Es Dhammo Sanantano #107

First scene:
Bhagwan was residing in Jetavana. A young monk had bewitched a woman. She, enamored of him, tempted him in many ways to make him a householder. At last the monk, persuaded by her words, agreed to put down his robe and become a householder. Bhagwan had been watching silently. When the youth was just on the verge of falling, he called him near and said: Guard your Smriti! Awaken your awareness! Madman, in just this way you have fallen before—and again and again you have repented. And now again the same! Learn something from your mistakes! Guard your Smriti! And then he spoke these two gathas:

Vitakkapamathitassa jantuno tibbharagassā subhānupassino.
Bhiyyo taṇhā pavaḍḍhati eso kho dalhaṃ karoti bandhanaṃ..

Vitakkūpasame ca yo rato asubhaṃ bhāvayati sadā sato.
Eso kho vyantikāhini eso chindati māra-bandhanaṃ..

‘One whose mind is churned by doubt, who is fired by intense passion, who sees only the “auspicious” everywhere—his thirst only grows; he forges for himself a still stronger chain.’
‘One who delights in the calming of thought, who, ever alert, contemplates the asubha—the unattractive—such a one will cut the bonds of Mara and bring desire to its end.’

Before we enter the verses, let us understand the situation. These situations are of the human mind. In such situations the doubts that arise in the mind of man are being analyzed here.

A young monk bewitched a woman.
This happens again and again. The rarer a person, the more compelling he becomes. One who has renounced often becomes a center of magnetism. When you run after women, they avoid you. When you run away from women, they pursue you! The same is true about men. If a woman runs after a man, he flees; if she flees, he chases.

The mind of man is full of dualities! One is always chasing, and one is always fleeing. Thus the attraction remains taut. Nature has crafted something very profound. Once attained, attraction ends. When not attained, attraction persists.

Women are as attractive as they are difficult to attain. Men too are as attractive as access to them becomes almost impossible. Love for the impossible never dies. Love for the possible dies—because the moment something is attained, the charm is over. It is that which is not attained—ever out of reach—that enchants.

The renunciate has for centuries been a great attraction for women.
This monk—a young monk—bewitched a woman.
And there is another reason a renunciate fascinates. Sannyas carries a beauty the worldly cannot have.

One who steps aside, who leaves the world, by that very stepping aside becomes special, extraordinary. One who turns inward into meditation gives birth to a certain grace within.

There is a beauty of the body. Beyond the body there is a deeper beauty—the beauty of the soul. And one in whom even a little of the soul’s beauty begins to bloom—even if his body is plain, it does not appear so. When the lamp is unlit, you see the lamp. When it is lit—radiant—you see the flame. Who sees the lamp then! Whether the lamp itself is pretty or not becomes secondary. The lamp’s beauty matters only so long as the flame is absent. Because the lamp is all there is. But once the flame descends, who cares for the lamp!

Such is the happening with a sannyasin. The worldly has only the body; it is a clay lamp, the flame not yet risen. In the renunciate, the flame begins to arise. With the descent of that light, the lamp becomes secondary. When the essential arrives, the nonessential recedes. If the master arrives, the servant fades.

Hence the renunciate carries a special magnetism—an inner allure. A halo begins to surround him.

And remember—as I have been telling you again and again: man in truth falls in love only in the search for the eternal. When you fall for a woman or a man, outwardly it seems you are falling for that woman or man; but if you analyze your inner mood, it was a glimpse of the Eternal you caught in her—that’s why. In that man, some tone of the Timeless resounded—that’s why. In that woman’s eyes you glimpsed something beyond the eyes; in her beauty there was a hint of the Divine.

In the worldly, the sound of God is very faint—buried under a thousand layers. A sannyasin is one who has begun to peel those layers, and whose inner music is growing more and more intense. If you go near, you cannot but be enchanted by his innermost music.

It is utterly natural. For man’s love is, in truth, for God. Even when you get entangled in a body, you are entangled in the search for God. Hence every time you get entangled in the body you repent. What you had imagined does not come to be. And what comes to be, you had never imagined. You had hoped for the Vast—at least a gateway into the Vast. But what you find is a wall. You find the fleeting.

