Es Dhammo Sanantano #101

You ask as if it was my command that stopped you! And if you have managed to postpone the hassle for three or four years, why take on the hassle now? If so many days have passed—you wanted to take sannyas and didn’t—then a few more days will pass too. Keep up your courage! Lose not your courage, and do not forget Ram.

A man put his hand on Mulla Nasruddin’s shoulder and asked, “Hey Mulla, you were going to Kashmir in the summer—you didn’t go?” Nasruddin said, “Kashmir! We were going to go to Kashmir last year; and the year before that we were going to go to Manali; this year we didn’t go to Nainital.” Sit at home and enjoy—what going and coming is there! For three or four years you’ve been “going,” taking sannyas; now what obstacle has arisen today that you should actually take it? Keep soothing the mind like this, keep deceiving it; what little remains will also pass.

And then you ask for my permission! As if I were against sannyas. Morning and evening I do nothing but say—sannyas, sannyas, sannyas. Do you listen to me, or do you sleep?

I have heard, in one country an anti-saint wind was blowing. A wind is a wind: sometimes it blows in favor of Indira, sometimes in favor of Janata. There’s no telling which side it will take and whom it will oppose. In that country it was blowing against the saints. A well-seasoned Sufi fakir was arrested. The government was investigating him from all sides. He was a realized man; his words made no sense to the officials. If officials had minds, why would they be officials! There were countless other things to do in the world—instead they go on banging their heads against files! Nothing made sense to them, so they called a big psychologist, thinking perhaps he would understand.

The psychologist asked a few questions. His very first question was, “Sir, do you talk in your sleep?” The fakir said, “Not in my own sleep—certainly in other people’s sleep.”

With you it seems that this is exactly my condition. I speak in your sleep—it seems so. You listen every day; you listen in the morning, you listen in the evening; day and night my single refrain is: Now wake up. And now you ask, “As you command?” It is like the old saying: you listened to the story of Ram all night, and in the morning you asked, “Who was Sita to Ram?”

Here the very flavor is sannyas. It’s already been delayed too long—delay no more.

It is not true that saints have been against possessions; they have been against the attitude of possessiveness. Even a saint has to keep something—the begging bowl at least, the loincloth at least.
Some things are necessary in life. How much—that is not important. Because the human mind is such that it can get so attached even to a loincloth that it alone is enough to lead you to hell. You can cling to a single penny more fiercely than another man clings to the Koh-i-Noor. Another person can drop the Koh-i-Noor as if it were dust, and you can grip a penny as if it were your very life. So it is not a question of the object, nor even of the quantity; it is a question of the inner attitude.
A master once sent his young monk to King Janaka. The monk had stayed with his master for many years and learned nothing. Then the master said, “Go to Janaka; perhaps he can teach you.” So he went with great hope. He had lived among sannyasins for years; he might not have become understanding, but he had learned plenty of words. Wisdom may not have awakened, but memory was well stocked—he had become a scholar, not a sage.
When he reached Janaka’s court it was evening. Janaka was seated in his hall; courtesans were dancing, half-naked; wine was being poured; the emperor sat in the center, courtiers around—great revelry. The monk was shocked. He could not contain himself. He said, “Your Majesty! I came in search of knowledge, and here ignorance is dancing naked. And what can you teach me! My master has gone too far—he must be punishing me, to send me here. For what karma have I been sent to see you? I could not learn with my master, who is non-possessive, who has renounced everything—what will I learn from you, sitting in a palace amid wine and women?”
Janaka said, “Since you have come, at least accept our hospitality for the night. In the morning we will talk.” In the morning Janaka woke him and took him to the river behind the palace to bathe: “Bathe, do your worship, then we will sit for satsang.” The monk was itching to run away. But he thought, “One cannot refuse a king—whether wise or not, he surely has power. Refuse him, create a scene, he could get angry, have my head cut off—anything! Endure it a day or two; I have fallen into bad company.” Thinking thus, he went with Janaka to the river. Both laid their clothes on the bank. Janaka’s garments were precious, studded with jewels. The monk had only a loincloth; he set his spare one on the bank and, wearing one, stepped into the water.
While they were bathing, the monk suddenly shouted, “Look! Your palace is on fire!” Great flames were rising; the palace was burning. Janaka looked and said, “Yes, it is.” But he did not stir, did not move, did not run. The monk cried, “How can you stand here? Run, save it!” Janaka said, “It is a palace—what of it? I came without a palace; I will go without a palace.” The monk said, “Do as you please; as for me, my loincloth is lying near the palace—I’m going!” He ran: “I have only one extra loincloth; it must not be lost.” As he picked up the loincloth, the point dawned on him.
The issue is not the possession of objects; it is the attitude. Do not ask about quantity—ask about the inner understanding.
It is mentioned in the life of Jesus: Jesus came to Jerokam. The town’s headman, Jerokam, scattered countless gold coins along the road and said, “Lord, kindly accept my humble offering.” Jesus picked up a single copper coin and said, “Take the rest back. I have taken as much as was within my capacity. The weight of this copper coin I will not have to carry for long. I will give it to the boatman; he will take me across the river.”
If you ask in terms of quantity, then this: as much as is needed to cross the river. It is a very sweet story. Jerokam spread gold coins on the path and asked Jesus to accept them. He was the richest man of his time. Jesus glanced here and there—since it was an offering, he could not refuse outright—so he picked up one copper coin and said, “This is enough for me.” Jerokam must have thought, “What will you do with a copper coin? What can be done with just one?” He asked, “What will you do with it?” Jesus said, “I will meet a boatman at the river; I will give it to him, and he will ferry me across. For crossing the river, this is sufficient. I will not have to carry the burden of it for long—only till the river. Then I will hand it to the boatman and I will be on the other shore.”
It is a symbolic story. Whether it happened or not is not the point. Keep only so much as is needed to cross the river of life. But remember, the real question is the attitude. You can clutch even a copper coin so tightly that it becomes your noose. The tighter you grip, the more that grip becomes your gallows. Hold things lightly. And the moment the time to let go arrives, do not hesitate even for a single instant.
Nor am I telling you to drop everything today and run away. Where will you run? Somewhere you will put up a roof. Your roof is not evil. You will live with someone; your wife and children are not evil. Where will you go by running? The world is everywhere. Do not get into the race of renunciation.
There are two kinds of races in the world, and two kinds of madmen. One lot is running so that there may be more; the other lot is running so that there may be less. The hedonist runs for increase; the yogi, the renunciate, runs for decrease. But both are discontent. Discontent with what is. The hedonist says, “If there is more, I will be happy.” The renunciate says, “If there is less, I will be happy.” But with what is, neither of them is happy.
The name of the one who has asked is Bhogilal-bhai. If you drop everything and run away, then I’ll give you a new name—Yogilal-bhai. What else can I do? But you will still be you. It’s a matter of the feeling within you.
Earlier you used to cling; then you will begin to let go—but even then you will not be fulfilled. I call him a sannyasin who is content with what is. However God keeps us, thus we live. Whatever has been given, as it is, we are at ease with it. If the Lord takes, we are ready to be taken from today. And if he gives, we are ready to receive even more—no quibbling.

