Es Dhammo Sanantano #102

The one who can glimpse the vast in the tiniest of things is wise. The one who can see the infinite reflected in an atom is wise. The one who, even in the small, does not see smallness, but beholds the All-Self within the least—only that one is wise.

The truths of life are not hidden somewhere far away in the sky. They are written all around you, here and now. On every leaf and every speck, the Veda of life is inscribed. If you have eyes to see, you need not pore over scriptures at all, for the Great Scripture surrounds you. In the incidents of your own life, Truth has taken a thousand shapes. You need not run to the life of some avatar; the Divine is incarnate within you as well.

If you begin to see rightly—what Buddha calls samyak-drishti, a clear, exact seeing—then, gathering drop by drop, an ocean of nectar will collect within you. And indeed, oceans fill drop by drop. Do not refuse the drop; otherwise the ocean will never fill. Do not dismiss the drop by saying, “What is there in a drop? We want the ocean.” The one who rejects the drop remains deprived of the ocean too, for the ocean is made of drops.

Collecting the small flowers of life is not enough; string them on the thread of awareness so they form a garland. Some people do gather their life’s experiences, but they learn nothing from them. The flowers pile up, but no garland is made. When many experiences of your life are threaded on a single string, when many life events begin to point in one direction, then a sutra is found within your life.

This is why we call the Buddha’s sayings “sutras”—threads. They are the hidden string running through many experiences. They are not squeezed out of a single event, but hold within them many blossoms of experience.

And notice, when a garland is made, you see the flowers but not the thread. What is unseen is what holds all together. Because these verses seize that invisible, we call them sutras.

Yet even making a garland is not everything. There are three types of people in the world. First, those who pile up flowers and never make a garland. In their lives too what happens to the Buddhas happens: drops arrive, but they never see the ocean in those drops. The drops come one by one, and because they see only drops, they keep rejecting them. So there is never a meeting with the ocean. The second type welcomes every drop, collects them all, and threads them on the string of understanding. In them, intelligence is born.

But beyond this intelligence there is a higher knowing, prajna—wisdom beyond intellect. Gather the flowers and pile them up—they will still decay. Make a garland—it too will decay. Flowers are fleeting. This is not the way to keep them. Flowers bloom in time; from within them you must discover the timeless. Before the blossoms wilt, let a fragrance come into your hands that never fades.

There is no real gain in hoarding flowers—piling them up is not only useless, it is harmful, because what smells sweet today will stink tomorrow. Gathered flowers will rot. Here, everything rots.

So a wise person does not collect flowers. Before they decay, he makes garlands. But even garlands he does not hoard. Before the garlands decay, he distills perfume from them. To draw out fragrance means to separate the essence from the nonessential, to keep what is essential and let the rest go. From thousands of flowers only a little attar is obtained. The flowers then wither, but the attar never does. Flowers are born in time and merge back into time; fragrance dissolves into the Eternal. Fragrance is timeless. Eso dhammo sanantano—such is the eternal law.

When from the little flowers of experience you sift out the nonessential and gather the essential, dharma comes into your hands—eternal dharma, the timeless law. The supreme law of life falls into your grasp.

The foolish hoard, the intelligent make garlands, and the one skilled in Buddhahood—the wise—lets the nonessential go and gathers the essential. He does not cling to the visible; he seizes the invisible. He asks: what is the thread of fragrance hidden in the flower? He saves only that. As for the rest—though vast—he does not value it. From thousands of flowers a drop of attar is drawn, yet that alone was the flower’s fragrance. The flowers themselves were nothing; their scent, diffused through the thousands, made the fragrance. This is what he extracts: the timeless from within time. This fragrance is nirvana. This fragrance is liberating. This is what fills your life with the supreme perfume.

See the tiny stories of Buddha I am sharing with you in this light. Small incidents—yet they occur in your life as well, in everyone’s. Life is an aggregate of happenings. Every day there are only incidents upon incidents. You too pass through them—morning and evening; office, market, home, fields, threshing floors; in crowds and in solitude—the same happenings. But you have not learned the art of extracting fragrance from them. Either you keep piling them up, increasing your burden, and then they rot and stink. The decayed past clings behind you, the dead past sits on your head and won’t let you live. How will you live with that dead past—now a ghost—squatting on your chest?

Instead of distilling attar from the past, you let the past’s phantoms obstruct your life. They spin webs around your every move. Those obstructions are what we call “the world.” Your past is your world. And that very past goads your future. The dead past seeks to repeat itself, to be born again. The same cravings that drove you through certain events in the past will drive you through them again. Your tomorrow will be almost a repetition of your yesterday.

Then life has no meaning. Yesterday is gone—if there was anything to gain, you would have gained it. You will repeat it tomorrow—and gain nothing then either. Thus you come empty and go empty; your begging bowl never fills, your beggarliness never ends.

The experiences you see in these Buddha-stories pass by you too. You may have felt: these are not incidents from some distant sky but of this very earth. Yet what is Buddha’s art? He seizes a tiny incident in the moment and distills fragrance from it. And when you see that attar, you are astonished.

Today’s sutra—its context:

The king of Kosala had a mighty elephant named Baddarika. His strength and valor were renowned far and wide. People said no elephant had ever been seen so adept in war. Great emperors desired to buy him, to possess him. Every eye of the powerful was on that elephant. He was a peerless warrior. No one had ever seen him flee the battlefield. However fierce the combat, however thick the arrows and flying spears, he stood like an immovable rock. His trumpet alone sank enemies’ hearts. He had served his master, the king of Kosala, well—winning many wars.

But then he grew old, and one day he got stuck in the mud of a pond. Age had so weakened him he could not free himself. He tried hard, but he could not get out. The king’s servants tried every means; all failed.

All were saddened to see such a famous elephant in such a plight. A huge crowd gathered by the pond. He was beloved of the whole capital; the whole countryside loved him; children and old alike cherished him. His eyes and behavior had always reflected intelligence.

