Es Dhammo Sanantano #105

To understand tṛṣṇā is to understand Buddha. For the moment tṛṣṇā is seen, tṛṣṇā drops; and what remains is Buddhahood.

To understand Buddha it is not necessary to understand Gautama the Buddha. To understand Buddha, you must descend into your own Buddhahood. There is no other way. Whoever tried otherwise, remained a scholar. And scholarship is worse than ignorance.

The ignorant is innocent; scholarship swells with great ego. No one is deprived of truth because of ignorance; one is deprived because of ego. It is the ego that must be erased. If the ego dissolves, all ignorance dissolves by itself.

But what does it mean to ‘understand tṛṣṇā’? Dictionaries give meanings. Thinkers and philosophers have propounded many theories about it; shall we understand those?

No. By understanding theories you may come to understand ‘about’ tṛṣṇā, but you will not understand tṛṣṇā. There is no intellectual method to understand tṛṣṇā. Tṛṣṇā can only be understood existentially.

You are living in tṛṣṇā; begin to live wakefully. You are walking in tṛṣṇā; gather your awareness. Even now tṛṣṇā catches hold, but you are unconscious. Fill yourself a little with watchfulness. And when tṛṣṇā grabs you, inquire: from where does it arise? how does it arise? why does it arise? where does it lead? and in this ceaseless circling, what does it finally deliver into your hands?

Like the bull yoked to the oil-press, we are yoked to tṛṣṇā. The oil-press bull goes round and round in one place! No journey happens, he goes nowhere; only circles.

So too for you: through births upon births you have gone nowhere. You circle the same spot. It is repetition. As you wake up, it will become clear that this is not a journey at all, but the illusion of a journey. There is no arriving; no fruition of attainment; nothing comes into the hand; on the contrary, you are going astray. You gain nothing; you keep losing yourself.

As this becomes clear, as the process of tṛṣṇā is revealed, in that very seeing tṛṣṇā drops away.

No ‘methods’ are needed to be free of tṛṣṇā. Whoever tries methods has not understood tṛṣṇā. One who has understood does not ask for a method. Understanding itself is the method. See, and tṛṣṇā falls.

You see a snake on the path. You leap aside. You do not ask: how shall I jump? how shall I leave the path? what should I do now? The snake is right there—what should I do? If you are asking such, it proves only one thing: you have not seen the snake yet. Someone said there is a snake, and you believed it. But you have not seen.

If the house is on fire—Buddha said again and again—if the house is on fire, a man leaps out. But if someone asks: my house is on fire, how should I get out? understand one thing: he has only heard that the house is on fire; he has not yet seen it. Someone told him, ‘Your house is burning.’ The thing has not descended into his experience. Hence the ‘how’. ‘How’ is a device to postpone time. ‘How’ is a way to linger a little more in the same house.

When the house catches fire, the very seeing becomes the leap. Between the vision and the leap there is not even an inch; the jump happens instantly.

Thus Buddha has said: if tṛṣṇā is seen—if it is seen that my house is on fire—then in that very vision, in that very seeing, is transformation.

Today’s sutras are sutras for awakening in the midst of tṛṣṇā.

First scene:

The Blessed One was abiding in Veṇuvana in vihara. The foremost disciple Mahākāśyapa Sthavira had a disciple who, though skillful in dhyāna, upon seeing the beauty of a woman, cast off his robes and became a householder.

His family, deeming this a great fall, expelled him from home. He knew no other art, so he began to live by theft. Eventually, caught red-handed, he was condemned to death.

As the executioners were leading him to be killed, Mahākāśyapa Sthavira, out on alms-round, saw him. The fallen monk had forgotten Mahākāśyapa; but Mahākāśyapa recognized him. He went near and, with profound compassion, said: Remember the dhyānas you once cultivated. Dhyāna is a boat. Dhyāna is the only boat—from death to the deathless, from darkness to light, from the unreal to the Real. Remember—remember—call back the dhyānas you produced before.

That compassion-soaked voice, that emptiness-soaked message, entered with his every breath. A surge arose. He was thrilled. The memory of meditation became fresh and green in his life-force. In the very instant he became available to that dhyāna, as if waking from a dream.

When the executioners led him to the place of slaughter and moved to kill him, they could not. He had become so luminous! His radiance was wondrous. His peace was such that one could almost touch it. His ‘ah!’—his wonder—was such that even the headsman could not ignore it. And he had no fear now.

Where is fear in dhyāna? Where is death in dhyāna?

His unique state, that bliss-state was such that the executioners, instead of cutting his throat, bowed at his feet. The news reached the king. The king himself came to see with his own eyes. Seeing such unearthly beauty, astonished, he ordered the prisoner to be released.

Then the king brought him to the feet of Buddha. How did this transformation happen? In a single moment! Just by hearing one sentence from Mahākāśyapa! Merely this—that ‘remember, remember the dhyānas you produced before’—and awakening flowered?

The king said: I have heard such words many times, then why has awakening not flowered for me? I too listen to Mahākāśyapa’s discourses, then why do I remain blind? And this great sinner—so sudden a revolution! Once a bhikshu—I have heard—then he fell; he became corrupt; he fell into the lure of a woman; he fell further; he became a thief; he was caught red-handed; I had condemned him to death. And by one sentence of Mahākāśyapa—‘remember meditation’—he suddenly became luminous! Where there was new moon, a full moon arose.

The king asked Buddha: I want to know, Lord! How did this happen? Buddha said: By the magic of meditation. And turning to the freed man, he uttered these gāthās.

Hearing these gāthās and finding again the nearness of the Blessed One, that freed man in that instant attained arhatta—his dhyāna became Samadhi.

Let this scene settle rightly in the heart, then we will enter the sutras.

‘The Blessed One was abiding in Veṇuvana in vihara.’

Vihara is a word of a special fragrance. It means: one in whom the craving to live has vanished, yet who still lives; who is not impatient even for a moment to live, and yet is alive.

Vihara means: whose life-task is complete, but who still lives because of the body’s past momentum. As when you ride a bicycle—you pedal for two miles; then you stop pedaling. Still, for a furlong or two the cycle rolls on by its previous momentum, without your pedaling. Such a thing happens in vihara.