And if he were to shower down gold coins, breaking the roof, we would not refuse, saying, “I am not a sensualist, I am a renunciate—what are you doing? What injustice is this!” Or if today he were to carry everything off from the house—God is a robber indeed; that is why we call him Hari: Hari means the one who takes away, who steals. He is a thief indeed—here he gives, there he also snatches away. Today he gives, tomorrow he may take. And in between you will get into great, unnecessary entanglements.

There is a Sufi story. A fakir had two beloved sons, twin boys. They were the pride of the town. Even the emperor, seeing those boys, was filled with envy. The emperor’s sons were neither so handsome nor so gifted. Those two boys were the light of that village; their conduct was equally gracious and noble. The Sufi fakir loved them so much he never ate without them, never went to sleep at night without them.

One day, returning home from the mosque after prayer, as soon as he arrived he asked, “Where are the boys?” This was his daily habit. His wife said, “First eat, then I’ll tell you; it’s a bit of a long story.” But he said, “Where are my sons?” She said, “Shall I ask you something? Twenty years ago a wealthy man of the village left with me, in trust, a pouch filled with diamonds and jewels. Today he came to take it back. Should I have given it or not?” The fakir said, “Foolish woman, is this even a question? It was his trust. He gave it; it remained with us for twenty years—does that make us the owners? Why didn’t you give it? And you waited to ask me? What kind of thing is this! You should have given it at once—the matter would be settled.” She said, “If you’ve come to that, then there is no obstacle.”

She took him into the next room. The two sons had drowned in the river. They had gone to swim and drowned. Their bodies lay there; she had covered them with a sheet and strewn flowers upon them. She said, “This is why I wanted you to eat first. The wealthy one who gave us these diamonds and jewels twenty years ago came today to take them back—and you say they should have been returned, so I returned them.”

This is the attitude. He gave, he took. In between, don’t become the owner. There should be no sense of proprietorship. Possessions may be vast, but the sense of ownership should not be. You may have a great kingdom, yet live in it as if nothing is yours. Nothing is yours anyway. It belongs to the One to whom it belongs. All the land is Gopal’s. He knows. For a little while you have been made the trustee—take care. Do your brief trusteeship, but don’t become the owner. Do not forget: the One who gave will take. As long as it is given—thank you! When it is taken—thank you still! When given, make use of it; when taken, make use of that hour of taking too. This is the art of the sannyasin; this is the art of sannyas.

Sannyas is neither to leave nor to cling. Neither indulgence nor renunciation. Sannyas is freedom from both. Sannyas is the name of offering everything to the Lord. If nothing is mine, what is there to renounce? So whatever is, use it—and in that use keep one attention: use it in such a way that you can cross the river.

On the surface the difference may not be visible, but inwardly the difference is immense.

Sangha means: within a gathering there stands an awakened one at the center. Without a Buddha there is no sangha. A sangha does not exist because of the sangha; it exists because of the Buddha. So understand the word sangha. Many unlit lamps are placed together and one lamp in the center is burning—then there is a sangha. Those many unlit lamps are slowly, slowly moving toward the lit lamp. They have come close only to be lit; that very yearning has brought them near. These unlit lamps are not connected with one another; they have no relation to the unlit lamp next to them. All their eyes are fixed on the lit lamp; each one’s relationship is with that lit lamp.

I have so many sannyasins. They have no relationship with one another. If they are near each other it is only because both are near me—no other reason. You are sitting here; people from so many countries are sitting here. The person next to you may be from England, Iran, Africa, Japan, America, Sweden, Switzerland, France, Italy. You have no relationship with the person sitting beside you, nor with the woman sitting near you. Your relationship is with me, and his relationship is with me. Both your eyes are on me. Although you are all sitting together, you are not directly connected with each other.

