.

He stayed awake for three days; the power to dream accumulated. He stayed hungry for three days; the body became weak.

Have you noticed? In fever, when the body becomes weak, you begin to see such imaginations as you never see in a healthy state. The cot seems to be flying! You know it isn’t—you are lying on your own bed—yet doubt arises: “What is happening to me?” The body is weak.

When the body is healthy, it keeps the mind in check. When the body grows weak, the mind becomes completely unbridled. And mind is nothing but the capacity to dream. So in illness, people begin to see ghosts and spirits. Women see them more than men; children more than adults. Wherever the mind is tender and stronger than the body, dreaming becomes easier.

Three days of fasting, three days of sleeplessness, and then three days of one unbroken mantra—this is mantra-yoga. If you sit saying “Ram, Ram, Ram, Ram” for many days, you will go mad. There is a limit to what one can bear. He kept saying for three days: “I am a buffalo, I am a buffalo, I am a buffalo.” It happened. The power of mantra worked. People ask me about mantra-shakti; I tell them this story. This is mantra-shakti.

Nagarjuna stood at the doorway and began to laugh. The young man felt very embarrassed and said, “But it doesn’t suit you to laugh. I got trapped by following the very method you gave me. Now get me out. The horns are big; I cannot get through the door. And I am hungry. Sleep is tormenting me too.”

Nagarjuna went up to him and shook him hard. Shaken, he awoke a little from his trance. When he awoke he saw: the horns had vanished; the buffalo was nowhere. He too began to laugh. Nagarjuna said, “This is the very formula of liberation. The world is your own creation—imagined.”

The world is not to be renounced; it is to be seen by waking up. Those who told you to renounce the world entangled you in liberation. That is why I am not telling you to renounce the world. The very talk of renouncing is deluded. How will you renounce what is not? If you try to renounce it you will fall into error. What is not—just see it, know it as not—and you are free.

Therefore Buddha said: To see the false as false is moksha; to see the unsubstantial as unsubstantial is moksha. The whole secret lies in seeing.

So do not even ask how to be free of the skull. Who is it that is asking? It is the skull itself that is asking. If you go by what this skull says, you will never be free of it. Wake up and see—who is asking? Listen carefully—who raises the question? Who is it that wants to be free? Why does it want freedom? Where is the bondage?

And whoever has ever awakened and looked has begun to laugh; because he never found any bondage. In wakefulness there is no bondage. Hence Buddha keeps shouting: Do not live in heedlessness. Heedfulness! Wake up! Come to awareness! And you have not gone anywhere. You are exactly where you ought to be. You never became a buffalo. You are what you are. You are the Divine. From that you cannot move even a hair’s breadth this way or that, nor is there any way to.

Yes, you can live in delusion. You can take yourself to be whatever you like. And the day you choose to see, that very day you become seeing.

Vision is liberation.

We had thought we would get far away from You—
We had thought we would get far away from You;
But we found every station lies on Your pathway.
Where will you go, getting away from the Divine? Wherever you go, you will find your very dwelling on His road.

We had thought we would get far away from You—
But we found every station lies on Your pathway.

Every station is His. Every moment is His. Where is the way to go far from Existence? How will you go far? Yes, you can think, you can imagine that you have gone far. And when the thought of having gone far arises, you will cry out, you will ask, “How can we come near?” Now whoever gives you a path to come near will only mislead you. For if you had really gone far, you could also come near. You never went far at all—this alone has to be known.

So, in essence: turn your eyes toward the bondage. Wherever bondage appears, place your attention there. Let bondage become the object of your meditation. And you will find that as the flame of your attention grows denser, the bondage melts and disperses. The day the flame of attention becomes completely dense, suddenly you find that the bondage is gone. It was a dream; it broke. It was the notion of sleep; it vanished.

When attention is scattered, there is the skull. When attention is gathered, the skull is gone. Thoughts are fragments of attention—attention scattered, like a mirror someone has hurled down, shattered into pieces. Gather it together; that is the whole secret. Therefore make attention into contemplation, reflection, inquiry. Do not ask about becoming free of the skull. There is nothing wrong with the skull either; there too only the Divine dwells. That too is His temple. That too is His pathway. Through there too, He passes.

If you do not misunderstand, I will say: thoughts are His, and thoughtlessness is also His. Tension is His, and peace is also His. The world is His, and liberation too is His.

Therefore the Zen masters have said something very unique, which people have pondered for centuries without being able to grasp: samsara and moksha are two names for the same thing. Not seen rightly, it is samsara; seen rightly, it is moksha. But the truth is one.