When you stand wonderstruck before a flower’s beauty, it is not the transient bloom that has stunned you. In that momentary form you glimpsed a ray that is not momentary. On the perishable something of the imperishable descended as an aura. The transient became radiant with the Eternal; therefore even the transient attracts. The aura will fly away. By evening the flower will fall into dust. Then you will not love it.

When people are young, the glimmer of God is very clear. As one grows old, the body stiffens, approaches death, and the glimmer of the Divine fades. Hence the charm of youth.

The charm of the renunciate is greater still—because the renunciate is forever young. This is why you have seen: we have made no images of old age for Buddha, Mahavira, Krishna, or Ram. We hold no pictures of their decrepitude.

Of course they did grow old—law spares none. Ram grew old; Krishna grew old; Buddha and Mahavira grew old—but we made no images of their old age. Because in them the transient was secondary, the Eternal was primary. We saw in them a youth that never withers. We cared not for their bodies—who cares for the lamp once the light has descended! We cared for the light within.

For ordinary people there is no light; the lamp is everything. Remember this. You will come close to this fact many times.

What you feel as attraction toward a sannyasin, the leaning you feel, the wish to lose yourself in his love—this is why.

Trivial causes may appear on the surface, but within every triviality the Vast is hidden. If the Divine is in each particle, then even in the petty the Vast abides.

A young monk of Buddha’s—seeing him, a woman was smitten and gave every kind of temptation to drag him into household life.

Understand the mind’s second twist: the woman is in fact affected by the beauty of his renunciation—and wants to make him a householder. The moment he becomes a householder, that beauty will be lost.

Thus we often strike our own feet with the axe. We fail to see this. We do exactly that by which the temple we built will collapse.

You find a woman beautiful because she is still free—like a wave of wind, not yet bound by you. Her wild freedom is her charm. You bind her in marriage, in law; you bring her inside and lock her up. If then your relish for her starts fading, it is no surprise. For your relish had one basic cause—her wildness, her freedom, her beauty in that freedom.

You saw a bird flying in the sky and were enchanted. Then you trapped it, tied it, caged it—let it be a golden cage—but a bird in the open sky is one thing; a bird in a golden cage is quite another. They are two different birds. Now, in this caged bird you feel no such delight as when its wings were spread toward the sun. You have committed murder with your own hands.

A rose bloomed. It was so beautiful. In haste you plucked it. In a little while it will wilt in your hand. Soon you will toss it by the roadside and walk on. What happened? The flower was beautiful, extraordinarily so. But the livingness within its beauty was destroyed by your plucking.

One who loves flowers will not pluck them. One who loves—woman or man—will not impose bondage. One who loves birds will not lock them in cages. But we do exactly this. Man is such a fool, he destroys his own joy with his own hands!

Look into your life—you will find proofs every day. That is why I say: these little stories carry great meaning. Within them lies the whole psychology of man.

This woman became attracted. There are so many people in the world—what need to be drawn to a renunciate? Is there a shortage of men? The one who has left the world—let him go; forgive him! One who is drowning into himself—do not pull him out.

But no; one who is diving within exudes an unparalleled magnetism. His depth increases. A certain dignity enters his presence. Something from beyond the world touches him. A faint reflection of the transmundane begins to descend in him.

Then the woman began to tempt him: Why wander pointlessly? Why beg? I am here! All comfort is here; all wealth. Palaces, riches—everything will be yours. It pains me to see you go door to door for alms. Come to me. We shall be married. And as in the story—married, and then happily ever after!

That happens only in stories. Or in films. The film ends there. The shehnai plays, drums beat, marriage happens—the film ends! For after that they live happily!

In life it is the reverse. After the shehnai, suffering begins. First the shehnai plays—then sorrow. Marriage is the beginning of unhappiness. If a person could not be happy alone, two unhappy people will double sorrow, multiply it—not diminish it. Two illnesses join and become twice as much—or infinitely more. They multiply. They do not reduce.

Alone, a man is indeed a little unhappy—because he is alone. But he has no notion of the sorrow of the married. All the married regret: why did we not remain alone! But now it is too late. Now there is no easy way back to aloneness.

All the unmarried worry: how long will I remain unmarried! How long alone!