The king sent many mahouts, but they too failed. No way out was visible. Then the king himself came. Seeing his old servant in such suffering, he too was moved. At the king’s arrival, the whole capital thronged to the pond.

The king remembered the elephant’s former mahout. He too had grown old, retired from service, and spent his days immersed in the teachings of the Blessed One. The king honored him deeply. He thought, perhaps this old mahout could help. It was as if the two had been together for lifetimes—this elephant and this mahout. Buddha says in his tales: you are not with this elephant only this time—you have been before. All of life is interconnected. In this life at least they had been together: the elephant grew up with him, came of age with him, and grew old with him. He had seen the elephant in all conditions—at peace and at war—and knew him through and through. The king remembered—maybe only this old mahout could do something.

They sent for him. The old mahout came. Seeing his extraordinary old companion mired in mud, he laughed—burst out laughing—and from the bank he had the war-drums sounded. At the sound of battle-drums, the old elephant suddenly became young again, rose from the muck, and climbed to the bank. He forgot his age and weakness. The sleeping warrior awoke, the challenge struck home—and that did it. It took not a moment more.

All other methods had failed, but the clang of battle—the beating drums—awoke his dormant valor. His sluggish blood ran again. For a moment he forgot—old memories must have surged back—he was young again.

Not even a moment’s delay—though it was late in the day and every other attempt had failed—he came out with such zest, such simplicity and ease, as if there were no mud at all, as if he had never been stuck. On reaching the bank he trumpeted with such exultation that no one had heard his roar like that for years. That elephant was full of Self. He was the very embodiment of resolve.

Many of the Blessed One’s bhikkhus had gone along with that old mahout to the pond. They returned and told the entire incident to the Master. And do you know what he said?

The Blessed One said: Bhikkhus, learn something from that extraordinary elephant. He freed himself from the mud—how long will you remain stuck? And do you not hear that I have been beating the war-drum for so long? Bhikkhus, awaken—and awaken your resolve. The elephant did it. That frail old elephant did it. Will you not do it? You—human, strong, intelligent—will you not do it? Are you worse than that elephant? Accept the challenge. Be self-possessed. A revolution can happen in a single instant. In a single moment. Let remembrance come—let that which sleeps within you awaken—and there is no weakness, no meekness. Let remembrance come—and there is no mud, and you were never stuck; you will step out just like that. Bhikkhus, have faith in your strength. Haste is needed, bhikkhus, urgency is needed. The work is done in a single instant; it is not a matter of years, provided your whole strength is gathered in one moment, totally, utterly.

And the Buddha added: Do you not hear that I have been sounding the war-drum for so long? It was then that he spoke these gathas.

A small incident—such things happen every day—but Buddha drew great fragrance from it, distilled the finest attar. First let this little story settle rightly in your heart.

This was no ordinary elephant. He was mighty. Remember: even the mightiest reach such a state. Never be fooled by strength. Today you are strong; tomorrow you will be weak. Today you are powerful; tomorrow your strength will fade. Today you are young; tomorrow you will be old.

Once an old man was walking along. The Buddha sat beneath a tree. Seeing the old man’s decrepit body, his trembling hands and feet, a young monk began to laugh. The Buddha said: Bhikkhus, do not laugh, otherwise people will later laugh at you. This state will be yours; it is your future. Do not laugh to see this old man walking this way. Before this becomes your condition, do something.

There is always hidden in laughter the feeling: this will never happen to me. You see someone defeated and you laugh. You never think that the man who is defeated today once stood victorious. He who lies flat today had once flattened many. You may be sitting on someone’s chest today; this will not remain forever. Nothing remains the same here; things change every day, at every moment. The powerful today are powerless tomorrow; those in office today are out tomorrow. And such is this world’s blindness: whoever comes into power thinks, “Now that I have arrived, I will never be out.” He sees so many being thrown out—and still the delusion persists.

You are young today; tomorrow you will be old. Do not imagine that the laws of the world will make an exception for you. There are no exceptions here. The laws are inexorable. Today you live; tomorrow you die. Seeing a funeral bier, do not pity; it is your bier. Seeing a funeral, awaken—what will pity do? Do not say, “Poor thing, he died.” Hidden in that is the feeling: we are fine, at least we haven’t died; somewhere deep is the echo: we won’t die—this poor fellow did!

Does a funeral remind you of your own helplessness? If not, you are piling up flowers, not making a garland. Otherwise, with each bier passing your door, each flower from it would enter your garland. Before death comes, let death stand before you in person. From the direct seeing of death, sannyas is born.

Buddha said: One who has truly seen death—how can he not renounce? Sannyas means simply this: what death will snatch, we offer willingly. We say, “All right, since it is going to be taken, why carry the unnecessary burden of clinging? Why suffer the pain of holding—and later the pain of being robbed? We give by our own joy; we donate, we renounce. Since death will take it anyway, why give death that honor? Let us spare death the trouble by doing it ourselves.” There is a revolutionary difference here. The householder dies wailing, because everything he called “mine” is being snatched away. The renunciate dies in wondrous bliss, for there is nothing left to be taken from him. He had already accepted that whatever death takes is not mine. That is the touchstone of what truly belongs to me: that which death cannot take.

He saves only that which death cannot snatch. He keeps meditation, not money. He keeps love, not status. He keeps prayer, worship, remembrance of the Divine—not social prestige and honor and rubbish—for death takes all that. He does not bother to save what death will seize; he saves only what lies beyond death’s reach.

Death kills the body; thus he holds no infatuation with the body. Na hanyate hanyamane sharire—he looks to that which does not die when the body is slain. He loves that which does not part even when the body parts. He does not cling to clay lamps; he loves the flame—which always was and always will be. He extracts the timeless from time. He does not clutch the flower; he holds the fragrance. He quickly extracts the attar. The fragrance will go with you; the flowers remain behind. Meditation goes with you; money stays here. He did not want to be an Alexander; he longed to be a Buddha, a Mahavira, a Krishna. He desired the Vast. This is all that sannyas means.

