Es Dhammo Sanantano #100

First scene—

The very name Gautam Buddha terrified those with narrow, sectarian minds. That name itself was rebellion. It was synonymous with a total revolution. Such frightened people kept their distance from Buddha—and kept their children away as well. Naturally, their fear was even greater regarding children and young people. They had told their children never to go anywhere near the air that had touched Buddha. They had made them swear oaths never to bow to Buddha or to any of his monks.

One day some children were playing outside Jetavana. In the midst of their games they got thirsty. Forgetting the promises made to their parents and priests, they entered Jetavana looking for water. As fate would have it, they met the Blessed One himself. He gave them water, and he gave them much more—he gave them love. He quenched their thirst on the outside and awakened a thirst within. The children forgot their games and stayed with the Blessed One the whole day. They had never known such love, such magnetic attraction; they had never seen such beauty, such grace, such peace, such joy, such an incomparable celebration. They were drowned in the Buddha. That unique nectar, that unearthly hue, dyed those guileless hearts. They began to come every day. Little by little they even sat in meditation by the Blessed One. Their simple devotion was a sight to behold.

Then their parents heard of it. They were furious. But it was too late. They raged and ranted; their pundits and priests lectured the children, scolded, threatened, lured; persuasion, price, punishment, division—every tactic was tried on those little ones, but the imprint made by the Buddha had been made. After that, the parents wept and repented—as if Buddha had spoiled their children. They went around saying that this corrupt Gautama had corrupted their innocent children.

Finally, their madness went so far that they decided to renounce their children—and one day they went to hand them over to the Buddha. But that very visit lit a lamp in their own lives; for they too returned as the Buddha’s. To go to the Buddha and come back without becoming his—that is simply not possible. It was to these people that the Buddha spoke these verses.

Before the verses, let this small, simple story sink into your heart.

Whenever a truly religious person appears on this earth, he is, by his very nature, a rebel. Religion is rebellion. It has no other form. Religion never becomes tradition. And what does become tradition is not religion. Tradition is like this: the snake has gone, and on the road the tracks made by its passage remain. Tradition is like this: you have passed by, and on the path the prints of your shoes remain.

It is mentioned in the life of Confucius that he once went to meet Lao Tzu. It was the meeting of tradition and religion. Confucius is tradition—whatever belongs to the past is best. Whatever has happened is best. All that is best has already happened; nothing is left to become best. For Confucius, recalling the past is the very essence of religion. He was a traditionalist. He went to meet Lao Tzu. Lao Tzu is religious. For him there is no past, nor is there future. What is, is the present.

When Confucius offered his traditionalist pronouncements, Lao Tzu laughed and spoke these very words. He said: tradition is like this—man has passed, and on the sand only the prints of his shoes remain. Those prints are not the man, not even his shoes. There is no living man in those marks—leave aside a living man, there are not even dead shoes in them. They are mere footprints of shoes, the shadow of a shadow.

Confucius was very frightened. He returned and told his disciples: don’t go to this man, even by mistake. His words are dangerous.

But religion is dangerous. There is nothing more dangerous on earth than religion. Yet you often see the timid becoming religious. The weak, the impotent, become religious—on their knees, praying, praising, frightened; their god is only the distilled essence of their fear.

So surely, what these people call religion cannot be religion. Religion is the name of living dangerously. Religion means a continual adventure. Religion means not settling for the old and the well-trodden. It is the search for the new, the original. Religion means inquiry. Religion means an intense longing, a thirst to know. Religion means refusing secondhand and stale fare. Until you know by your own experience, you will not be satisfied. Religion is not content with the Vedas until one’s own Veda is born. Religion is not in smriti (memory) nor in shruti (what is heard); religion is in direct realization.

Among Hindus some scriptures are called shruti—what was heard; others are called smriti—what was remembered. All Hindu scriptures can be divided into these two: shruti and smriti. Either heard, or remembered. But religion is realization—neither shruti nor smriti.

Buddha was the profound symbol of that religion. He would say: know—know through your own experience; appa dīpo bhava—be a light unto yourself. Naturally the traditionalist would be scared; the sectarian would tremble—because the true enemy of sect is religion.

Ordinarily you think the enemy of the Hindu is the Muslim and of the Muslim the Hindu; you are mistaken. Both are sectarian. However much they fight, their real enmity is not with each other. One accepts one kind of smriti, the other accepts a different kind of smriti; the quarrel may be loud, but there is no fundamental difference—they both worship the past.

The real opposition is to religion. And note a strange fact: all sects unite against religion.

Make this your touchstone. When a man like Buddha is born, it is not as if Hindus oppose him and Jains do not, or Jains oppose and Hindus do not, or Muslims oppose and Christians do not. Whenever a Buddha appears, you will see a marvel: all sectarians unite to oppose him—Hindu, Muslim, Christian, Jain—all together against him. Because he strikes at the root of sect. He declares that religion cannot become a sect. Sect is a corpse, the dead body of religion. From this corpse only stench arises. It liberates no one. Carry this corpse long enough and you too will become corpses. So this little tale begins—

The name of Gautam Buddha terrified those with narrow, sectarian minds.

That name carried embers. It provoked fear. And fear arises only when that which you are clinging to is false. Otherwise, there is no fear.

If you have embraced truth, you become fearless. Truth gives fearlessness. Truth liberates. If you hold on to untruth, you will always be afraid—lest truth be heard somewhere, lest something shake your cherished belief. Hence sectarians say: don’t listen at all—don’t even consider what the other says. Don’t go near the other.

Why? What is the terror? If you possess truth, why tremble? Will your truth totter by hearing someone else? Will it be uprooted by another’s words? Then why place any value on such a two-penny truth! If it collapses upon hearing, will it ferry you across the ocean of birth and death? If it shatters merely by listening, will it stand with you at the hour of death?

