Es Dhammo Sanantano #104

The taste of buddhahood is one; if you see differences, they arise because of you. Your interpretations manufacture differences. Your understanding brings distortion. Otherwise the buddhas have always said the same thing.

Languages differ; because ages differ, the language changes. The words are different, but the feeling is not different. The feeling cannot be different. If you search from this state of mind, you will find non-difference.

But people have been taught that there are differences—indeed, not just differences but oppositions. Born in a Jain home, you are taught there is a difference between Mahavira and Buddha: Mahavira is right, Buddha wrong. Born in a Buddhist home, Buddha is right; Mahavira wrong, Krishna wrong. Born in a Hindu home, Mohammed is wrong, Christ is wrong.

Before you are shown what is right, you are handed what is wrong. The wrong is used to explain the right. And once you have clutched one and formed the notion that it is opposed to all others, that notion will go on deceiving your eyes your whole life.

Because of these notions differences appear; otherwise there is not a trace of difference. There cannot be. There is no way for difference to exist. Where all the impurities of separation have fallen, where all thoughts have become silent, where the person is free of mind—what difference can remain there?

It may be that Mahavira emphasized one point and Buddha another. That too happened because the listeners differed—their capacity, receptivity, possibility—so the teaching was given accordingly. But regarding truth, there cannot be even a hair’s breadth of difference.

And regarding truth, all the buddhas are silent; how can there be difference there? In methods there can be differences. One says: go by bullock cart. Another says: go by train. Another says: fly by airplane. Methods can differ. But the destination you are to reach—there both the bullock cart will be left behind, the airplane will be left behind, the train will be left behind.

Upon arriving at the goal, all vehicles are dropped. The mind itself is dropped. All philosophies are dropped. All standpoints are dropped. There, even you will not remain. The one who makes distinctions will not remain. There, there is non-difference; there is harmony.

I want to tell you: among the buddhas there is never any disagreement. But that you see disagreement is true. Do not fall into the illusion that whatever you see must be so. The loincloth you hung in the morning on the rope to dry—at night the same cloth can look like a ghost! The rope lying on the path sometimes looks like a snake!

Your capacity to see is not pure. You see one thing as another. You see only what you have already assumed. Your preconceived notion throws a veil over your vision. If you make mistakes in petty matters, it is no surprise if you err regarding these vast, boundless truths.

I am not even saying that you should accept there is no difference. If you accept that, you will start making other mistakes. Then you will try to see non-difference. And where difference truly exists—in methods, in techniques—you will try to see non-difference there too. In utterances there will be differences; in words there will be differences; modes of expression will differ. One buddha says it by singing, another says it without singing; one says it by remaining silent, another says it by speaking. If you start trying to see non-difference everywhere, that too will be a mistake. Whatever you do will be wrong. You disappear; then what happens is right. Step aside, bid farewell. Do not come in between; then what happens is right.

So I am not telling you to accept theoretically that there is no difference—so that the Quran says exactly what the Vedas say, and the Dhammapada says exactly what the Bible says. I am not saying that. I am saying: as long as the mind is there, to see difference is a mistake; to see non-difference is also a mistake. The mind has no door to truth. Rise beyond the mind. Go beyond thinking. Be free of thought. In thoughtlessness, non-difference is seen.

But remember: non-difference does not mean that Buddha uttered word for word what Mahavira said. The essence is one.

Buddha’s examples are different—of course they will be. Jesus’ examples are different—of course they will be. Jesus comes from a different tradition. He heard different stories in childhood. He learned a different language, a different idiom. When he speaks, the Old Testament will echo in it.

You will not find that echo in Buddha. Buddha learned something else, was born in another tradition, came from another linguistic source. In his words there will be the fragrance of the Upanishads, the language of the Upanishads.

So such differences exist, but they are superficial. As you peel off the layers and go within, non-difference begins to appear. The moment you understand the heart of Buddha, that day you will have understood Mahavira, Krishna, Mohammed, Zarathustra—everyone who has known.

But to descend into Buddha’s heart, first you must descend into your own. The deeper you go within yourself, the deeper you can go into Buddha—no more than that.

Remember: you cannot know anything beyond yourself. You cannot see higher than yourself. Therefore, if you want to see higher than yourself, you must rise higher than yourself. And if you want to know more than yourself, you must become more than yourself—because your being becomes your knowing.

Consider: a blind man wants to know light, but he has no eyes. How will he know? The blind cannot know light. First the eye is needed.

A Western buddha, Plotinus, has said: you can see only what is present within you, not otherwise. The sun exists in your eye; therefore you can see the sun. The eye is a piece of the sun, made of light; therefore you can see light. And the ear is made of sound; therefore you can hear sound.

If one has no ears, if he is deaf, bring the greatest artists, the most accomplished musicians—nothing will happen. The deaf will hear nothing. And it may be the deaf man believes: since I do not hear, sound cannot exist! And the blind man believes: since I do not see, how can light exist! No sun, no moon, no stars. You know they are—but you have eyes. Had you no eyes, you too would not know.

In the same way, there is an eye to see buddhahood. That eye is what is called the third eye. When you have that third eye, you will recognize the Buddha. Recognize one buddha, and you recognize all buddhas. Know one true master, taste one true master, and you have tasted all masters.

Buddha has said: Taste the ocean anywhere—it is salty. So it is with the awakened ones; taste them anywhere, their flavor is one. This bank, that bank; this shore, that shore—wherever you taste the ocean, it makes no difference.

But behind those with eyes are hordes of the blind. The eyed ones say one thing; the blind understand another. The eyed ones say something; the blind grasp something else. Behind those who sing the songs of the beautiful God are hordes of the deaf. Hindus, Muslims, Christians, Jains, Buddhists—these are the hordes of the blind and the deaf. They clutch one thing as another. They understand one thing as another. And they are the crowd. They become the expositors, the authorities. Their interpretations start being accepted.

The Buddhas fall into the hands of buddhus—fools. And then what meaning remains is mis-meaning—a travesty, not meaning. Then differences appear. Then great differences seem to be there. Where there is not even a trace of difference, walls are erected!

These differences are sectarian. In religion there is no difference. Religion is one; sects are many. And the one to whom religion is revealed becomes free of sect. But how will it be revealed to you?

I am not asking you to think and ponder, to bang your head. Nothing will come of that. Be free of the head. Enter meditation.

How did Buddha become Buddha? Through meditation. How did Mahavira become a Jina? Through meditation. You too descend the same steps by which the awakened have awakened. As depth grows within you—peace grows, emptiness grows—you will find new meanings beginning to unfold in Buddha’s words. The day the full meaning of Buddha’s words is revealed before you, that day the essence of all buddhas is understood. Then you too will be able to say: This is the reign of the buddhas.