Sangha means: where there is one lit lamp and all the unlit lamps have their eyes fixed on it; they are edging toward that center, gently but with sure steps—an inch at a time, yet moving; a drop at a time, yet awakening. The moment the two wicks come very close, there is a leap: the flame of the lit lamp descends into the unlit lamp. Light is kindled from light. The flame of the lit lamp does not lessen even a little; the flame of the unlit lamp blazes. The unlit one receives; the lit one does not become any less.

This is satsang. The giver does not become poorer. And for the one who receives—how to speak of it!—how much he receives!

The Upanishads say: even if you take the whole away from the Whole, the Whole still remains. In satsang this happens every day. The incomparable utterance of the Ishavasya is enacted daily in satsang. Satsang means: someone has become whole; even if you take wholeness from him, he remains whole. Nothing is diminished there. You were empty—you become full; your vessel brims over, begins to overflow. And not a mere spillage—such an overflow that now even if someone takes fullness from you, you do not become empty.

Sangha means: at the center there is an awakened person—a Buddha, a Jina, one who has conquered himself and awakened to himself—godliness at the center; around him gather the unlit ones, the sleepers. Granted, they are asleep, but at least a dream of awakening has arisen in their lives. They have not awakened—true—but the dream of awakening has come; they have begun to move towards awakening, they have begun to grope. In the dark they grope—groping cannot yet be orderly—but the hints begin to come.

Sometimes you see it in the morning: the sleep has not broken, and you have not quite awakened either—such a state comes. There is still a light sleep and a light waking too—the milkman is at the door, you seem to hear him; your wife has begun making tea in the kitchen, the sound of utensils reaches you; the children are getting ready for school, their squabbles and clamor are heard; all this is heard, and yet you are not awake, and you are not fully asleep either. This in-between state is called in yoga tandra—drowsiness—between waking and sleep.

Sangha means: those utterly asleep in the thick night do not come near a Buddha; those who are already awake have no need to come—one who has awakened, who has become a Buddha unto himself, why should he come? For what? And the one fast asleep—how will he come? He will pass by a Buddha and feel no thrill. He will pass through the Buddha’s breeze and not even feel its touch. He is deeply asleep. Between these two are the people who are neither awakened enough to be Buddhas nor so asleep that they have no longing to become Buddhas. From those filled with drowsiness yet aflame with the urge to be lit, from those unlit lamps with the longing to burn—a sangha is formed.

But the fundamental basis of a sangha is the awakened one at the center.

The second word is organization. The day the Buddha departs, the lit lamp dissolves—he attains nirvana. But what he said, the structure he gave, the discipline he offered—the words of the shasta (the living teacher) remain; on the basis of those words—the shastra (scripture)—what gets built is an organization. The charm of the sangha is no longer there; the life of the sangha has gone. Organization is a dead sangha. There is a faint echo: once there was the company of an awakened one, once we sat near him, once his fragrance filled our nostrils, once his flute’s bewitching note reached our drowsiness, once someone by his very being gave us proof that God is; once his words tickled our hearts and closed buds opened; once someone shone upon us like the sun and we began to sprout—this is remembered. Sruti remains, smriti remains, scripture remains—the shasta is gone, the shastra remains. Understand the relation between shasta and shastra; the same is the relation between sangha and organization.

The shasta was alive. He was what he spoke. Then only the voice remains, the collection, the canon. The speaker is gone. Now if you ask new questions, answers will not be found; only if you ask the old questions, to which answers were given, will you get answers. There is no fresh sensitivity now, no fresh living voice, no new wave arising, no new flute playing—a record remains. Shastra means a record. The singer has gone; the record remains. Place it on the gramophone and it sounds as if the singer is there—as if! But a record is a record. And if a living person could not transform you, how will a record transform you?

When a sangha dies—meaning the shasta departs—an organization is born. The words of the shasta remain. For example, the Sikhs had ten gurus. As long as there were the ten gurus, Sikh dharma was a sangha. The day the last guru decided there would be no more gurus and the Guru Granth would be the guru, from that day it was an organization. As long as Buddha lived, there was a sangha. When Buddha had gone, the monks gathered and poured out their memories, prepared records of who had heard Buddha say what, when; all the monks combed through their memories and compiled them—three scriptures were made, the Tripitaka. Each poured out what he had heard Buddha say, as he had understood it; then an organization arose. Buddha went; the memory remained.

Then comes a moment when not only the shasta is absent, even the shastra is no longer really there; then we call the condition a group. We ourselves decide what our discipline will be—how we shall get up, sit, relate to one another.

Understand the difference.

When Buddha was alive, all eyes were on Buddha; all were connected to Buddha. Even if they were close to one another, it did not matter; there was no togetherness among themselves. The togetherness was with Buddha. They were alongside each other because all were moving in one direction, so they were together by coincidence—nothing more.

Buddha goes; the scripture remains. The connection will no longer be with Buddha, but with Buddha’s words. Naturally, those who can interpret Buddha’s words well—the pundits and priests—become important. The interpreters become important. And interpreters will not be one, they will be many.

The moment Buddha dies, his sangha breaks into many branches. It must, because someone gives one interpretation, someone another. Now interpreters are free; Buddha is not present to say, “No, that is not what I said; this is what I meant.” While Buddha was present these interpreters could not even raise their heads—because when the Buddha himself is here, who will listen to someone else about what Buddha said! As soon as Buddha steps aside, great philosophers arise, pundits arise, differing interpretations, differing sects—great differences, great disputes. So many differences, so many quarrels over the words of a single man!