It shatters because doubt is lurking within you. Somewhere you know this is not truth. On some level you recognize: this is not it. But you have hidden that recognition, suppressed it, shoved it into the dark. You have locked it away in the unconscious. And you know—you yourself put on the lock. You know that if a ray of truth enters, your belief will be exposed as false. So protect yourself against the ray of truth. Guard your darkness and avoid the light.

Truth makes you fearless; untruth makes you afraid.

People trembled because one thing was obvious: the Buddha had something—some edge, some sharpness—such that in his presence, untruth looked like untruth, truth like truth. In the presence of a Buddha, right vision arises. But we have tied many vested interests to our untruths. We are not prepared to abandon those vested interests. So the wise tactic is: don’t listen to truth at all; otherwise your well-settled world will fall apart. You have built a system; there is a sense of security—everything runs smoothly. Why disrupt it? Why invite the unknown? Why call this stranger into the house? Don’t bring this guest. Somehow you have arranged your house; bring in the new and you will have to rearrange everything.

So as people grow old, fear grips them more and more. Their years are more, death comes closer…

When I go to my village—when I used to go—there was a teacher who had taught me in school; I was fond of him, so I always visited him. Once, when I went to the village, he sent his son to tell me not to come to his house. I was surprised. I asked the son why. He said his father was weeping as he sent the message, distressed, but he insisted: don’t come. I said, tell him I’ll come just once more—only once.

I went. I asked: what is the matter? He said, since you ask, I will tell you. I have grown old; your words shake my beliefs. Death stands near. I cannot start something new now; I have no time. The last time you came, since then I haven’t been able to turn my rosary properly; when I turn it, I remember your words—that it’s all futile. When I chant “Ram, Ram,” your words echo—that even if I chant “Coca-Cola,” it will be the same. You are tormenting me. When I sit before the idol, I know it is stone. And death approaches. You see, my hands and feet tremble; I cannot even rise—leave me to myself.

I said, I won’t insist—but what has begun cannot be stopped. Once a sprout has burst forth, it cannot be pushed back. However much you try, you will no longer be able to say “Ram, Ram” with the same blind faith as before. And if you’ll hear me, I will say: because death is close, change quickly. What you have begun to see as futile will shatter in death. If one day is left, a day is enough; if one moment is left, a moment is enough—drop the junk of a lifetime in this very moment. For once, gather courage—for once, dare to be silent. And I am not telling you to chant some other name. I give you no other mantra. I only say: what you feel is false, don’t chant it anymore. If you die without chanting, no harm. If you die without sitting before an idol, no harm. For if the idol has become false to you—whether I came or not makes no difference. Even had I never come, the idol would still have been false—whether you noticed it or not. No one crosses over in a false boat. Only truth becomes a boat.

The older one becomes, the more one fears.

Hence, whenever a Buddha is born, the young are the first to receive him. Young men and women accept first. Even little children sometimes accept—while for the elders it is difficult. And of those elders who do accept, a few only—those whose bodies have aged, but whose souls remain young. Who, within, have not become cowards.

Age makes a man timid. In youth one thinks, I will walk on what is right. In old age one thinks, let me keep walking where I have walked—now where is right and wrong; where is the time! New decisions may cost dearly—what I have in hand may be lost, and what is not in hand may never be gained. As old age comes, cowardice takes hold.

Ninety percent of those who go to Buddhas are young; ten percent are old. Those elders are the true glory of the earth—for they are still young. Till their last breath, if they come to see what truth is, they are ready to stand with truth and drop untruth—even if their whole life was dedicated to untruth. Without such courage, one cannot be religious. That is why priests are always afraid that little children might go near such dangerous men.

This happens every day. The story did not happen once; it happens today as well. I was once the guest of the Maharani of Gwalior. She heard me, her son heard me. The next day she visited me and said, my son wanted to come, but I did not bring him; your words feel dangerous. We elders can understand, but small children may be corrupted by such talk.

I said, whether my words are true or false—let us care for that first; young or old is secondary. She was a cultured lady; she said, I cannot say they are false; they must be true—but too far-off, not for our use. I said, however far truth seems, it is always useful. However near falsehood seems, it is never useful. The real question is not near and far; it is true and false. She said, be that as it may, I did not bring my son because I feared he might be spoiled.

I asked, then why did you come? Are you not afraid of being spoiled? Does that mean you are already dead—not alive? Does no thrill move in your heart upon hearing the voice of truth? You came because you have become a coward. You have made so many compromises with life. Your son has not yet compromised. His life still lies ahead. He is still full of vitality. That is why you are afraid.

This has always happened. Wherever I have lived, this same scene repeats daily. People stop their children from coming to me. They themselves may come, but prevent their children—because they trust themselves: they think, “We went, but we have compromised deeply; we are soaked in untruth, we have nothing to fear.” But the children? Children are simple, clean; they have no bias yet; no fixed notions. If their hearts hear truth, they may resonate.

Your own heartstrings have snapped; you have pulled them out. You have kept such company with falsehood that it has raised walls on all sides. Even if truth calls, the clamor of untruth inside you is so loud that the call doesn’t reach. But children are simple, direct; there is yet no wall between them and truth; they can hear the summons of the new, the challenge of the new.

So people feared their children might go to the Buddha. They themselves kept away—and kept their children far away. Naturally, their fear about youngsters was even greater.

Why? Because the child’s slate is still blank. If the Buddha’s signature appears upon it, that life will become something else. The fear is lest he hear the Buddha—because he still can hear. His ears are not yet deaf. His eyes are not yet blind. The mirror of his mind does not yet carry much dust. If the child goes to the Buddha, the Buddha’s image might be imprinted within. Those who have spoiled their mirrors—on whose mirrors thick dust has settled—even if they go to the Buddha, no image is formed. They go empty and return empty.