I am an eyewitness. You can change the scripture. My request is—correct the scripture. I know the scriptures give it differently, because those who compiled them lived twenty-five hundred years ago. They gathered what seemed right to them then. In twenty-five hundred years humanity has traveled far; much water has flowed down the Ganges. In these twenty-five hundred years language has been refined; thought has been refined; consciousness has evolved in new ways.

To tell the story today exactly as it was told twenty-five hundred years ago would be wrong; it would be an injustice to Buddha. As man has changed, so must the story change—only then will it reach today’s man. The story written twenty-five hundred years ago is like a rough diamond freshly mined. A jeweler will recognize it; an ordinary person will not. First the diamond must be refined, cleaned, cut, brought to a shine. The dust and the nonessential must be brushed off—then the ordinary person can recognize it.

All the stories given in the scriptures are rough diamonds. When I tell them, I tell them after cutting and polishing.

The man who found the Koh-i-Noor found it as an uncut stone. He didn’t even know it was the Koh-i-Noor. For a long time his children played with it. He had found it lying on a riverbank. His field was by the river; the river flowed through his field. He found it in the sand. It looked like a shiny stone, a beautiful colored stone; he brought it home for the children to play with.

Perhaps you have not heard the tale. It is a marvelous story. How was Golconda discovered? This was the first diamond found there.

One night a sannyasin stayed as a guest in this man’s house and said, How long will you toil on this rough, low-yield land? I know lands that yield gold. I know lands that yield diamonds.

He was speaking in symbols. He meant: I know a soil of great inner fertility. But that night the farmer could not sleep. Dreams came to him: I too should sell this land and seek land that yields diamonds and gold.

So he sold his land and went in search of land where diamonds are found. He wandered and wandered after diamonds. All his money was spent. Nowhere did he find such land. He didn’t even know how to recognize a diamond...

Didn’t Meera say it? One must be a jeweler. Only the jeweler knows the jeweler’s ways; only the wounded knows the ways of the wounded.

The very field he had left held a diamond. His children were playing with it. And it proved to be the greatest diamond in the world. While he was roaming in search of land that grows diamonds, all his money was lost. The land he had sold was gone for nothing.

Exhausted and ruined, he returned home. But in searching for diamonds he had met some jewelers along the way. When you set out to seek God, a true master will also be met; you will come into the company of the wise. For where else will you look for God?

When a man seeks a diamond, he will ask jewelers. Gradually he gained a little discernment. He returned home; the children were playing with the diamond. He began to dance; he went mad with joy. He said: This is the limit! I myself brought this stone home years ago! That stone was sold—and today it is the largest diamond in the world.

Then he tried in every way to get his field back. He could not. News had spread that there were diamonds there. The first Golconda mine was made there, from which the finest diamonds in the world came. A farmer had sold it—while searching for diamonds. What else can a blind man do!

But even from that one diamond, so much was gained that it could not be spent in many lifetimes. Many generations lived in joy. The original weight of that stone—what is today the Koh-i-Noor—only one-third now remains. Yet its price has become millions of times greater. Why? Because it has been cut and polished again and again. In the cutting its weight decreased, but its beauty increased immensely.

So it is with the scriptures: they must be cut and polished again and again. Rubbish accumulates in them; it has to be removed. Time gathers dust; the dust must be wiped off. The refinement humanity has made in twenty-five hundred years should also happen in the scriptures; otherwise the scriptures fall behind.

This is the very reason people’s reverence for scriptures has faded—because no one dares to recut them. Scriptures begin to look childish, like empty tales. Why? Only because a book written twenty-five hundred or five thousand years ago has fallen very far from today’s man; there is no bridge left between it and man.

There are only two ways: either drag man back five thousand years so he can understand that scripture, or bring the scripture five thousand years forward so man can understand it. Man cannot be taken back. Nor is there any need. It would not be beneficial.

First, it is simply impossible. Once a child has become a youth, how will you make him a child again? And unless he becomes a child again, he will not play with toys. The toys that were so meaningful in childhood are meaningless now. But if those toys can be infused with life again—if they can be given fresh meaning so that even a grown person sees meaning in them—then they will again be valuable.

So either make the youth a child again, or recut the child’s toys: give them new life, a new meaning; graft new shoots; let new flowers bloom.

Man cannot be taken back. Yet that is exactly what your so-called religious leaders are doing. They want you to go backwards. Hence, those who “believe in religion” are often people without intelligence, minds twenty-five hundred years out of date. In today’s world they are unintelligent. A religious believer appears somewhat dull—that is the reason. Because only a dull mind can make sense of a scripture twenty-five hundred years old; an intelligent one cannot. Unintelligence becomes essential—only then can you sit clinging to the Ramayana, the Gita, the Vedas. Otherwise you cannot.

A thinking person becomes anti-religion, an atheist. Why should this be? The whole thing is upside down. A thinking person ought to be a theist; a thoughtless person an atheist. But it happens the other way around: the thinking person becomes an atheist, and the thoughtless, dull, sluggish mind becomes a theist.

Because of these dull minds, theism is sinking. Because of them, a thoughtful person hesitates to be a theist; he is afraid. He thinks ten times before going to a temple—should I go or not? For the very company you must sit with there feels humiliating.

The world keeps growing, but scriptures are dead; they cannot grow. Again and again someone is needed to reanimate the scriptures, to pull them into contemporaneity. When a scripture becomes contemporary, a thoughtful person can understand it. That is what I am doing.

The story as such does not matter to me. If something is left out, I am not worried. If something has to be added, I am not worried. Let the soul be rekindled; let it glow again.

And let me tell you: I am an eyewitness. So if ever you feel there is a discrepancy between the scripture and me, immediately correct the scripture. It only means the scripture has fallen behind.

The way I have told the story—if Buddha were alive today—he would tell it this way. Yes, a Buddha-scholar cannot tell it this way. The Buddha-scholar will repeat it exactly as Buddha told it twenty-five hundred years ago. He is a line-follower, a stick-in-the-mud. I am no such line-follower. I am a fakir who makes the lines follow me. I do not let the lines go ahead; I do not walk behind them. The lines are not my masters. I am their master.

I am the master of what I say. I speak only when I see that it is so; otherwise I do not speak.

In the story I have made many changes, many refinements. I have polished it well. I have given it a psychological meaning in place of a merely historical one.

What is there in history? Whatever is, is hidden in the layers of the mind. To give only a historical meaning is to make it understandable only to the unintelligent; only fools will be pleased. That is how religion declines.

Remember: faith does not mean the absence of reason. Faith means a state beyond reason, a state that has gone beyond reason. Faith is not below reason; it is above reason. What reason cannot do, faith does. And the one who has reasoned thoroughly and discovered that reason alone yields nothing substantial—faith is born in his life too. Keep this difference in mind.