When one attains Buddhahood, he stops pedaling. But if for births upon births you have pedaled, that stored energy, by itself, continues to function for a few years; for a few furlongs he continues to live. But now there is no will to live.

Nor imagine he harbors any will to die! No wish to live, no wish to die. You may ask: if there is no wish to live, why does he not die? He has no wish at all; no choice at all. If life continues—good; if death comes—good. Whatever happens is good. He has no personal resolve left. If this happens—good. If that happens—good. If death arrives—welcome. If life continues—welcome. No expectation within.

Such a one’s way of being is called vihara. A rare phenomenon. Because of it a whole province received the name Bihar—Vihara. There Buddha lived in this way. In remembrance of that, the land was named Vihara. In those villages, on those roads, Buddha lived when there remained no reason to live; when the oil of desire was exhausted and yet, for a little while, the wick burns. Only the wick burns; no oil remains. The oil of craving is finished; now the lamp’s wick burns. First the fire consumed the oil; now it consumes the wick.

This symbol is even more meaningful with Buddha. For he called the ultimate state Nirvana—the blowing out of the lamp.

As long as the lamp holds the oil of desire, life is sorrow, life is hell. It is burning—wounds and pains, a thousand torments and anxieties! When the oil of tṛṣṇā is spent, life becomes supreme peace. Now the wick burns. Soon the wick will go out too. How long can a wick burn? The wick burns by the oil; when the oil is finished and the wick itself begins to burn, it will not burn long. When even the wick has burned out into stillness, that is called the extinction of the lamp—Nirvana.

Buddha said: thus the oil of life’s tṛṣṇā is spent; a man lives for a few days more—that is vihara.

Vihara is a lovely word. One lives in delight—viharata. He does not move, yet moves. He floats with the stream. There remains no resistance, no struggle with life. Surrender everywhere! No plans; no future; no past. This moment is enough. This moment is complete in itself.

After this vihara, one day the lamp goes out; the wick too is gone—then Nirvana. Where does the person go then? He merges into the Great Void. He falls back into the source from which he came. As clouds rise from the ocean, then rain upon the Himalayas, then become the Ganga; and finally fall again into the sea—so do we return to the source whence we came. Call that ocean of existence Paramatman, if you like; call it Moksha, call it Nirvana—whatever you wish. But remember one thing: in the end, falling back into the source is supreme peace.

Until we meet our source, restlessness remains. We wander far from home, on alien roads, among strangers… When we return home, there is rest.

‘The Blessed One was abiding in Veṇuvana in vihara. His foremost disciple, Mahākāśyapa Sthavira, had a disciple who, though skillful in dhyāna, on seeing the beauty of a woman, cast off his robes and became a householder.’

Mahākāśyapa—among the very greatest of Buddha’s disciples; even the greatest—there is no exaggeration. From Mahākāśyapa is born the Zen lineage. In this small scene too you can taste the flavor of Zen, its very first fragrance.

I have told you often the story of Zen’s birth: one morning Buddha arrived with a flower—a lotus—and sitting, simply gazed at the flower.

The bhikshus had gathered to hear a discourse. But he spoke not. He gazed only at the flower. Silence descended. People sat eager to hear. But Buddha spoke not—spoke not—spoke not. Then uneasiness arose. People looked at one another: what is the matter? Never had it happened that Buddha came and remained silent. If he came to speak, he always spoke. What happened today?

Seeing their restlessness, their glances and gestures to one another, Mahākāśyapa burst into laughter. His laughter… Buddha lifted his eyes, called Mahākāśyapa near, and offered him the flower. He said: Mahākāśyapa, to you I give that which cannot be given by words. To all others I have given what can be given through words. To you I give the inexpressible, beyond words. Receive this flower. It is the symbol. It is your treasure.

This was the birth of Zen—beyond speech, beyond scriptures. No one knows what Buddha gave. Buddha gave Buddhahood—like the flame of one lamp reaching the unlit wick of another.

Bring an unlit lamp near a lit one; a moment arrives when the jump happens. Both lamps are aflame. The lamp that was already lit loses nothing; the lamp that was unlit gains all.

Nothing leaves Buddha, and Mahākāśyapa receives the All. In this way Zen has been transmitted—from master to master.

‘Mahākāśyapa had a disciple who, though skillful in dhyāna…’

Remember: even after becoming skillful in dhyāna, one can fall. Until dhyāna becomes Samadhi, the possibility of falling remains. Truly, as dhyāna deepens, the possibility of falling increases.

You will say: this seems inverted. It is not. As you approach the mountain’s peak, the danger of falling grows. The paths grow narrow. Your height has increased; precipices deepen. The higher you are, the deeper the abyss. A slight slip—and you fall; and from such heights, the injury is terrible. On a flat path, one may fall and easily rise again. From a mountain’s height, one may be finished. Bones crushed, ribs broken; even life may end.

The danger remains until you sit secure upon the peak. Sitting upon the peak is Samadhi. From plain land to the summit—between lies the path of dhyāna. And as dhyāna grows, danger grows.

So do not be surprised that ‘he became skillful in dhyāna and still fell’. Only such a one can fall.

You cannot ‘fall’—what would your falling even mean? Have you ever heard the word ‘corrupted by indulgence’? You have heard ‘yogabhraṣṭa’—fallen from yoga. No one falls from indulgence! In indulgence one is already fallen. One already lives in the abyss, and there is nowhere further to fall.

Have you heard of anyone falling from hell? Where would he fall to? There is no place left. The last place has already been reached!

From heaven people fall; not from hell. Those who fear falling should go to hell—it is very safe. There no one falls! There is never any corruption from hell.

Heaven has danger. The higher you climb, the greater the danger. As height comes, the risk grows. Yet the summit draws nearer. Two things happen together: danger increases—and with it, the peak. If you reach it, you are free forever. Rest is attained. Then there is nowhere to go. When there is nowhere to go, there is no falling. For you neither go nor rise; you are at rest, unmoving. Samadhi is unmoving.

Thus Krishna called the one established in Samadhi ‘sthita-prajña’—whose wisdom is steady, unwavering. When you are unmoving, you cannot fall. In dhyāna there is movement; in Samadhi, movement ends. The goal is reached. Dhyāna is journey; there is the possibility of wandering, of slipping. As the height of dhyāna grows, the possibility of wandering grows. Ever-increasing care is needed.