And naturally each person joins the interpreter whose meaning seems right to him. The relationship is no longer with Buddha but with the interpreters. Buddha was an awakened one, so in a relationship between the awakened and the asleep there is some benefit. But these interpreters are as asleep as you are—asleep relating to asleep—so an organization is formed.

Yet even so, these interpreters at least interpret Buddha’s words. A distant resonance—very distant—the call to Buddha has grown faint; still, perhaps they heard Buddha’s words, perhaps distorted them, cut and trimmed them, twisted them—yet something of Buddha’s word lingers, some tint remains.

You pass through this garden and reach home. The garden is far, the trees far, the flowers far—yet you will find a slight fragrance has come along in your clothes. Your clothes remind you that you passed through a garden. A faint coloring remains—that is organization.

When even that coloring fades, when interpretations of interpreters begin, when even the interpreters are no longer present—those who saw, heard, understood Buddha—and now those who heard them begin to interpret—then the distance has become very great; that condition becomes the group. Now the asleep, the blind, begin to lead other blind people.

Understand it this way: the Buddha had eyes; the interpreters at least had spectacles; these interpreters-of-interpreters don’t even have spectacles. They are just as blind as you. Perhaps they are more skilled at speaking, perhaps more skilled at argument, perhaps their memory is better, perhaps they have studied more—but there is no other difference, no difference in consciousness. Not even the small difference that they lived in the Buddha’s presence. Not even that. That is the group.

Then a time also comes when even they are not there, when no arrangement remains, when arrangement itself has become zero—and when the blind begin to bump into one another—that is called the crowd.

These four words have distinct meanings. Sangha: the shasta is alive. Organization: the shasta’s words are effective. Group: the shasta’s words too are lost but some arrangement still remains. Crowd: the arrangement is gone; only anarchy remains.

I am in favor of the sangha. Not in favor of the organization. How could I be in favor of the group! Leave aside the crowd!!

If you ever find a living awakened one, then plunge into his sangha. Such opportunities come very rarely on the earth—once in a while. Do not miss them. If you miss, you will regret much—and by regretting nothing happens. “What use to repent when the birds have eaten the field?” Then people weep for centuries.

Many times it must come to your mind too: if only we had been in Buddha’s time! If only we had walked with Mahavira in his footsteps! If only we had seen Jesus to our heart’s content! Or if only we had heard Muhammad’s words! If only we had danced around Krishna hearing that sweet flute! This is remorse.

You too were present—you surely were—because you are very ancient. You are as ancient as existence itself—you have always been here. Who knows how many awakened ones you have seen pass by you, but you could not see. Then repentance does nothing. What is gone is gone. What is past is past. Seek now so that this moment does not pass. Use this moment.

Therefore Buddha says again and again: do not spend even a single moment in sleep. Wake up, seek. If there is thirst, water will be found. If there is inquiry, the guru will be found. No search toward the divine ever goes in vain. No step taken toward God is ever wasted.

Good. Let it flare up. Only a dead disciple never rebels. Rebellion is energy; if you repress it, it becomes poison, if you watch it, it becomes fuel for awareness.

Remember, your criticism cannot harm me; it can only cloud you. When you throw mud at the sky, the sky is not stained—only your hands are. Do not be frightened by old sayings. “Whoever maligns the guru finds no place” was invented by priests to protect their thrones. A living master does not need your fear; he invites your intelligence. If your trust cannot pass through the fire of doubt, it is not trust—it is decoration borrowed from others.

I do not ask you to stop your rebellion; I ask you to bring it into the light. Two things to remember:

- Do not gossip. Gossip is the coward’s rebellion. If something burns in you about me, bring it to me. Say it to my face. In presence, many storms simply evaporate.
- Do not suppress. Suppression creates guilt, and guilt is the stick with which the old mind beats you back into slavery. Watch the revolt silently, without condemnation and without justification. Just watch.

When you watch, you will see layers:
- The first layer is usually hurt ego—some expectation not met, some idea of how I should be not fulfilled. Let that be seen; seeing dissolves it.
- The second layer is borrowed fear—scriptures, proverbs, “guru-ninda” and all that. Recognize it as not yours and it falls away.
- If something remains after these two layers—some factual question, some real contradiction—bring it to me. Then your rebellion becomes an inquiry, and inquiry is sacred.

Do not worry about losing “refuge.” The only refuge is your own awareness. If your condemnation wakes you up, it has served a purpose; if your praise puts you to sleep, it is dangerous. I am not interested in your praise; I am interested in your awakening. Praise and blame are two wings of the same mind; I want you beyond both.

What to do when the fire arises?

- Sit silently. Breathe a little deeper, a little slower. Put your attention in the heart. Watch the heat in the belly, the thoughts in the head, as if clouds passing.
- Ask: “Is this my wounded pride? Is this someone else’s belief speaking through me? Or is there a simple, intelligent question here?” Do not answer—just ask and watch.
- If clarity comes, act. If it is hurt—laugh and let it go. If it is borrowed—return it to the marketplace. If it is a real question—come to me with it.
- And when you speak, speak totally. Then be finished with it; do not repeat it in a hundred corners. Unfinished things become poison.

Remember, love and rebellion are not enemies. Real love contains the courage to question. And real rebellion, when lived consciously, becomes love. If you are true to your experience, sooner or later gratitude will arise on its own—not out of fear, not out of duty, but out of understanding.

Even if you go on condemning me, my love for you will not change. But your condemnation will keep you circling outside your own center. Use the same energy differently: turn the arrow back toward awareness. Then even your rebellion will become a step toward the temple.