He saw people growing old. If a young man has eyes, he will see an old man and know: I too must grow old; so let me plan now. Let me live in such a way that when old age comes, it can take nothing from me. The alert one sees a corpse and knows: my death too is coming—it has already set out—it will arrive, sooner or later; time is the only question. Before it arrives, let me prepare my house; let me create something that death cannot take away.

Thus the Buddha told that laughing monk: Do not laugh, monk; you too will grow old like this.

Chuang Tzu once came from a cremation-ground. A skull lay there; his foot struck it—the dawn was dim, the sun not yet risen. He bowed to the skull, prostrated fully. His disciples said, “Master, what are you doing—saluting a skull?” He said, “My skull will lie just like this, and people will kick it. I bow to it because it has reminded me what my condition will be. It has given me great understanding, so I thank it.”

And note—he told his disciples—this is no ordinary skull. The ground was like the Raj Ghat in Delhi—a great graveyard where only the eminent are laid. “This is not the skull of some small man. Had he been alive and I had kicked his head, I would have been in deep trouble! If such is the state of the great ones,” Chuang Tzu said, “then I—a fakir—what will be my state?”

He picked up the skull and kept it with him for life. Wherever he went, the skull accompanied him. People asked, “Why carry this? It looks ugly, frightening, ghastly.” He said, “This will be my condition; seeing it helps me remember myself. This has become my guru.”

He who extracts attar from such small incidents is the knower.

That elephant had grown old. Everyone must grow old. The mighty end up helpless. The very wealthy end up destitute. The powerful lose their strength in ways you would not believe.

When Napoleon was defeated and imprisoned on St. Helena, he once went out for a walk. It is a small island; he could roam, for escape was impossible. A grass-cutter approached, a bundle on her head, walking a narrow path. Napoleon’s physician was with him—he had a doctor even in captivity. The doctor shouted, “Hey, move aside! Can’t you see who is coming?” But Napoleon caught his hand, “Forgive me, doctor; you lack awareness. Those days are gone. Let us make way. Those were the days when I would tell the Alps to move aside—and the Alps would make way. But today, why should even a grass-cutter yield? There is no reason.” Napoleon stepped aside and let her pass.

He must have been a sensible man. Such a state comes when those for whom the Himalayas would move will not be given way by a girl with grass. This happens to all. It must happen—nothing here is stable. The one who seeks permanence here is unwise.

So first, note: that elephant of great power, famed far and wide, had grown old. One day he was stuck in a pond’s mud. The one who had never been trapped in war—the one for whose capture countless plots and stratagems were devised, because he was the strength of Kosala’s king, the cause of his victories—the one who had never been trapped even when surrounded by hundreds of elephants—today was stuck in the filthy sludge of an ordinary pond. People came to trap him and could not; but today the mud—without any intention—held him fast. Such a pitiable state comes—to all.

Your mind will whisper: not to me. Beware. Do not listen to the mind; it says this to everyone. The mind deceives all alike. The mind is the formula for foolishness. Whoever listens to it remains a fool. The mind leads away from knowing, fills the eyes with smoke. The mind says: “No problem—if weakness comes, we’ll take vitamins, shots, medicines; medical science has advanced so much—no need to grow frail!”

However far medical science advances, however many tonics you take—sooner or later you will grow weak. You must. The strength given is momentary; it departs. A few years early or late makes no difference. In the final reckoning, it changes nothing.

Today that mighty elephant is mired in mud. Old age has made him frail. He tried hard, but could not free himself.

Understand his agony. And note: had he been young, he would have freed himself. Here is a point within the point:

So long as you are young, it is easier to get out of the world’s mire. When old, it will be difficult. People carry an inverted logic: “When I am old, I will chant God’s name; what’s the hurry now? When I am old, I will take sannyas; what is the rush now? Now I am young! Now life is here! Let me enjoy. When death comes close, when hands and feet tremble and old age knocks, then I will renounce.”

People come to me, saying, “You give sannyas to the young! Sannyas is for the old.”

Who told you that? Your mind, perhaps. If you listen to the mind, it will say sannyas is for corpses. Not even for the old—“When you lie on the bier, then take sannyas.”

A woman used to visit me, a social worker of great fame in Bombay. She wished to take sannyas. She was around sixty-five; yet she said, “Now? Women at sixty-five still consider themselves young—perhaps women never grow old. Even if they do, they do not admit it.” Someone in America was asked, “Why can’t a woman be President?” He replied, “Difficult—because the President must be at least forty, and no woman ever becomes forty.”

I told that old lady, “If not now—when? You are sixty-five.” She said, “Yes, but I am strong. I will live at least twenty-five more years.” I said, “People die in youth, in childhood; after sixty-five, you still cherish this dream?” By coincidence, the next day as she was coming to meet me, a car hit her. I waited for her, but instead received a call from the hospital: condition critical. After twenty-four hours, she died. As she was dying, she told her son, “Whatever happens, get me initiated into sannyas.” On her deathbed! The son came running: “Mother is gone, but she said: at least put the ochre robe on me and the mala around my neck.” I said, “As you wish. Here is the mala—take it. For the dead, why refuse? But it is meaningless.”

She took sannyas after dying! Most people argue likewise: “When death approaches, then we’ll take care.”

Mark this small point. If the elephant had been young and stuck in mud, he would have come out with ease. The same energy that functions in the world also functions in sannyas. Energy is one.

Often people think youth is difficult, because desire is strong. Granted—desire is strong in youth—but the power to drop desire is equally strong. In old age, a great mishap occurs: the power to drop desire grows weak while desire remains as strong as ever. Desire never ages. In the oldest of the old, desire burns as in the young. The body does not cooperate; strength does not support; but inside, desire burns on. Desire never grows old. Energy grows young and old; desire stays young forever.