There is another reason for danger. If it were only the outer, with deeper ravines and narrower paths, then a little caution would do. But there is danger within. Your vāsanās will make their final assault before Samadhi is reached. No one yields easily.

When you take your first steps in meditation, desire is not much worried. No danger yet. But as you near the summit, desire sees, ‘My death is coming. A few steps more and I die! His arrival is my death.’

The death of tṛṣṇā and your arrival are one. When tṛṣṇā dies, you arrive. If you arrive, tṛṣṇā is dead. So tṛṣṇā will make a last effort.

Hence those stories you read of seers—heavenly nymphs dancing naked around them. Where do these nymphs come from? Not from heaven. Urvashis do not dwell in heaven; they dwell in your ur—the heart—thus the name Urvashi. They arise from your own lust. They are the last assault of your own tṛṣṇā. Tṛṣṇā makes a final attempt, casts its last net, and before defeat, throws everything into it.

Thus this disciple of Mahākāśyapa, though skillful in dhyāna, on seeing a woman’s beauty, cast off his robe and became a householder. He renounced the bhikshu’s robe, abandoned sannyas, and became a householder.

He forgot meditation. He forgot the path. Tṛṣṇā won; he lost. Tṛṣṇā won; consciousness lost.

He was the son of a great house, an aristocrat, brought up in wealth. He had never earned, never learned to earn. Then as a bhikshu, the question of earning had not arisen.

Remember: if a king’s son loses the kingdom, there remain only two ways—become a beggar, or a thief. He knows only one art—sitting on the throne. When the throne goes, two options remain: beg, or steal. And whoever retains even a little pride will prefer becoming a thief to becoming a beggar.

When the youth returned home, his family, considering it a great fall, expelled him.

Those were different days. Now the world has changed. Today if you take sannyas, the family thinks it a great fall! Those were other times. If someone took sannyas, the family felt blessed. ‘At least one person has become a renunciate in our home! One lamp is lit! One flower has bloomed!’ They were honored. And if someone fell from sannyas, the family’s grief knew no end.

They expelled him from home.

It was a disgrace to the family’s honor. A grievous wound to their pride—that their son went to Buddha, became a disciple of a wondrous being like Mahākāśyapa, and then fell! It was a blot upon their stream of consciousness. They cast him out.

He knew nothing else, so he stole for a living.

Remember: one mistake invites a thousand. Neither virtue nor vice comes alone. If one virtue enters, a line forms behind it. If one vice enters, a queue of vices comes!

Therefore choose with great awareness. When you choose one, you are not choosing one, but many unknown companions standing behind.

One who tells a single lie will have to tell a thousand. When you speak one lie, know well—you are deciding to speak innumerable lies.

The mind often says: it is a small lie, what harm can it do? I will bathe in the Ganga, donate at the temple, feed Brahmins, conduct a yajña—something to compensate—why get into a tangle over a small lie!

But every lie is small when spoken; then it calls greater lies. A chain begins. To protect one lie, you need a bigger lie.

Speak a small truth, and a garland of virtues arrives. One truth empowers another truth. Speak truth; authenticity, integrity, trust begin to bloom silently. A stroke of truth scatters untold fragrances within you. Likewise, untruth brings stench.

When this youth chose a beautiful woman, he could not have imagined he would have to steal. Who imagines! While stealing he could not have imagined he would be condemned to death. Who imagines! Thus man walks in sleep. This is what I call unconsciousness.

When I say to you: be aware, understand the meaning. Whatever you do, do with great awareness, carefully, attentively. For each step leads you in some direction. Beware lest you get entangled. You are already entangled enough. Birth after birth entangled. The whole path has become full of thorns. Now tread carefully.

Eventually, stealing, he was caught red-handed.

Remember: cheat ninety-nine times and you will be caught the hundredth. The mind whispers: if you deceive skillfully, who will catch you?

But however long it may take, theft will be exposed; it may be delayed, but there is no darkness without dawn. This is a law. Likewise with merit. Today the fruit may not come; tomorrow it may not; but come it does. Today, or tomorrow, or later—but the seeds you sow ripen. You harvest only what you sowed. Sow poison, reap poison; sow nectar, reap nectar. Water the neem tree, you will get bitter fruit; water the mango, you will get sweet fruit.

This is simple arithmetic. But we fail to understand because of delay. Today you steal, ten years later you are caught. By then you have forgotten. Hard to link the two!

There are tribes in Africa who, until this century, did not know that children are born through intercourse. Nine months pass; they have no way to measure time. Not every intercourse leads to conception. And the child enters the womb today but is born nine months later. Nine months—the matter is forgotten. They believed for centuries: children are a gift of God, nothing to do with sex. When told otherwise they could not believe it; it was difficult.

Such is our state. You once did something; ten years pass—you forget. And we quickly forget the bad. Who wants to remember the bad? Remembering it pricks like a thorn. We want to wipe it off—throw it into the dark, into the cellar of the unconscious.

Everyone has made a cellar beneath the mind; we throw there whatever we feel should not have been done. There, all kinds of serpents and scorpions, poisons accumulate. One day they will emerge. One day smoke will rise. One day your living room will fill with smoke; you will be astonished—where from?

When sorrows befall you, you do not think you once sowed their seeds. This is all the law of karma means: what you receive today, you once did; what you do today, you will one day receive.

Caught stealing, he was condemned to death. As the executioners led him to be killed, Mahākāśyapa was out begging.

Buddha’s order was large—thousands of sannyasins. Naturally, each new novice became a disciple under some elder bhikshu. Buddha gave initiation, but entrusted the novice to a guardian.

This youth was entrusted to Mahākāśyapa. For Buddha to entrust him to Mahākāśyapa means he saw great potential for meditation in him. Mahākāśyapa was Buddha’s greatest meditator; hence Zen is born from him.

‘Zen’ is simply a transformation of the word ‘dhyāna’. In Sanskrit—dhyāna. In Pali—jhana. In China—Chan. In Japan—Zen. Only the form shifts; the essence is dhyāna.