There is repentance—and there is repentance. One kind is nothing but futile worry: you keep looking back and thinking, “If only I hadn’t done that… if only I had done this; if this had happened, if that hadn’t happened, it would have been good.” That kind of repentance is simply a useless lament. The milk has been spilled on the floor; you cannot gather it back. And even if you did, it wouldn’t be fit to drink. What is gone is gone. Scratching the same wound again and again has no value.

If by repentance you mean this—constantly turning back, crying and brooding, saying, “It would have been better if I hadn’t done that”—but what has happened has happened; there is no way now to undo it. Remember, no change can be made in the past. This is a fundamental principle: no change can be made in the past. What has happened has happened definitively. You cannot add a single line to it, nor subtract one. It is no longer in our hands. The matter has slipped from our grasp. The arrow has left the bow; it cannot be returned to the quiver. So what is the point of weeping over it?

If that is your meaning of repentance—as it usually is… People say, “I’m repenting, repenting a lot: I shouldn’t have done that; I abused so-and-so, I shouldn’t have; I wanted to buy a lottery ticket and that very number was available and I didn’t buy it—today I would have been a millionaire; I should have placed my bet on that horse; I should have done this, done that; I should have stood for election on the party’s ticket this time.” If you keep thinking of the past like this, nothing is gained; in fact you lose—because then you cannot see the future, you cannot see the present; your eyes remain filled with smoke. Let the past go. Keep your eyes open, clear. What is done is done; what has not yet happened—there something can be done.

So in that sense, never repent; do not brood over the past.

But repentance has another meaning too: that you learn from the past, you distill the experience of the past, you catch a small ray of wisdom from it; you don’t let whatever happened just happen and pass—rather, you take some lessons from it, and in accordance with those lessons you move life forward, you take your next steps.

Listen to a small story:
There was a Sufi saint, a great devotee of God. He had the rule of offering namaz five times a day. One day he was exhausted and fell asleep. When the time for namaz came, someone came and shook him awake, “Get up, get up, it’s time for the prayer.” He sat up at once and was very grateful. He said, “Brother, you did me a great kindness. What would have happened if my worship had been missed! At least tell me your name.” The man said, “Let the name be—you’ll get entangled.” But the saint insisted, “At least let me know your name so I may thank you.” Then he said, “If you insist—my name is Iblis.”

Iblis is the name of the Devil. The saint was astonished. “Iblis? The Devil? But your job is to keep people from worship and religion—so why did you come to wake me? This is most strange. I’ve never heard of it, never read it; neither seen with the eyes nor heard with the ears; there is no mention in the scriptures that Iblis goes around waking people, saying, ‘Get up, get up, it’s time for namaz.’ What has happened to you? Has your heart changed?”

The Devil said, “No, brother, this is in my interest. Once before you had fallen asleep like this. When the time for namaz passed, I was very happy; but when you woke up you wept so much, you were so pained, you called upon God from the depths of your heart, and you swore so earnestly, ‘I will never sleep again, I will never forget again; forgive me now.’ Since then years have passed—you have not slept again, you have not missed a single prayer. Today I saw you fall asleep again. If I don’t wake you, there will be trouble—you will learn yet another lesson from it. So I thought, better you say one prayer; that will be less damaging for me. Because the benefit you got from that last miss was greater than all the prayers you had done in your life put together.”

Understand this difference.
You kept offering namaz every day, morning and evening, five times—but you did not gain as much as you gained the last time you overslept and then woke and repented; the way you suffered, the way you cried, the way you sobbed and writhed, dragged yourself on the floor, beat your head, remembered the Lord as you did—on that day your prayer reached God! And since then years have passed; I tried hard to make you sleep again, tried everything, but you never slept—you prayed under every circumstance. Today, tired and worn out, you fell asleep; I feared that if you again slept through, who knows how much benefit you would derive from that atonement, that repentance!

Repentance and repentance are different. It is not about mere weeping; it is about learning. If you learn, there is great benefit—then every mistake you have made becomes useful. Every mistake turns to gold, if you learn. If you do not learn, even what you did right turns to dust.

Keep this arithmetic in mind. A mistake becomes gold if you learn from it. And a non-mistake becomes dust if you learn nothing. Everyone has experiences in life; a few learn from them. Those who learn become wise. Most do not. Everyone has more or less the same kinds of experiences, good and bad; but some sit hoarding a heap of experiences, never making a garland out of them. A few take the flowers of experience and, with the thread of learning, string them into a garland. They become a wreath around the neck of the Divine.

Keep the lesson in mind—what happened, happened. It could not have been otherwise. But because of its happening, you can become otherwise. Note this well: I call it wrong repentance when you think, “If only I had not done what I did, if only it had been otherwise, if only I had found some trick, then this would have happened, that would have happened; why did I do that, I should have asked someone, it was such a small thing—why did I miss?” Such repentance brings no benefit, because you are trying to change the past. Then repentance is futile.

If something happened in the past, take from it one experience: that I will change myself. You can change yourself—you are the future; you have not yet become, you are becoming; in that, change is possible. If you change, then repentance is immensely valuable. More than the prayer itself, the repentance for having missed it is the true prayer.

First of all, Gautam Buddha would not stay in one place for more than two or three weeks. I stay in one place four or five years at a stretch, so you cannot put this blame on me that I keep changing places again and again. Buddha went on changing his whole life. But he did not change because of a problem, and I too do not change because of a problem. When Ananda said to him, “Let us go to another village, because the people of this village abuse us,” he did not move—he did not move for that reason. He said, “What is the point of changing for that reason!” Do not take it to mean that he did not change places. He did change—he changed a great deal—but he said changing for that reason is wrong.