Therefore, while energy is young, step out of desire—if you will. When energy is old and desire remains young, it will be very hard to get out.

This is why Buddha and Mahavira created a great revolution in this land. In Brahminical culture sannyas was arranged for old age—after seventy-five. Either no one lived that long, or, by some accident, if one did—then he became a renunciate. Sannyas was to be taken when the world itself was ready to throw you away—when sons wanted you dumped in a hospital or old-age home. When society wanted you to be disposed of—then take sannyas! The arithmetic was: twenty-five years brahmacharya, fifty householder, seventy-five vanaprastha, and from seventy-five to a hundred sannyas. But people did not live a hundred years—not then, not now. That was only a blessing—“may you live a hundred years”—rarely realized. The scriptures were built upon that hope. Sannyas, thus, almost never happened.

Buddha and Mahavira overturned this. They said: sannyas is for the young. When energy flames, when desire blazes, when the risk of being ensnared is great—then the strength to break free is also great. Move out then. For later, strength wanes; the mud remains the same.

This pond’s mud was there when the elephant was young. Now the elephant has grown old; the mud is unchanged. The mire of desire is ever the same. He must have come to this pond in youth to bathe—why else come in old age? We go to the same places in old age where we went in youth—habits, old conditioning. He must have bathed here many times; but as he was young, he came and went. Now he is old. The mire is the same, but his strength has ebbed.

Before old age leaves you weak and poor in spirit, pour your energy into awareness. Before death sits on your chest, invite samadhi. Before the world throws you out, enter the world of sannyas. It is shameful to be thrown out by the world; it is honorable to say to the world: I have withdrawn my hands. There is great dignity in this.

That’s why we honor the sannyasin so much. Why? Because what we cannot leave till our last breath, he leaves in the prime of life. What binds us, he turns away from.

Leave the mire of desire while blood still runs in your veins, while the heart is strong, while intelligence is sharp. Use your youth. If you would reach the Divine, use your youth—for his temple too is entered dancing, brimming with celebration. Do not arrive like a corpse on a stretcher. The temple of God is no hospital; it is a festival.

The very energy you have poured on the altar of desire—when you pour that energy on the altar of prayer, that very day religion is born. The energy is the same; only the altar changes. First the god of the world; then the God of beyond—the energy is one.

Thus you will find: as one Majnun goes mad for Laila, so a Chaitanya goes mad for Krishna. The madness is the same. As Shirin pined for Farhad, so Mira pines for Krishna. Ask a Freudian psychologist—he’ll say: this is only the projection of sex; there is not much difference. For Mira speaks to Krishna just as women speak to their lovers: “I have prepared the bed; see the flowers I have strewn, and still you have not come!” The language is of desire.

True, the language of prayer is also the language of desire—but the deity has changed. Prayer burns with the same intensity as passion. The same oil that burns in the lamp of lust burns in the lamp of prayer.

So when Mira says, “I have prepared the bed, spread the flowers; I have spread my eyes upon the path, and you have not come. I call you, my Beloved—come! I dance for you. Come, let us play together, dance together; come, let us weave the rasa”—this is the very language of desire. A woman pining for her beloved. There is no difference in the language. The Divine is our Lover; we are his lovers. Only when someone calls upon Truth with the same urgency with which he once called upon his cravings does the call reach Truth.

If your prayer is weaker than your passion, it will never succeed. Your prayer must be such that the life-energy of all your passions enters into it. Only when all desires come together as prayer does anyone arrive.

This old elephant was stuck in deep mud. The mud is all around you too. You keep going to bathe in ponds full of mud, hoping to get clean. No one is cleansed by bathing in mud. And elephants are as foolish as big men are. Perhaps that is why man calls elephants intelligent—because their intelligence matches his. Call it wise or call it foolish—something is similar.

Have you seen an elephant bathe? After bathing in a pond, he comes out and showers dust over himself with his trunk—and then goes home. Like the great men: even if by some accident they bathe, their heart cannot accept it. They come out, fill their trunk with dust, and fling it all over themselves—back to as they were.

This is what you do when you go to the temple. You somehow manage to pray, and before you even step outside you fling dust again. Often it happens that while praying you gather dust within. You stand with folded hands, eyes raised to God—and a beautiful woman enters. God is forgotten! You continue the prayer, but the mind is filled with something else. Often, because she is there, you will pray more loudly, sway more—now you must impress her. Whether God is impressed or not, who knows—but at least let this woman think you are a holy man. We dump mud right into our prayer. In prayer too, lust creeps in.

Even when we pray, we ask for everything but God—money, status, prestige, a lottery win. From God we beg for the trivial, the useless, the nonessential. Only the one who asks for God alone seeks the essential. “Let everything of mine be lost, but let me know who you are. Let all be staked, but let a ray of recognition descend. Let me glimpse once this mystery. Who am I? What is this?” Let the curtain lift.

The old elephant tried hard, but could not free himself. The king’s servants tried too—everything failed.

Mahouts were sent—new ones. The elephant was old, the mahouts new. They must have used all new techniques, but they had no contact with this elephant—no acquaintance, no experience. They did not know how life-energy moved in him.

Thus it often happens: if you take advice from someone without true experience, someone who does not know the texture of your life, mistakes will be made.

The Jains and Buddhists created a revolution here too. The Hindus say Krishna and Rama are avatars—descents of God. They come down from above—avtar means to come down. They come straight from God’s heart. Which means: they were never human. Then human experience is not their experience. This deserves deep reflection. They arrive pure from the temple, while we have wandered through dark nights of long births, stumbled on unknown paths, fallen in countless pits, committed innumerable errors. Our life is a long journey of sin—and they come straight from the sanctum!