The people you meet in temples and mosques are filled with a faith that is below reason. They say: do not reason at all. They are frightened of reasoning. Reasoning will destroy their faith.

A faith that is destroyed by reason is worth two pennies. A theism that is afraid of atheism—what value does it have? None.

I am giving you a theism that passes through atheism, that is beyond atheism. It does not accept God out of fear or because others accept him. I am giving you a theism that has the capacity to say no—and by saying no, and no, it arrives at yes.

The yes that is not born out of having said no has no life, no power. One who does not know how to say no, who has not the courage to say no, also says yes—but his yes is impotent.

I am polishing these sayings of the Dhammapada. I am making them fit for you. Think of twenty-five hundred years. Much has changed. When Buddha spoke, there was no Freud, no Marx, no Einstein. Now Freud has been, Marx has been, Einstein has been. They must be accommodated; they must be given a place; otherwise you will look childish.

If your story remains as it was before Freud, then what will you do with Freud? Where will you include the insight Freud gave? And if you do not include it, your story will be wrong. And what Marx contributed must be included. The new doors Einstein opened must open in your stories too; otherwise your stories will lag behind.

I do not let what has happened in twenty-five hundred years slip from sight. I have an extraordinary love for Buddha’s story. Precisely for that reason I include what has happened in these twenty-five hundred years. In the way I am telling it, neither Marx can find fault, nor Freud, nor Einstein. Then the story becomes contemporary. Its tone changes, its form changes; it has taken a new body; it has been reborn.

This is the rebirth of the Dhammapada. It is an effort to give the Dhammapada a new language, a new meaning, a new cadence, a new body, a new life. And when the Dhammapada is reborn—as if Buddha were speaking today—only then will your soul be stirred; only then will your soul thrill. Only then will you be moved, tremble, sway.

So whenever you see a discrepancy, go quickly and amend the scripture. Add what is needed or subtract what is needed. You will never be at a loss.

No—at moments of grace, time disappears. In moments of bliss, time vanishes; there is simply no time left. What past? What future? Even the present does not remain in moments of bliss. In bliss there is no time; there is eternity. Keep this in mind.

In moments of sorrow there is time. The more intense the sorrow, the more time there seems to be. Have you observed: you sit by the bed of a beloved person who is dying, and the night becomes very long—endlessly long! Time stretches out immensely. The night just won’t pass. Again and again you look at the clock. You wonder, “Has the clock stopped? Why are the hands moving so slowly today?” The denser the sorrow, the denser time becomes. The night lengthens. Morning seems never to come.

And when your beloved comes to meet you—your lover has arrived and you are filled with delight—time contracts and becomes small. The night passes like this—just now it came, now it’s gone! Gone in a moment! The clock seems to be running today. Time moves so fast you don’t even notice when it has slipped away. You must have noticed this.

When you are happy, time seems to race. When you are unhappy, time’s pace slows—it becomes sluggish.

Remember this psychological truth well. So far I’m speaking of ordinary pleasure and pain. One who becomes vividly aware of the anguish of birth upon birth finds the very concept of time growing vast and heavy. And one who realizes the inner, eternal bliss finds time dissolving—becoming utterly zero.

Understand it this way: in sorrow, time appears long. In great sorrow it becomes very long—endless, infinite. In happiness it becomes short. In great happiness it becomes very brief. In bliss, it becomes absolutely zero.

Jesus has a saying that Bertrand Russell, a great thinker of this century, condemned strongly. Anyone looking only from the surface will condemn it. Jesus said: Those who sin will rot in hell for all eternity. For all eternity! This doesn’t sound reasonable. Punishment should be proportionate to the sin, shouldn’t it? Let there be hell—fine. But some accounting seems necessary.

A man commits murder; he too will rot in hell for eternity. Another steals two coins; he too will rot in hell for eternity. That’s injustice. That’s a dark kingdom—everything sold by the pound for the same price! There ought to be some measure.

Russell himself said, “In my life I have committed sins—I won’t say I haven’t—but even the harshest judge could not give me more than four years. And if you add the sins I didn’t commit but only thought about—wanted to commit but didn’t—perhaps eight years, at the most. But to burn in hell for eternity? To be kept in fire, hungry and thirsty, for ever? That would be a sin far greater than mine, and in the name of God!”

Then it would mean God enjoys torturing; takes pleasure in the suffering of others; is a devil. A small excuse—and He throws you in for eternity! And the irony: the very desires are given by Him, the very nature that leads me into sin is created by Him, and then He arrives to punish—and without any measure!

Bertrand Russell wrote a book: Why I Am Not a Christian. He gives all his reasons there; among them is that Christianity is unjust.

But I want to tell you that Jesus’ statement has a psychological meaning. Russell missed it; he grasped the logic but missed the meaning. The meaning is: the pain of hell is so dense that even a single moment will seem like eternity. If you are thrown into hell for one moment, it will feel like forever. The suffering is so compact that, because of its density, time appears infinite.

Understand from the other side, too. You have always heard so‑called saints say, “Happiness is momentary.” It doesn’t mean happiness actually lasts only a moment. That’s not true; sometimes happiness lasts quite a while. But that happiness always feels momentary—that is true—because in happiness time becomes small. Do you see my point?

It may be that happiness remains for years; it needn’t be momentary. You fall in love; the love can last for years, and you can be happy through it for years. Yet the statement remains true that happiness is momentary—the years will feel as if they passed like a moment.

You’ve seen it in Hindi films: the dates on a calendar fly off in the wind! Just so, in happiness the dates fly by. Happiness is like a Hindi film. Days pass, months pass, years pass—but so swiftly!

By its very nature happiness shortens time. Then bliss is another matter altogether; bliss means ultimate happiness.

Happiness means: pain has left, but it stands waiting just around the corner, watching for when you are done with happiness so it can return. It never goes very far. Pain, during happiness, doesn’t go far; it stands at the door, saying, “All right, enjoy a little. I’ll be back.” Happiness and unhappiness go together. Bliss means pain is gone forever. And if pain is gone forever, happiness too is gone forever, because they are a pair; they come together. Bliss is a state of supreme peace—where neither sorrow torments nor happiness torments; where nothing torments at all; where there is no excitation. Happiness too has excitement.

Sometimes the excitement of happiness exceeds that of sorrow. If you suddenly win a lottery, you may have a heart attack. People sometimes die of happiness; the heart cannot handle the excitement; it pounds so hard that beats are lost, and it stops.

I have heard of a man who bought a one‑rupee lottery ticket every month. He had never won. Who wins! But for twenty years he kept buying in hope. Be careful—if you chase something long enough, it might actually happen.