That is why the so-called religious of the world rush to initiate their children into their own sects early. They have neither religion nor understanding nor insight nor truth; but the trash of untruth their own parents handed to them—they hand to their children. In great haste they send little ones to temple, to mosque, to gurdwara. They load into the tender mind the same garbage they themselves carry. They did not find any gold in it; they do not hope their children will either. But they carry a single hope: that the world they lived in, their children should live in too. Is this love?

Kahlil Gibran has said: the mark of love is that parents pray to God for their children to go beyond them; to reach where they could not; to touch peaks they never touched; to fly in skies they never flew. Their children should not end within their own limits—that would be love. But where is love!

Even the son or daughter you think you love—you do not. If you did, your behavior would be different. If you truly loved, you would tell your child: do not become a Hindu, because I remained a Hindu and found nothing; do not become a Muslim, because I was one and only quarreled and gained nothing. If you love your child you will say: do not repeat my mistakes. Do not let your life get entangled and lost in the desert as mine did; do not miss the festival, the flow of nectar. Beware of temples and mosques; I got stuck in them. Guard your garment as you pass them; seek truth. I could not; I was a coward; I obeyed my elders and never searched for myself. Do not obey me. Even if, in weak moments, I insist that you obey me—do not. Keep courage, be brave, and search for your own truth. Only the truth found by oneself is truth. Only what is found through one’s own search liberates.

But where is such love? If love were, this earth would be different! There would be no Hindus or Muslims; no Indians and Pakistanis; no divide between white and black; no such inequality between man and woman; no Brahmin and Shudra. If love were in the world, these stupidities would not be. But these absurdities hide behind the mask of religion. Beneath the sweetness of religion, poison lies concealed.

People feared their children might go to the Buddha. They thought they were acting out of love for their children. What does it matter what you think? Think what you like; the outcome of what you do will reveal what is true.

If the Buddha comes to town, what father would not say to his son: leave everything, go and listen! We missed out; we did not hear in our lifetime; we were unfortunate. You go. We too will come—perhaps seeing a flame lit in you will bring passion back into our lives. You are young—you may grasp quickly.

But the old think themselves wiser—as if wisdom had anything to do with your futile worldly experience! Because you went to the same office every morning for forty years and returned every evening—you are experienced? Because you dug a trench on the road for forty years—you are experienced? You have great knowledge because for decades you sold cloth at a shop? What is your experience? What has it to do with truth? For knowing truth, simplicity is more useful than your so-called experience.

Experience has distorted you; it has carved many grooves on your mind. Because of these grooves, even if the Buddha puts his signature upon you, it will not show. You have gone deaf and blind. Send your children, for their brilliance is still intact. Send them, because they are still green and fresh; they will recognize the Buddha quickly. Their tuning will happen in an instant. They have not gone far into the world yet; they are close to sannyas.

Every child is born like a sannyasin. Very few are fortunate enough to die like one. Out of a hundred children, a hundred are born like sannyasins; ninety-nine become worldly.

Before the child becomes worldly—before petty things outweigh the vast; before money becomes more precious than truth; before status becomes more precious than love—send them to the Buddhas. Let them sit in satsang. For soon the child too will be deformed—as you were deformed. Soon, because this entire society is diseased. Everyone here is ill; growing amidst the ill, he too will fall ill. Parents are ill, teachers are ill, priests are ill, politicians are ill; this is a world of the sick, a great hospital. Everyone suffers their own disease. For a little while perhaps a child might save himself; not for long.

Before the disease grips him; before his eyes grow dim; before the song of his heart is muffled by the noise; before he values money over love, prestige over joy, respect over peace; before he starts selling his soul for the petty things of the world—and begins the journey to Delhi; before he sets out for Delhi, send him to the Buddhas! You did not go—no harm. If you have love, you will surely send him.

But it does not happen. Parents think they restrain out of love. We are great deceivers. We do wrong under the shelter of right words. We are very skillful; our dishonesty is highly polished.

They had told their children never to go even into the air of Buddha.

Even the air there is dangerous. There is something in that air. It touches—and shakes you. It can blow the dust off your leaves. It can expel the stale air stuck within you. In that gust, a new freshness, a new tone may resound inside. With that wind, a new journey may begin in your life.

For one who has seen the Buddha, not to desire to be like him is impossible. One who has sat with the Buddha cannot fail to feel an ambition arise: might such peace be mine someday? It will arise. One who has seen the Buddha’s grace and beauty will long to be so beautiful. One who has not seen a Buddha is unfortunate—he has not seen his own future.

In Buddha we see our future. In Jina, in Christ, in Krishna, we see our future. These are fulfilled human beings. The flower is fully in bloom—the thousand-petaled lotus utterly opened. Seeing it in bloom, we are reminded that we are still buds—we too can blossom. That very remembrance begins the revolution in life.

So let there be no news at all—let there be no hint that a Buddha exists. Parents told their children not to go even into the air touched by Buddha. They made them swear oaths. Because who can trust children! They are simple; they may say “yes” now, and in a moment go! And there is this danger too: forbid children, and they may go precisely because you forbade them—“there must be something there.” Children are children; their arithmetic is different. They can go out of sheer refusal.

So they made them swear. They exacted vows. “We will die if you go to the Buddha—swear by your mother, swear by your father.” The children swore. They are little; they will do whatever you make them do. They depend on you. Even if you commit murder, they will place their neck before you. What else can they do? Their life and death is in your hands.

The human race has committed more injustice to children than to anyone else. When all injustices cease in this world, perhaps the last injustice to cease will be the injustice of parents toward their children. And that injustice is invisible—because we have piled up so much nonsense about love. “We do everything out of love.” You beat the child—out of love. You strike him—out of love. You teach him something—out of love. How can the child refuse? How can he rebel?