Mahākāśyapa was the great meditator. Disciples had many qualities; his was a pure, crystalline meditation. He was a philosopher’s stone; whoever came near became gold—became a meditator.

Buddha entrusting this youth to Mahākāśyapa is itself an indication: the youth had great possibilities; he could attain Samadhi. Likely he advanced swiftly—and whoever flies fast faces greater risk. Slow ones go with care; step by step, firmly. The slow fall less; they arrive late. The swift may arrive quickly—or fall quickly.

As the executioners led him in chains, Mahākāśyapa saw him. The youth had forgotten Mahākāśyapa.

Had he not forgotten, how could he have missed? One who sees greater beauty in an ordinary woman than in Mahākāśyapa has already forgotten. What is the beauty of Mahākāśyapa! Centuries have remembered him. Two and a half millennia have passed; still in China, Japan, Thailand, Burma—where Buddhist tradition lives—people ask of Mahākāśyapa, wonder still: what did Buddha give him?

In these two and a half millennia the question remains alive: what was given when he was given the flower? What was given beyond words? The real treasure went to Mahākāśyapa; to others went words, doctrines, knowledge. To Mahākāśyapa went meditation—the ultimate wealth. What did he receive?

Mahākāśyapa is Buddha’s brightest disciple. He is the other Buddha in the lineage. And this youth could not see beauty in Mahākāśyapa; he saw beauty in a woman.

There is a detail in the original I have left out.

Yesterday someone asked why I sometimes omit or sometimes add.

I do so with reasons. The original says: ‘seeing a woman’s private parts…’ I left it out; it felt coarse.

One who, seeing a woman’s secret parts, abandons Mahākāśyapa, has indeed forgotten him. Like seating a dung-worm on a golden throne; it sees excrement and slips off the throne—back to its drain and muck. So it happened.

He had forgotten. A disciple may forget; the master does not. Even after many births the master recognizes.

Jesus said: even after many births I will recognize you; on the last day, before the Father, I will recognize those who are mine.

Rightly said. The disciple may forget; his memory is poor. How can the master forget? His remembrance is total. What is etched upon the disciple is like a line on water—made now, gone now. One ear hears, the other releases. The master’s memory is like a line carved upon a diamond.

The youth had forgotten. Seeing Mahākāśyapa, he noticed nothing. Bound in chains, tormented by the thirst to be, he was likely thinking: now the noose is coming. How to escape? What to do? Shall I bribe? Or must I die? Clouds surrounded him. His sun was veiled. How could he care who passed on the road?

Understand: if the noose is around your neck, will you see who passes by? If someone tells you your house is on fire, you run. Will you remember who greeted you on the way? If asked the next day, you say: leave it! The house was on fire. Who was there to answer greetings! My life had already reached home; only the body was running. I saw nothing.

This was a fallen bhikshu being led to death. But Mahākāśyapa recognized him. He went to him.

However far a disciple may wander, the master’s compassion does not diminish. If it does, he is no master. Then the relationship is ordinary, lacking the sacred. A master’s hallmark is boundless compassion.

Had it been an egoist, a so-called religious leader, he would have turned his face away—‘Let him hang. Good! As it should be.’ Perhaps he would have told the executioners, ‘Lay a few lashes before the noose, from me. He deserves it. He will rot in hell.’ To his other disciples he would have said: ‘See what becomes of those who leave me! Be warned! Never leave me.’ He would have used the occasion to frighten others; perhaps sprinkled salt on the dying man’s wounds—‘Now suffer. You were warned; you did not heed. Bear the consequences.’ A secret satisfaction would arise—‘I told you so.’

Not so with Mahākāśyapa. He went near and with great compassion said: Remember the dhyānas you once cultivated.

A master is one whose forgiveness is boundless—without limit or conditions; forgiveness that flows like fragrance from a flower, like light from a lamp; like water down the mountains; like rain from the clouds. He does not ‘forgive’—forgiveness is his nature; spontaneous, unconditional.

He did not ponder: is it right to forgive this heinous sinner, this corrupt monk? He is not worthy of forgiveness. A master makes no distinction of worthy and unworthy. For him, all are worthy. And to err is natural, forgivable; therefore no cause for great anger.

Mark the difference. The master did not remind him of the sins for which he now suffers. He reminded him of the dhyānas he had cultivated. The master always calls you to the affirmative, not the negative.

Beware of those who remind you of the negative—they are not masters; they are murderers, killing your spirit. Your so-called gurus remind you of your sins, corruptions, heinous crimes. They threaten you with hell. They frighten you. Your temples and mosques live off your fear. Your God is only fear intensified. You have been terrorized. Trembling, on your knees, you pray.

Look within: is there anything in your prayer besides fear? If only fear, what kind of prayer is this? In prayer there can be no fear; only love. Where love is, fear is not. Where fear is, love is not.

Mahākāśyapa did not remind him of his sins. He did not say: ‘You went mad over a mere body! What is in it but a bundle of filth!’ He did not say: ‘You stole! Think a bit! From what noble family you came! You were a monk—stealing for bits of clay!’ He said none of that. Those things are not to be remembered. Whatever you give attention to grows. Attention is nourishment; attention is watering.

The true master reminds you of the auspicious within—he invokes the Paramatman hidden in you. Your sin he does not even bring to thought; it is unworthy of thought; it deserves neglect. If you give it attention, it is like picking at a wound; it will not heal. To heal, the wound must be forgotten.

The master said: Remember the dhyānas you once cultivated. Remember how you flew so high, how wings had grown. The goal was near. The golden spires of the temple of God had begun to shine. Remember!

Remember—the dhyāna is a boat; the only boat—from death to the deathless, from darkness to light, from asat to sat.

As the Upanishads pray: asato ma sad-gamaya—lead me from the unreal to the Real. Mrityor ma amritam gamaya—lead me from death to the deathless. Tamaso ma jyotir-gamaya—lead me from darkness to light.

Hindus pray to God. In Buddha’s world there is no God. Buddha says: dhyāna is the boat. What will prayer do? Sit in this boat and cross—from the unreal to the Real; accept this invitation and come—from darkness to light. Make me your boatman, says Buddha; I will take you to the other shore where there is no death.