The greatest danger of desire is that it may get fulfilled—then the real trouble starts. As long as it isn’t fulfilled, it’s manageable. Only a rupee was lost—no great calamity. A rupee gained or lost—who lives or dies over that! It had become a habit, a little pastime, a small addiction. Fine. Then one day a man came from the lottery office with the news. The husband was at work; the wife was home. She panicked—one lakh rupees! They had never even seen a hundred rupees at one time. The salary ran into debt before it arrived. One lakh! She thought: this could be dangerous; my husband won’t be able to handle so much happiness. She was frightened. She was Christian. The priest lived nearby. She went and said, “Please do something. A lakh has come our way. My husband might not survive it. His heart is already weak.”

The priest said, “Don’t worry; I’ll come.” He came and sat down. When the husband returned from work, the priest said, “Listen, you’ve won in the lottery—ten thousand rupees.” He planned to give it in doses, thinking, If I say a lakh all at once, trouble. Ten thousand—then another ten thousand—slowly, slowly. “You’ve won ten thousand.”

The husband said, “Really! If that’s true, five thousand are for you.” Hearing this, the priest collapsed—heart failure! He hadn’t imagined he would be a beneficiary too.

Happiness can create intense excitement. Happiness, too, is a kind of ailment, a sort of fever. Sorrow is a fever—and happiness is, too. Happiness tires you—you have seen it. You cannot endure happiness for very long; it starts to weary you; you grow bored.

How long can you bear happiness? That’s why sorrow waits outside. It says, “When you tire of happiness, I am ready to serve.”

When you tire of sorrow, you begin to seek happiness. When you tire of happiness, you begin to weave new nets of sorrow. You’ve seen: even in happiness your mind starts looking for trouble—spinning fresh webs of suffering.

Bliss is the name of a state where neither happiness remains nor sorrow remains. Supreme peace happens; the hour of ultimate rest arrives. In that ultimate rest, where is time?

You ask: “The golden fish remembered its past lives in intense moments of repentance at the feet of the Buddha. In moments of grace at the Buddha’s feet, too, does remembrance of past lives arise?”

In moments of grace, who cares about past lives! Who even cares about this life! Who cares about future lives! Anxieties dissolve. Where there are no anxieties, there is no past and no future. Where there is no mind, what time can there be? So—no. Only in remorse and sorrow does the old return.

You have seen: old people keep looking back. There is nothing left to see ahead. Death stands there—a wall of death! And each day they are moved closer. The line grows shorter. Those who were ahead begin to go, to be taken away. Death is taking them. “My turn must be coming; not long now.” There is nothing to see ahead; looking ahead is frightening. They begin to look back. An old person always searches the past—thinks of the past. That is why the old say, “Ah, those were the happy days, the golden days, the Satya Yuga, Ram Rajya!” These are the words of the old. Their entire golden age lies behind. “Those were the good days. Where are they now—when ghee sold for that price! Where are those days?”

And don’t think there is some special truth in it. Perhaps ghee did sell at that price—that may be true. But even then the people who were old were looking further back, to their time—“when ghee sold for that price!”

You cannot find a time when the old did not look back and say, “The earlier days were better. Now nothing remains; everything has deteriorated. Neither the people remain, nor the days of joy.”

The old keep turning back. They are tied to the past, bound to it. There is remorse: “What I did not do—oh, if only I had!” The golden days slipped away. Sorrow grips them; pain takes hold; they weep.

Children think of the future; their golden age lies ahead. The same is true of peoples and nations. The young think of the present; children of the future; the old of the past. A society that has become old also thinks of the past.

Like India—an old society, the oldest race upon this earth. It always thinks backward—Vedas, Ram Rajya, Satya Yuga—always backward. It sees nothing ahead.

America is like a child—some three hundred years old. It always thinks of the future—forward. There isn’t much behind to think about. At most, you get to Washington and Lincoln—then where will you go? There isn’t much distance to run; the history soon finishes.

The Indian mind has great convenience in going backward. Go as far back as you like; nothing ever ends. Go on and on—there is an infinite past.

Russia is young; it thinks of the present—neither past nor future. What is here now, this moment in hand—enjoy it. Who knows about tomorrow! What was yesterday is gone.

Individuals, communities, societies, nations—their chains of thinking, their logic, are alike.

And one who knows, “I am neither young, nor old, nor a child”—what is there for him to think about? One who knows childhood is of the body, youth is of the body, old age is of the body; one who knows consciousness is neither child, nor youth, nor old—what should he think about? Nothing remains to think. Thinking drops. Time dissolves. In that very instant, grace happens.

When you know: you are the atman—timeless; when you know: your existence is beyond time; your being is beyond the stream of time—on the day you know this—on that day there is grace; that day, bliss; that day, samadhi; that day, nirvana. In that state of samadhi there is no remembrance—neither of past, nor of future, nor even of present.

Sorrow gone—time contracts. Happiness gone—time disappears.

Seek this. Seek that supreme state where time is erased. Time itself is the entanglement; time itself is the world.

And time does dissolve. When in meditation you become utterly still, time melts. That is why, when you come back from meditation and someone asks, “How long were you in?” you cannot answer. No meditator has ever been able to. Yes, by looking at the clock you can say, “When I went in, it was nine; now it is nine‑thirty—so half an hour.”

But if someone asks, “Forget the clock—inside there was no clock. You are only reporting what was when you went in and when you came out. In that half hour, how much time passed within?”—the meditator cannot say. He will say, “There is no way to tell. There, time is not.”
A disciple once asked Jesus, “What will be the most special thing in the kingdom of your Lord?” Jesus said: “There shall be time no longer—there will be no time there.” This is what Jesus called special. A very strange thing to say. Perhaps the one who asked had never imagined, not even in a dream, that Jesus would give this answer—that there will be no time there.
But in that answer, everything is contained. Where there is no time, there is no mind. Where there is no mind, there is no lust, no craving. Where there is no lust and no craving, there is no world. Erase time, and all is erased. Time is our dream.
There are two ways of being in the world. One is to be in time; that is the world. And one is to be outside of time; that is sannyas.
Live in time in such a way that the current of time cannot touch you. Walk in time in such a way that time cannot draw lines upon you.
This is what Kabir has said: “I returned the cloth just as it was.” Time could draw no line. The dust of time did not settle. The mirror, as it was—pure—was kept just so.
Meditation is the name of this essential art. One lives in time, and yet time does not touch him. There is bliss there; there is liberation.

Because it is suffering. Suffering too is according to the law. And suffering has a use—and it must be used.

Buddha spoke of four noble truths:
1) There is suffering.
2) There is a cause of suffering.
3) Freedom from suffering is possible.
4) There are methods for freedom from suffering.

Suffering has a use. Without suffering—without knowing it and passing through it—no one is refined. Suffering polishes, burnishes. Suffering is like putting gold into the fire; a person who passes through suffering is purified in that way. But to put gold in fire does not mean it should remain in fire forever. Once it is pure, take it out.