What is the way of not seeing rightly? You keep averting your eyes. There is lust within, and you do not look at it. In your very not-looking it grows ever bigger—the buffalo’s horns grow ever larger. There is anger within, and you turn your back on it out of fear that it may surface, that someone may find out. Inside, the roots of anger spread. Your whole personality becomes filled with the poison of melancholy, sorrow, depression, fear, and anger. And the more it grows, the more frightened you become. The more frightened you become, the less you look; you begin to avert your gaze. How long will you run from yourself, and where will you run?

You are averting your eyes from yourself—this is the entanglement. Do not avert them. Whatever is there, as it is, see it. And I tell you: in the very seeing is liberation. Whoever has seen himself rightly has found nothing but God.

We had thought we would get far away from You—
But we found every station lies on Your pathway.

What is there to resolve? If you want to tangle what is already untangled, that’s another matter. Where is the problem in this?

Sometimes I’m amazed at how skillful you’ve become at manufacturing problems! Where there aren’t any, you create them! If your mind delights in meditation, what’s the problem? Who is telling you to put your mind into love? If it has settled into meditation, that’s that. Those whose minds don’t settle in meditation can put them into love.

But people come to me and say: “The mind settles in love, not in meditation. It’s a big problem! What should we do?”

If you’re determined to go on creating problems, that’s your fun.

Listen again to this question carefully; it is everyone’s question:
“Sometimes the realization of Buddha and Lao Tzu feels the same; yet the two stand at opposite poles. My personal problem is that my nature is drawn more to meditation than to love.”

Where’s the problem in this? This is the solution! Drop the love-nonsense. For you it is nonsense; don’t get worried about it. Yes, if you must make a problem—if it’s hard for you to live without one—that’s another matter. Then it’s your choice!

“And I am most influenced by Lao Tzu.”

What’s wrong with that? That’s perfectly wonderful. Forget Buddha. What have you to do with him? Lao Tzu is enough.

Your condition is such that if you walk the left path, the right becomes a problem: “I should be walking on the right!” If you walk on the right, the left becomes a problem. How will you walk on both at once? You are one person; the roads are many. If you try to walk all of them you’ll go crazy. Have at least this much awareness: whichever fits, walk on it.

I speak to you of Buddha, Lao Tzu, Mahavira, Krishna, Christ so that one of them may click with you. But I know—you’re dangerous! Instead of letting someone settle you, even if you have settled somewhere a little, you’ll uproot that too.

I open all the paths for you so that whichever harmonizes with you brings you to your goal. No Buddha has taken a contract that only if you go with him will you arrive. Lao Tzu is perfectly fine. The path is right. Start walking. Why wobble? Where there is no problem, how do you manage to see one? It seems you can’t live without seeing a problem, because then what will you do?

An old friend of mine—he studied with me, then taught with me at the university—came to see me after fifteen years. He said, “Have all your problems disappeared? No questions left? Then what will you do? How will an empty man live? One needs something to do!”

I understand his difficulty. He cannot even conceive that emptiness could have any flavor. Emptiness would make him panic. Nothing to do. No problem, no question. If there isn’t one, a man manufactures it.

I tell you: problems are not; you have made them. I’m not speaking only of this question; I’m speaking of all your questions. This one is so straightforward that you’ve been caught. You’re cunning too—you frame questions in such a way that no one can catch you.

But I tell you, all your questions are your own inventions. Because you’re afraid of emptiness, you go on creating problems. If there’s a problem, there’s the convenience of solving it. Then you’ll look for methods, disciplines, scriptures—something to keep you busy!

This world is in a strange state! A man doesn’t even drop suffering for the very reason that it keeps him entangled, occupied; at least he is doing something. You certainly say, “Let misery end,” but you’ve never truly wanted it to, because then what will you do! You say, “Let restlessness cease,” but have you ever asked, “If it ceases, what will I do?” No—deep down there’s a confidence that it won’t end, so keep asking; there’s no harm. It won’t end anyway!

If, right before you, the door of nothingness were to open, you would run. You wouldn’t look back.

Tagore has a song: for lifetimes he searched for God. Until he was not found there was great restlessness, a race, a yearning. People enjoy their yearning too; they make a great show of it: “We are searching for God!” The ego gets nicely gratified. Somewhere far away he glimpses Him, travels for lifetimes to reach there—but by then He has gone elsewhere.

Then one day there was trouble—he reached right to His door! A nameplate was there. The old zeal of lifetimes, of attaining—he bounded up the steps. He took the knocker in his hand. Just then it dawned on him: if He actually appears, then what will I do! If it’s a mistake, no problem; I can resume the search. The search keeps one filled. But if this truly is His house—then?

Tagore’s poem is very significant. He writes: I gently released the knocker so it wouldn’t sound—lest by some mistake He open the door! I took off my shoes and held them in my hands so as not to make noise while descending the steps. And then I ran—and never looked back. Now I search again, though I know His house. I search everywhere except that place. I avoid it, because I know.

