Es Dhammo Sanantano #106

This question is important. Understand it rightly, and remember it.

The Buddha has accepted only the transient. What is, is transient. There is nothing other than the transient. That’s why people called his vision “momentariness.”

Change is happening every instant. Not only the flower is changing, the mountains are changing. Not only the flower is withering, the moon and the stars are withering.

The Buddha said: Whatever is born is dying. The process of death begins with birth itself. Some will live a day, some a hundred years, some a thousand, some millions—what difference does it make? Every single thing is melting away, dying, dissolving, moment to moment. The flower is its symbol—and a living symbol. It blooms in the morning; by evening it has wilted. In the morning it appears as if it will remain forever, and by evening it vanishes as if it never was. So is life. When it is, we feel certain it will always be. Everyone is under the same illusion.

Even when you see another die, the thought never rises: I too will die. When you see another’s corpse being placed on the pyre, you think, “Poor fellow!” You feel compassion for him—not for yourself.

Whenever a funeral pyre burns, it is your pyre that burns. Whenever death passes down the road, it is your death passing. Never send someone to inquire whose corpse is going by! Each time, it is your own corpse.

Yet man lives with the delusion that “I will remain.” Always the others die; when do I die? And there seems to be a little logic in it. For sometimes A dies, sometimes B dies, sometimes C dies; you haven’t died. You have never seen your own death, so you have only seen your life. You too have died many times, but before one can see death, one faints—faints from fear of death.

One who becomes capable of seeing death becomes liberated; then there is no further birth. One who dissolves into death peacefully, with awareness, in samadhi, does not return. He has understood the secret of life.

So the Buddha said: All of life is transient. Life flows like a river. Everything is changing. Children become young; the young become old; the old die. Everything is flowing like a continuous stream. The flower is a most apt symbol for this.

But behind all this transience, beyond all this transience, there is something eternal. The Buddha called it: Eso dhammo sanantano. The Dharma is eternal; all else dies; all else is destroyed.

What the Buddha calls Dharma, Lao Tzu calls Tao. What the Buddha calls Dharma, Mahavira calls the soul. What the Buddha calls Dharma, Hindus, Muslims, Christians call God. These are different names.

The transient can be transient only because in the background of all there is something eternal. The cart moves, the wheel turns—but the axle-pin upon which the wheel turns does not turn. If the pin too were to turn, the wheel would fall; it wouldn’t turn at all. For change to be, there must be something changeless on which change can hang. Otherwise, on what would it hang?

There was childhood; youth came; old age came. There was life; death came. You were the child; you became the young person. Everything changed, and yet someone stands behind. Otherwise how will you say, “I was a child; I became young”? The connection would break. Childhood ends, youth begins—there would be no bridge between them. You could never say, “I was a child; now I have become young.” Surely there is a single thread flowing within.

Amidst all change there is something unchanging. That something the Buddha called Dharma—and rightly. Dharma means intrinsic nature. Dharma means the ultimate mystery hidden behind the whole of nature.

Everything appears to change: this morning a flower bloomed; by evening it withered. Tomorrow another will bloom, and wither again. It has bloomed endlessly, and withered endlessly. Yet there is a certain beauty in the flower that is eternal. That beauty is the Dharma of the flower.

You saw one rose, then another, then a third. All the flowers wither. Even so, there is a certain “roseness” in roses. There is a beauty in them that eludes grasp. Try to cut the rose and analyze it, it will not be caught; it is beyond the net. Yet you recognize every rose: “This is a rose.” How do you recognize it? Between two roses there must be some roseness that is the same, that is fundamentally the same. Otherwise what relation would one rose have with another?

Then, there is a rose, a jasmine, a lotus—among all of them too there is something eternal. Go deeper and you’ll find: that blooming which we call flowering, the very soul of becoming a flower, the blossoming—this is one. When a rose blooms and a lotus blooms—their forms differ, manners differ, personalities differ, bodies differ, fragrances differ—everything differs, shapes differ, yet blooming is the same. Whether the grass blooms or the lotus blooms, blooming is one. That blossoming is their Dharma.

Leave flowers aside. A flower blooms, and a beautiful young woman blooms. In the sky, a star blooms. There are infinite expressions—there is great difference among them. But go deeper and you will find: within all, there is one supreme urge to bloom.

We have a word—prafulllata, “blossoming.” Its meaning is joy; but it comes from phull—“to flower.” Prafulllata! When someone is joyous, something in him blooms.

In a joyous person you can see a blossoming. In a sad person you can see something has closed. A sad person shrinks, becomes contracted into himself. One who is happy—prafulllit—opens like a flower.

A blossoming person carries a certain fragrance, as flowers do. A certain color, a certain radiance, as flowers have. Near a joyous person you will sense a scent; you’ll get the same ah! of delight that flowers evoke.

Hence flowers became symbols of joy. And that is why people carry flowers to temples as offerings. They are symbols. For how will you offer your tightness to the Divine? You will offer your flowerhood. At his feet you will present yourself in a blossoming, radiant way.

The flowers you offer are symbols. Do not be satisfied by offering these. They are indicators. They tell you that you become worthy to be offered at the feet of the Divine only when you have bloomed like a flower. When you have become a flower, then you become eligible to be placed at his feet. Become a flower—only then can you reach his feet. Becoming a flower means: you are fulfilled. You have become what you wanted to become.

When a rosebush has no roses, notice how empty it looks, as if something is missing. When a rose blossoms on the bush, the bush is adorned like a bride! Ecstatic! After the flower, there is nothing further. The final stage has come. One has reached where one had to reach; the destination has arrived; one is home.

So it is with enlightened ones: they have bloomed; now there is nowhere else to go. What was, has been poured out as fragrance. The winds carry it far, to the directions of the infinite.

It has been twenty-five hundred years since the Buddha died, yet those who have a little understanding still catch his fragrance today. Those who had no sensitivity did not catch it even while sitting with him. In those who have some sensitivity, these twenty-five centuries melt away; the Buddha becomes alive. Your nostrils fill with his fragrance. You can celebrate with him. The interval of time is no interval, no barrier. Only sensitivity is needed.

There were, of course, those who went to see the Buddha and said, “Brother, we don’t see anything!”

They must have been blind; deaf; inert. Closed by sorrow. They had not a single pore through which the Buddha’s light could enter. They remained in their prison with all doors barred. The Buddha remained outside. The fragrance came, but returned from the door. The light came, but returned from the door. And you said, “Brother, we don’t see anything.”

To see, eyes are needed. To see, openness is needed. You can see only that of which you have begun to be, even in tiny measure. Bloom, and you will be able to see the bloomed. If you are closed, you will see only the closed. Like recognizes like. You know only what you are.

Hence a thief recognizes a thief. In a crowd of a thousand, one pickpocket recognizes another pickpocket. The dishonest recognize the dishonest. Only a saint recognizes a saint.

You can recognize only that of which there is some taste within you. A lamp can recognize the sun; though the lamp is small, the light is the same; the quality of light is the same. A drop can recognize the ocean; it is not necessary to be the ocean. But at least become a drop! For in the drop is the essence of the ocean. Understand a single drop, and you have understood the tale of all the oceans.