So Mahākāśyapa reminded him: Remember—remember—the dhyānas you once cultivated. So emphatically that for a moment he forgot the chains in his hands, forgot that death awaited him, forgot the soldiers around him. The radiant, majestic presence of Mahākāśyapa, that divine form, that great compassion—poured over him. He was bathed in it.

For a moment the years in between vanished—the elopement with the woman, the abandonment of sannyas, the theft, the sin, the capture—like a bad dream ending with the dawn. He returned to the point from where he had fallen, and settled there.

Understand something very essential about man. He is like your radio. All stations exist. Only the dial must be turned to the station you want. The station of sin is available; tune into it, you become a sinner. The station of virtue is available; a slight turn—and you are with virtue.

All possibilities are present in man at all times. The one toward which your consciousness flows becomes the real. Hold this well: the worst sinner can become a saint in a single instant.

When you tune to Delhi, it is not that Goa cannot be tuned. When Goa is tuned, Kabul cannot be tuned—it is not so. All the world’s waves pass by your radio; whatever you catch, it will echo. So it is with man.

What is meditation? To attune your waves to the Supreme. What is awareness? To relate yourself to that which is—essentially is. What is unawareness? To be lost in what is not. What is stupor? To fall into sleep, to function mechanically.

No one is inherently sinner or saint. If you became a sinner, it is your choice. If a saint, your choice. No one is essentially worldly or sannyasin. Both are within you. Whichever you join, that you become. As you resolve, so you become.

Investigate and see: sitting at your shop you sometimes become a sannyasin. For a moment, everything seems valueless—the trade, the haggling, the customers, the collection of money, the filling of the safe—nothing seems substantial. And sometimes, sitting in the temple to pray, you become a shopkeeper. Prayer is forgotten and you haggle within.

I have heard: a woman went daily to the temple and told the priest, ‘Please, sometimes counsel my husband; he is very irreligious.’

Often it happens: if you do a little prayer, you think the whole world is irreligious because you have become religious. You go to a discourse and return with great conceit, looking at the world: poor fellows—now all bound for hell; look at me!

That woman thought so—because she went regularly, offered flowers, waved the lamp—her husband was unworthy, ignorant. She brought the priest to her house.

The husband was strolling in the garden, near five in the morning. The wife was ringing the bell in the shrine. The priest asked: where is your wife who invited me? The husband said: it is best you do not ask. At this time she is fighting with the vegetable seller.

With the vegetable seller! At five in the morning! Where is a vegetable seller at five! ‘Not here,’ said the husband, ‘in the market. They are on the verge of seizing each other’s throats!’

The wife heard this from her shrine. She rushed out in anger: ‘This is the limit of lying! I am worshipping here; you know it. And you are telling falsehoods to the priest!’

The husband said: ‘Now you speak truth. The bell you ring is audible to me and to the priest. But tell the truth—was what I said false?’

For a moment she was startled. It was not false. The hand was ringing the bell, but within she had gone to the market. Guests were to come that day; she was planning what vegetables to buy, how to welcome the guests. Suitors were coming to see her daughter; much preparation was needed. In the mind she had reached the shop; one woman was quoting high prices; the quarrel had flared; they were about to seize each other’s throats. Just then the husband had spoken.

Your mind can be worldly sitting in the temple. And sitting in the world you can be a sannyasin. It depends on you—toward which world you open yourself.

That is why I do not tell my sannyasins to run away somewhere. Where will you go? Only a new music is needed in the heart; a new tuning. Learn the art of turning the mind toward the Divine. Flow in that direction—wherever you live. Let the remembrance remain. While rising and sitting, let the breath be linked to That—and all will happen.

The Sthavira’s compassion-laden voice, that emptiness-laden message, entered his every breath.

How could one not drink such forgiveness! Perhaps at first he was afraid on seeing the elder—‘Now he will abuse me more; they have come to give pain as I die.’ But there was no condemnation—only a call toward meditation. Nothing negative; the affirmative was invoked.

Seeing the Buddha-man standing before him, that peace, that compassion, the grace arising from emptiness—he was swept by a surge.

‘Surge’ means: he was no longer there among the soldiers; he reached that place twenty years before where he had been a monk, a disciple at Mahākāśyapa’s feet. The intervening days vanished; as if they had never happened; as if they were someone else’s story, not his own.

He was swept by the surge; thrilled. Just a moment before he was full of anxieties; now full of ecstasy.

The same energy that had become worry, turned into delight. Every hair thrilled. The word ‘meditation’ was rekindled. The remembrance became fresh and green. In an instant, he was in meditation again—as one who wakes from a nightmare. He had seen a sorrowful dream—falling into a woman’s infatuation, then stealing, then being caught. The eyes opened; morning came.

When the executioners took him to kill, they could not kill.

Let me remind you: the original says they struck him; swords were raised; but the weapons were ineffective. I have altered this; it sounds unscientific. If it were so, how was Jesus crucified? How did poison work on Socrates? Buddha himself died from poisoned food. Mahavira from dysentery. Ramakrishna from cancer. Raman from cancer. How was Mansoor’s neck cut?

No, that is not right. Hence I changed it. Still, I say: they could not kill him. He had become so luminous—therefore. Not because the swords failed. Swords are blind, inert; why would they stop? Swords never stop for anyone. Do not trust swords; I trust consciousness; hence I changed the story.

I say: the executioners could not kill him. The swords—swords would have cut; but the executioners did not. They are conscious beings. In them too the Divine hides as much as in anyone. If a thief can transform in an instant, why not executioners?

They saw the revolution with their own eyes. A moment before this man was full of anxiety, tears, fear, trembling. Then Mahākāśyapa met him—and this metamorphosis. They saw: he became something else. After that it was as if there were no chains on his hands, no death ahead. He walked in a carefree grace. A fragrance burst from him. The executioners saw with their own eyes: something happened. Their eyes were fixed upon his radiance.

You have seen: when you are full of worry, a dark aura surrounds you. When you are full of joy, there is a luminous halo.

This was a great revolution. He suddenly soared on wings. The executioners saw: wings had grown! Seeing his luminous state, they could not kill.

I do not trust swords; I trust man. Hence I change the tale. Krishna says, ‘Weapons do not cut the Self, fire does not burn it.’ But of which ‘me’ does he speak? Not the body—the Atman. Yet Krishna too died of an arrow. His body was burned on the pyre. The body is mortal. Within is the deathless.