There is a use in entering suffering; there is a use in coming out of suffering. It is true: suffering is not meaningless. If it were meaningless, there would have been no need for the world. Suffering has a creative use.

What is the use of suffering? It wakes you up. You understood yesterday’s story!

Buddha stopped short upon seeing a sow. He pondered a while, then laughed. Ananda asked: What happened? Why did you halt seeing a sow? Why did you think? What did you think? And why laugh?

Buddha said: This sow, in the past—when there was a Buddha named Kakusandha—was a hen. She used to move around him. When he spoke, she would go to listen. When he sat in meditation, she too would sit close by as if meditating. She fell in love with Kakusandha, grew attached. She did not know much—how much can a hen know! But the Buddha’s breeze was like a magnet; it kept drawing her, drawing her. Thus unknowingly she amassed the wealth of meditation; thus unintentionally, accidentally, she earned merit. Because of that merit she was born a princess. Then, when she was a princess, one day in the privy she saw worms writhing. Seeing those worms, a remembrance stirred—a deep remembrance: this is exactly our condition too. As the worms writhe in excreta, so do we writhe in the world.

To wriggle in this world is like wriggling in filth. For nine months the child remains in the mother’s womb—a worm of filth—wriggling in filth. After being born, even if you do not crawl in filth, filth crawls in you. And what do you actually do? From one side you put in, from the other side you let out! And what are your lusts, your ambitions? Only to wriggle in that filth. What is the attraction in your lust? The attraction of filth.

All this came before her eyes. In a moment it was as if a spear had been thrust into her chest. Seeing those worms wriggle, she attained to meditation. When she died she was born in heaven as a goddess. The merit accumulated richly; she flew to heaven on the wings of merit.

And Buddha said: That is why I laughed—because when the merit of heaven was exhausted, she has now been born as a piglet, a sow. I laughed at what a net it is! She was a hen, rose from there to heaven; then fell from heaven to become a sow. Why? Because in heaven there was so much pleasure that she forgot meditation and so on. In heaven there is so much pleasure—who cares about meditation, about dharma?

That is why your gods become the most corrupt. Your scriptures tell the tales; you will not find people more corrupt than the gods! “God” means: one who lives only in pleasure—where there is no suffering at all. Without suffering there is no sting. Without the sting there is no polish. Without polish, what will the gods do? Run off with one another’s women! What else will they do? After all, one needs something to do! What will you do in heaven? Idling away, what will you do? Make the Urvashis dance; play brass bands and drums; or, if some rishi-muni is approaching the condition of becoming a god, then make him fall! What else will you do?

So there is big politics in heaven. Some poor rishi is sitting in a forest, fasting and meditating; over there Indra’s throne begins to shake: “If this man fasts more, keeps more vows, earns more merit, meditates more, it may happen that he becomes entitled to seize my seat! He might earn so much merit that he becomes Indra! Then I will have to step down.” Great politics!

You will find Delhi writ large in heaven, on a grander scale. There is no difference. The same frauds, the same machinations, the same pulling of one another’s legs. You will find the same party-hopping too. And the rest of the time—what else is there to do? Pour the wine and make the apsaras dance! What else will you do?

Thus in heaven she forgot all meditation, forgot the inner journey. The merit that had been earned was expended. Everything earned is spent one day or another. So now she has fallen, born as a sow. That is why I laughed.

Keep in mind: all Indian religions have said one very important thing. On this the Jains, Hindus, Buddhists all agree. And it is this: from heaven no one goes straight to liberation. From heaven there is no road to moksha at all. If one is to go to moksha, one must first return to the world. The road to moksha runs through the human world. Therefore even a god must come into the human womb.

Why is there no road from heaven to moksha? One might think—arithmetic would propose—that from there it should be very near: take a step further and you have reached moksha! From heaven, just a little onward, you should arrive in moksha!

No; it is not so, because in heaven there is so much pleasure that the very memory of moksha is forgotten. Pleasure is like wine; it puts you to sleep. Suffering wakes you. In suffering one cannot sleep. And moksha comes from wakefulness—not from sleep or stupor.

So your gods are drowsing—of course they are. That is why, when Buddha attained supreme knowledge, the stories say the gods came to his feet; Brahma himself came to lay flowers at his feet. Why? Because buddhahood is greater than godhood.

Buddhahood means: one has become free of pleasure and pain. Godhood means: one has been freed from pain and gone into pleasure. One bondage removed, another replaced it. The iron chains were removed; golden chains arrived, studded with diamonds.

But note well: diamond-studded chains are more dangerous than iron chains. Iron chains at least evoke a desire to break them. Who breaks diamond chains? People take them as ornaments and protect them. If such chains are placed on you, you will never break them. And if someone comes to free you, you will take him to be an enemy—“Freeing me from my ornaments!”

From heaven no one wants moksha. There seems no reason to want it. One has to return to the human birth. The human birth is a crossroads: from there one can go downward, upward, and from there transcendence is possible too. From the human birth one can go down—to hell, to suffering and great suffering—or to pleasure, to heaven. And the third state is beyond duality, free of both. That is moksha.

You have asked: “Why is craving called nothing but suffering?”

Because craving is nothing but suffering. Craving makes you a beggar. The more the craving, the greater the beggary.

“Don’t be troubled, do not open the door of grace;
I will call a little while, then I will go.

You are so beautiful, and then this adornment—
the gaze, once it falls on your face, comes to rest.
When in the gathering you smile, turning your face away,
a rainbow breaks and scatters across our chests.

A delicate form sculpted by warm kisses,
whose single warmth melts every soul.
I have thought—and perhaps all think so—
can thirst also be cast into a mold like this?

What is lacking that you will accept my tribute?
Lovers are many, tales of longing many.
Let there be only one night—love’s tumultuous heat;
in a single night how many moths burn and die.

Yet even in one night there come a hundred turns.
May you never know the feeling of loneliness.
You understand right: even if I go, where will I go?
Remember me whenever no one is near.

Tonight is very hot, very hot indeed—
I’ll spend the night alone, then I will go.
Don’t be troubled, do not open the door of grace;
I will call a little while, then I will go.”

At the door of lust, people stand begging:
“I will call a little while, then I will go.”
Those doors have never opened, nor do they open. There is no need even to say it.

“Don’t be troubled, do not open the door of grace…”

The lover is saying to the beloved: Do not be troubled. Do not even open the door. It is only self-persuasion. When does that door open? For whom is it open? Who has ever been satisfied at the door of lust?

The door is closed. It has always been closed. It will remain closed. That door does not even know how to open. But man consoles himself: “No matter. Do not be troubled.”

“Don’t be troubled, do not open the door of grace;
I will call a little while, then I will go.”

“And do not open your door of grace.” Do not be troubled.

“This is consolation; this is just talking myself into it: that I am leaving of my own accord; I do not wish to trouble you.”