He even moved from that place eventually; after all, he did leave. But he did not go as long as that problem was pricking like a thorn and the monks wanted to move—he did not go till then. When the monks listened to him and understood, when they agreed and began to wait patiently, when the idea of going elsewhere no longer remained in their minds—then he left. But he did not go because of the problem.

I also do not change because of problems. Problems are the same everywhere. In fact, the truth is that if you stay somewhere for two, four, five years, the problems lessen. People become reconciled—what will they do! I was in Jabalpur for years; slowly people came around. They thought, “It will be so—his mind must be off.” Those who wanted to listen, listened; those who did not, did not. It was decided: “All right—now what can you do with this man!” They created a commotion, wrote against me in the newspapers, took out processions—then what? How long can you keep it up! There are other things to do in the world; religion is not the only occupation. Who has so much spare time! Those who do not have time to pray—how long will they have time to oppose me? Think about it! In the end they reconciled themselves: “Fine—now leave it, forget it.” The day they agreed, that very day I left Jabalpur. There was no point in staying there any longer.

Then I set up base in Bombay. Slowly, slowly the people of Bombay too began to settle with it—“All right”—then I came to Poona. Now the people of Poona also are coming close to agreeing—now what am I to do! The time to go has come near. In Poona no one is angry now. I get letters from friends, from Poona’s sannyasins: “Now you are leaving, just when everything is becoming smooth! People are no longer angry; there isn’t as much opposition.”

People have their limits. If you keep patience, they give up—what will they do! How long can they go on breaking their heads! But as soon as it comes to that, the time to move arrives. Then we will go somewhere else—wherever people will break their heads, there we will go.

Places are not changed because of problems. When the problems get resolved, then we move—what is there to do here now, when there are no patients! Whoever could benefit has taken the benefit; for the unfortunate ones, sitting here longer will not help. Now somewhere else, from some other corner! Elsewhere too people are waiting. That is what is right.

I have stayed here long enough. Those who could take the benefit have taken it; their cups are full. For those I had come, their work is done. Yes, there is a big crowd in Poona, but I have nothing to do with that; for them I neither came nor stayed here. People are coming here from every corner of the world, but there are people in the neighborhood who have never come.

For those I came, their work is done. Now—somewhere else!

No one changes because of a problem—no buddha changes because of a problem.

Understand this little story—
A live coal drank the ghee of a rishi’s offerings and licked the juice of the oblations. After a while it cooled, turned to ash, and was thrown onto the rubbish heap. The next day, when the rishi poured an oblation onto a fresh ember, the ash cried out, “Master, are you angry with me today?” Compassion stirred in the rishi. He wiped the ladle and offered one oblation to the ash as well. On the third day, when the rishi began to offer on a new ember, the ash growled, “Hey! What are you doing there? Bring your oblations here!” The rishi replied calmly, “All right, ash, today I am indeed worthy only of your insult—because yesterday, in my foolishness, I committed the sin of offering an oblation to you, the unworthy.”

The satguru is ready to give even to the unworthy—but the unworthy are not ready to receive. That is precisely what “unworthy” means: one who is not ready to receive. Giving alone solves nothing. I am ready to give; if you are not ready to receive, what meaning will my giving have? Until you are ready, nothing can be given to you. If even gross things cannot be given, leave aside the subtle. If I present you with a garland of flowers and you throw it away—even a gross thing cannot be given—then the subtle? If I give you sannyas, if I give you meditation, if I give you love—you will throw those away too.

Remember the meaning of “worthy” and “unworthy.” Worthy means one who is a vessel—empty and ready to be filled. Unworthy means one who is closed, afraid of being filled, stubbornly clinging to emptiness. Give to the unworthy and he will discard it. Give to the unworthy and he will misuse it—he will treat diamonds like pebbles.

So try to understand your question.
“I have heard that the unworthy are not given initiation into sannyas.”
It is not that the satguru does not want to give; he does—but the unworthy do not take. And sometimes it may even happen that the unworthy says outwardly, “I want to take.” But the satguru looks within you; it is not about your surface. It is not about your speech; it is about your very life-breath. He sees whether you are ready within, or only on the outside—perhaps for quite other reasons you have agreed outwardly to take.

People come to me here. They say, “I want sannyas.” When I talk with them a little—“Why do you want it? What is the reason?”—the reasons I find often have nothing to do with sannyas.
A young man came to take sannyas. I asked, “What is the reason?” He said, “I cannot get a job.” Now because he can’t find employment he has thought, “Let me live in some ashram.” Do you consider this a sufficient reason for sannyas—‘I can’t get a job’? I said to him, “And if you do get a job?” He said, “If you could arrange one, it would be a great kindness!” I said, “And then what about sannyas?” He replied, “If you get me a job, there is no need for sannyas at all. I came only because I can’t get one; I’m tired of knocking about; standing at employment offices from morning till evening, nothing works out. If you get me one, what need is there for sannyas!”
It’s plain and simple. Someone is sick and thinks, “Perhaps sannyas…” A woman brought her son—he has been mentally disabled since childhood, his brain never developed—“Give him sannyas.” She drags him along: “Give him sannyas.” I ask her, “Does he want to take it?” She says, “He has no sense at all; what will he take or give!” I said, “Then why are you after it?”
She says, “Perhaps sannyas will cure his intelligence. Perhaps his brain is damaged—doctors have given up, psychologists say nothing can be done, there are no neural connections—so perhaps…”
But sannyas does not happen that way. Sannyas is the most unique event in this world. The unworthy can learn music if he puts in some effort. He can even compose poetry if he polishes his language a bit, manages his rhymes. He can learn to dance—even a lame man can learn to dance—if he practices. But sannyas? Sannyas is the beauty of the whole being. Sannyas is the ultimate statement. Sannyas is the final harmony. Sannyas is samadhi. Even those who pour their whole lives into it—if they attain, they are blessed indeed!