I cannot accept that this prisoner rose above Buddha, Krishna, Christ in that way. I can accept that the executioners did not strike. Their hands froze; the swords fell—this I can accept. They could not muster the courage—this I can accept. Hence the change.

You asked yesterday: why do you make changes?

Because these stories were written two and a half millennia ago. Since then, man’s consciousness has matured; great transformations have happened. What can be said in a children’s story cannot be said in the story of youth. When these were told, man’s consciousness was not so mature.

They led him to the place of execution; they could not kill—he had become so luminous. And now there was no fear in him. Where is fear in meditation! Where is death in meditation! His unprecedented state, that bliss— even the executioners bowed to his feet. The news reached the king. He came to see with his own eyes. Seeing such superhuman beauty, astonished, he released the prisoner.

There is beauty in meditation. In Samadhi is supreme beauty. There is no other beauty. If you desire beauty, desire meditation. No cosmetics can make you beautiful. This body—now young, soon old. Do not trust it. Trust the beauty within—that alone abides.

But the king too was amazed: how did this happen! He brought the prisoner to Buddha’s feet. He asked: how did this transformation happen? Buddha said: by the magic of meditation.

There is no other magic in this world—only the magic of meditation.

Why call it magic? Because it alone leads you from death to the deathless—what greater magic? It turns clay into consciousness—what greater magic? It turns the fleeting into the eternal—what greater magic? It transforms hell into supreme bliss—what greater magic?

Buddha said: by the magic of meditation. Then he turned toward the prisoner and uttered these gāthās:

‘Chasing after tṛṣṇā, beings circle like a tethered hare; bound in their fetters, again and again, for long, they suffer.’

‘One who, released from worldly bonds, inclines to solitude—and then, leaving solitude, runs back into the forest of tṛṣṇā—what can be said of him? Only this: being free, he runs back to bondage.’

These words were addressed to the prisoner.

‘The wise do not call iron, wood or rope a firm bond. Truly, the firm bond is the longing for jewels, earrings, sons and wife.’

It is desire that binds. Desire is the prison. Whoever says: let me have this, let me have that; when I get this I will be happy; if I don’t, I will be miserable—one who lives in such expectation is bound and will remain in sorrow.

Tṛṣṇā means: as I am, with what I am—I am not content. Something else is needed. Always something else! And it is not that attaining the ‘else’ will bring contentment. Whatever you have does not satisfy; what is far appears satisfying. The drum in the distance sounds sweet. Happiness always appears far; as you approach, it turns into sorrow. Whatever comes into your fist becomes meaningless. Such is the habit of tṛṣṇā—what is obtained is trivial; what is not obtained appears meaningful.

How will such a man be happy? He has arranged for sorrow perfectly. When it is obtained, it becomes meaningless; until it is obtained, it gives ‘happiness’—which is only hope, imagination, dream. When it is obtained, all delight ends.

‘This the wise call the firm bond—though loose, it drags one down; hard to cut. The wise, without expectation, abandoning the pleasures of desire, cut it and go forth.’

The wise, the steadfast, see this truth: the race of tṛṣṇā builds only new hells. The wise see: as I am, where I am—if I am content, heaven showers here.

Experiment. These words are for practice. As you are, where you are—accept totally for one moment that there is no other wanting. Suddenly the sky opens; clouds scatter. Suddenly, no sorrow. How can sorrow be? In that contentment, sorrow disappears.

You create heaven; you create hell. Hell you create through tṛṣṇā; free of tṛṣṇā, heaven happens. It is your choice. If you insist on hell, keep making it—but then do not weep. Do not ask why you are unhappy! It is your decision. Your freedom is absolute.

The strange thing is: you manufacture sorrow, then cry that you are unhappy—as if someone else is responsible for your happiness. You go to the temple and tell God to make you happy. ‘Why am I unhappy? Why did you make me unhappy?’ As if it were His responsibility!

No one else is responsible. Keep Buddha’s word in remembrance: you alone are responsible. Let this truth settle in your heart and the revolution begins this moment. Then you are responsible for sorrow. If you want sorrow, keep producing it—no one stops you. Your freedom is final.

If you want joy, understand how sorrow arises—through tṛṣṇā. You have ten thousand rupees and you are unhappy. Because you say: until I have a hundred thousand, how can I be happy? When you have a hundred thousand, you think you will be happy. But with a hundred thousand, the mind will demand a million. The ratio remains the same. With a million, ten million. You remain unhappy.

You and the mind’s expectation will never match. With ten million, do not think anything will change—the mind will want a hundred million. The mind is always ten steps ahead; you trail ten steps behind—hence sorrow.

There is only one way: accept where you are. Buddha calls it tathata—suchness. As it is, it is good.

Do not force this into yourself; otherwise it is useless. The mind will keep weaving. So with patience, understanding, intelligence—see and stop.

Often people console themselves: ‘All right, what is not coming, let it go. I lack the capacity; why bother? Let me be content with what I have.’ But this is consolation, not contentment. It will not bring happiness. You will find new ways for discontent.

People come and say: we live contentedly in every way, yet there is no joy.

It cannot be. It is impossible. As fire is hot by nature, so the nature of contentment is joy. It cannot be otherwise.

They say: we live contentedly, yet there is no joy; and the dishonest are happy—thieves, smugglers, politicians; all manner of rogues enjoy, and we who are content—and we who worship—we do not steal; we do not lie; we cheat no one; we quarrel with none; we mind our path—yet we are not happy! Why?

They mistake consolation for contentment. Their intention is that what the dishonest get by dishonesty, they should get by contentment—thus the rogue undergoes all that trouble for nothing, and you want the same result without any cost. You want to sit before Shiva ringing the bell, and be made prime minister! Why Morarji Bhai? Then comes eighty-two years of a thousand troubles—push and pull from all sides; Kamraj plan here, something else there…

Some insist: ‘Even if we must take a hundred shoes on our heads, we will go to the fair; we will see the show.’ You want to sit at home and read the Hanuman Chalisa and yet be made prime minister. If not, you say: great injustice! I, simple and humble; and Morarji—prime minister? I, humble, egoless, reading my Chalisa—why am I not made prime minister?