The Jains and Buddhists changed this. They did not call Buddha and Mahavira avatars; they called them tirthankaras—ford-makers. Meaning: they too have traveled through the same darkness with us. They have walked the same paths, burned in the same desires, been harried grain by grain like us, stuck in the same mire. They recognize us. They are more than us—but they have been what we are. They know us.

This is why it is no surprise that fewer attained nirvana through the Gita than through the Dhammapada. The Gita feels aerial, ethereal, pure philosophy. The Dhammapada is very practical—words spoken looking at man. The Upanishads are in the sky, sky-flowers; their roots are not visible on earth. Buddha and Mahavira’s words are like trees whose roots grip the soil.

Understand the difference. Buddha and Mahavira are human beings like you. Their divinity is not a descent from heaven; it is an ascent. Like you, they were knocked about, perplexed, groped their way—slowly their eyes opened. Their past and your past are alike. Hence their words will be very effective for you. They speak knowing you. They are intimate with you because they are intimate with themselves. They have great compassion for you because they know from their own experience how obstructive it is—how hard it is to get out when ensnared in desire.

Buddha repeatedly tells his monks: in past lives I too was ensnared. Earlier, I too was entangled. Monks, do not be discouraged, do not despair. Look—I have arrived; I too was entangled. I got out; I too was entangled. My entanglement was greater than yours; my sin heavier; my foolishness greater. Do not lose heart. If I got out, you too will. My getting out proves you can too—for I am a man like you.

The Hindu and Buddhist conceptions of “God” differ. The Hindu thinks God means “the one who made the world.” The Buddhist says God means “the one who has known the world.” There is no question of creation; no one made it. The one who knows how this world functions—who becomes intimate with the mystery—is divine.

The Hindu says: God first, then the world. The Buddhist says: first the world, then God. God is the peak that rises out of infinite worldly experiences. The attar. He saw much, wandered much, sinned, erred in every way, went to all hells and heavens, tasted joys and sorrows, probed life from every side—until a day came when he rose beyond it, above it, free of it. That freedom is divinity.

Hence do not take the word “God” as synonymous between Hindu and Buddhist use. When a Hindu says “Rama is God,” he means: he never knew sin, never committed sin, descended pure from the sky—clean, spotless. When Buddha says “I am God,” he means: I saw sin, as you see it. I saw more than you—but I watched closely; you did not. That is the only difference. Watch closely—samma-ditthi—see rightly, and you too will be free. Whoever sees sin with total awareness goes beyond sin.

That elephant must have come to this pond in youth. Now he came again. Many new mahouts came; they had no experience with him. They probably beat him, pricked him with goads, tormented him—thinking pain would force him out. But can you free one mired in mud by tormenting him? He is already weak; will you make him weaker?

Consider: you are in hell, and your priests say, “If you don’t get out, we’ll send you to a deeper hell.”

Have some compassion! Show a little humanity! Man is already in hell. Where is hell? What could be worse than this? And you add: “If you don’t get out, we’ll consign you to a greater hell.” He cannot find a way out of this—and you threaten him with another?

People think fear will change lives. Those new mahouts tried fear. They inflicted pain. This is what mahouts know—use the goad; provoke him—maybe in fear and pain he will come out. But pain does not liberate; we have suffered enough pain already.

Do you think that old and mighty elephant—with such a glorious past—did not feel pain being stuck in the mud? He must have been dying inside, buried alive, praying, “Lord, may the earth open and swallow me—let me die rather than see this day! That in the muck of an ordinary pond I should be trapped and unable to free myself! Such weakness—such frailty! Was this day fated?” What need is there to poke him further? His whole ego and identity were already pierced—why stab him?

Or perhaps the mahouts offered temptations—laid out delicious food, hoping he’d come out for it. But one stuck in the mud cannot come out because of food either.

Greed and fear do not work. Yet these two have been used for centuries—heaven’s greed, hell’s fear. For ages your priests have been standing at the edge of the pond shouting: “Stay longer in the mud—hell. Come out quickly—heaven. Come now—we’ll arrange a good place in heaven.” But neither greed nor fear yield results. Hearing them, you’ve grown numb. Now you neither fear hell nor care for heaven. You say, “What will be will be. We know we cannot get out of this mud. Keep your threats and bribes.”

But the old mahout came. He did something else—something wondrous. A small incident—but you must see how much can be distilled from such a little thing.

The king summoned the old mahout.

He had grown old alongside the elephant. They had grown up together, grown old together. They had a shared companionship of life. They knew each other. A deep friendship existed. Their consciousnesses were connected. The old mahout knew what would work. He had seen him on battlefields—had seen moments when the elephant faltered, was bloodied—and then the drum sounded, and the elephant forgot his wounds and charged again. He remembered those days. He knew only one thing could bring him out: awaken the warrior, set his resolve aflame. Only one thing could bring him out: make him forget his decrepit body and remember his Self.

And since retiring, the mahout had been in the Buddha’s satsang. That satsang likely deepened his insight. The story weaves in this way. Perhaps he learned it from Buddha, and then Buddha took him in hand to awaken the other monks. The old mahout heard and sat with Buddha. He must have seen how Buddha awakens—how he beats the war-drum—how he coaxes the soul within—how he reminds you who you are: amritasya putrah—child of immortality! “You, child of the immortal, are buried in the mud of mortality! Look who you are! The divine itself is you—and you cannot free yourself of this little thing?”

Understand this difference. Buddha neither frightens nor tempts. He gives you remembrance. Hence the most important word in Buddha’s language is samyak-smriti—right remembrance. Let memory awaken in you—remember who you are.

You know the famous story—so dear to Vivekananda. A lioness, pregnant, leapt from one hill to another; her womb burst and the cub fell among a flock of sheep below. The lioness was gone; the cub grew up among sheep. Naturally, he learned: I am a sheep.

We learn what we are taught. In the house where you grow, you become that—born in a Hindu house, you become Hindu; Jain, Jain; Muslim, Muslim. In India—Indian; in China—Chinese. Those among whom you live shape you in their mold.