First the poor rebelled against the rich—no one had imagined that one day women would rebel against men. Now women have revolted. No one yet imagines that one day sons and daughters will rebel against parents. I tell you—be warned—that day will come soon. It must. When children rebel against parents, it will become clear how much injustice has been done to children through the ages.

But the injustice is such that innocent children cannot even rebel. They don’t know what is right and wrong. Their trust in you is immense; their faith so simple that you can impose whatever you like. Make them Hindu, Muslim, Christian—whatever you want. The child is soft; he takes any mold. Once cast, once the mold hardens, it is very difficult to break. When the tree is young, you can bend it any way; when it becomes big, bending is hard. Even if cast in a wrong mold, that becomes the whole story of his life.

They made them swear: to go is one thing—but if by chance on the road you meet the Buddha begging alms, don’t even bow. Not only Buddha—do not bow even to his monks. For surely there will be something of Buddha in his monks too. And since Buddha moved from village to village, and his monks too roamed, the fear was natural.

One day some children were playing outside Jetavana.

Buddha was staying there. The children played outside, absorbed in their games; noon came, the sun blazed, they felt thirsty—home was far, this was outside the village; playing near Jetavana, thirst struck; they forgot their promises to parents and priests and entered the park to look for water. If Buddha and his monks are staying, there must be water.

By chance they met the Blessed One himself, sitting under a tree. He gave them water—and much more.

When a Buddha gives you water, he gives something more along with it. Not by any effort of his—water touched by a Buddha’s hand brings a taste of buddhatva. If the Buddha’s eyes fall upon you, something begins to surge within. If he looks into your eyes, a seed begins to sprout.

He gave them much more—he gave them love.

The very presence of the Buddha is love. Buddha has said: meditation culminates in compassion. When meditation is complete, the lamp of compassion spreads its light. The lamp is meditation; the light is compassion. The test of meditation is that compassion flows, love spreads. These little ones had come thirsty; he gave them water, and more—he gave them a sip of buddhatva.

Go to a Buddha, and he has nothing else to give but buddhatva. He has no small trinkets to offer—only the greatest thing. He can only give what he is.

He gave love. He quenched their outer thirst and awakened thirst within.

There is a similar incident in the life of Jesus. He was returning to his village from the capital. On the way he rested by a well; he was thirsty. He said to a woman drawing water: give me water to drink, I am thirsty. The woman looked at him and said, please mind—you must know I am of a low caste; will you drink water from my hands? Jesus said, who is low and who is high? You give me to drink, and I will give you to drink. The woman said, I don’t understand. What do you mean, I will give you to drink, and you will give me to drink? Jesus said, yes—what you give will quench thirst for a while; what I give quenches thirst forever.

Buddha or Jesus awakens a new thirst within you—and then they show the way to quench it. A new thirst: how to know that life which is eternal? How to be free of the fleeting? How to be released from the bondage of time? How to go beyond the trivial and let our wings open in the vast? First they awaken thirst—then the journey begins. When there is thirst, the search for water starts. And once the search begins, water has always been there—and very near; the lake is full. You missed it only because you lacked thirst.

He quenched their outer thirst and awakened thirst within. The children forgot their games and stayed with the Blessed One the whole day.

They were small, simple—what was impossible for their parents was possible for them. They recognized. The tone of this man reached them. If someone had asked, they might not have been able to answer—their age was not yet fit for words—but silently they understood. They had never seen such a man. He was of another kind. To distinguish such beings from ordinary men we have called them Buddha, Jina, Bhagwan, Avatar, Prophet, Son of God—just to say: this man was different. He was not like other men. To call him just “man” would be unjust. The children could not explain, but they understood.

Understand, there is no necessary link between being able to explain and understanding. Often those who can explain do not understand; those who understand cannot explain. Sweetness to the mute. The little ones tasted it—but perhaps lacked words to say what happened. They forgot their games. The old play became small.

Jesus said: only those who are like little children will enter the kingdom of my Father.

Perhaps he spoke of such children. To understand God, one must become like a child. Those who have grown big must return—become childlike again.

That is why, in the final state, the saint is just like a small child. The state of the paramahansa is the state of the child. A second birth. In this land we have called the knower “twice-born”—born again. One birth from parents; the other given by oneself. He becomes a child again—simple, natural.

These small, simple children attained what is so hard for great pundits. They forgot their play. You go to the Buddha and still your play does not leave you. Sitting beside him, you think of your shop; you think of your home; you think of a thousand other things. These little ones—forgot everything. The sand houses they had built lay outside, abandoned. They went within and did not come out. They remained seated with the Buddha.

They stayed all day with the Blessed One.

Perhaps at dusk he himself said, children, now go home.

They had never known such love.

There is a great difference between love and what the world calls love. What you call love is not love—it is counterfeit coin. In the name of love something else runs: ego runs in the name of love. Under love’s cloak, violence and hostility run. Decked in love’s ornaments—who knows what all: possessiveness, the politics of ownership over the other. Under the guise of love, unlove runs. Unlove has chosen a good hiding place—behind love.

Kahlil Gibran tells a little parable. When the earth was newly made, God sent the goddesses of Beauty and Ugliness to earth. As they descended from heaven, dust covered them. They said: let us bathe before we enter the village.

They undressed on the shore and entered the lake. Beauty swam far out. When she was at a distance, Ugliness hurried out, put on Beauty’s clothes, and ran away. By the time Beauty returned, she saw her garments were gone, and dawn was breaking; people would soon be around. She had no choice but to put on Ugliness’s clothes.

Since then, Beauty wears the robes of Ugliness, and Ugliness wears the robes of Beauty. Since then, Beauty keeps trying to catch Ugliness to reclaim her garments—but Ugliness won’t be caught.