Isn’t this perhaps your condition too? When I look carefully within you, I find the same. You too know His house. You ran. That house is within you. You never go there; you search everywhere else. When you come near there you hesitate, you are afraid.

No—don’t make a problem. If juice has risen in meditation, love will come by itself. This is what I keep saying: there are two approaches. Not even two—they are two sides of the same coin. If you walk through meditation, love arrives by itself. If you walk through love, meditation arrives by itself. And each person is fashioned differently.

“For love, a few special hearts are reserved—
It is a melody that cannot be sung on every instrument.”

This is the song of love—sung on certain instruments, not on all. But the same is true of meditation. It too requires certain special hearts. It too:
“It is a melody that cannot be sung on every instrument.”

On Meera’s instrument the song of love fit. On Buddha’s instrument the song of meditation fit. They sang—that is the essential point. They sang fully—totally. Whether they sang meditation or love—the pundits can go on debating. The song did not remain unsung! What was hidden became manifest! What was closed in the bud became a flower! What was buried as a seed spoke with the moon and stars! It flung its fragrance into the open sky! It sent messages far and wide! It poured itself out—and was fulfilled!

Which song you sing is not the big question. And remember, you can only sing your own song; how will you sing someone else’s? This is what I keep hammering on your head: you can only sing your own song, not another’s. Will you become a singer by singing borrowed songs? If you imitate Meera and dance while no rasa of love has awakened within, your dance will be false. And through a false dance you will not reach the true Divine. It is not the dance that takes you—it is the truth of the dance that takes you: its authenticity, its depth.

If, like Buddha, your nature is to sit quietly under the Bodhi tree, you will also arrive. Because it is not the sitting that takes you; it is the truth of the sitting.

Zen masters say: just sitting is enough. Nothing more needs to be done. One who sits in silence has arrived. Because where is there to go? Into oneself, to descend within one’s own being. Nothing needs to be done.

Do not think Meera reaches by dancing—what has dancing to do with it? Or that Buddha reaches by sitting—what has sitting to do with it? Any act that comes out of your totality—that is what brings you. Totality brings you home.

And remember, you won’t arrive by borrowing. No proxy works there. Only you can go. No one can answer the roll call for you. You can’t ask another to. It’s not like an Indian university class where you tell a friend, “When my name comes, say ‘present.’” I myself did that for years! But in the realm of truth, no proxy works—no one can say “Yes, sir” on your behalf. Only if you are present yourself...

Keep one thing in mind: recognize your instrument. If your mind resonates with meditation, your instrument itself is telling you: sing the song of meditation.

“For love, a few special hearts are reserved—
It is a melody that cannot be sung on every instrument.”

But meditation is just like that. Not everyone will be able to meditate. Tell Meera a thousand times to sit—she won’t be able to. Sitting would become a torment. Tell Buddha to dance—just imagine what a calamity that would be for him! You can play as much band and music as you like; there won’t be even a twitch in his feet. Hearing your band, he will close his eyes even more and become silent.

Different instruments, different melodies. Every instrument has its own song. Recognize your instrument; don’t imitate the melody. Let your instrument begin to play! Let the rose be a rose, the lotus a lotus. When they bloom, both are offered at the feet of the Divine. Keep only one thing in mind; I call this theism:

“Whatever You say—we will say yes, just so.
If this is Your pleasure, O Gracious One—then so be it.”

Let only this attitude toward the Divine remain: whatever You say—if meditation, then meditation. Ask your instrument; it was made by the Divine.

“Whatever You say—we will say yes, just so.
If this is Your pleasure, O Gracious One—then so be it.”

Don’t insert your own preference. Don’t say, “I will sing the song of love.” That is atheism. Don’t say, “I will sing only the song of meditation, whether it suits my instrument or not.” That too is atheism. One who brings his stubbornness against Existence—that one is the atheist. One who says yes to Existence—“Yes, Beloved, as You wish”—for him the doors of the temple are open.

You have understood by listening to me that it is dreams upon dreams. Don’t accept so quickly. Knowing is needed, not believing. If I say it and you accept it, it won’t work; it remains borrowed. You yourself must discover that they are dreams.

Many people go astray by believing others. Because I may say a thousand times that it is a dream, yet if inside it feels true to you, you will go on believing me and still moving in the direction of what feels true to you. This is the human tangle.

Buddha says: anger is madness. You have heard it and can’t even deny it. And Buddha is powerful; when he speaks there is weight in his words; his whole presence is their proof. You cannot deny him. You cannot argue with Buddha. And deep within, your own sleeping buddhahood nods “yes”—that it is so. However much you contradict your inner core, it too says, “Yes—right.”

Musicians say if a master plays the veena, and another veena is simply lying in the room, its strings begin to tingle; it answers, it resonates. In olden times this was the musician’s test: only when the veena resting in the far corner began to respond was a player called truly skilled. It is not only a matter of making your own instrument sing; if it truly sings, resonance will arise even in the silent veena sitting in the corner. That instrument too is a veena—asleep. No one has touched its strings; but this sound will touch them.