He grew among sheep and knew himself as a sheep. He walked as sheep do, feared what sheep fear, bleated like a sheep. He had never heard a lion’s roar; how could he roar? Without acquaintance, how can it arise? He grew older—but being a lion, soon towered over the sheep. Yet no memory stirred, for lions carry no mirrors. The sheep never bothered; they had grown used to him—“a sheep of a different kind, a different color.” He became big, but remained vegetarian—ate grass, ambled with the flock.

One day a strange thing happened. An old lion attacked the flock. Seeing a young lion running among the sheep, he was stunned. He forgot his hunger. He could not believe his eyes—what was happening? He must have squinted—“What is this? I’ve never seen such a thing!” A lion amidst sheep, fleeing like a sheep. He forgot his hunger, chased and with difficulty caught the young lion.

Caught, the youngster bleated, pleaded, “Let me go, sire; my companions are running.” The old lion said, “I will not let you go. This is a marvel! What has happened to you? Have you lost your senses? You have—and that I understand—but what has happened to the sheep? Why are they comfortable with you?” The young one said, “I am a sheep. There is nothing to it—I am a somewhat large sheep, but a sheep nonetheless. My color and style differ—this happens sometimes. Please, let me go.” He was sweating.

The old lion did not let go. He dragged him to the riverbank, bent over the water and made him look. The young lion saw two reflections—the old lion’s and his own—and a roar burst forth. No one had to teach him. Such a roar that the mountains trembled; the old lion trembled too. “Now go wherever you will,” he said.

In a single instant, everything changed. The sheep-dream broke. He knew his own nature.

Buddhas do this. Buddhas are old lions. Someone sits within you as a man or woman; they drag you to the water and say, “Look. You are as I am. The same immortality is in you as in me. The same divinity is in you as in me. Look at my face—recognize your face. You are neither woman nor man; you are consciousness. You are neither young nor old; neither poor nor rich; neither white nor black—you are formless, attributeless.”

This old mahout likely learned this from Buddha—certainly from Buddha. He knew the elephant; and in Buddha’s talks he grasped the sutra. He arrived, saw his extraordinary old companion mired in mud. He had never seen him thus—never even imagined that such a powerful elephant could be so frail as to be unable to free himself from mud. The one who had broken through every battle formation was defeated by mud!

He laughed. Why? Perhaps at the sight of the world’s condition. The mighty become frail; the wealthy become beggars; emperors become mendicants; the young end up on biers. He laughed also at the elephant’s forgetfulness—how could he forget who he was? The great victor of battles, emperor among elephants—how did he forget? He could not recall who he was—that he could not free himself from mud! He must have laughed for this reason.

From the bank he had the war-drums sounded. He learned this from Buddha—beat the drums of battle. He knew: perhaps hearing the music, he will remember.

This is the value of satsang: sit near a Buddha and perhaps your Buddhahood will be remembered. Perhaps seeing a fully blossomed flower, a closed bud will feel the dream to bloom. Seeing a lit lamp, a lamp unlit will remember it too can burn—there is oil, there is wick—what is missing?

The old mahout was an artist, very aware, very wise. He had the bands play. At the blow of the drums, the elephant forgot everything—what mud? what pond? For a moment, the past and future vanished. In that blast he was in the present. He forgot the body; remembrance awoke within—who am I? He became great in strength.

Hearing the war-drums, the old elephant suddenly became young again and climbed to the bank.

Buddha has a famous saying: You become what you think you are. The old Bible says: As a man thinketh, so is he. Your thought is your destiny; your thought is your fate-maker. Thinking himself weak and old—he was old. Hearing the drum, he forgot and remembered—“I am mighty, lord of elephants; I have seen and won so many wars”—and the mud was forgotten; he was free even without trying. In that remembrance, liberation happened.

Therefore Buddha says: Right remembrance is liberation. Remember who you are. You are of the nature of the Divine. Aham Brahmasmi, says the Upanishad—I am Brahman. Al-Hallaj says, Ana’l-Haqq—I am the Truth. Mahavira says, Appa so paramappa—the self is the Supreme Self.

He reached the bank. So simple—he came out as if there had been no mud, no getting stuck. He forgot his old age and weakness. The sleeping warrior awoke—challenge worked.

Challenge works. Buddhas challenge you; they do not frighten you. If someone frightens you, know: he is not a Buddha—he is a politician. “We’ll send you to hell”—this is politics. “We’ll seat you in heaven”—politics again. Greed and fear are political tricks. Buddhas challenge you. They call to you and create music around you—a music from beyond—so that under its impact, something within you awakens.

The drums and bands worked. The elephant understood the language: we are in battle. Not a moment’s delay. There was no time to think what to do—there is no time for thinking in war. The one who thinks loses; victory goes to the one who plunges straight in. The elephant was an old soldier—he did not delay.

He came out with such joy, simplicity, and ease—as if there had been no mud, as if he had never been stuck.

When the Buddha was enlightened and someone asked, “What did you gain?” he laughed: “I gained nothing—because I had never lost anything. Nothing was gained; what was mine, I simply came to know.”

They say when the Zen monk Bokushu attained samadhi, he burst into laughter and kept laughing the rest of his life. Whenever anyone asked anything, he laughed. People asked, “Why do you laugh?” He said, “Because no one is stuck here, and everyone thinks they are. There is no mud—and people think they are mired. It is only a notion.”

Have you seen wealth gripping you? Wealth does not grip you—how could you possibly grip it? It is only a delusion. The money is not yours. Money existed before you and will exist after you. You call a piece of land “mine”—what does your being have to do with it? The land does not know you came and went. The land does not hold you—and how can you hold it? It is only a thought: “mine.” And all its pleasure and pain are of thought.