In this world the ugly walks as the beautiful; unlove walks as love. Untruth has put on the robes of truth.

Notice: the more untruthful a man is, the more he insists, “What I say is absolute truth!” He gathers a thousand arguments, swears oaths that “this is the truth.” To run untruth, you must prove it truth. Truth needs no proof. It walks on its own legs. Untruth needs legs borrowed from truth.

They forgot their play. They forgot why they had come, and something else began to happen. They were absorbed.

Such magnetic attraction they had never known. Such beauty, never seen.

It was of another order—not of the body but beyond the body. Rays from the far shore shimmered through the Buddha’s body. Elders might not have seen them. These children were simple; their eyes were fresh—that is why they saw. To recognize a Buddha, one needs the simplicity of a child.

They had never seen such grace, such peace, such joy, such an unparalleled festival; they were lost in the Blessed One. That rare nectar, that otherworldly hue, stained those simple hearts. They began to come daily—on any pretext. Any chance—they would run to Jetavana.

Coming to the Blessed One, they gradually began to sit in meditation as well.

What else could happen! If you go to a Buddha, you must sit in meditation. At first they came because the man was lovable; they felt good in his presence; his shadow was sweet. But slowly, the rain of meditation around him aroused curiosity; they must have asked: how can we become like you? Little ones often ask: how can we become like you? How can we have such beauty? When will such lovely lakes shine in our eyes? How can we move so that such grace radiates from us? Where did you find this? How did you find it? Curiosity arose—and then they too began to sit in meditation.

Their simple trust was a sight to behold.

Faith is of two kinds. One is simple faith—there was no doubt to begin with; nothing had to be removed; the spring of trust was already flowing. The other is complex faith—doubt has grown like a disease; now doubt must be removed with effort, then faith can arise. Little children enter simple faith; for elders faith is complicated. Doubt has arisen—what to do? First they must fight doubt, root it out, clear the weeds—only then can the rose of trust be planted. Much energy goes into battling doubt; only then, somewhere, faith is born. Complex. For children it is simple.

But we spoil children. If parents were a little more understanding, we would never do anything that damages their simple faith. We would say: preserve your simple trust. One day a person will come, a moment will arrive, when your tuning will happen with someone; on the strength of that simple trust you will recognize a Buddha, a Jina, a Krishna, a Christ. We would not spoil their trust.

Instead, we seize them by the neck. Before their simple faith can take them into the expanse—before they can rest at a Buddha’s feet—we impose a false faith. And because we impose false faith, doubt is born. Understand this arithmetic well.

Why does doubt arise in the world? It arises because false faith is imposed. The little child is playing; you say, come to the temple. He asks, why? I’m playing, I’m happy. You say, in the temple there is even more joy. And the little one finds none. You are trying to teach faith—and the child learns doubt. He thinks, what kind of joy? The elders sit there gloomy; you can’t run or play or dance or shout—what joy? And father said joy would be there!

Then father says, bow, this is the idol of God. The child says, God? This is stone! You’ve dressed up a rock. You say, bow, when you grow up you will understand. You are too small now; such things can’t be understood. Very complex, very difficult. When you are older you will understand.

You force his neck to bend. You are creating doubt. You think you are creating faith! He bends his head, but he knows it is a stone.

He not only doubts the idol now; he begins to doubt you as well—your intelligence. He thinks, this father is somewhat stupid. He cannot say it now. He will say it when you are old and he is strong—when he has the power to grip your neck.

Later parents worry: why do our children not trust us? You destroyed their trust. You made them do such things, imposed such notions, that their simple hearts broke. And the false faith you tried to impose never took root. Behind it, doubt grew. False faith is never free of doubt; it is the mother of doubt. After false faith comes doubt. The child’s eyes are fresh; he sees things clearly.

You say, this is “Mother Cow.” The child says, Mother Cow? Then this bull—what is he, father? It is simple arithmetic. You say, no, the bull is not father; only the cow is mother. Now the child begins to doubt you: if the cow is mother, the bull should be father. If the bull is not father, how is the cow mother?

You put a thread around the child’s neck and say, it is sacred. The child saw mother making it. How did it become sacred? When did it become sacred? What is its sanctity?

Whatever you teach, he sees within: this looks false. He does not speak—do not think you have won. He will speak when he has power. Now, if he speaks, he will be beaten.

When I was first taken to a temple and told to bow, I said: then make me bow—by force. Because I see nothing here worth bowing to. The temple I was taken to had no idols; in that tradition, only the scripture is on the altar. The family I was born into does not worship idols; it worships the book. On the altar was a scripture. I said, why should I bow to a book? What can be in a book? Paper and ink—nothing more. If you insist, force me—your strength is greater; I am small; I can do nothing now—but I will take revenge.

I must say, I had good elders; they did not force me. They said, all right—bow when you feel like it. When you understand, bow. They no longer took me to the temple. And because of that, I still have trust in my elders. Had they forced me, no faith could have arisen toward that book—and distrust would have arisen toward them as well. I would have thought: they are violent people, and on their temple wall is written “Non-violence is the supreme religion.” Violent—forcing a little child to bow—while the wall proclaims ahimsa! What kind of non-violence is this? A thousand doubts would have arisen. They did not force me—so no doubts arose.

Remember: do not impose by force. Imposition breeds its own backlash—doubt. Once doubt takes root, great obstacles follow. When doubt is strong, even if you go to the Buddha, doubt will arise. One who has lost trust in father and mother loses trust in existence. He cannot trust anyone. He says, if my own parents deceived me…

Mulla Nasruddin’s little boy was climbing a ladder. Mulla stood below and said, Son, jump! The boy said, if I jump I’ll get hurt. Mulla said, I am your father standing here to catch you—why fear? Trusting his father, the boy jumped—Mulla stepped aside. He crashed down, skinned both knees, and began to cry: Father, what is this? You deceived me. Mulla said, yes—learn a lesson: never trust anyone in this world. Not even your father. This world is treacherous. Don’t trust even me—that is why I moved aside.