“You are so beautiful, and then this adornment!
The gaze, once it falls on your face, comes to rest.
When in the gathering you smile, turning your face away,
a rainbow breaks and scatters across our chests.

A delicate form sculpted by warm kisses—
as if your body were cast and carved by kisses alone!
A single warmth from it melts every soul.

I have thought—and perhaps all think so—
can thirst also be cast into a mold like this?

What is lacking that you will accept my tribute?
Lovers are many, tales of longing many.

Let there be only one night—love’s tumultuous heat;
even a single night would be enough.

In a single night many moths burn and die.
Yet even in one night there come a hundred turns.
May you never know the feeling of loneliness.
You understand right: even if I go, where will I go?
Remember me whenever no one is near.

Tonight is very hot, very hot indeed—
I’ll spend the night alone, then I will go.”

One filled with lust is always alone. When is anyone truly together here? Even when together, where is the togetherness? Even with hands in hands, where is the hand in the hand? Who is with whom here? No one can truly be with anyone here; there is no way. Here, all are alone. Lust only creates delusions, dreams.

“Don’t be troubled, do not open the door of grace;
I will call a little while, then I will go.”

Lust makes everyone a beggar. The doors never open, the begging bowl never fills. Lust fills everyone’s eyes with tears. It sows thorns in every heart. Lust is great suffering.

But this does not mean lust has no use. Its very use is that it wake you, shake you; that suffering, pain, tempests arise—and you become alert, you become watchful. By looking long and hard at lust, if you understand one thing, you have extracted the very essence of suffering: that asking is futile. Nothing is obtained by asking. Running is futile; by running no one reaches anywhere.

If through suffering you see this much—that by running no one reaches anywhere—and you stop; that by asking nothing is obtained—and all your demands drop, all your prayers drop; you break your begging bowl—at that very instant the flower of sannyas blooms.

What does sannyas mean? Only this: in this world nothing is obtained, nor can it be obtained. There is running, hustle, great striving—but no contentment. One who has seen this, whose illusions have shattered, whose dreams have broken, whose inner false notions have been smashed again and again against suffering—he gains greatly. He becomes still within.

Craving takes you outside yourself. Craving is always an outer journey. And when craving is seen to be futile—when it becomes clear it is nothing but suffering…

That is why Buddha says: suffering, only suffering. Not because Buddha wants to condemn lust. Why would Buddha condemn? Buddha does not know how to condemn. Buddha simply declares the fact.

“The beloved did not come.
The dispassionate one stayed awake all night,
keeping a lamp lit.
Maddened pain put up for auction,
in the open market,
all the dreams.
On far, high mountains
nameless doorways of the horizons
kept opening.
The ascetic body silently
bore it all.
The beloved did not come.

The mirror of the lakes deepened.
The sky stood there,
dozing.
The garden kept watching—
again and again robbed—
the earth’s caress
for the flower.
The wanderer-mind lived sorrow,
it lived joy.
The beloved did not come.”

That which you seek does not appear. Sorrow is found, joy is found; what you seek is not found.

“The wanderer-mind lived sorrow,
it lived joy.
The beloved did not come.”

Emptiness does not fill, loneliness does not end.

Suffering keeps striking you again and again with the message to awaken. Suffering is like an alarm: “Get up—you have slept enough. Wake up—you have dreamt enough. It is morning.” Suffering wakes you. And if you awaken through suffering, there will arise in you gratitude toward suffering. And toward all those as well who brought you suffering.

That is why enmity vanishes in the awakened one. With whom to be an enemy? All have helped. One’s own have helped—and others too have helped. Strangers gave suffering, of course; one’s own gave suffering too. All have helped; all have awakened you; all have shaken you. None allowed you to sleep.

The day you awaken, there will be a feeling of thankfulness—toward all those, toward all those situations—in which you had once been greatly agitated, greatly exasperated. Toward them too you will say, “I am blessed.” For had that not happened, this awakening would not have been.

“Always be with me—
how good it feels!
The mind feels washed and clean,
the body fills with the touch of spring.
Speaking, the courtyards within
fill with fourfold joy.
Lighting a lamp on the tulsi altar—
how good that feels.
Always be with me!

Every season brims with color;
every mirror’s image grows more vivid.
Emptiness overflows;
every corner gets adorned with sunlight.
Every manner turns true;
life seems true.
Always be with me!”

But who can be with whom always? “Life seems true!” Seeming true is one thing; becoming true is something else entirely. In seeming, there is deception. How much deception you have suffered! How many times you have said, “This is it—now my heart’s friend has come. I have found the one I longed for.” And then you missed again. Two days later you came to know: no, this too is only a halt, not the destination. You will have to move on, go further. It was a dharmashala, a caravanserai. You stayed the night; in the morning you must be a wanderer again. In the morning you must set out again on the journey.

Across births and births you have pitched so many halts in the world; where is the destination?

Buddha’s saying that life is suffering—only suffering—is to awaken you. And do not think suffering has no use. This is its very use. Only by crossing suffering is there nirvana.

I cannot say. I have kept you before my eyes, kept you in my heart of hearts; why I myself became the prey—that I cannot say. I have reached your ghat; from you, may I find the refuge of the boat called sannyas?
Manhar has asked. When he asked, he was not yet a sannyasin. Now he is; he has boarded the boat. But what he has said is right.
There is no way to explain or say what the relationship between disciple and master is! It is one of the most tangled riddles in existence. Why?

All other relationships in this world—mother, father, brother, sister, husband-wife, friend—are worldly. They are all of the body-mind, of matter. They belong to maya, to dream, to sleep.

In this world there is only one ray that is not of this world: the master–disciple relationship. Though it happens here—on this very earth, under these trees, beneath these same moon and stars—though it happens here, it is not of here. It is from the beyond. Like a shaft of light entering a dark house through a hole in the roof. It is in the darkness, but it is not of the darkness. It comes from beyond, from far away.

If you take hold of that ray and start moving with it, if you make the ray your path of pilgrimage, you will soon be outside the darkness. Soon you will discover the moon from which the ray is descending. Holding the ray, you will reach the source of light.

The master–disciple relationship is the most extraordinary, the most wondrous; it is something that should not be possible, and yet it happens! It is something that ought not to fit into the accounting of life—and yet it occurs, beyond all accounting.

But do not conclude from this that it happens in every disciple’s life. A disciple can be merely formal—then nothing happens. One can become a disciple out of some deep desire—then nothing happens. Whether the desire is worldly or spiritual—there is no difference.

People come to me. One man took sannyas. I asked him: “Why are you taking sannyas?” He said, “I’ve been looking for a job for a long time and haven’t found one. I thought that after becoming a sannyasin, with your grace I would get a job.”

What kind of relationship will be created by such sannyas? How can it be created? The relationship is already broken! Where is the question of it coming into being? It was broken even before it began; the very premise is false.