A man’s house caught fire; he beat his chest and wept. Someone said, “Don’t cry, fool—your son sold the house last night.” The tears dried; he laughed, “Really? Wonderful then!” The house still burns—more so—and yet he no longer weeps. Then the son comes running: “What are you standing here for? We are ruined!” He says, “Ruined? I was told the house was sold.” The son says, “We talked, but the down payment was due today.” He returns to chest-beating.

The house is the same, the man the same; only one thought—“not mine”—came, and the tears stopped. Now “mine” returns—and tears flow again. What we call our life is only our conception.

That elephant came out as if he had not been stuck at all—as if there were no mud—so simply, so naturally.

In this very simplicity and ease comes samadhi. In this very way one steps out of the world. Let remembrance come—self-remembrance.

Therefore I do not tell you to “leave the world,” because first you would have to have held it. How will you leave what you cannot hold? I do not tell you to run away; where will you run? I tell you: awaken. This elephant awoke. The challenge of the drums awakened him. Just awaken.

On reaching the bank, he trumpeted as no one had heard for years. Old battles seemed alive again.

Consciousness never grows old or weak. It never is born, never dies. It is eternal—one flavor.

That elephant was deeply self-possessed. He remembered so quickly. Most people are not so full of Self. He was full of resolve. At such a small challenge, his resolve flared; his declaration burst forth. He awoke so swiftly.

When the monks told this to the Buddha, he said: Bhikkhus, learn from that extraordinary elephant. He freed himself from the mud—how long will you lie there? Do you not hear how long I have been beating the war-drum? Bhikkhus, awaken—awaken your resolve. The elephant did it—can you not? Are you worse than an elephant? Accept the challenge! Have some shame! Be self-possessed! A revolution can happen in a single instant.

A revolution can happen in a single instant—Buddha gave this great sutra. The darkness of many births can be cut in a moment. In a house dark for ages, in a place where night has stood for centuries—let a small lamp be lit, the darkness is gone. Darkness does not say, “I am ancient—how can a new lamp cut me?” Darkness has no age. Whether a thousand-year darkness or of one night—it makes no difference. When the lamp is lit, both vanish. Darkness has no power; the world is impotent.

When the lamp of the soul is lit, no power can stop it. The Buddha did not say development is gradual. It is gradual only because you are not self-possessed. You do not dare, so you climb step by step, inch by inch. Those who have courage leap. In a single instant—outside time—the event can occur. It depends on your urgency.

Hence Buddha said: a revolution can happen in a single instant. Urgency is needed, bhikkhus—intensity. Such intensity that your entire being is engaged. Have faith in your own strength, bhikkhus.

Buddha says: have faith in your own strength—not in Buddha’s. Faith in Buddha’s strength would become a crutch, would make you dependent. Dependence is worldliness. Therefore Buddha says: Appa dipa bhava—be a lamp unto yourself. Have faith in yourself. If I can kindle your faith in yourself, my work is done; I will step aside.

And listen: I have been beating the war-drum for so long—hear it. Then he uttered these gathas:

Appamadarata hotha sa-cittam anurakkhatha.
Dugga uddharathattanam panke satto’va kunjaro.

Sace labhetha nipakam sahayam saddhim caram sadhavihari dhiram.
Abhibhuyya sabbani parissayani careyya tenattanamo satima.

No ce labhetha nipakam sahayam saddhim caram sadhavihari dhiram.
Raja va rattam vijitam pahaya eko care matanga-rannam-iva nago.

Ekassa caritam seyyo natthi bale sahayata.
Eko care na ca papani kayira appossukko matanga-rannam-iva nago.

Sukham yava jara silam sukha saddha patitthita.
Sukho pannaya patilabho papanam akaranam sukham.

“Be devoted to vigilance.” Do not sleep. You have slept enough.

“Be devoted to vigilance; guard your mind.” Guard your consciousness. Do not become dull. Keep consciousness in remembrance; kindle it; polish it. Whatever creates more awareness, do that. Whatever causes stupor, drop it. Whatever breeds inertia, abandon it.

“Be devoted to vigilance; guard your mind—and you will be able to rescue yourself like an elephant mired in the bog.”

“If, as a companion in the path, you find a wise and experienced one, then overcoming all obstacles, walk with him—mindful, joyous, and steadfast.”

If you find one who is awakened, one who is wise and experienced—wisdom alone is not enough. Many are clever but unseasoned. Their intellect is sharp; their logic is correct—but there is no experience. Do not be caught in their words—they will entangle you. They have no experience of life—only of mathematics, of argument.

I have heard of the Greek mathematician who discovered the theory of averages—brilliant, but unseasoned. He went on a picnic with his children. Fresh from his discovery, he measured the height of his children and the depth of the river at several points—calculated the average height and average depth. “No worry,” he told his wife, “let the children cross.” One child was tall, another short; somewhere the river was deep, somewhere shallow. They started. In midstream, one child began to drown, then another. The wife shouted, “What are you doing? The children are drowning!” He replied, “Impossible—the theory cannot be wrong!” He did not even look back—he ran to the sand to recalculate. The theory was fine—but where is the “average person”? One child is two feet, another four—the average is three—but no child is exactly three.

Likewise with average income: add Birla’s income and a beggar’s, divide, and the beggar becomes rich and Birla becomes poor. Averages lie. The math is right; the logic is tidy—but reality is not a spreadsheet.

They say after the revolution, a Soviet school reported “100% growth” in education. Investigation revealed only this: there had been one teacher and one student; now there were two students—100% growth! In Delhi, similar numbers fly—“so much development”—statistics are a net with which any lie can be made to look like truth.

Wisdom alone won’t do; Buddha adds: wise and experienced.

“If, as a companion in the path, you find a wise and experienced one…”

Do not fall for the mere scholar. You need one seasoned by life—who lives what he says, who speaks from realization. If he speaks of samadhi, let it not be from books but from experience—let him have attained.

Some are experienced but not wise—they cannot communicate; like a mute who has eaten sugar—he cannot tell you the taste. You will learn nothing from him.