But such lessons only deepen doubt. One who begins to doubt his parents can have no faith in anyone else. Those closest to us—from whom we were born—proved deceivers. They told untruths; did things we will learn tomorrow or the day after were false. Still they said them! Even parents spoke untruths!

If parents speak only what they know—and not a word more—and keep their children free, without destroying their simple trust, then this whole world could be religious. The world is irreligious not because of atheists—remember this—but because of your hollow theists.

The Blessed One neither preached to the children nor taught them doctrines…

Understand the difference. He did not say, “God created the world,” or “the soul dwells within,” and so on. He poured his life energy upon those children. He gave what he had—meditation.

Give attention, not doctrines. Don’t say, “There is God.” Say, “Sitting in silence, slowly you will come to know what is and what is not.” Don’t give thought—give thoughtlessness. Give meditation, not dogma. When you give meditation, you give religion; when you give doctrine, you give irreligion. Don’t give scripture, don’t give words—give the capacity to be wordless. Give love.

If you can give just two things to a child—meditation and love—you have fulfilled your responsibility. You have laid the foundation. In his life a great temple will rise; its golden spires will reach into the sky and talk with the sun, the moon, and the stars.

Their simple faith was a sight to see. Then their parents heard. They were enraged—but it was too late. They had already tasted the Buddha. The parents tried everything; their priests lectured, scolded, tried fear and greed, every tactic—but the Buddha’s imprint had been made.

They had seen an incomparable man; now all these pundits seemed pale. They had seen a living flame; these priests were just ashes. No trick would work now. They had experienced a new energy in this man; their parents’ chatter had no meaning anymore. Before the experience, they had sworn not to go—there was no difficulty in swearing off one they had not seen. But now they had seen—and it was too late.

Finally, the parents went mad enough to decide they would not keep such children at home. They would hand them over to Buddha: “You take them—they are no longer ours. We sever our ties.” They went to abandon their children to the Buddha—but that very visit lit a lamp in their lives.

Sometimes it happens—you go to a Buddha for the wrong reason, and still the right thing happens. You can go to priests for the right reasons and nothing right happens; and you can go to a Buddha for the wrong reasons, and sometimes grace descends. Suddenly, a window opens.

At least a thought must have arisen in those parents: we gave birth to these children, raised them, cared for them—yet they won’t listen to us! What has this Buddha given them? What does he have? They won’t listen to our priest, learned in scriptures, with the Vedas by heart. They won’t listen to our great preacher. What is in this Buddha! We beat them, enticed them—nothing worked. Maybe there is something. A stirring must have arisen. Impossible that it didn’t. A flash must have crossed the mind: perhaps we are the ones in the wrong! Who knows! And it was not the case of one child—many children from the neighborhood had gone. They all stood firm. They were ready to suffer—but not to keep their oath of not going to the Buddha.

They must have gone in anger—to abandon their children—but inside a question had awakened: what will it be like? Perhaps there is something in this man!

This happens daily. People stop others from coming: don’t go there; you’ll be hypnotized. Hypnosis is being used there. A husband wrote to me—three or four letters in a month—long letters: my wife has taken sannyas from you; I am ruined; everything is destroyed; you have hypnotized her. Please remove your spell—release her.

But my sannyas breaks no home. It separates no wife from husband, no husband from wife, no mother from child. Yet the husband is deeply troubled. What is the trouble?

His trouble is that until now he was god to his wife. That is no longer the case. His authority has suddenly waned. If today I tell his wife something, she will listen to me, not to him—that possibility upsets him—even though I have said nothing and will not say anything. Mere possibility pains him. It hurts the male ego.

He writes: what is lacking in me that my wife goes to you? Ask your wife. He is a professor of philosophy. He writes: I am a professor; for every question I have answers; I teach students; what is there for my wife to ask you? I am ready to answer everything.

You may be ready—but if your wife has no trust in your answers, what can I do? I have told her: go to your husband. But the more I say “go,” the less she is ready to go.

This happens continually. The reason is simple. No one hypnotizes anyone here. But truth is hypnotic. No one employs hypnosis—but truth is mesmerizing. If just one ray of truth slips into your thought, the whirl begins. Unawares, it happens. The parents went angry—yet going to the Buddha, a lamp was lit in them too. What the priests had been saying about Buddha was not true. They had painted him as the worst of devils—corrupting the children.

However blind you are, however dusty the mirror—some corner will still reflect. They saw the man—he did not look like a devil. They saw the monks—they did not seem brutal. As the priests had said, nothing seemed cunning here. The words they heard—there was no duplicity—straight, two-edged words. Perhaps because they were two-edged, they hurt the priests. The comparison arose.

A lamp was lit in their lives as well. To go to the Buddha, and to return not belonging to him—is not possible. To them the Buddha spoke these verses—

Avajjhe vajjamattano, vajje ca vajjadassino,
micchādiṭṭhi-samādānā sattā gacchanti duggatiṃ.

Vajjañ ca vajjato ñatvā, avajjañ ca avajjato,
sammādiṭṭhi-samādānā sattā gacchanti suggatiṃ.

“Those who see fault where there is none, and see no fault where there is fault, adopting wrong view, go to a bad destiny.

“Seeing fault as fault and the faultless as faultless, adopting right view, beings go to a good destiny.”

Two small things—two brief sutras he gave them. He said: seeing things as they are gives rise to right vision. Seeing otherwise than they are gives rise to wrong vision. See what is as it is, without prejudice—and you will go to a good destiny. See what is not as if it were, and what is as if it were not—and no one else is harmed; you yourself fall into distortion.