If scientists analyze a single drop, they say: we have come to know all the secrets of water. Wherever water is—not only here, even on the moon and stars—we have understood its secret. Wherever water is, it will be H2O. It will be made of hydrogen and oxygen. Wherever water is, it will be such. Understand one drop, and you have understood water throughout existence.

If you want to understand Buddhahood, then at least let one or two petals of your bud open. Even if the whole bud does not become a flower, let one or two petals unfold. Let one or two windows open; through one or two vents let the fragrance enter.

So the flower is a symbol of completion. It is a symbol of transience, yes—but also a symbol of fulfillment. A symbol of aliveness.

Have you seen anything more alive than a flower? Though it blooms in the morning and withers by evening. Next to it lies a stone that has been there for centuries, and it is still a stone. A flower is a flower. The stone does not seem alive; it is inert—perhaps that is why it lives so long. The flower is so alive—how can it live long? The deeper the aliveness, the more quickly life vanishes like a dream.

The flower is a symbol of other things too. In yoga, the ultimate center in a human being is called the sahasrara, the thousand-petaled lotus. When human consciousness blooms fully, it is said a thousand-petaled lotus opens.

That is why we have placed the Buddha, Mahavira, and the incarnations upon lotus thrones. It is only a pointer. No one actually stood on a lotus. They were not part of a theater troupe that they would stand on a lotus! And what would you do standing on a lotus anyway! But the lotus is a symbol. They bloomed fully. They rode the fullness of blossoming—that is the meaning. Nothing remained unblossomed within them.

So that day, when the Buddha held the lotus flower in his hand and gave it to Mahakashyapa, it was a communication of all these things.

Further, the flower says much without saying anything. Silence is its discourse. Though a flower speaks profusely, it does not speak with words. You halt, transfixed. Sometimes a flower attracts you so utterly; sometimes you glimpse in it the utmost beauty of this world. The tenderness of a flower! Its mute, silent music! It does not speak, yet there is expression.

Such is the discourse of the enlightened. That is why the Buddha remained silent that day. He kept gazing at the flower. Mahakashyapa understood that in this moment the Buddha is the flower, and nothing else. He will not speak today; today, as the flower makes a silent offering, so he is offering. Today only those will understand the Buddha who can understand the language of emptiness. Mahakashyapa understood. He alone could understand the language of the void.

And when you look at a flower—as the Buddha looked that morning—perhaps you have never looked that way. There are many ways of seeing a flower. It depends on the seer.

Flowers are blooming in the garden; bring a gardener. Instantly he thinks: which to pluck, which to sell in the market; how much money will I get? He will see only money in the flower. He will start counting rupees.

Bring a scientist. He too will look at the flower and think: of what chemical substances is it made? He will begin to analyze. He will want to pluck the flower and rush to his lab—to dissect, to cut, to analyze, to discover its secret.

Bring a poet. He will not see money—he has nothing to sell in the market. For him, selling would be a heinous crime. Analysis would be a sin. To pluck the flower is sin; to tear it into parts is the murder of beauty. He too will look at the flower, and perhaps a song will well up in him. He will sing its praise, its hymn.

Bring a dancer. Perhaps, as the flower dances in the breeze, he will begin to dance around it.

Bring a painter. He will hurry to fetch his colors and brush, and begin to capture it on canvas. He will try to catch its reflection. For this flower will be gone. Before it disappears, it must be made eternal. Before it vanishes, its fleeting beauty must be caught.

Different people will look at the same flower in different ways.

How did the Buddha look? He came that day. Someone had offered him a lotus on the road. It was an out-of-season flower.

There is another story behind this story. Understand that too.

A poor man woke in the morning. In the pond behind his house, he saw a lotus blooming out of season. He had never seen that happen. It was not the time for the lotus to bloom.

He plucked the flower and thought, “Who will value this properly? Only the emperor can. Who else will recognize? Out-of-season or in-season, a flower is a flower. But how will I reach the emperor!”

Thinking thus, he was heading towards the palace, when the prime minister’s chariot came by. The minister saw the out-of-season flower in his hand. He stopped the chariot and said, “How much will you take for it?”

How much courage can a poor man have? He said, “If I could get a hundred rupees.” The minister said, “I’ll give a thousand—give me the flower.” Hearing “a thousand,” the poor man was startled. He thought, “This doesn’t seem like something to sell so cheap. And he’s only the minister. If only I could reach the emperor—who knows how much I might get!” He said, “No, I won’t sell. Forgive me. I won’t sell.” The minister was ready to give ten thousand rupees. But the poor man said, “No, I won’t sell now.” As the minister raised the price, the man said, “I will not sell.”

The minister was on his way to see the Buddha. He thought, “An out-of-season lotus at the Buddha’s feet! Whatever it costs, I must take it. It’s worthy of the Buddha’s feet.” But the poor man did not sell. His name was Sudas. He was a cobbler by caste.

As soon as the minister’s chariot went, the king’s chariot came. Now the man was delighted. He wondered, “Where are they all going so early!” The king too saw the flower and stopped. “How much will you take for it? Whatever you ask, I will give ten times that.” Now Sudas was in real difficulty. If he asked for ten thousand, he could get a hundred thousand. Ask for a million, he could get ten million!

He said, “Your Majesty, I am a poor man. I’m in great confusion! A request: what will you do with a flower for such a price? The minister too was offering a huge sum. My head is spinning. I had set out thinking that if someone gives even five rupees, that’s much. With great boldness I asked for a hundred, knowing the minister would be angry. But he was ready to give a thousand—then ten thousand. Now you have thrown me into an even greater tangle. You say whatever I ask, I will receive ten times—and to give you the flower. And where are you going so early this morning?”

The emperor said, “You do not know? The Lord Buddha has arrived. Perhaps it is because of his coming that this out-of-season lotus has bloomed—his presence, his grace. I am going to have his darshan. And I want this flower at any price. Many have offered lotuses at the Buddha’s feet, but an out-of-season one! That is special. It should be offered by my hand alone. Ask for whatever you want.”

But do you know what happened to Sudas? He said, “My lord, then forgive me. Then I will offer this flower at his feet myself.”

Now the emperor was in trouble. He was ready to pay ten times anything, and this poor man said what?

Sudas said, “Forgive me. I am a poor man. I set out to sell; I did not know the Lord had come. Thank you for telling me! But now I cannot sell. If you are prepared to pay such a price just to offer it at his feet, then surely offering at his feet contains a joy far greater. I will offer it myself. I am poor already; I will return poor. What difference does it make! I have lived in poverty so long; I will live henceforth too. But the flower will be offered by Sudas.”

So that day, when the Buddha came to give discourse, Sudas placed the flower at his feet on the path. The very flower the Buddha later gave to Mahakashyapa.

It was indeed an extraordinary flower. From Sudas came great giving, great sacrifice, great renunciation. The flower was no ordinary flower: out-of-season; a poor man had spurned the emperor; he had said, “The flower will not be sold.” The flower was unique. The Buddha took that flower and sat in the assembly, and began to look at it.

I said: a painter will look one way; a scientist another; a poet another; a gardener another. How did the Buddha look? The Buddha’s way would be the most different—the most unique, the most beyond.

As the Buddha looked at the flower, he was only a witness. Not a single thought within. No idea about the flower. Not, “It’s beautiful, not beautiful; this or that”—no ripple arose. The Buddha sat with the flower, without ripples. The flower was there; the Buddha was there. Both were present. The meeting of their presences was happening. But there was no word, no thought, no concept, no wave anywhere.