You are upset. Your upset arises because you mistook consolation for contentment. Your intentions are not pure. Even your Chalisa is read with wrong intentions—you hope Hanuman will carry you to Delhi on his shoulders!

Contentment is a great thing. The contented knows no sorrow—for he has no expectation. The shadow of expectation is sorrow. When expectation goes, sorrow goes.

The contented know only joy. And as contentment deepens, joy becomes supreme joy.

‘This, say the wise, is the firm bond—tṛṣṇā—which, though loose, drags one down, and is hard to break. The wise, without expectation and abandoning the delights of desire, break this bond and go forth.’

‘Those drunk with passion become entangled in the stream of their own making—like the spider in the web it weaves. The wise, cleaving this stream, abandoning all sorrow, expectationless, go forth.’

Second scene:

In Rājagṛha, every year a special festival of acrobats was held. Once, during the show, the son of the city’s chief financier—a youth named Uggasena—was enchanted by the performance of an acrobat girl. He married her and joined the troupe. Wandering with them, in a few years he became adept in their art. Later, to perform in a festival, he too came to Rājagṛha. Naturally, thousands came to see his display. He was the son of the city’s greatest merchant—the Nagarseth.

That day, as the Blessed One went on alms-round, Uggasena was about to begin his act—walking a rope stretched sixty cubits high between two buildings. But seeing the Buddha, all the spectators turned their faces from Uggasena and gazed upon the Blessed One. Uggasena sat down, dejected.

Seeing him sad, the Blessed One said to Mahāmaudgalyāyana: ‘Maudgalyayana, tell Uggasena to show his art. The poor fellow is dejected.’

Then the Blessed One, to cheer him, said: ‘I too will watch, Uggasena. Show your art.’

Delighted, Uggasena began to display many ways of balancing himself upon the rope sixty cubits high. Then the Master said: ‘Uggasena, these are good; they will entertain people. But what comes of entertainment—unless it becomes the destruction of the mind? There is no essence in it. Entire lives are lost in entertainment. Will this life also be wasted in the spectacle? There is no substance in it, Uggasena.

‘In the time it took you to learn to balance upon a rope, you could have learned to balance in meditation. And where will balancing on a rope take you? Balance in consciousness; that takes you beyond life and death—if you gain balance in meditation.

‘Uggasena, a wise man learns to be free of time and merge into the Supreme. Come to me. I will teach you the supreme art and the supreme alchemy.’

Then the Blessed One uttered this gāthā:

‘Drop the past, drop the future, drop even the present. Dropping all three, cross beyond becoming. With a mind free everywhere, you will no longer come to birth and decay.’

‘Uggasena, come to me; I will teach you the supreme alchemy.’

First, let us understand this scene.

In Rājagṛha each year there was a festival of acrobats. One time, during the show, Uggasena—the son of the chief financier—fell in love with an acrobat girl. He married her and joined the troupe.

A man becomes like that which he loves. Love carefully. Love those higher than yourself. If you love one lower than yourself, you will become like that. Love is an alchemy; you become like what you love.

Have you seen those who love money—their faces acquire the rubbed-out, worn look of old coins. Those who love banknotes—look at their faces; they become like dirty, crumpled notes—passed through countless hands.

Stories say that when a rich man dies, he becomes a snake and coils upon his hoard. He already was a snake; you speak of after death! He was seated with hood raised long ago. He does not enjoy wealth; he guards it. The capacity to enjoy is lost. To enjoy, one must know the art of letting go.

Two fakirs came to a river’s edge. One always said: wealth is worthless. He never kept any. The other said: one never knows—there may be illness, travel, hunger; it is wise to keep a little; money is useful.

It was evening; they needed to cross. The boatman said: not less than one rupee. I am tired—this is my last trip today.

The one who had coins paid the rupee. They crossed. On the far bank he said: now decide our dispute. Had I not had the rupee, we would have stayed on that dangerous shore with beasts at night. We have crossed because of money. What do you say now?

The other laughed: we crossed not because of money, but because you gave the rupee. If you had not given, what would your having have done? We crossed because of giving—the dispute stands as before.

The rich seldom enjoy wealth; to enjoy you must also spend. The Upanishads say: tena tyaktena bhuñjīthā—by renunciation, enjoy. In the world too—only by letting go can you enjoy. Here, letting go is the secret of enjoyment.

But mark this: one who hoards becomes himself inert like the hoard. One who craves status grows a dense ego. You become what you desire.

Uggasena was the son of the greatest banker of the richest city—Rājagṛha. But falling for a juggler’s daughter, he became a juggler.

These small tales are deeply psychological. Read them slowly. Have you not found that you become like those with whom you keep company?

Even enmity makes you alike—for the enemy occupies your mind; you think of his moves and mirror them. Enmity is a kind of friendship.

Enchanted by the acrobat girl, he married her and joined the troupe.

The son of a cultured family joined roadside performers.

Infatuation pulls down. It can also lift up—if you fall in love with one like Buddha, your eyes rise to the sky; you cease crawling upon the ground. To see Buddha, you must look up—toward the moon and the stars.

When Mansoor was being crucified, he burst into laughter. Someone asked: why do you laugh while dying?

He said: I am happy because a hundred thousand people have gathered to look at me, and for the first time their eyes have risen a little above the earth—to see me they must look up at this high post. Is it not enough that your eyes, always stuck in the soil, have lifted today? Perhaps seeing me you will remember God; seeing my joy you will remember that one with God rejoices even in death; and without Him one suffers even in life. You will not forget my smile; it will haunt you; in quiet moments my image will return. Let that be my use. All must die anyway. My picture will hang in a hundred thousand hearts and remind them of God.

If you fall in love with Buddha, slowly Buddhahood pervades you. Hence the glory of satsaṅg—company of the awakened. It means: fall in love with those ahead of you; even two steps ahead will help you move two steps.

Do not fall in love with those behind—else you will fall.

Wandering with them, he soon mastered the art. What else could he learn? Love a juggler—you become a juggler.

Then he returned to Rājagṛha to perform.

Shame had vanished. No compunction remained—that in the town where my father is the greatest, honored next to the king, I will perform tricks. But a time comes when shamelessness becomes a habit; even shame goes inert.