When you come near the singing veena of a Buddha, or near the unparalleled dancing of a Meera or a Chaitanya, the Buddha within you is stirred, set in motion; it resonates. Inside you feel, “Yes—right.” And the strength of Buddha says, “Yes—right.” But between these two is the thick layer of your own experience. It goes on telling you, “Buddha is right—but not for me yet. Right in the end; for now I am a worldly man. Perhaps later—who knows!”

So in between you keep raising doubts. You can neither argue with Buddha nor fight him—and how to accept him? You cannot deny, yet acceptance is difficult; between the two your life becomes a dilemma. Then you profess Buddha but do your own. You even write on the wall, “Anger is a sin,” yet your life is written all over with anger. You say, “It’s on the wall so I remember.” But when it doesn’t remain written inside you, what will a wall do? Yes, when you are not angry you can read it and repent. But when anger comes, even the inner writing becomes invisible—who will look at the wall?

You’ll live in your own way, while agreeing with Buddha. From this an obstacle arises—a dilemma, a duality. You become double; you become a hypocrite. You will say one thing and do another. You will do the opposite of what you say, and say the opposite of what you do.

That’s why even the dullest person can give very wise advice. If you are in trouble, ask anyone who is not in it; he will advise in such a way that even Buddha might wonder if he could have advised so well. But when you see that person in trouble, you’ll find him behaving just like you. His own advice does not work for himself. Where did the mistake happen?

People come to me and say, “We know everything; we know what is right and what is wrong, but then why doesn’t the right happen?”

For the right to happen, mere information is not enough. For transformation, meditation is needed, not information. Without information you can become right; with information you may still not. What is needed is meditation.

I said your life is a dream; don’t accept my word. Otherwise I have not benefited you, I have harmed you: I have not changed your life, I have made you a hypocrite. You will remain in your dream and go on saying, “It is a dream.” You will remain in maya and go on abusing maya.

You can see your monks and renunciates: they do exactly what they go on condemning. This duality is natural—what they say is borrowed from scriptures; they have not known it themselves.

Socrates’ famous utterance is: knowing is revolution. One who has known is changed. If after knowing you still do not change, understand that you have not known. The question itself is wrong: “We know—then why is there no change?” That is impossible. One who has known that fire burns will not put his hand into it. And if he does, it only proves he must have heard from someone that fire burns; he has not known it. In fact, he still “knows” that fire is cool.

Even if one fire burns him, he still doesn’t learn, because he thinks, “It isn’t necessary that another fire will burn.” Then a third fire again. Life has a thousand colors of fire. One color burned; why must another burn? He keeps experimenting. Gradually he becomes accustomed to being burned. Then even the pain of burning is not felt; his skin has been burned so much that the sensation itself is lost.

The sting of anger is felt only by those who are newly practicing awareness. The old practitioners of anger don’t feel anything; they live comfortably in anger—like a worm in the gutter, living there without noticing. Tell them anger is bad, they’ll say, “We are perfectly fine.” In truth, if they don’t get a chance to be angry, they feel restless, parched. If for two or four days they have no chance to be angry, they will go mad; they will find some way. They will create some quarrel somewhere, clash with someone; only then will they feel a little relief.

Scientists say the whole human race is eager to fight. Hence every ten years a world war becomes necessary. So much anger gets collected that small quarrels won’t do; husband–wife quarrels won’t resolve it—that goes on daily, that is practice. Then a world war is needed, where everything is in flames, where there is total license for destruction, where millions die. Only then does the human mind feel a little lighter for ten or fifteen years.

You think Hindus and Muslims fight because their religions are different—you are mistaken. You think India and Pakistan fight because their politics differ—you are mistaken. You think Russia and America fight because their doctrines and ideologies differ—you are mistaken. Change scriptures, change ideologies, change religions—fighting continues. If Hindus and Muslims don’t fight, Gujaratis and Marathis will—both Hindus. If Hindus and Muslims don’t fight, East Pakistan will fight with West Pakistan—both Muslims. Even Jinnah’s ghost would be baffled: how is this happening—Muslims fighting Muslims! Let it be; even after Pakistan split, in Bangladesh Bengali Muslims are killing Bengali Muslims.

Man is eager to kill; everything else is an excuse. Man is eager to kill because he does not know how to live. He is eager for anger because he has forgotten the art of love. The melody of love and meditation no longer plays on his instrument; the instrument itself is broken. From it only sounds arise—of war, of destruction.

Remember one thing: don’t become a hypocrite. What I say does not need to be believed; it needs to be known. Don’t take my word and start changing your behavior accordingly; otherwise you will be lost for good.