In that witnessing itself was the Buddha’s message. That is what Mahakashyapa caught. He received the entire formula. The foundation of Zen was laid. What was the formula? Become a witness. Become so silent that no thought arises within you. Whatever you see, see without thought. Be conscious, but thoughtless. Become a mirror.

If you become a mirror, what is, is reflected. When what is, is reflected, truth is attained. As long as you think, the reflection is distorted; you see something else. Your thoughts color it. You are already sitting with conclusions: this, that. Then what is, is not seen. Your eyes are already full of smoke. Your mirror is already covered with dust.

What was the Buddha’s message that morning? Become a mirror. The flower was only a symbol. Beyond the flower was the greater thing the Buddha was saying: witnessing. He was saying: Look like this—look at the world as I am looking at this flower. Let there be only pure seeing. The Buddha called this pure seeing samyak drishti—right vision.

Right vision means that within there is no “vision” at all—only seeing. Right vision means you have no personal emotion in it, no intention, no doctrine, no scripture. Within, only empty sky. From that empty sky, look at the world; then you will see what is. You will see what is hidden, the invisible. Otherwise you will keep seeing something else.

The flower was a symbol. The flower was outside. That day the Buddha also revealed his inner flower fully. Outside there was a lotus; inside there was a lotus. Two lotuses were meeting.

Seeing the meeting of these two lotuses, Mahakashyapa laughed—he blossomed. It was a unique event. Therefore the Buddha offered that lotus to Mahakashyapa and said to his monks, “What I could say in words, I have given you. What cannot be said in words and has not been said, I am giving to Mahakashyapa—wordlessly.”

Thus, in the Zen tradition, from then on, one master has been giving to another in silence.

One more story.

In Mahakashyapa’s lineage there was Bodhidharma. Bodhidharma went to China, and from India the Zen tradition reached China. Bodhidharma was the twenty-eighth Indian patriarch.

In China, Bodhidharma sat facing a wall for nine years. People came, but he would not look at them. He kept his back toward them. People asked, “We have seen many monks, many saints—but why do you keep your back to us?” Bodhidharma said, “When one worthy of falling within my eyes arrives, then I will look. Right now, there is no point in looking. Whether I look at the wall or at you—it is the same. There are only walls all around. You too are walls!”

After nine years, the one for whom he had waited arrived. Bodhidharma too found his Mahakashyapa, as the Buddha had found Mahakashyapa. That man came and, with a sword, cut off his own arm and offered it to Bodhidharma, saying, “Turn your face toward me at once, or I will offer my head!” Not for a moment did Bodhidharma delay. He turned quickly. Those nine years that he sat facing the wall—he turned and said, “So you have come! I was waiting for you. Only one who is ready to give everything—even his head—can bear my message.”

To this person, Bodhidharma gave his message—the same message the Buddha had given to Mahakashyapa. What is that message? There is no way to say it in words.

For nine years, he had been the witness to a wall. The Buddha had been a witness to a flower for a little while. Bodhidharma watched a wall for nine years. That nine years of witnessing he transmitted to this person.

Then that person became a master. Bodhidharma returned from China towards India. He never arrived. He must have gotten lost somewhere in the Himalayas—and there is no better place to get lost.

Then that person, whom Bodhidharma had initiated, grew old; he too sought a disciple. Five hundred monks were in his monastery. One day he announced, “Now I seek a disciple. Whoever feels he is ready, come write the essence of the Dharma in four lines on my door.”

Naturally, the greatest scholar, the most learned one, dared. He dared, trembling—knowing his master could not be deceived. Others did not even try. But the head scholar, who had memorized the scriptures, went at night in secret—he didn’t go by day—and wrote four lines on the master’s door. He wrote:

The mind is like a mirror.
Dust of thoughts and passions gathers upon it.
Wipe away that dust—
This is the essence of the Dharma.

By morning the news spread: the thing has been said; perfectly said. But the master was not pleased. He read the words and kept silent; he made no comment. People thought, “This is too much. What could be more beautiful than this? The whole essence is here.”

The debate went on; monks discussed it with one another. Two monks were talking as they left the refectory when the man who pounded rice there heard them and laughed.

For twelve years he had been pounding rice. When he had first come, twelve years earlier, the master had asked him, “Do you want to know about the Dharma, or do you want to know the Dharma?” He had said, “What will I do with ‘about’? I want to know the Dharma.” The master said, “Then go and pound rice in the kitchen. When the time comes, I will come. Do not come to me until then.”

So for twelve years this man silently pounded rice. The Buddha had been silent for a little while holding a flower. Bodhidharma had sat for nine years before a wall. And this man—his name was Huineng—had pounded rice silently for twelve years!

No one knew he even existed. He rose at dawn, pounded rice till dusk, fell over at night, rose in the morning and pounded again. For twelve years, only pounding rice. He read no newspaper. Spoke to no one. Read no book. Never talked. In twelve years, everything in him grew quiet. He had attained to witnessing.

This was the first time in twelve years anyone saw him laugh. The two monks were startled. It was as if you saw a stone suddenly begin to walk. Twelve years! No one had imagined he could laugh, that he had life, that he had a soul! No one thought of him. There were big questions to think about—who would care about him!

Seeing him laugh aloud, they stopped. “Why did you laugh? In twelve years no one has seen you laugh! What happened today?”

As Mahakashyapa had laughed, so Huineng laughed. And he said, “I laughed because whoever wrote those lines is a great fool.”

Now this was even more shocking. “You have spent your life pounding rice and you think you are a knower! And you call our greatest scholar a great fool! Can you write better lines than his?” He said, “I can, but I have forgotten how to write. If you write, I will speak. Come now.”

He went and said, “Erase those lines. Write what I tell you.”

The first lines were:

The mind is like a mirror.
Dust of thoughts and passions gathers upon it.
Wipe it clean—
This is the secret of the Dharma.

Huineng said:

What mirror? Where is this mirror?
Mind is no mirror at all.
Where can dust collect?
He who knows this has known the Dharma.

Mind is no mirror—where can dust gather? One who has known this has known the Dharma.

To this person the treasure was given—the same treasure the Buddha had given to Mahakashyapa—the old master gave it to Huineng.

Through such unique happenings the Zen tradition has flowed on. But its dialogue is always of emptiness, of witnessing.