Some bring their children. A child’s development has not happened rightly, he is developmentally delayed—fifteen years old, but with a mental age of three or four. They say, “Please give him sannyas!” Why? “Perhaps with your blessing he will be cured.”

A gentleman brought his son for sannyas. I asked, “And what is your intention?” He himself had not taken sannyas. He said, “I’ll think about it. There are still many entanglements.”

They bring the child for sannyas, but they don’t have the courage to take sannyas themselves! There is no real purpose in sannyas for them, no understanding of it. They take sannyas as some kind of medicine, a therapy—“the child will be cured.” Then the relationship simply cannot arise.

But these are worldly matters. Even if you take sannyas out of a spiritual ambition, it still does not work. Someone says, “I want mental peace!” When someone says, “I want a job,” anyone can see the mistake. But when someone says, “I want mental peace,” you won’t call it wrong. I tell you, it is still wrong.

If you want anything out of sannyas, it is wrong. Where there is desire, there is worldliness—how can there be sannyas there! Sannyas should be without cause, without motive. It should flower out of joy, out of sheer playfulness. Its goal should be in itself. If you want anything, there will be an obstacle.

“I want mental peace!” Why is there mental unrest? Because there are too many desires in life; those desires agitate the mind. Because of those desires there is tension; because of tension, restlessness. Now you add one more desire! You will become even more restless: “I want mental peace!”

And remember: to get money is easy; to get mental peace is not that easy. Money is trivial. Keep searching and you will find it. If you don’t get it legally, try illegally—you will get it. Find some way; fight an election; stake whatever you have—many times over you will get it back. Money can be obtained. But mental peace? Mental peace is not an object you can grasp in your fist! It is not something that is sold somewhere that you can buy. It is not something you can get through practice. Mental peace comes through understanding.

That is why Buddha said: through wisdom. When you understand what the causes of unrest are, in that very understanding the causes cease. What remains is mental peace. Therefore, no one can desire mental peace—desire itself is the cause of unrest. To desire is to miss; and the hindrance only increases. There are enough hindrances as it is!

To such people I say: as it is, there is enough unrest—why take on even more? Isn’t this much enough? And still you are not satisfied! Now you want even the desire for mental peace! Don’t get into this mess. Better: see why the mind is restless; enter into it. You will find: restlessness is because there are many cravings, and no craving is ever fulfilled. Because it is never fulfilled, there is unrest—unrest—unrest.

The result of this understanding is that cravings drop. And where there is no craving, what remains is mental peace. In that peace the flower of nirvana blooms. But it does not bloom through your striving. Not through your effort. Your effort can produce only what is of you.

The flower of nirvana comes from the divine; it is grace. It descends from the infinite. You are only the recipient, not the producer. You can only receive, you can only accept. It descends. It is already present. The day your heart’s soil is ready, suddenly you will find: the flower has descended. It has floated over you. It has filled you.

While there was desire, you remained empty. Empty of desire, you are filled with the divine. Then call it whatever you like: nirvana, moksha, truth, sat-chit-ananda. Then only the names differ.

It cannot be told. Not because language finds it difficult, but because even you do not know. Discipleship is such an unprecedented happening that even the disciple does not know: why is it happening? how did it happen?

Why my heart loves you—
this I cannot tell.
I kept you before my eyes,
enshrined you in my heart.
Why I myself became the prey—
this I cannot tell.

Rightly said. There is no way to explain it. No one ever has. This is not a thing to be told; it is a thing to be guarded, silently, within.

Don’t talk.
It is the season for silence.
Tell the cool breezes
to stop.
Tell the dark shadows
to lean in.
It is a compelling hour
to bear everything in quiet—
the season for silence.
Don’t talk.

Silences, chirping at every doorway—
halt them.
And those wayward glances—
check them a little.
This is not the time
to be swept away by waves—
the season for silence.
Don’t talk.

Dreams have set up
a grocer’s stall;
memory’s conjurer
has wrung the guileless heart.
The tongue is helpless,
the pain has nothing to say—
the season for silence.
Don’t talk.

Now, in your life, the hour to be silent has arrived. Now something has happened in your life that cannot be said—can never be said. This is an auspicious hour. It is a new beginning. It is the first glimpse of the divine in your life, the first flash, the first lightning!

Don’t talk.
It is the season for silence.

Now, silently, practice it. Now, silently, bind it within. Now, silently, dwell in it.

And you have boarded my boat. Now let all the mind’s ties with the old shore be severed. Remove all the threads from the old bank. Let no rope remain fastened; otherwise, it often happens that one boards the boat and still reaches nowhere.

You have heard the story, haven’t you!
One night some men got drunk. It was a full-moon night. Intoxicated, singing, they reached the riverbank. The fishermen had moored their boats and gone ashore. They climbed into a boat, took up the oars, and rowed hard. They were drunk. They just kept rowing.
At dawn, when the cool breeze began to blow and the stupor lightened a little, one drunk said: Brothers, someone step to the shore and see how far we have come and in which direction! We have been rowing all night—who knows where we have reached?
One man stepped off and, clutching his belly, burst into laughter. The others asked, What is it? He said, The joke is great. We have gone nowhere. We forgot to cast off from the shore. The boat is chained to the bank. True, we rowed a lot—but we are exactly where we were!

Even after sitting in the boat it is not necessary that the journey happens. The chains must be untied from the shore. And remember: it is not just one or two—many chains bind you to the bank. Here the chain of wealth. There the chain of position. Here the chain of attachment. There the chain of respectability. Who knows how many chains bind you to the shore! All of them will have to be cut.

I can put the oar in your hand. I can tell you, Undo these chains. But the doing must be yours.

I cannot open your chains. Because if someone else opens them, true freedom does not happen.
What would come of my opening them! If you are enamored of the chains, before I can even turn my face you will tie them again. If you are attached to them, they will bind you again.

Awaken yourself and unfasten the chains. The awakened ones only point; the walking you must do.

To be happy—yes, that is true. But happiness cannot be achieved by trying to achieve it. Happiness comes indirectly, not directly. Understand this alchemy of happiness rightly.

To be happy—this is natural. So everyone is engaged in getting happiness. But hardly anyone understands why I am unhappy! He runs after happiness, but why am I miserable? And unless I change the causes of my misery, no matter how much I run, I will not find happiness.

I have heard: one day a crow was flying along. A cuckoo asked, “Uncle! Where are you going in such a hurry?” He said, “I’m going east, because in the west people don’t like my songs.” The cuckoo said, “Uncle! But if you sing the same songs in the east, they won’t like them there either. It is your songs that are the problem! Instead of going east, change the way you sing.”

People are seeking happiness and producing misery! Their whole energy is invested in creating suffering, and a small part of the mind is looking for happiness! How can that work?