Your religious teachers say, “You have heard; now bring it into conduct.” I say to you, “You have heard; now know it. Don’t raise the fuss of conduct.” For one who knows, conduct comes by itself.

Conduct is the shadow of knowing. Knowing is revolution. I do not tell you to bring it into conduct—such talk is futile. I only say this: what you have heard from me, don’t think you have known it. From me you have only heard; for you it is a hypothesis. I have given you a key for a search; the search you must do. This is not the treasure; it is only a key. If you keep the key in your pocket, the treasure will not be found; you will have to search. Take what I have said as a direction-indicator, a signpost. It is a milestone with an arrow pointing ahead. Don’t mistake the milestone for the destination; travel. And I say to you: the journey is of knowing, not of conduct; because when knowing comes, conduct comes on its own. One who has truly known becomes right.

Right awakening is the foundation of right living. That is why Mahavira said: right knowing. Buddha said: right view. A right vision is sufficient; the rest is only elaboration.

But this seems cheap. I speak and you accept—that is very easy. You had to do nothing; you merely listened. You perhaps even think that by listening you are doing me a favor.

People write to me: “We have been listening to you for so many days; why has nothing happened yet?” As if it were my fault! As if, because they have listened for so many days, they have done me a great kindness. They write: “We have come thousands of miles, and still nothing has happened!” Because you came thousands of miles you have done me no favor. Why has nothing happened yet? What do you think—will something happen merely by listening to me? If it were so, the whole world would have changed long ago.

So there are two kinds of stupidity in the world. First, people think: we have heard, everything is done—they become scholars. Second, they hear and then start trying to practice it—they become hypocrites.

Listen—and then know. That is the right formula. Do not worry about conduct. And do not assume that by listening you have known. Then you are on the right path.

Your dreams are dreams—that is what I say, what Buddha says. Consider that they must be right; have that much trust. But you have to inquire. You must become the witness to their rightness. Until you become a witness, until you can say from your own lived experience, “Yes—right,” do not be in a hurry. And there is only one way to know the dream: wake up a little. In a dream you do not remember it is a dream; in a dream you cannot recognize it as a dream. In the morning, on waking, you recognize that at night you dreamed. While you are dreaming, the dream is the truth.

People say, “We don’t trust what is heard by the ear; we trust what is seen by the eye.” But how reliable is even what the eye sees? Every night you see dreams; in the morning you find it was all false. Here there is no trust in the ear, nor in the eye. There is no trust here at all. Therefore walk very carefully. In the morning you find it was a dream; at night you do not. And this has happened a thousand times. Every night a dream, every morning it is found out—yet when evening comes and you sleep again, you forget again.

You will have to wake up in the dream itself. You will have to see the dream while it is happening. And the wonder is: the one who wakes is the one who can see that it is a dream—and the very moment you see it as a dream, the dream dissolves. You have awakened; then how can a dream remain?

So only those have known who woke. And those who knew and woke—their dream disappeared. Waking is the art of freedom from the dream: both the way to know the dream and the way to be free of it.

You surely were of use—to the world—but not to Ram. And until you become useless in the world of work, there is no movement into Ram’s world. The world of work is the world, samsara. Wake up from the world of work; only then does the eligibility for Ram’s world arise. And by trudging on in the world of work, who has really gained anything? You may have been useful—but what did you attain? Had you truly attained, why would you have come to me? I would have come to you.
No, being “useful” did not prove very useful.

There is a Sufi story. In the court of Mahmud of Ghazni a man came with his son. He had raised the boy with great care, molded him with fine culture, refined him. His lifelong wish was that at least one son should have a place in Mahmud’s court; he had prepared him painstakingly for that. He was confident: the boy had passed every examination, and wherever he sent him to study, the teachers had given him glowing certificates and high praise. He was an intelligent youth, handsome, fit for the court. The father hoped he might one day become a great vizier.

He came to Mahmud and said, “Of my five sons, this one is the most handsome, the healthiest, the most intelligent. He would grace your court. Grant him a chance. Whatever there is to know, he has come to know.” Mahmud did not even raise his head. He said, “Bring him after a year.”

The father thought, “Perhaps something is lacking, since the emperor did not even look at him.” He sent the boy for another year of study. After a year, having completed even the final degree, they returned. Mahmud looked at him and said, “Good—but what is his special quality? Why do you want him in the court?” The father replied, “I have raised him in the company of Sufis. As for Sufi doctrine, there is none more learned. He can be your Sufi adviser. A knower of the secret religion should be in the court; otherwise the court lacks luster. You have great poets, great pundits, great linguists—no Sufi.” Mahmud said, “Good. Bring him after a year.”

A year later they came again. Now even the father grew anxious: “Every time, another year…!”