It is a very important story.
Vimalakirti was not a monk; Vimalakirti was a householder. He never left home—because Vimalakirti said: What is there to leave? What is there to hold? The very act of leaving admits you had been holding. The very word “renunciation” admits it was “mine.”
Understand this. When you say, “I have renounced wealth,” what are you declaring? Indirectly you are declaring: “The wealth was mine.” Even in renunciation the claim “mine” lingers.
Vimalakirti used to say: The real renunciation is to know, “It is not mine—so how can I renounce it? How can I hold it? Holding drops; leaving drops.” That is true renunciation.
So Vimalakirti never left his house—never left his wife, his children, his shop, his work. His vision was razor-sharp. And those who had “left,” he would throw into a tangle. He would meet them on the road…
Maudgalyayana was once explaining to people on a roadside: “Leave; the world is insubstantial.” Along came Vimalakirti. He said, “If it is insubstantial, why leave it? Knowing it is insubstantial is enough. Who leaves a mirage? If it is insubstantial, what is left to abandon?”
He unnerved Maudgalyayana. In this way he kept all the Buddha’s disciples on edge. He himself was a disciple of the Buddha—but an incomparable one. All the others were renunciates, initiated monks; he lived in the marketplace. He was the supreme sannyasin.
That’s why I do not tell my sannyasins to leave the world. I want you to become Vimalakirti. Where you are, understand there. As you are, remain as you are—but let awareness arise within. Don’t get lost in petty outer moves.
Whether the wife is left is not the question. Let the feeling “my wife” drop; that is enough. Who belongs to whom? How can the wife be yours? How can you be hers? All ownership is false. All proprietorship is fiction. If this much is seen…
Pay attention: this is what we don’t see. First you say, “The money is mine.” Then you say, “I have given up the money.” But the proprietorship remains—before and after.
An acquaintance of mine left home and wealth years ago. Yet even after thirty years he still goes around saying, “I kicked away hundreds of thousands of rupees!”
I once went to see him and said, “It seems the kick never really landed! If it had, why keep chattering about it? Thirty years have passed—the matter is finished. If you kicked it thirty years ago, why talk about it for thirty years? And even now you say with such relish: ‘I kicked away hundreds of thousands!’ Had it been only thousands, it wouldn’t taste so sweet. If it were millions, sweeter still; billions, sweeter yet! But what is this relish betraying?”
“To boast ‘I kicked away hundreds of thousands’ is a new arrogance. Were those hundreds of thousands really yours? Even now you believe they were. How did you presume to kick what was never yours? Who are you?”
“We can only ‘kick’ what we own. Thirty years have gone by; the kick keeps missing. There is no question of kicking at all—only of understanding. What here is ours? Before we were, all this was; when we are gone, all this will still be. In this two-day life, this ‘mine and thine’ is sheer illusion.”
Vimalakirti put the Buddha’s monks in great difficulty. He himself was a supreme disciple of the Buddha—but unique, the only one who did not leave house and home. And they were all a little afraid of him, because he would raise questions that had no answers. For example…
A Buddha’s monk would be teaching. Under a tree Sariputra would be sitting, instructing people: “Meditate.” And along would come Vimalakirti. Sariputra would start sweating, because Vimalakirti would stand up and raise such questions that trouble would erupt. “Meditate! Who is to meditate? Who is the doer? Has meditation ever happened through doing? Is meditation a doing? In doing there is ego; every doing strengthens the ego.”
Therefore Vimalakirti would say: Meditation is not done; it happens. Take back the word “do.” Do not tell anyone to “do” meditation. Is meditation an act? Meditation is nonaction—non-doing.
What do you “do” in meditation? All doing ceases. How will you “do”? In meditation you simply are. Twirling beads, ringing bells, repeating a mantra—this is not meditation, because the doing continues. The disturbance continues; the mind’s business continues.
When the mind’s business stops, how will the beads turn? The turning of beads is also the mind’s business. Who will chant “Ram, Ram”? When the mind’s business has stopped, even Ram is gone! Then the chanting of “Ram, Ram” cannot be. There is no real difference in chanting. First you chanted “work, work”; now you chant “Ram, Ram.” What difference does it make?
Someone sits and chants “money, money.” Another chants something else. But all chanting is the mind’s trade, the mind’s activity. And as long as the mind’s activity continues, the mind remains alive.
So Vimalakirti would say, “Take back your word, Sariputra! Apologize to the people!” In this way he kept all the Buddha’s disciples harried. He would appear anywhere, any time, and raise such unanswerable questions that no one could respond.
That is why, when his five hundred disciples came for the Buddha’s darshan, and the Buddha heard that Vimalakirti was ill, he naturally told his chief disciples, “Go and inquire about Vimalakirti’s health.” But none agreed to go. They said, “Forgive us. We’ll go to ask about his health, and he’ll create some mischief. He’ll have us disgraced in front of people.”
And that is exactly what happened. When Manjushri went and asked, “You are ill?” Vimalakirti said, “The whole world is ill. Is this something to ask? Here everyone is afflicted with suffering. Birth is disease; life is disease; old age is disease; death is disease. All is disease. What have you come to ask?” Poor Manjushri tried, “I mean—your health, and so on, is not well?” Vimalakirti said, “I am always well. And that which is not well—that is not me.”
With such a man, even to ask after his health is difficult, because you are exposed on the spot! No one was willing. They said, “Forgive us; we are not equal to it. Don’t send us to that man—it is to enter a lion’s mouth. He’ll do something or other… We aren’t even sure he’s ill. It may be only a pretext to entangle us!”
And in truth Vimalakirti was not ill. He was simply lying there, waiting for these bodhisattvas to arrive so he could set them right: “Whose condition have you come to inquire about? Who is ill? What illness? If the body is illness, then whoever is in the body is ill. The body is an imposition; what medicine can there be for it? You think you are not ill? If you are not ill, why are you in the world? Only the ill are born into the world. When one is no longer ill, one is freed from the world; then one’s abode is in liberation, not here. The one who has become truly healthy—established in himself—does not remain here; he has gone beyond.”
They all knew Vimalakirti’s ways and were wary. It was like an exam for the bodhisattvas. All refused—except Manjushri. Why did Manjushri agree? That too is worth understanding.
Manjushri is a unique disciple—the only one without ego. Hence he agreed. “So Vimalakirti will slap me around a bit—what harm? There is no one inside to be hurt. There is no ego there—not even a trace on which a blow could land.”
Manjushri alone, among the Buddha’s disciples, abided in emptiness. When asked, he was instantly ready to go. And he took the others along, saying, “Come, friends. Whatever happens, watch. You are afraid—stand aside. I will enter the lion’s mouth; just watch what happens.”
Manjushri went and asked his questions. And to each question Vimalakirti delivered a slap. But not a single slap landed on Manjushri. He came through pure. Vimalakirti thanked him: “I was looking for just such a person. At last, among the Buddha’s disciples, one has turned to gold.”
Vimalakirti shook him this way and that, hoping for some reaction—for anger, for unrest, even for a flicker of regret, “Where have I gotten stuck! I, too, should have refused like the others; now I’m being shamed in front of everyone!” But there was no question of shame. Only ego is shamed; what shame can befall emptiness? Manjushri remained as he was—unruffled. Not a trace of agitation, not a ripple of unrest.
What was the stiffness in the others? Their obstacle was that they were all monks, renunciates—while Vimalakirti was a householder. For a monk to go to a householder’s house to inquire, “How are you?”—this itself felt wrong, because the monk is “higher” and the householder “lower.” Precisely for this reason the Buddha wanted to send them: the monk’s arrogance must go. Who is higher? Who is lower? Even this is ego: “How can we go?”
You must have noticed—if you bow to a Jain muni, he does not fold his hands in return. How can a muni bow to a householder!
Once there was a conference. Acharya Tulsi had invited me too—by mistake! It was many years ago. Morarji was also invited; at the time he was the finance minister.
Before the conference began, Acharya Tulsi had arranged a special meeting for a handful of distinguished guests. I went; Morarji went; a couple more came. Everyone bowed; Acharya Tulsi gave blessings. He could not bow; a muni cannot bow to a householder.
No one else minded, but it pricked Morarji. He didn’t like that we folded our hands and you gave blessings! He at once said, “Forgive me, but this does not befit. We greeted you with folded hands; you did not return the greeting. Why? And another question—this meeting has been called for questions, for discussion, so let us begin with this—why are you seated up on a platform while we are all below? If it were a public assembly, fine: someone sits high so people can see. But this is a small discussion—ten or twelve in all. Why not sit down here with us?”
How could a symposium proceed? It was almost over before it began! Tulsi-ji grew restless. What answer could he give? There was no answer. Not even the courage to come down and say, “You are right; it was a mistake. No need to sit above in this small meeting; let’s all sit together.” Not even the courage to fold his hands and say, “Forgive me; it was a lapse.” He only said, “How can a muni bow to a householder? The scriptures forbid it: a muni must not bow to a householder.”
But is that an answer? A muni should be the very embodiment of humility. If he cannot bow to a householder, he has slandered the householder.
And he said, “A muni should sit above.”
So brother Morarji said, “You are called a revolutionary saint—show a little revolution! These notions don’t sit well—that a muni must sit above!”
I saw the matter was going to sour beyond repair; no conversation would be possible—only dispute. I said to Tulsi-ji, “If you wish, I’ll answer Morarji.”
He felt the burden lift. “With great pleasure—please answer,” he said. I said to Morarji, “He is sitting above—one foolishness. You are disturbed—another foolishness. Look at the lizard—she is sitting even higher! She is the great muni here. You are not bothered that the lizard sits on the ceiling. Let it be. Why does this pinch you? The very reason he sits above is the reason you are pinched—no real difference. You folded your hands; let the matter end there. Why expect a return? Allow the other the freedom to respond or not. Your folded hands reveal your goodness; his failure to respond reveals his ungoodness. But now you are standing to argue—will you file a case in court that ‘I folded my hands…’? Then even your folding had a motive—that his hands must also fold! There was an expectation of reciprocation.”
“So I see no great difference. If he had a little understanding, he would have come down. And if you are so offended, you too climb up. We will remain below. No problem. Both of you sit above; the fuss is over.”
Ego creates great difficulties—great obstacles.
From that day Tulsi-ji was displeased; so was Morarji! Naturally, after that both grew stiff.
The Buddha wanted to send his bodhisattvas—those who had come almost to buddhahood. But “almost” means not yet. Only one was truly a buddha—Manjushri. When he was asked, he stood up.
Even Manjushri was thoroughly shaken by Vimalakirti—but he was always delighted. In Vimalakirti’s presence, he alone would rejoice and think, “Today something important will certainly be said.” So he went.
Vimalakirti slapped him from every side, shoved him from every angle—but Manjushri remained unshaken. The scripture is vast, wondrous—the Vimalakirti Nirdesha Sutra. There is a long dialogue. Vimalakirti strikes blow after blow, and Manjushri remains unmoved. He keeps asking, keeps trying to understand with humility whatever Vimalakirti says. Finally Vimalakirti acknowledges, “Here is the one person who lives in the state of emptiness.”
It was a test.
Read the Vimalakirti Nirdesha Sutra—read it with great attention—for Vimalakirti’s every utterance is like a Kohinoor diamond. Whatever he has said is the ultimate truth. For example: Meditation cannot be done. When all doing falls away, there is meditation. Liberation cannot be attained. When all attaining drops, what remains—that is liberation. Renunciation cannot be done. Whatever is “done” will be indulgence. When awareness becomes complete, the insubstantial is seen as insubstantial, the substantial as substantial. Nothing needs to be left; nothing needs to be grasped. All happens silently.
Vimalakirti is the supreme sannyasin.