Buddhahood flowers in the one who has realized and can also articulate it so that your reason is satisfied. That one is the true friend.

“If you find such a wise, seasoned companion, then overcoming all obstacles, walk with him—mindful and joyous.”

Two more conditions:

“Mindful”—do not sit with Buddhas half-asleep. You will gain nothing. Stay awake. A lamp burns—but if you doze, what use? The war-drum is sounding—but if the elephant sleeps, it is just a disturbance. Be alert—a single word should not be missed, a single gesture should not be lost, not a single glimpse of the Buddha should be overlooked. Only the awake learns.

“And joyous”—do not sit with Buddhas in gloom. In sadness you will not blossom. In dullness you will not hear; in gloom you will not bloom. Be festive.

Listen: even Buddhist monks did not accept “be joyous.” Look at them—long faces, sad, funereal—burdened as if carrying a great load, as if religion were a burden. I tell you: religion is celebration, dance. Religion is music, song—rasa, the very essence.

Hear Buddha’s word: “Mindful and joyous.”

Mindful—so that nothing flowing from the Buddha towards you is missed. Joyous—so that your being dances; only then can you be with the Buddha.

“Overcome all obstacles and join him.” Consider nothing an impediment. Whatever stands in the way, leave it—such chances do not come again and again.

“If no wise and seasoned companion is found, then, like a king who, after conquering a realm, wanders alone having left it, or like a solitary elephant roaming the forest—then wander alone.”

If there is no true master, better to be alone than with a false one. A friend is good if he is a kalyan-mitra—a friend-in-wellbeing. This is Buddha’s beautiful term for guru.

Two sweet words: he is a friend—what friend is greater?—and he is a friend in your wellbeing. Many friends gather around your mischief—drinking companions abound; the gambling den is full of “friends.” But a kalyan-mitra fosters your peace, your samadhi, your meditation—whose support pulls you out of your mire.

That old mahout is a kalyan-mitra. He played the band; the elephant awoke. He did not beat or scold or cajole—he created a situation. A kalyan-mitra is one who creates the condition in which you awaken.

“Otherwise, wander alone.”

“Aloneness is best; friendship with a fool is not good. Wander alone; do not commit sin. Be unperturbed, like a noble elephant in the forest.”

Either befriend only a kalyan-mitra—or have no friends; be solitary, walk like a lone elephant. Be unperturbed. As an elephant walks the road and dogs bark, he does not turn to look; he goes on.

“Wander alone.”

Keep one thing in mind when alone—sin will surround you—therefore, do not sin. That is all: do not harm anyone. Even if you could gain by hurting another—do not harm; let go of your gain. Let no harm come to another. Avoid such acts, and wander alone. Slowly the journey will be completed. If a companion appears—a kalyan-mitra—all the better. The journey is faster, smoother.

“Virtue practiced into old age is happiness. Established faith is happiness. The gain of wisdom is happiness. Not doing evil is happiness.”

Buddha says: all happiness is one—self-trust. Established faith in oneself is happiness. Think: when that old elephant emerged from the mud, what bliss must have flooded him! Not just the joy of getting out, something greater happened—perhaps unseen by the crowd. They saw only that he came out and exulted. Buddha says: if you look closely, coming out was secondary; the elephant became happy because faith in himself returned. He saw, “Ah! It was my thought that made me weak. When I thought ‘I am old,’ I was old. In the drumbeat I became young—and I was young. My thought is my destiny. I can become whatever I choose. I have become what I have thought.” Thought is power. Faith returned. Self-trust is happiness.

“Virtue is happiness.”

Virtue means: act so that others are happy. The difference between avoiding sin and virtue is like between a negative and a positive ethic. “Don’t cause suffering”—negative, the first step. If you master this, the second step is virtue: act so that others find joy. When you do not cause suffering, others do not hurt you—half the journey. When you give joy, streams of joy pour upon you from all sides—great bliss.

So, refrain from sin; engage in virtue; awaken faith—this faith at the end becomes wisdom. This is the great happiness. Buddha says: to be established in oneself is happiness.

“Sukham yava jara silam sukha saddha patitthita—happiness is virtue into old age; happiness is established faith.”

“Sukho pannaya patilabho—happiness is the acquisition of wisdom; papanam akaranam sukham—happiness is not doing evil.”

Heaven is not somewhere else; nor is hell. Heaven is to be established in self-trust; hell is to lose faith in oneself. Heaven is to live in such a way that streams of joy flow towards you of their own accord.

This universe echoes. What you send out returns. Hurl abuse—abuse returns. Share love—love returns. Sow sorrow—sorrow will thickly surround you. Sow joy—joy will thicken. What you give, you shall receive. As you sow, so you reap. A small sutra—but how vast!

On this small sutra, life passes through a great revolution. Heaven is in your hands—and hell too. You are the maker. If you have suffered, remember—it is because of you. Do not blame others. The one who blames others is irreligious. The one who accepts, “If I suffer, surely I have sown it,” is religious. In the religious, growth happens; in the irreligious, it does not. The irreligious always says, “Others are hurting me.” How can growth happen then?

First, others are not hurting you. Second, even if they were—what will you do? Until they stop, you are helpless—dependent. And “others” are many. When all stop hurting you—only then you will be free? Hard to believe such an hour will come.

Buddha says: you yourself are the cause of your misery. When you cause suffering to others, you invite suffering. You yourself are the cause of your joy. When you give joy to others, you invite joy. If you want joy, give joy; if you want sorrow, give sorrow. The arithmetic is simple, straight.

Thread every life-experience into a garland. Awake, and string each flower—so the life-sutra comes into your hands. Then, ultimately, squeeze the flowers—draw out the essence; let the nonessential go. That essence is Buddhahood. That essence is bodhi.

And as the elephant came out of the mud, so will you. Accept the challenge. Blessed are those who accept the challenge of the Buddhas.

Enough for today.