“Those who see faults where there are none…”

And the Buddha said: I am here; look at me—do not come with prejudice. Leave outside what others say. Come and see me. Look without bias—so that you can decide what is right and what is wrong. Be your own judge. But if you decide beforehand, make up your mind before you come—or do not come at all; sit with your eyes closed clinging to your decision—then it is your choice. But know this: you will fall into a bad way. You will be blind; you will stumble at every step; the truth of life will never be found. Find the truth of life—and that is heaven. Lose it—and that is a bad destiny.

See fault as fault, and the faultless as faultless—right vision arises. Clear eyes. The Buddha’s entire emphasis is that your eyes become clear—unveiled, naked, free of prejudice, empty—so that with empty eyes you see what is as it is.

Those who come to the Buddha and still fail to see—there is only one reason: their eyes are too full—so full they see something else entirely.

You must have noticed: if you have a fixed view, you see something else entirely. A Sufi story—

A fakir lost his hoe while working in his garden. He went inside to drink water; when he returned, the hoe was gone. A neighbor’s boy was passing by. He looked at him and thought: he is the thief. His gait shows it. Look at his way—avoiding my eyes, looking aside. The sound of his feet reveals a thief. He is the one. But to catch him at once is not prudent. He began to watch. For three days, whenever the boy passed, he observed—and became absolutely certain: he is the thief. Every sign proved it—he won’t meet my eyes; he looks here and there; he walks tensely, startled; he has stolen the hoe.

On the fourth day, while digging, he found the hoe in a bush. The boy passed again; he saw him and thought: what a good boy! Not a thief at all. He walked the same way—but the fakir’s vision had changed.

Form an idea about a person, then look through that idea—and you will find plenty to confirm it. Change your idea and the man will seem to change—because your new idea will find what it wants.

Buddha calls right vision that which is free of fixed ideas. No preconception—good or bad. Equanimity. The balance-point in the middle: neither pan heavy. Such equipoise is samadrishti—equal vision. To accept without search, without inquiry, without experience—that is wrong view.

The Buddha told them only this: learn to see; cleanse your eyes—otherwise you will wander and suffer.

Second scene:

This happened while the Blessed One was dwelling in Kosambi. The Buddha’s opponents among the religious leaders had paid hooligans to insult the Blessed One and the Sangha and drive them out. They hurled abuses at the monks. The scriptures say there were words not fit to be written. Those that can be written were like these: when monks passed, they shouted, “You are fools, madmen, crackpots; thieves, rogues; bulls, donkeys; animals, brutish, hellish; fallen, perverse”—such words they hurled.

These are the printable ones. The unprintable—you can imagine.

They hurled insults at the nuns as well. They flung all kinds of mud at the Blessed One. They had invented exotic tales. Many religious leaders had a hand in that mud.

When many voices speak, ordinary people assume it must be so. Why else would so many say it? It must be true.

The elder Ananda went to the Blessed One, bowed, and said: Bhante, the townspeople are reviling us, abusing us—better we go elsewhere. This town is not for us. The monks are greatly troubled; the nuns too. Crowds follow and shout insults. It has become a spectacle—life here is hard. Moreover, your command is that we give no answer, that we remain patient and silent—that makes it all the more unbearable. If only we might reply, we could fight and be done with it.

Ananda was a kshatriya, an old fighter. “This is a fix: say nothing, speak nothing, answer nothing. We are in a noose. They put us in a noose—and you too. You say, be silent, be peaceful, be patient. It has become unbearable.

“And people take silence to mean we have no answer—you know this, Bhante? They think we are silent because we lack a reply. They think the charges are true—therefore the Buddha is silent and his monks are silent. See how they pass with tails tucked! They take peace to mean tail-tucked silence. If they had truth, they would come to the field and give answers.”

The Blessed One smiled and said: Ananda, where shall we go? Ananda said: Bhante, what is the problem? To another town. And if they abuse us there as well, where will we go? said the Blessed One. Bhante, then we will go to another—and another; there is no shortage of towns, said Ananda.

“Foolish Ananda, but this can happen everywhere. It will. The dark will be angry with us everywhere. Disease will be offended wherever we go. Religious leaders are the same everywhere. When their interests are hurt, Ananda, they will do there what they do here. And we cannot stop wounding their interests. The fault is ours,” said the Blessed One. “We strike at their vested interests—they retaliate. We cannot cease to strike. For if we do not strike, no wind of truth can blow. And those who clutch untruth—do you think they will sit quietly? Their stakes will burn, break, explode—they will take revenge.

“There is a head of a monastery, a mahant, a shankaracharya—this or that—each with his own interests. This is not a simple fight between truth and untruth; untruth is tied to many interests. If we are right, tomorrow none will go to them; and they live upon the devotees. Their utmost effort then will be to prove us wrong.

“They have no direct means. They cannot prove what they say is truth—they know nothing of truth. So they choose the reverse—abuse and insult. That is a sign of their weakness. There is no need for abuse. We present our truth; let them present theirs. People can decide. We have laid out our picture; let them lay out theirs.

“But they do not lay out their picture—they have none. They have only one trick: throw mud on ours. Understand their difficulty too, Ananda,” said the Buddha. “See their problem. Do not get entangled in your own hurt. What hurt is ours? Someone abuses—so be it. Where does abuse land? Only if you catch it.

“The Buddha always said: abuse does not land until you take it. Someone says ‘donkey.’ You accept it—you jump up: why did you call me a donkey? Just don’t take it. A gust of wind came and went—what is the quarrel? He spoke—his whim!”

Just yesterday I read a little story. In the recent American presidential election—between Carter and Ford—some men were gossiping in a Texas hotel. One said, “Ford is a real donkey.” Then thinking “donkey” was too much, he softened: “not a donkey—at least a horse.” A man six and a half feet tall stood up and punched him two or three times. The fellow panicked: are you a great fan of Ford? The man said, “No—we don’t tolerate insults to horses.”