Why does it feel crude? To whom does it feel so? What you need is Vimalakirti!

Crude? Then you are nurturing a new ego: “I am one who does kirtan; I am a meditator; I listen to discourses; I attend satsang—how can I keep a shop?” This is a new “I.” You are not being freed—you are getting bound. Better it would have been not to listen to discourses, not to do kirtan, not to meditate—just quietly and peacefully run your shop. At least this ego wouldn’t have arisen.

One day Mohammed said to a young man of his household, “You keep lying in bed in the mornings. Come with me to the mosque sometimes. The morning prayer will happen; you’ll also get a walk. Fresh air, the rising sun, the birdsong—why lie there?” He said it many times, and one day the boy went along. They went to the mosque; Mohammed prayed. The boy must have stood there humming along a bit. On the way back he grew very haughty.

It was summer. People were still asleep on cots outside their homes. He said to Mohammed, “Hazrat, just look at these sinners! Still asleep! Is this a time to sleep? This is the hour of prayer! What will become of these sinners, Hazrat? Where will they go after death?”

Mohammed was taken aback. It was his first time. Till yesterday he too was sleeping at that hour. Today he has suddenly become a holy man! And Mohammed must have noticed his humming—he wouldn’t have known what to recite; he just stood there, copying when Mohammed bowed.

Mohammed stopped. He said, “Forgive me. I made a big mistake taking you to the mosque. Your prayer didn’t happen, and my prayer got spoiled. Go home, brother, and I will go back to the mosque to pray again.”

The youth asked, “Why?” Mohammed said, “Had you not come, it would have been better. At least you wouldn’t be judging others as sinners. At least you didn’t have this pretension of being a virtuous man. I made a grave error. Forgive me. I won’t make such a mistake again. I will never ask you to come to the mosque. You go home; go back to bed. Let me go to the mosque; I’ll pray again and ask God’s forgiveness for my mistake.”

What am I to do with you—ask your forgiveness? I made a big mistake encouraging you toward meditation, suggesting you take delight in kirtan. I did not say it so that life would become ugly.

Watch it. The moment you think that sitting in your shop is crude, everyone else who keeps a shop becomes a sinner. The moment you think shopkeeping is crude, it means your ego is taking on a very religious form. This is dangerous.

The worldly form of ego is gross; the religious form is very subtle. If you have a lot of money, that ego is crude—any fool can see it. But if you have renounced wealth, that ego is very subtle—even the wise may not detect it. You’ve done so many fasts, so many vows; a stiffness begins within. And it is that stiffness that kills you. Stiffness itself is the world.

Now you say, “Meditation, discourses and kirtan—and then work and business! It feels so crude! How to keep doing it?”

If you must drop something, drop the discourses, the kirtan, the bhajan. Don’t drop your work. My whole effort here is that you experience the divine in life; that in life’s ordinary situations you have glimpses of the Ultimate; that you see the divine in your customer.

I am not saying, “Keep rigging the scales as before.” I am saying: see the divine in the customer. You are serving him. If your meditation and kirtan and bhajan are going rightly, your cheating on the scale will stop. If your meditation, discourse, kirtan are moving rightly, you won’t look at the customer as a fish caught on the hook. You will see God in the customer. You won’t deceive him. Certainly, you also need some money to live, so you will say, “The item is worth four, and I need a small margin as well.” You won’t loot; the tendency to plunder will not be there.

Of course you need something, and I don’t say you should take nothing. You should take your due—clearly and cleanly—for your service. That much is your right.