Your whole life is devoted to manufacturing sorrow. Understand this. It would be far more intelligent to inquire, Why is suffering being produced? That very inquiry will take you to where happiness blossoms. Remove misery, and happiness happens.

And even if for a moment you catch a little happiness now and then, it won’t last long. In the ocean of suffering, happiness will be like a drop, like a bubble—here now, gone now. And it will leave you even more miserable.

Have you noticed that after happiness, sorrow becomes even denser? As if you are walking along a road in darkness: on a moonless night you can still make out a little, and somehow you keep going. Then a fast car passes by; its bright headlights dazzle your eyes. The car goes on—and then you can’t see anything at all, not even what you could see before. For a moment you are completely blind.

That’s how it is. Life is suffused with suffering, and once in a while happiness flashes—and after that you feel even more miserable.

Notice the difference! A beggar sits on the roadside. A beggar is a beggar—he’s always been one. You think, “He must be very unhappy.” You are mistaken. You think so because you imagine, “If I had to beg, if I had to be a beggar, how miserable I would be!” He is not hurting as much as you imagine. You would be.

You had a house, a wife, a car, a shop—everything. Then you lost it. You went bankrupt—Diwali came, and by Diwali you were bankrupt. Now you end up sitting beside the beggar. Don’t think the misery you feel is what the beggar feels. The beggar might even be carefree. He might say to you, “Friend, why are you so upset? It’s all right; life goes on just fine. Why so gloomy? In a few days you’ll settle in. I’ll teach you the trade—there’s an art to it. Learn it from me.”

But your mind won’t settle—because you have tasted a little happiness. Compared to that, this feels like great suffering.

There is a Jewish tale: A poor Jew went to his rabbi. He said, “Master! Show me a way. I’m dying. We have only one room. In it I live, my wife lives, my twelve children live. My father, my mother, my wife’s mother, my wife’s father, my widowed sister, her two children! And now guests have also arrived! We are going mad. Before something terrible happens—either I will kill someone or I will die—this is how it is. One room: we cook there, children are born there, guests stay there. Show me some way.”

Jewish rabbis are very experienced people. He said, “Do one thing. Do you have cows, buffaloes, and so on?” He said, “Yes. Three buffaloes, two cows, ten goats, sheep, a dog, and a horse.” The rabbi said, “Bring them all inside, too.” He cried, “Are you in your senses? I’m telling you I’m dying—and you tell me to bring them in!” The rabbi said, “Do as I say—and come back in seven days and tell me.”

Since the master said it, there must be a secret. He didn’t really have the courage to do it. He went home, thought a lot. Told his wife, “This is too much! I went with a problem; he showed me the way to a catastrophe.”

The wife said, “But when the master has said it...” As wives often trust the guru, she said, “If the master has said it, we must do it. Whatever happens. We’ll endure seven days. There must be some secret!”

So he had to bring them in. All the buffaloes and cows and horses and dogs... There was no space even to sit. They somehow stood and endured. In seven days they were totally crazy. On the seventh day he ran straight back, fell at the rabbi’s feet: “Save me, Master!”

The rabbi said, “Now do one thing: take all the animals out.” He leapt with joy, “Blessed one! I’ve never known such happiness! Just hearing this brings me such joy!”

He went and took them all out. Five or seven days later the rabbi visited. “Well?” he asked. “Master,” he said, “there is great joy! I have never breathed such a sigh of relief in my life. The room feels so big! There is plenty of space. Even if two or four guests come, there is no problem. You opened my eyes!”

This often happens: after great suffering, even a little happiness feels big. And after great happiness, even a little suffering feels big.

“You say that from the search for happiness suffering arises.”
Yes, suffering arises out of the search for happiness. Because you don’t search suffering; you don’t excavate it. You don’t observe it. You keep shouting for happiness, and you keep on producing misery.

The wise one is not concerned about happiness; he observes suffering. He searches out the secret of sorrow—Why is there suffering? What are its causes? What is its foundation? And as understanding of suffering deepens, its foundations begin to fall—because you yourself are creating them.

You yourself are producing your sorrow. As understanding dawns, your hands withdraw. Wherever understanding comes, there the hand withdraws. And where suffering is not produced, happiness arises. There is no need to seek happiness separately. It’s that very search that blocks the way.

This is the very use of pain: if you understand it, happiness happens. If you understand it completely, bliss happens.

Pain, too, is necessary.

A hunger for earth awoke,
a thirst for the very soil;
we went on breathing,
feelings left untouched—
in the courtyard’s fragrances
distance gathered close.
Pain is necessary.

Silences kept filling
the meters with color;
the mirror rendered
all dreams faded and pale;
unlived, undied,
life stays incomplete.
Pain is necessary.

Sometimes they grow, sometimes they shrink—
these unquenched distances;
caravans bound for the goal
kept shouldering ill repute;
the shadow of unseen dreams
glows a crimson hue.
Pain is necessary.

Pain has a great use. Its use is: look at it, recognize it, analyze it, dig into it, understand it. From that very understanding, happiness descends within you. Don’t go in search of happiness—enter into suffering. And when I say enter suffering, I am not saying: create more suffering for yourself. There is already enough suffering. No need to manufacture more.

Some fools concluded that entering suffering means creating more of it. Even if food is available, they fast. There is no need. There is already enough pain.

The true meaning of austerity is: when suffering is there, be awake in it. But people are foolish. They took the opposite meaning: create suffering for yourself. Earlier they tried to create happiness; now they try to create suffering. Earlier they thought, “Somehow get an air conditioner in the room.” Now? Now they sit with a sacred fire, roasting in the heat—dying by the flames! But the stupidity remains the same.

Earlier they wanted fine clothes; now they sit naked! Earlier they wanted a good bed, a good place to sleep; now it’s not enough to sleep on an ordinary cot, to sleep on whatever is there; they make a bed of thorns! They drive spikes and make a special pallet! This is foolishness—running from one extreme to the other.

Remember: there are the stupidities of the sensualist and the stupidities of the ascetic. Only one who awakens from both is wise.

Otherwise the yogi’s stupidity will catch you! Somehow you slip out of the hedonist’s stupidity, and the yogi’s stupidity grabs you! Here the hedonist tries to squeeze pleasure out of everything. There the ascetic tries to squeeze pain out of everything. If a path is smooth and clean, he won’t walk there; he’ll walk where thorns lie—because pain! He is an ascetic! He must practice austerity! If there is shade under a tree, he won’t sit there; he will stand in the sun. A blanket is at hand—he could sleep wrapped in it—but he stands in the river, bearing the cold! The style of stupidity has changed, not stupidity itself.

There is no need to produce suffering, and no need to pursue happiness. The suffering you have is more than enough. God has given you as much as is necessary; use it. Understand it. From that very understanding you will find the sutras—and from those sutras, liberation.

That’s all for today.