Mahmud said, “Do this—your devotion is steady, your persistence moves me; something must be done. You have neither given up nor grown dejected. So, let this youth go and find a Sufi to accept as his master—and find a Sufi who is willing to accept him as a disciple. It is not enough that he accepts the guru; the guru must accept him. Then come after a year.”

The youth went and sat at a master’s feet. A year later the father came to fetch him. The boy sat at the master’s feet and did not even look at his father. The father shook him: “Fool, what are you doing? Get up! The year is over—we must go to the court again.” The boy gave no answer; he kept pressing his guru’s feet, only pressing those feet. The father said, “All wasted; he’s gone to the dogs, turned useless. That’s why we never sent you to some Sufi fakir. We sent you to Sufi scholars; what trouble Mahmud has given us—find a guru, and then one who accepts you as a disciple! Why don’t you listen? Have you gone mad—or deaf?” Still the youth remained silent. The year passed; the father, unhappy, returned home. Mahmud inquired, “Why didn’t the boy come?” The father said, “He’s worthless, proved useless. Forgive me—my mistake. I took a stone for a diamond.”

But Mahmud told his viziers, “Make preparations—we must go to that ashram.” Mahmud himself came and stood at the door. The guru took the boy by the hand, brought him to the threshold, and said to Mahmud, “Now he is worthy of you; earlier he used to come to you—now you have come to him. In his father’s eyes he has become useless, of no use at all! Now he has become useful in God’s world. If he agrees and you can take him, your court will be illumined. He will become the light of your court.” They say Mahmud pleaded with folded hands, but the youth replied, “I am not leaving these feet. I have already found the court.”

You ask rightly: “Otherwise we, too, were men of some use.”
Surely you have been of some use—to the world. And by coming to me, in my love, you have also become “useless”—that too is true. But there is a kind of uselessness where the journey into Ram begins. Remember, the “useful” men are beggars; a begging bowl remains in the hand, and it never fills. Only the men of Ram are fulfilled. There is a time when you run after the world, seek courts, and are rejected everywhere. Then there comes a time when the courts begin to seek you, the world comes after you—and you reject them.

This is what I call sannyas: to come to that moment when the things ordinary people crave begin to pursue you, and you find no taste in them. The world comes after you, and you do not even look back.

In my view you become truly useful only when you become Ram’s. But if there is even a little hesitation in the mind, and it feels as though you have only become useless and not become Ram’s, then turn back. Nothing is lost yet. In a few days you can become useful to the world again. If everything were truly lost, you would not have asked this question at all. Some part of you still stands in the world. You have forgotten, but in a few days you will relearn; the old habit will revive. Either turn back, or dive in completely; do not stand in between.

If you love, then do not insult love:
either do not swoon—or if you do, never come back to your senses.

If you must drown, then drown wholly. This lesson of becoming “useless” that I am teaching—enter it totally. This is non-doing, desireless action. If there is even the slightest doubt in the mind, then run away as quickly as you can, get as far away as you can—for if you linger long in this “bad company,” you will become useless forever. If any taste for the world remains, then this is bad company. If no taste for the world remains, then this is satsang.

By becoming useless you will become truly useful. By becoming unconscious you will attain such a consciousness that no unconsciousness can ever touch it.

After love’s madness, awareness did indeed arrive—
and such awareness as makes one mad,
and such awareness as makes one mad.

Not without cause. Not casually. Deliberately. Because love is the flower of emptiness.

Buddha’s mode of speaking is negative. It was needed. The Upanishads had praised the affirmative too much; the Vedas kept singing the songs of the affirmative. The affirmative was discussed so much that the very word became meaningless.
When certain words are used too much they become futile. Their depth, their profundity is lost. On shallow lips, words too become shallow. The Upanishadic affirmativeness, the songs of Brahman, were spoiled by the pundits. Then talk of God began to sound trivial. The pundit was going village to village, lane to lane, repeating the same thing. Hired men were hawking the knowledge of Brahman. The Upanishads became soiled.

Buddha changed the taste of this land. He gave the language of negation. And the great wonder is that with that negative language he raised a tremendous revolution. In that revolution those who could pass through proved they had understood the Upanishads; those who could not proved they were only parrots. For one who had known the Upanishadic Brahman—such knowing is possible only when one has passed through inner emptiness. Whoever has not passed through the door of emptiness has never reached the temple of Brahman.

So those who had reached the temple of Brahman, who had truly become Brahmins, recognized Buddha immediately. Among Buddha’s disciples the maximum were Brahmins. There is Mahakasyapa, from whom Zen was born. Sariputta. Maudgalyayana. All Brahmins—great Brahmins.

Those who had even a little knowing bowed at Buddha’s feet. From the Upanishads they had only tasted a little. When a living Upanishad was present, they let go of concern for the Upanishads. When the rishi himself had returned in Buddha, who would bother about books!