But I will not say to give up your work. Life has to be transformed. What will escapism do? Even if you leave the shop and run away, what will you do? Wherever you sit, however you live, something or other will sprout from the same mind, and your old world will begin again.

You’ve heard the story: a sannyasin was dying—very old. He had a single disciple. The disciple came and said, “Gurudev, now, at the time of your departure, an ultimate instruction!” The guru said, as he was dying, “Remember only one thing: never keep a cat.” And with that he died.

“Never keep a cat!” The young man was astonished. He searched the Vedas, the Puranas, the Quran—nowhere did anyone say “don’t keep a cat.” Neither Moses nor Manu nor Mohammed nor Mahavira—no one. Perhaps the guru’s mind had gone at the time of death! There had been some suspicion he had become senile, and now this is too much! And if he told anyone, “My guru’s last words were: never keep a cat,” people would laugh at him. So he told no one.

And what had to happen, happened. He kept a cat. Whatever had happened in the guru’s life—because of which he warned, “Don’t do this”—happened again in the disciple’s life; he couldn’t resist it.

What had happened in the guru’s life? He had left home and gone to the forest. He kept a single loincloth. One has to keep at least a loincloth. But in a loincloth the whole world can also be preserved—because the world is in your mind. It makes no difference whether you have a loincloth or a palace; the whole world can exist in that loincloth.

He would hang the washed cloth at night; wear one, wash one. Mice would chew up the drying cloth.

Some “sensible” people—be a little careful with sensible people—said, “Gurudev, keep a cat; it’ll eat the mice. Your problem will be solved. Otherwise it isn’t nice to be repeatedly asking the village for another cloth because the mice chewed it.”

The suggestion made sense—reasonable. That’s the trick of the mind: it loves what seems reasonable. He kept a cat. The cat ate the mice. Soon the mice were finished. Now the cat sat there starving. What to do?

Again he consulted the sensible ones—and where else to go? Sensible advisers are everywhere. They said, “The cat has served you well; you should feed her. Keep a cow.”

So he kept a cow. He fed milk to the cat; he also drank some. Then arose the question of fodder. The villagers said, “Maharaj, are you going to go to the village every day for grass? That will be a hassle. So much land lies unused here; grow fodder on it.”

He began farming. Sometimes he fell ill and couldn’t water the field; sometimes more labor was needed than he had. Gradually the farming grew. From fodder he started growing wheat and rice. The work kept expanding. The villagers said, “Maharaj, keep a helper. This won’t do otherwise; it’s all gotten too big. You’re getting old; someone should also serve you.”

There was a widow in the village; they brought her along. “She is free; otherwise of no use to anyone. She’ll serve you, cook for you, look after you.”

And what was bound to happen happened. After some days, they married. Children arrived. So the guru was right to say as he died: “Remember just one thing—never keep a cat.”

Even if you run away from the world, nothing will change. Where will you leave the mind? The mind goes with you. Wherever you go, it goes with you. If the mind is dishonest, you will be dishonest wherever you are.

I have heard: a man knocked at the gate of heaven. The angel opened the gate. “How come you are here at three in the morning? Is this any time to arrive?” The man said, “What to do—courtesy of the doctor! Killed me at three!”

The angel said, “I’ll have to check the ledgers; we had no intimation of an arrival now. Must have been a very big doctor! Wait here while I look inside. What did you do for a living?” The man said, “Nothing special—buying and selling scrap iron; I had a junk shop.”

The angel went in. When he returned, the man was gone—and so was the iron gate. A scrap dealer given a moment—he ran off with heaven’s iron gate as well. All his life he dealt in scrap; he must have seen what a fine gate it was—and what use is it in heaven anyway! He took it.

Your mind goes with you wherever you go. If your mind is that of a junk dealer, you’ll do the same at heaven’s door.

Don’t become an enemy of work and business. Don’t bring in that stiffness. To be with me means only this: accept this world. Accept your situation as it is. Turn your very situation into the remembrance of the divine; make it your kirtan; let it become your meditation.

Try it a little. You will be astonished. The same person who came yesterday as a customer, whose pocket alone interested you, whom you did not even treat as a human being—tomorrow look upon him as the divine. The same that is hidden in you is hidden in him—serve him as the divine, and see the difference. Work and business will no longer remain mere work and business; the fragrance of meditation will begin to descend into them. This is the art.

What comes from running away? Wherever you run, nothing changes. You remain the same; your behavior remains the same. Even there, you will find some kind of work to do.

When I was young, I went to hear a very famous sannyasin. He was discoursing on Brahman, and in between someone would arrive—Seth Kaluram, say. He would stop the discourse: “Welcome, Sethji!” Who cares for Brahman—let Brahman go to the blazes! First seat Seth Kaluramji: “Please, come forward, sit here.” Until he was settled, there was interruption. Once the Seth was seated, the discourse would resume.

After I saw this two or three times, I asked him, “Why hold a discourse on Brahman at all? You don’t immerse yourself in it even for a moment. Then again a Seth arrives, or someone else, or the in-charge, or the Collector! Is this a discourse? Is this religion?”

This man is a shopkeeper, a businessman. Just as he would seat a Seth in his shop, or the Collector, and call for paan, cigarettes, tea—though now he cannot call for paan, cigarettes, tea, still within him the same impulses must be rising. When he says, “Please sit, Kaluramji. Are you well?”—the discourse on Brahman stops. In Kaluramji there seems to be no Brahman at all—the last person in whom Brahman appears! For no one else does he pause, but he pauses for the man with the full pocket.

So where will you go, and what will you do by running away? Wherever you go, work and business will take shape in some form—they will.

Therefore there is no need to run anywhere. The world is an opportunity to awaken. Don’t run—wake up. Where you are, be utterly content. In that very situation, begin to seek the divine.

For a true seeker, all situations are equal. I tell you, all situations are equal. There is a famous saying in an old Egyptian book: If you are in hell, accept it; with your acceptance, hell will turn into heaven. This makes sense to me; it is profound.

One who has accepted hell with a sense of wonder—how can it remain hell? In that very moment it begins to become heaven. And if you are in heaven and you keep complaining, it will remain hell.

Where you are does not matter. How you are within—that is what matters. And at least do not bring such questions to me; for I am not anti-world. I want to make you into Vimalakirti. I want to make you householders who are sannyasins. I want to reduce the distance between the world and sannyas. Let sannyas become the soul of the world and the world its body—then the harmony comes, then the grand music arises.