So you ask, “I have heard the unworthy are not given initiation into sannyas.”
There is no miserliness, no stinginess in the satguru’s giving—but the unworthy are not willing to receive. The unworthy do not take.
You ask, “Why is that?”
The matter is straightforward.
“And are the unworthy not deserving of the satguru’s compassion?”
The very word “deserving” is wrong. This is not some right you can claim. The word “deserving” itself reveals the state of the unworthy mind. No one is the “rightful claimant” of sannyas. It is not a legal right—like turning twenty-one and having the right to vote. You may have lived for many lifetimes and still not be “deserving” of sannyas. This worthiness has to be earned. It is less a right and more a responsibility. You have to grow into it, slowly. It is not a legal matter—“I want to take sannyas, so it must be given to me.” It comes as prasad, as grace. You can pray, not claim. You can fold your hands and sit at the feet: “I am ready. When your compassion showers on me, or when you see that I am worthy, then do not forget me. I sit here with my vessel ready.” You can pray; you cannot talk of rights. Speaking of rights is already part of unworthiness.

In life, what is important, beautiful, true—there can be no claims upon it. We can only invite it. We can say to the divine, “Come, and you will find my doors open. If you call, you will find me awake. I have decorated the house, lit incense, placed flowers, prepared your bed and pillow; I will wait with my eyelids spread like a carpet. If you come, I am blessed; if you do not come, I will understand I am not yet a worthy vessel.” This is the sign of the worthy. “If you come, I am blessed! If you come, I will understand it is grace. If you do not come, I will understand I am not yet worthy.”

The unworthy is just the opposite. If the divine comes, he thinks, “All right, he came—as was my due. He had to come; if he hadn’t, I would have shown him.” “He has to come; it is my right; it is my entitlement.” If he does not come, the unworthy becomes upset: “This is great injustice. There is injustice in the world—some get it, some don’t; there is partiality, favoritism, nepotism.” The unworthy has his own language.
The worthy too has a language. When the divine comes, the worthy says—“Prasad.” “I had no qualifications at all, and yet you came!” This is the language of the worthy—understand it; it is a very paradoxical language. The worthy says, “I was unworthy, and you came! I had no merit to even ask; there was no basis from which to demand—only your compassion, your love, your mercy. You are Rahim, you are Rahman, you are the great compassionate—therefore you came. Not because of any right. I am blessed, I am graced; this debt cannot be repaid. On me, the unworthy, you showered grace! You lifted your eyes toward me, the undeserving!” This is the language of the worthy.
The unworthy says, “I am worthy—who could be more worthy than I? And you still have not come? You are taking so long? It feels unjust.” The unworthy proclaims his own merit—“right” is the proclamation of merit.

No—sannyas is the supreme flower of life. It blossoms in spontaneity; it blossoms as grace. Send your invitation and wait. Go to the satguru, offer your invitation, make your submission: “If you call, I am ready.”

So many people come to me; among them there are three kinds. The highest comes and says, “I am ready. If you consider me worthy, give me sannyas. If you feel my preparation is not yet enough, I will wait. I leave it to you.” The highest says, “I leave it to you.” The second, a grade lower, says, “I have decided to take sannyas—give it to me.” And then there is a third, who says, “Do you want to give sannyas? If you give, I will think about whether to take it or not. I will consider it.”
Among these, the first stands very near to the temple of God, right at the door. The second is not too far. The third is far away. And there are even a fourth kind—who never come at all. They have no idea that there is such a thing as a temple of God; that there is a way of life called sannyas; that there is a dance of consciousness, a music, a poetry.

Buddhahood is the name of the supreme state of consciousness. It has nothing to do with a person. Just as Jinahood is the name of the final state of consciousness, and that too has nothing to do with a person. Jina is a state. In the same way, Buddha is a state.

Gautam became a Buddha; Buddhahood did not end with Gautam. Before Gautam there were many buddhas. Gautam Buddha himself mentioned them. And after Gautam there have been many buddhas. Naturally, Gautam Buddha could not mention those who came after him. Buddhahood means: awakened—one in whom awareness has dawned; who has reached his goal; for whom nothing remains to be attained; whose whole being has become luminous; who has slipped out of the earthen and become one with the conscious.

Understand this small Zen anecdote—
One day Master Pen Chi asked a monk who was sweeping the monastery, “Monk, what are you doing?” The monk said, “I am cleaning the ground, Master.” Then the Master asked something very astonishing—Zen masters do ask such things—he asked, “Are you doing this sweeping before Buddha, or after Buddha?”

Now, what kind of question is that! It has been thousands of years since Buddha, and this Master, himself established in Buddhahood, asks a monk who is sweeping: “Are you sweeping before Buddha or after Buddha?” The question seems mad. But paramahansas have often asked mad-sounding questions; there is great meaning in them.

Abraham is the patriarch of the Jews, their first prophet. There is a strong possibility that Abraham is simply another name for Ram—Ab Ram. “Ab” is only an honorific, as we say Shri Ram; so Ab Ram, and from Ab Ram came Abraham—there is a strong possibility. But Abraham is the first prophet, the first tirthankara for the Jews, the Muslims, the Christians; from him these three religions were born.