But those who were pundits, mere pundits, book-pundits, who had gathered rubbish, who had memorized the Upanishads but had no taste of them, who had no experience of the wine of the Upanishads—they said, this Buddha is an enemy! We accept the Whole; he talks of emptiness! He will destroy everything!

By speaking of emptiness Buddha created a remarkable touchstone; he selected people. On that touchstone, whoever was assayed and proved was right; whoever failed was wrong. Whatever was best in Hinduism in those days came to Buddha; the rubbish remained outside.

But what happened to the Upanishads happened one day to Buddha too. Buddha’s emptiness, gradually, as it became widely discussed, grew futile. The sense of fullness within it got lost. It became bare emptiness. It remained only a door, with no temple inside. You pass through the door, but there is nothing anywhere. Emptiness remained mere negation. For Buddha it was the door to the affirmative; but for the Buddhists it became only negation. Buddhist pundits arose; they said, we are separate from the Upanishads. We are opponents of the Vedas.

Buddha was opposed to the pundit, not to the Vedas. Buddha was against the Brahmin by birth, not against attained Brahminhood. Buddha gave a new definition of the Brahmin; he did not oppose Brahminhood. Buddha gave new meanings to the Veda; he did not oppose the Vedas. Buddha himself was the proof of the Vedas and the Upanishads. He re-enlivened all that had been lost, giving it a new color, a new radiance. The music was the same, the song was new. The rhythm was the same, but the words were changed.

Then the inevitable happened. Just as the Upanishads had fallen into the hands of pundits, so did Buddha’s emptiness. That emptiness became pure verbiage. There was nothing in it, no depth. It was mere babble. A web of logic. Great logical nets were spun after Buddha.

Therefore I am using both together. The pundit has ruined the Full, the pundit has ruined the Empty. Now there is only one way: we use both at once. Perhaps the pundit will not be able to grasp both together. Because to him it will seem contradictory, incongruent. What I say will seem to the pundit contradictory, inconsistent. For pundit means logic. He will say: either say the Whole—then surely you are an Upanishadist; or say emptiness—then surely you are a Buddhist.

I am no -ist at all. I have seen that the door of emptiness leads into the temple of the Whole. And I have seen that whoever would enter the temple of the Whole cannot go by any gate other than the door of emptiness. So for me there is no opposition between emptiness and the Whole. Emptiness is the practice; the Whole is the goal. I am using both together so that the pundit cannot get a grip on me. Wherever there is neat consistency, the pundit gets his grip. Only the inconsistent eludes the pundit.

Therefore there are a few things in the world that have remained beyond the pundit’s grasp—like Zen. Zen remained beyond the pundit’s grasp because it is inconsistent. However much the pundit tries, he is troubled: how to fit this, how to seat it within logic!

So what I am telling you is Zen. It is contradiction, paradox—so that it can escape the pundit. Only paradox can escape the pundit; nothing else can. Buddha could not escape; the Upanishads could not escape.

Therefore I am speaking of Buddha’s emptiness and love simultaneously. You may be bothered: how is love coming in with Buddha; it should have come with Meera! Don’t be afraid; when I speak of Meera I will bring in emptiness too. Because I know: only paradox can escape the net and the grip of the pundit; there is no other way.

In the same manner there is another question:
Buddha spoke of four noble truths: there is suffering; there are causes of suffering; there is the cessation of suffering; there is the state of the cessation of suffering. Listening to you, it seems you too speak of four noble truths: there is bliss—life is celebration; there are means to cultivate celebration; celebration is possible; there is the ultimate state of celebration. Why so much contradiction between the noble truths of two enlightened ones?

It is the same thing. Buddha’s style is negation. He says: there is suffering—erase it. Of what remains, he does not speak. I am speaking to you of that which remains. I am speaking to you of that which remains.

There is suffering—absolutely true. Remove suffering, and what remains is bliss. There are causes of suffering—remove them, drop those causes, and the foundation for happiness will be laid, the foundation for bliss.

The means to remove suffering are the means to attain bliss—they are one and the same. The medicine that removes illness is the way to attain health. The method of removing darkness is the arrangement for receiving light.

Buddha says: there is a state of the cessation of suffering—nirvana. But he employs the term “cessation of suffering.” He does not employ “attainment of Brahman,” the advent of the Whole. He could not; that was his compulsion. The pundits had spoiled it. He had to move very cautiously. He had to choose every single word. I know how much difficulty he must have had. For a man overflowing with joy to say: there is suffering; there are causes of suffering; there are means to remove suffering; there is a state of the cessation of suffering—how difficult that must have been! Brimming with bliss, a flood of joy—and yet he had to talk only of suffering!