Thousands gathered to see—not so much for the show, but to see this strange fate: born to such wealth, culture, civilization—and fallen so far.

As Buddha came on alms-round, Uggasena was ready to perform—rope stretched sixty cubits high between two buildings—but on seeing Buddha, all turned from Uggasena to Buddha. Uggasena sat dejected.

Buddha’s presence! For a moment people forgot the show, forgot Uggasena, forgot entertainment. Someone had come whose mind had ended; someone who brings news of the other shore. This grace-laden arrival of Buddha; the procession of bhikshus behind him! Where such vastness happens, who cares for the trivial!

Uggasena sat sad. Buddha said to Maudgalyayana: tell him to perform, and I too will watch.

A master uses such devices. To raise you from your role, he comes down into your role. To draw you from the pit, he steps down from his peak into your pit.

Uggasena’s father was a disciple of Buddha; he must have wept before Buddha again and again: what will become of my son! Only you can do something now.

Remember, those days the wealthy and today’s wealthy differ greatly. ‘Seth’ today is an insult; ‘shreshthi’ then meant the truly noble—outwardly rich with inner wealth.

Uggasena’s father poured out wealth for Buddha. Once, Buddha needed a garden. The seller was stubborn and wicked. He said: I will sell for as many coins as will cover my land—spread coins over the entire ground; that many coins.

He demanded a thousand times the price, even a million times. Yet Uggasena’s father bought it by covering the land with coins.

A man of great soul! He must have begged Buddha often for his son. Perhaps that is why Buddha went that day—to fish Uggasena out. He watched Uggasena’s show only to create a bridge of feeling. As bait is placed on the hook to catch a fish, Buddha placed a little bait. Uggasena was hooked. When one like Buddha casts the line, how will you not be caught!

Hence it is said people are mesmerized by such beings; beware—keep your distance!

Buddha said: I too have come to watch your show, Uggasena.

What in this show could interest Buddha, for whom the whole world’s play has become meaningless? Yet to bring Uggasena to himself, Buddha goes to Uggasena. Often the master steps into the disciple’s role, comes to take his hand where he is. If the disciple is in a brothel, the master comes there; if in prison, he comes there—there is no other way.

Uggasena rejoiced. He could not have dreamed of such grace—that Buddha would watch his show. He performed with great zeal.

Then the Master said: Uggasena, these arts are good; they entertain. But a show is a show. Will you waste your life in spectacle? Entertainment is alright, but the real thing happens when the mind is demolished.

Entertainment is flattery of the mind—this is the very meaning of ‘entertainment’: buttering the mind, doing as the mind demands. The mind says: tavern; the mind says: brothel; cinema—this and that—and you follow. This is the world: to follow the mind; to make consciousness obey the mind.

What is needed is the demolition of the mind, said Buddha. And if you want art, come—I will teach you to walk upon the summits, on the clouds; I will teach you to steady yourself in dhyāna. That is higher than any rope; and one who walks in meditation is the greatest artist—for steadying oneself there is like walking upon a rope: fall to the left, fall to the right; every moment balance is needed; danger at every step. But one who steadies in dhyāna becomes established in Samadhi; then there is no falling.

In the time you learned to balance on the rope, you could have learned to balance in meditation.

As long as you took to amass wealth, you could attain the Divine. With the same energy and capacity, the Supreme is possible. You fritter it on pebbles while diamond mines lie close by.

Uggasena! A wise man learns the art of going beyond life and death. Come. I will teach you the supreme art and the supreme alchemy.

What is that supreme alchemy? The sutra says it:

Drop the past; drop the future; drop even the present.

Because to demolish the mind—to do manobhanga—time must be dropped. What is mind? Memories of the past—its net; and plans of the future—projections, desires; and worries of the present—concerns.

Rightly understood, mind and time are synonyms. Hence all who attained say: meditation is beyond time; beyond mind.

Thus Buddha says: drop past, drop future, drop present—this is the art. Dropping them, cross the world. Be mind-free; then you will not come to birth and old age again.

Hearing such words, Uggasena was awakened. Like a flash of lightning, Buddha’s words flashed through his life-force. Without wasting a moment, he climbed down from the rope and became a bhikshu. And when he died, he attained arhatta—his meditation flowered as Samadhi. He truly mastered the supreme acrobatics. Buddha fulfilled his promise.

There is one final thing to see in this.

He was a gambler by nature. That is why I say: religion is not for shopkeepers; it is for gamblers. This man had staked his inheritance—left his father’s immense wealth for a juggler’s daughter. He had courage. Even if he went wrong, he did not hesitate—he put everything on the line. For this ordinary girl he left the palace to wander with beggars. He was a gambler, a brave soul; hence the second event could happen. When Buddha called him—he was standing on the rope—and said: ‘Is this any art, Uggasena! Come with me; I will teach you the real art. Steady yourself in meditation; go beyond death.’ Buddha cast the net; hypnotized him. He stopped to watch—but took Uggasena forever.

Lightning struck in Uggasena’s heart. ‘It is true—falling in love with a juggler made me a juggler; if I fall in love with Buddha, Buddhahood is mine.’

And there was nothing to lose—what was there to stake? This was mere showmanship—let it be staked. He had also seen that the thousands who had gathered to watch him, turned their backs when Buddha came. He witnessed directly that manobhanga is greater than manoranjan.

He too saw Buddha’s glory, his grace, the peace that walked with him—the fragrance! In an instant he became Buddha’s; in that very instant a bhikshu. He did not say: I will come tomorrow. Tomorrow never comes. He did not say: give me time to think.

No; he climbed down from the rope and fell at the feet. In that very falling the revolution happened.

One who can surrender in a single instant—without bringing in the calculating mind—his heart joins heart with the master.

He became Buddha’s, and Buddha became his. When he died, he died an arhat.

Arhatta means: one whose meditation has become Samadhi; whose enemies are destroyed—lust, anger, delusion, greed, tṛṣṇā—finished; one who has gone beyond all. Arhatta is the supreme state.

The scriptures say: he truly attained the supreme acrobatics. Buddha fulfilled his promise.

A Buddha’s word never goes empty. Those who have the courage to walk with him will surely arrive.

Enough for today.