A mistake, certainly. Not a small one—a big mistake. Because this is precisely the way the mind lives.
The mind is always in search of the new. The mind is an itch for the new. The old wife doesn’t appeal; a new wife is wanted. The old house doesn’t appeal; a new house is wanted. The old clothes don’t appeal; new clothes are wanted. Always the new. This is what the mind is—it keeps you running. From this craving for the new, ambition is born. And you remain restless. After all, every new thing will soon become old, and the restlessness will only go on increasing.
There is so much restlessness in the West because there is a mad race for the new. Everything must be new. It’s not even a question of utility; it’s a question of newness. It may be that the old thing is better, stronger, more useful—but that is irrelevant. A new thing is needed. Even if the new is worse, it’s okay. Even if it’s just tinsel and show, it’s okay. But it must be new.
Then your whole life is spent running after the new. And nothing ever really becomes new. Can things ever truly be new? The race for things has no end. You will be finished in it.
Yes—there is another way to live. What is outside is fine as it is. If you must search for the new, search within. Cut away the old inside.
There are two kinds of people in the world: those who keep changing the old into the new on the outside—these are the worldly; and those who keep cutting away the old within and, moment to moment, freeing a fresh consciousness from the past—these are the sannyasins.
Let memory go; do not carry the burden of the past within. Whatever rubbish of the past has piled up inside, keep setting it on fire, keep burning it. Remain new within. Then you will find supreme bliss. Inner freshness will become an entry into the divine.
What will outer novelty do? Perhaps we chase newness outside because, in fact, the search for the new is within—but by mistake we look outside. What is needed inside is youthfulness, newness, freshness—the freshness of morning, of drops of morning dew, of the morning sun, of a morning flower. Such a state is needed within. But we do not search within. We think: let’s get a new car, build a new house, find a new woman, open a new shop, start a new business—then perhaps it will be solved. It will not be solved.
Even the Alexanders never find a solution—how will you? Those who have so much are not resolved—how will you be?
Free your consciousness from this wrong direction. Learn the art of being new within. This outer newness only keeps you entangled, keeps you busy.

Sitting on the shore
tossing pebbles—
many days have passed,
yet still
in this ocean of silence
there is
no
stir.

Just as rigid remains
this desert of torments.
Come,
let us float
boats of words;
let us grow
oases of dreams.

On the narrowing
footpaths of consciousness
one can no longer walk.
Come,
let us go find something new,
let us grow mustard
on rosy palms,
so that
these long, mountain-like days
may pass.

Do something or other—keep doing. Come, let’s grow mustard on the palm! Keep doing something!
Have you noticed: you sit by a river and start picking up and throwing stones into it—keep doing something! You come home and you fidget and fuss: put this here, put that there; open the window, close it. Keep doing something! Why? Because when you become empty, panic arises.
You do not know the flavor of emptiness. You do not know the joy of being empty. You have not known the celebration of emptiness. When you become empty, fear arises; you begin to tremble. So you keep yourself entangled, keep yourself forgetful. This entanglement is a kind of intoxication.
What does the drunkard do? Exactly what you are doing. He drinks wine to forget himself; you use other ways to forget.
In English, alongside “alcoholic,” another word has been coined—“workaholic.” One forgets himself by drinking alcohol; the other keeps himself forgetful through work—a workaholic!
Morarji Desai—a workaholic! An opponent of alcohol, an enemy of alcohol; alcohol must be banned. But he has no idea that the drunkard is doing the same. You do the same by getting entangled in politics. You keep yourself entangled, occupied.
Running, rushing—yoked like the oxen at the oil-press. Yoked like this, one day you die. This too is your way of being unconscious. So that you do not remember yourself. All this is a device to escape from yourself.
This search for the new is a device to escape from yourself. But the task is to realize yourself, not to escape from yourself—to come face to face with yourself, to recognize yourself. Without self-recognition, the mystery of your life will not open. With this very soul you keep avoiding, you must become betrothed; this is the alliance to make.
Sitting idle—you switch on the radio, start reading the newspaper. Then you get up: let’s go to the club; let’s go to the hotel; let’s watch a movie. Somehow let the day pass. Then fall into bed and sleep. In the morning the running around will begin again. Life will pass like this. Days will come and go. When birth has turned into death, you will not even know. You will have spent it all in unconsciousness.
No—the search for the new outside is dangerous. Very dangerous. If you turn its direction inward, the same energy becomes sadhana. Then you do not seek a new job, a new business, new possessions. You seek a new consciousness; you seek new states of awareness. Then you say: let me go deeper into meditation, so that ever-new springs keep being found. The more you dig within, the more springs of clear water you will find.
Just as, when someone digs a well, at first you turn up rubbish; then rough earth and stones; then slowly the soil grows damp; then water sources begin to be found; and going still deeper, clear water begins to flow.
Dig within yourself. Make yourself a well. Within you is the water of the divine. Within you is the possibility of samadhi.

They say: when a madman begins to understand, “I am mad,” he has begun to get well. A madman never understands that he is mad. Call a madman mad and he will prove you mad. He will say, “Me, mad? You are mad. Whoever calls me mad is mad.”

The madman does not accept himself as mad. How could there be so much intelligence in madness that it accepts itself! The day the madman begins to admit, “I am mad,” the first ray of intelligence has descended.
The day you know, “I am ignorant,” the first light of wisdom has dawned.
It is auspicious, Sambodhi, that it hurts. This pain is good. This pain is beneficial; it is salutary.

And you say, “For us who are blind, you should not fold your hands”—that this is not right.
You are not blind; you are only sitting with your eyes closed. The difference between you and the buddhas is not that the buddha has eyes and you do not. You have eyes exactly as the buddha has. But the buddha has opened his eyes; you keep them closed.

Though in the statue it appears the other way around: the Buddha’s eyes are closed and yours are open. The Buddha’s eyes are closed outwardly, therefore they are open within. Your eyes are open outwardly, therefore they are closed within. And only if they open within are they truly open. Inner opening is the real opening.

If you begin to see yourself, then you are one with eyes. You are seeing—seeing others. You are not seeing yourself. The day you begin to see yourself, that very day the eyes have opened.

You are not blind. Blind would mean: the eyes cannot open at all. Blind would mean: there are no eyes; then how could they open! Do not take yourself to be blind. Let it not become a trick of the mind. The mind may start saying, “You are blind; it cannot happen.” Then the matter is finished—go on living as you are living.

No; you are not blind. Only your eyes are open in the wrong direction, so in the right direction they are closed. Your orientation is mistaken. Let consciousness begin to flow in the right direction; you too will be one with eyes—as much as the buddhas are.

Once even the Buddha was as blind as you are. Then one day he became one whose eyes are open. You too can one day become one with eyes. As you are, so was I. So as I am, so can you be—there is not the slightest difference.

When I fold my hands to you, I fold them to this very potential in you. With folded hands I am saying to you: the Buddha dwells within you. Just take a little care of him. With folded hands I am indicating that you should not take yourself to be only as much as you have so far known yourself to be. You are far greater; you are vast; the infinite is hidden within you—tat tvam asi, Thou art That. That which you are seeking sits within you. You are a temple—the temple of the Divine. That you do not know is another matter. But in the very ground on which you are sitting, a treasure is buried.

It happened in a village: a beggar died. For thirty years he had sat in the same place begging. When he died, the neighbors thought, “Burn all his rags; break and throw away all his pots.” There was nothing special anyway. And then someone thought, “For thirty years this beggar has been soiling this patch of earth; let us dig up a little of the ground here and replace it with fresh soil. He has defiled it—thoroughly defiled it! It was filthy.”

They dug the earth a little. They were astonished: jars were buried there. There was a great treasure. And the whole village kept laughing to itself, “What a limit! This beggar begged all his life, and on the very ground where he sat there was such a treasure that he could have become an emperor!”

The whole village laughed at the beggar. But there was a fakir in that village; he laughed at all the villagers. He said, “Fools! You speak of that beggar—this is exactly your condition. Right where you are sitting a treasure is buried. You can be emperors.”