The Upanishads do not talk of suffering at all. They say: Brahman is. They do not speak of suffering. Buddha had to speak only of suffering. Hearing this, many felt Buddha was a pessimist. In the West this very misunderstanding spread—that Buddha is a pessimist, talks only of suffering; he is a little morbid. Where has there been anyone healthier than Buddha! But it was Buddha’s necessity. He had to use negation. Because the moment he used the affirmative, the pundit would begin to nod: absolutely right!—as if he knew.

When Buddha spoke of suffering, and only suffering, the pundit was startled. He said, this man cannot know. This was Buddha’s device—to keep the pundit away. Buddha did not allow the pundit to come near.

The pundit is a disease. If he enters the temple, the temple is destroyed. And he makes every effort to enter—unless at the very door he is met by paradox.

I am speaking of both, because I feel these are two ways of saying one thing. They are not two things. They appear two to you because you stand in suffering. You cannot see how suffering can be joined with bliss. You stand in darkness. You cannot see that darkness is only the absence of light. From darkness you cannot connect it with light. How could you? You have never seen light. But I have seen the light; and I tell you that the non-being of darkness is light; or the being of light is the non-being of darkness. These are not two things, not a contradiction.

If you ask of the goal, it is bliss; if you ask of the method, it is suffering. If you ask of the destination, that will be one kind of talk. If you ask of the path, that will be another. And both are necessary. More necessary than the destination is talk of the path. If someone asked me to choose between the Upanishads and Buddha, whom would I choose?—if I had to choose for you, I would choose Buddha; if I had to choose for myself, I would choose the Upanishads. Because what I want to say is what the Upanishads have said. Where you have to reach, you will be able to reach only by walking on Buddha’s path.

If those who have reached the destination had to choose, they would choose the Upanishads, because the expression in the Upanishads is of the destination. For those who are walking on the path, if they must choose, Buddha alone is the support; because the difficulties of the path are still there. How can songs of health be sung to you yet! You are ill! How will you dance for light now? Till now you have known nothing but darkness. Therefore Buddha had such great impact.
Someone has asked: In the Buddha’s time there were other great thinkers—Mahavira, the Jain Tirthankara; the enlightened Katyayana; Sanjaya Belatthiputta; Makkhali Gosala; Ajita Kesakambala—great thinkers, greatly accomplished people. Why did they not have an impact?
No one had the kind of impact the Buddha had. What was the reason? They all spoke the language of the Upanishads. Mahavira went on speaking of the Perfect, the Absolute. That talk of the Absolute had been beaten to death. The pundits had repeated it so much that nothing fresh was left in it; it had no impact.

The Buddha spoke the language of negation. The whole East was suffused with him; the Buddha became the sun of the East. The basic reason was simply this: the Buddha found a new way of saying things. And what he said was suitable for the traveler on the path. Once you reach the destination you too will dance, the secrets of the Upanishads will open by themselves—but how will you reach the destination?

The Buddha spoke only of the path. Hence he says: There is suffering—experience it. There are causes of suffering—search them out. There are ways to uproot the causes—I will tell you. And trust that there is a state beyond suffering, because I have reached it—there is the cessation of suffering.

It is total negation. The Buddha called himself a physician: I am a healer, a vaidya. I am not a thinker. I only diagnose the illness and prescribe the medicine. What songs should I sing to you of health? When you become healthy, you can sing them yourself.

But I am speaking of both; because the Buddha’s negation too has by now gathered just as much dust as the Upanishads’ affirmations once had. Buddhist pundits have spoiled that as well. There is a fresh need to brush off that dust. If I speak only in affirmations, people will think I am a Hindu. I am not a Hindu. If I speak only in negations, people will think I am a Buddhist. I am not a Buddhist. I am only myself. Therefore I speak of both, so that you cannot put me into any category.

And this is the scholar’s greatest affliction, the biggest impediment of logic: until a category is made, nothing really comes within its grasp. The moment a category is formed, logic tallies its accounts; then it believes it understands what the matter is. Nothing remains to obstruct it. It has a stock of ready-made labels, and it slaps a label on. The very moment the intellect gets the convenience of labeling, the living thing is gone—finished, over—the breath has left it; it becomes impotent. For as long as we can save ourselves from being labeled, just that long are we alive; just that long is there fire in thought—after that, it turns to ash.

There’s no secret. In fact, it’s very un-mysterious. But since you’ve asked, I should tell it.

Mulla Nasruddin was going away. I said to him, “Good sir! If you go away, what will become of me? When you’re around, you come up with clever things every day; in explaining things to the uncomprehending, I put them to use. And now you’re taking a holiday! If there were no Mahavira, no Moses, no Mohammed, no Manu—my work would still go on. Without Mulla, my work doesn’t.”

Mulla said, “Don’t worry. I’ve written a lot of poems—a whole notebook; I’ll leave it behind. Until I return, make do with these.”

So, until Mulla came back, until then...

That’s all for today.