So when someone asked Jesus, What do you say about Abraham? Jesus said, I am even before Abraham. Now that sounds crazy! Jesus appeared thousands of years later, yet he says, I am before Abraham.

Zen Master Pen Chi asked a monk, This sweeping you are doing—are you doing it before Buddha or after Buddha? But the monk’s reply was even more astonishing than the master’s question. The monk said, Both—before Buddha and after Buddha. Both, before and after. The master laughed and patted his back.

Let us understand this. Thousands of years have passed since Buddha—the man Gautam Siddhartha became a Buddha—but being a Buddha did not end with him. It will continue. This monk who is sweeping still has to become a Buddha. Therefore every event is both—before Buddha and after Buddha. Buddhahood is a continuous stream. This is the eternal law. We are always in the middle. Before us there have been Buddhas; after us there will be Buddhas; we too have to become Buddhas. It did not all conclude with Gautam.

But our eyes often stop at the boundary. We saw that Gautam became a Buddha, a lamp was lit; we clutched at the lamp—look at the flame! The flame is eternal. It descended into this lamp, it has been descending into lamps, and it will go on descending into lamps.

So Jesus is right when he says, Even before Abraham I am. This light that I am—this is not a historical event; it is eternal, it is Sanatan. Abraham came later—after this light; it is because of this light that he happened, the same light because of which I have happened. This supreme light is eternal. It has neither beginning nor end.

Buddha mentioned the Buddhas of his past lives—he spoke of twenty-four Buddhas. In one account it is said: in the time of that Buddha I went to him. Gautam had not yet become Buddha. I bowed and touched the enlightened one’s feet. As I stood up I was startled, because the Buddha had bowed and touched my feet. I was very flustered. I said, It is right that I should touch your feet—the blind bow before one who has eyes; but you have touched my feet—what sin have you loaded upon me! What am I to do now?

The Buddha laughed. He said, You do not know; sooner or later you too will become a Buddha. We live in the eternal; we do not keep count of moments. I became a Buddha today, you will become one tomorrow—what difference does it make? Today and tomorrow are in a dream. From beyond today and tomorrow—from the eternal—I am seeing.

Then, when Buddha himself attained Buddhahood—when Gautam attained Buddhahood—do you know what he said? He said, The day I attained Buddhahood, that day I opened my eyes and understood what that ancient Buddha had said—he was right. The day I became a Buddha I saw that everyone already has the state of Buddhahood; people do not know it, but the state is there. Now blind people come to me, but I know—they are sitting with their eyes closed. They have eyes—though they may not know it. They have kept their eyes closed so long they have forgotten; perhaps they never opened them, perhaps since childhood they have been closed, perhaps for lifetimes.

Buddha says: Now whoever comes to me thinks he has to attain something; and I look within him and see that the flame is already lit. One only has to turn the gaze inward a little, to seek oneself, to search and feel around for oneself.

The very meaning of truth is: the infinite. The search for truth has no end. The search for truth has a beginning, but no end. The journey begins, but it is never finished. It cannot be finished. Because if the journey were to be completed, it would mean that truth is also limited. You have reached the last boundary—then what lies beyond it?
No, truth is boundless. This is what we have said again and again in many ways—the divine is infinite, limitless, immeasurable, expansive, vast. If you enter the ocean, it is true that you have entered the ocean; but you have not attained the whole ocean—so much of the ocean still remains. You go on swimming, keep on swimming—still the ocean remains, and remains; the more you cross, the more remains.

And yet, the ocean might eventually run out—our oceans are very large, but not infinitely large; if one kept on swimming, kept on swimming, the other shore would arrive. The divine has no other shore. The divine has no shore at all. That is why we call it the infinite.

Truth is boundless, infinite. Therefore the end of the search for truth? No—there is no end.

Understand this small incident—
There was a great American sage—John Dewey. He used to say that life is the very name of interest in life. The day that interest is gone, life too is gone. The search for truth is an interest in searching. The issue is less in truth itself than in the search. The joy is not of the destination, but of the journey. The joy is less in union than in the waiting.

While conversing with him on his ninetieth birthday, a doctor friend said, “Philosophy—what is there in it? Tell me, you tell me, what’s in philosophy?” Dewey said calmly, “The benefit of philosophy is that, after studying it, climbing mountains becomes possible.” The doctor didn’t understand. Still he said, “All right, granted—granted that this is the benefit of philosophy, that it makes climbing mountains possible. But what is the benefit of climbing mountains?” Dewey laughed and said, “The benefit is this: after you climb one mountain, another mountain appears—one that seems difficult to climb. Beyond that, a third. Beyond that, a fourth. And as long as this sequence and this challenge remain, there is life.”

The day nothing remains to climb—no lure, no challenge—on that very day, death will happen. And what we call death is not; it is life itself. You climb one mountain, perhaps in the hope that once you’ve climbed it—this is the last one—beyond this there is nothing; now you will rest, pull up a blanket, and sleep. But when you climb the mountain, you find another peak waiting ahead of you—greater, vaster, more golden. Again a challenge rises within you. Again you set out. You think that now you will pitch camp on this one. The day you reach the summit—only on reaching the summit does the beyond become visible; before that it does not—then you see an even greater mountain, glittering with gems and gold; it is hard to stop. Mountain after mountain, like that.

The search for truth is an endless search. It is a journey that never concludes. That it does not end is auspicious. If it were to end, life would be over.

We are travelers of the Infinite. Esa dhammo sanantano.
That’s all for today.