But it does not seem that anyone understood him. People must have laughed, “Look, another madman!” Or perhaps a few did understand his words and, going home, dug up a little of their yard. When they did not find a treasure, they would have said, “Why get lost in a madman’s talk! It is not as if treasure is buried everywhere. That was just a coincidence.”

But the fakir was pointing within you. All the fakirs point within. All their arrows are aimed within. Ask any of them; they indicate only one path: go within. Come home to yourself.

Turn the wandering eye that looks outside a little inward. The very eye that is now seeing the world, the very eye that sees matter—this same eye will see the Divine. The eye is the same; only turn it toward the Divine. That turning is called meditation.

I fold my hands to you so that you remember, so that you do not keep forgetting, so that the remembrance remains with you—day after day remember: the supreme worshipful One sits within you. As this remembrance becomes dense, you will change, you will be transformed. The revolution within you can happen through the very intensity of this remembrance.

I do not give any commands. Because a command means: I have become the controller of your life. A command means: I have become your master. A command means: you have become my slave. A command means: I have taken away your freedom.

I give you freedom, not commands. I do give you understanding. I am even ready to lend you my eyes for a while, so that through them you may see; and from that seeing you will be filled with the remembrance of your own eyes. That is why I speak to you.

In this speaking there is no command. This is the difference between guidance and command.

In the Jain tradition there is a saying: the Tirthankara does not command, he only gives upadesh—guidance. What is the difference between the two?

A command means: you must do this; do it. If you don’t, you will be punished. Guidance means: doing this is auspicious. If you do it, there will be auspiciousness. If you don’t, you will miss the auspicious—but there is no compulsion.

Guidance means: this is how it is. Look. A command means: there is no need to look—do it. A command puts the emphasis on doing; guidance puts the emphasis on seeing. Guidance is simply the process of vision. And a command? In a command there is no concern for whether anything becomes clear to you or not.

Morality issues commands; religion is guidance. Morality says: do not steal, give in charity. Religion does not say, “Do not steal, give in charity.” Religion says: look, understand; in that very understanding, stealing will disappear and generosity will blossom. And there will be no ego about giving. Nor will there arise the stiff pride, “I don’t steal, so I am special.” Religion is the art of opening the eyes.

So first, I do not give any command.

Second: you say, “I want to carry your message to people.”

This message is dangerous. In carrying it, there will be trouble; there will be obstacles; there will be opposition. So if you are afraid of opposition, forget the whole idea.

But why fear opposition? Opposition is a challenge. And in challenge a person’s life becomes bright, refined. If there is no challenge in your life, you will remain dead and impotent. Do not miss challenge. Wherever a challenge appears, face it. Every challenge will keep the edge on your sword. Every challenge will make you stronger.

It happened once: a farmer became so adept in praying—praying and praying—that God had to appear. God said, “What do you want to ask for? You never ask for anything; you just go on praying!”

The farmer said, “Now that you’ve come, I will ask. The thing is, I suspect you don’t know farming! Perhaps you made the world, but you have no experience of agriculture. When water is needed, you send blazing sun; when sun is needed, you send rain. When somehow the crop is almost standing, you bring storms, hail, frost. You have no sense at all. This is what I’ve been wanting to tell you all these days of prayer. Give me a chance once, and I’ll show you how farming is done!”

It’s an old story; in those days God was not yet so wise. He agreed. He said, “All right. This year whatever you want, that will happen.”

Whatever the farmer wished, happened. When he asked for sunshine, there was sunshine. When he asked for rain, there was rain. And naturally, why would a farmer ever ask for storms, hail, frost? So none of those came.

The fields began to grow. The plants rose higher and higher—higher than ever before, rising above his head! The farmer said, “Now! Now I’ll show you what a miraculous harvest looks like!”

The plants grew tall. Harvest time came. But the wheat did not ripen—only husk! Just empty shells, no grain within. He was astonished, distressed: “What has happened?”

Again he prayed to God: “Where did I go wrong?”

God said, “Without hail, substance does not arise. Challenge is needed. You asked only for the pleasant—the sweet. Salt is needed too. You asked only for happiness; sorrow is needed too. Pain refines. You asked for abundant water, for sun—good. But you gave the plants no chance to struggle. Without struggle their roots did not become strong. They rose high above, but below they are weak. Pull a few up and see!”

He looked: the roots were tiny. They had drawn no strength from the earth. When plants must endure storm, take risks, their roots go deep.

You have seen—and you will be surprised to know—if the wind always blows from one direction, say from the left and bends the tree to the right, then on the left side the tree’s roots become stronger. Because on that side it has to grip the ground hard—or it will fall. The roots go down that much deeper.

You have seen: in Africa trees grow very high. They have to—because all around is dense forest. If they do not grow tall, they won’t receive the sun’s light. So the African tree is tall. Bring the same tree here: it will grow low here. Here there is no need to go so high.

“Struggle,” God said to the farmer, “is absolutely essential. Without it, resolve is not born. And if resolve is not born, surrender will never happen. Challenge is needed.”

You say, “I am afraid of opposition.”

Fear is natural. But set fear aside. Let the opposition be.

What can anyone take away? What do we have that can be taken? At most someone can take your life. But life will go anyway. At most someone may kill you—so what? How many are killed? Very few. But even suppose someone kills you—what is lost? This life was going anyway; if it goes in a right way, it is well gone.

And it may be that even at the moment of death, if your heart is full of compassion, you will be liberated. This very death can become moksha.

People will throw stones. People will insult. People will ruin reputation. Good. It will help the ego to fall. What’s the loss!

Remember Manjushri: he went! Others were afraid. They said, “Vimalakirti will put him in a bind!” Manjushri went while the others trembled. Manjushri had no fear—because there was no ego.

This fear of opposition is also the fear of the ego.

And you say, “My capacity is very small.”

Everyone’s is. Use whatever you have, and it will grow. Meditate on this song.

Lamp’s song:
If storms are blowing, let them blow.
Someone cherished me with love,
with sweet love, with tender coaxing today,
adorned me with both victory and defeat.
I am the lamp of someone’s languid hope,
I kept burning in the dark like a fresh crescent moon.

If lightning is striking, let it strike.
Flickering, all the lamps along the path went out,
the travelers’ feet paused upon the road,
the tired eyes of all drooped upon me.
I was nurtured in someone’s lush shade,
I kept burning like a sweet memory of the past.

If clouds are gathering, let them gather.
I fear neither storm today,
nor storm, nor nirvana,
neither nirvana, nor the end.
I am the pure lamp of someone’s long practice,
burning steady and still, like a smile.

If the age-old deluge is raging, let it rage.
I burned—the wick of life burned;
let the moths come and burn; the heart’s flame burns on.
Touching me, the gold-like clay smiled.
I am the lamp of someone’s compassionate sigh,
I kept burning like an eternal lovely flower.

If storms are blowing, let them blow.

Let the storms blow; let the tempests come. You may be a small lamp—a clay lamp—but within you too is the light of the sun. Your courtyard may be small, but within you too is the vast sky. The more the challenges, the greater you will become.

I do not give commands. I only give understanding. I am not saying, “You must do this.”

And do not even mistakenly think, “Because I said it, therefore you will do it.” Then it becomes useless. If you do it because I said so, it is of no worth. Let it be out of your joy; let it arise from your joy. Let it be natural, spontaneous. Only the spontaneous is beautiful.

That is all for today.