Now someone calls you a donkey—but who knows whether the donkey is insulted or you are. Donkeys are not so asinine as to be offended. Why are you angry? He expressed his view. Donkeys can see only donkeys—perhaps he sees a donkey in you. He may see nothing more elevated anywhere. It is his problem. Why be disturbed?

The Buddha said: don’t take it; don’t catch the abuse. Let it come, let it go—don’t get stuck in between. If you do not take it, it is not yours. Remain silent.

Ananda said, that is very hard! So what should we do? The Buddha said: what should we do? Struggle is our life. Going elsewhere will solve nothing. Still Ananda asked, then what shall we do? “We will endure,” said the Buddha. “We will endure with serenity. For truth, this price must be paid. As an elephant on the battlefield endures arrows falling from all sides, so too must we endure insults and revilement. In this lies your welfare—take it as an opportunity, and do not be disheartened. Those who abuse us do us a great favor.”

This is always the Buddha’s view—the view of all Buddhas. Even here there is benefit. If they did not abuse, we would not have such an opportunity to keep peace. If they did not insult us, we would have no touchstone to see whether we can yet transcend insult. Let them raise a storm around us, and let us remain untroubled, carefree, unshaken—then be grateful to them. They are giving us occasions for examination. Passing through such tests, you will be refined and strengthened. If they did not provide these moments, how would you ever know whether something real has happened within you? Do not see their difficulties as difficulties—see them as examinations. Then they too are benefactors.

And going away will achieve nothing, said the Buddha. Leave this village—there it will be the same. Leave the next—again the same. Everywhere—everywhere there are priests; everywhere there are goons. And everywhere there is collusion between priests and goons. Old collusion. Between politician and priest—an ancient alliance. The politician is a sanctioned thug—a respected thug—who runs his thuggery by law and system. And behind him stand unsanctioned thugs as well.

Everyone knows upon whose strength your politician stands—a line of crooks. Your politician is a skillful bandit; other bandits support him. And the priest—these two have a pact. The priest has always declared the king to be the incarnation of God. The king comes and touches the priest’s feet. The people are deceived. They see: the priest must be true—for the king touches his feet. And when the priest says the king is God’s incarnation, it must be true. Thus the conspiracy—ancient, eternal on this earth. The priest supports the politician; the politician supports the priest. Between them, man is crushed. Between them, man is sucked dry.

Buddha raises a rebellion against both. “So,” he said, “everywhere it will be so. In every village it is the same story—the same system. Wherever we go, darkness will be angry. Wherever we go, people will be upset. Wherever we go, we will be abused and insulted. Be prepared. This is our honor; this is truth’s touchstone.”

Saying this to Ananda, the Buddha spoke these gathas—

Ahaṃ nāgova saṅgāme cāpato patitaṃ saraṃ;
ativākyaṃ titikkhissaṃ, dussīlo hi bahujjano.

Dantaṃ nayanti samitiṃ, dantaṃ rājābhirūhati;
danto seṭṭho manussesu yo titikkhati ativākyaṃ.

Na hi etehi yānehi gaccheyya agatāṃ disaṃ;
yathāttanā sudantena danto dantena gacchati.

Idaṃ pure cittamacāri cārikaṃ,
yenicchakaṃ yattha kāmaṃ yathāsukhaṃ;
tadajjahaṃ niggahe'ssāmi yoniso,
hatthippabhinnaṃ viya aṅkusaggaho.

“Like a war-elephant on the battlefield who endures arrows that fall upon him, so will I endure harsh words—for many people are of bad conduct.”

“The trained elephant is led into the battle line, and the king rides the trained. Among men, the best is he who endures harsh speech.”

“By none of these vehicles can one travel to the land not yet reached; but he who has well-trained himself goes there—tamed by the tamed.”

“Formerly this mind wandered as it pleased—where it wished, as it liked. Today I shall hold it well in hand—like an elephant with a goad.”

Most people are indeed of rough nature—accept this. Everywhere you will meet the many. Then, like an elephant endures arrows raining from four sides—endure. Accept that most people are unconscious; in unconsciousness, what they do will be wrong. Their lamps are unlit; they grope in darkness, stumble and clash.

“The trained elephant is led into battle; upon the trained the king rides. Among men, the best is he who endures harsh words.”

A king does not mount any elephant—he mounts the trained. Trained means well-disciplined. However many arrows fall, he does not budge. God too rides only upon the trained. Upon them the highest is placed.

“By none of these conveyances does one reach nirvana.”

By the vehicles the priests and pundits offer—by these roads—no one ever reaches.

“He alone arrives there who has mastered himself well.”

Only those arrive who have made their forbearance boundless. Those who are so tamed that even death cannot make them tremble. Krishna called such a state sthitaprajna—steady wisdom.

“This mind once wandered at will—where it wished, as it liked, as it pleased. Today I will restrain it rightly—like a musth elephant brought under the goad.”

Whenever someone abuses you, remember only this—light only this lamp within:

“This mind once wandered at will—where it wished, as it liked, as it pleased. Today I will restrain it rightly—like a musth elephant brought under the goad.”

Make every insult an occasion to bring the mind under mastery. Use every abuse. Turn every stone into a step. Whatever life hands you can be used rightly. Abuses can become steps to the temple. And as it is, even prayers do not become steps. Everything depends on you. You need a creative intelligence.

All the emphasis of the Buddha—of all Buddhas—has always been this: whatever life gives, use it rightly. Do not fuss over whether it should or shouldn’t have been given; it is given.

If an abuse falls into your hands, think how to use it so it becomes a companion on the path to nirvana. How to transform it into a step to the temple of the Beloved? Everything can be transformed.

Enough for today.