This world is strange! The unmarried dreams of marriage. The married dreams of being unmarried. No one wants to be where he is; he wants to be somewhere else. No one is happy where he is. Happiness must be somewhere else—only somewhere else. Here—certainly not.

Wherever you are, there is no happiness. And one who desires happiness must be happy where he is. That is the meaning of sannyas. Sannyas means: happy this very moment; happy as you are; happy where you are. The dropping of demand for ‘otherwise’ is the dissolution of thirst.

Hence an unparalleled purity begins to shine in the sannyasin. A quietness gleams in his eyes. Sit near him and his silence will touch you, caress you, flow around you.

The woman fell into the renunciate’s spell. She offered all sorts of temptations. She had wealth, status, palaces. She would have said: I love you so much! I will press your feet. You are my lord, my master. Why beg! Why wander barefoot on the roads! This palace is yours; all this is yours. Come here.

Like telling a bird of the open sky: this cage has every comfort. You will never starve here. You won’t have to search for food every day. And look—it is a golden cage! Studded with diamonds and jewels! No other cage like it in the world. Come inside. Let me shut the door once. Once you enter—forever you will be secure, carefree. This cage is insured!

And perhaps if birds had the human kind of intelligence, they too would agree. They will not accept by themselves. To cage them by force is another matter.

But man is intelligent! He thinks a thousand thoughts. This youth must have thought: Today I am young, I can beg. Tomorrow I will be old—then? True, Buddha has grown old, yet he still receives alms. He was a prince. I am no prince. And he is glorious; his words are nectar. I am ordinary. Today, Buddha is here and I walk like a shadow behind him—there is joy, convenience; everything falls in place. But tomorrow Buddha will die—then?

A thousand anxieties—just as they grip you—must have gripped him. A thousand thoughts must have come: I will fall sick, I will grow old—who will care for me then? Who will feed me? Who will press my feet? This lovely woman is ready to surrender everything. Look at her surrender! Her sacrifice! Her love! Many temptations must have rippled in his mind. Many waves must have risen.

Buddha kept watching in silence. A true Master stops only when you cannot stop yourself. As long as you can stop yourself, he will not stop you. For the ultimate meaning of a Master is to give you as much freedom as possible.

Freedom necessarily includes the freedom to fall. There can be no freedom in which we say: you are free to rise, not free to fall! Freedom is of both—the wholesome and the unwholesome.

Buddha gave his monks complete freedom. He was a unique Master.

He watched on. For many reasons. It is not right to intervene at every little turn. If one interferes at each small step, growth is hindered. Let him think. Let him ponder. Let him pass through difficulties; let him face the challenge.

As a mother watches her child—he is learning to stand, to walk. She keeps one eye on him. She remains engaged in her chores as well. She does not pay such excessive attention that the child feels she is after him constantly. But she watches silently: he may not fall; he may not step down from the courtyard; he may not wander onto the road; he may not get near the fire; no danger may arise. And she keeps silent until danger is about to happen—only then she intervenes. Otherwise she lets him move about. How else will the child learn to walk? How else to stand? How else to become fit for life?

So is the Master.

Buddha watched. He knew what was happening. What worries were running in the youth’s mind; what temptations were gripping him. How he was becoming eager to enter the cage. Still Buddha waited—in the hope that if he stops himself, it is supremely auspicious. For when you stop yourself, a revolution happens in your life. If someone else stops you, no revolution happens.

When you refrain by yourself, your awareness grows. When you save yourself from a mistake by yourself, you rise; you climb a little higher. When someone else takes your hand and lifts you up with support—you reach a height, but that height is borrowed. And the Master does not want his disciples’ heights to be on loan.

Buddha has said: the awakened ones only point the way; you will have to walk. Therefore only when it becomes absolutely necessary—when he is utterly helpless—does a Master intervene. Even then, his intervention is not like a command.

Buddha did not say: Do not do this. He gave no order. No commandment: You will sin; you will go to hell—so don’t do it. He did not frighten him. He merely gave a small caution to awaken his awareness—wake up a little. And even after waking, if you still feel like doing it—do it. Who am I to stop you? Your life is yours. Your future is yours. Your destiny is yours. But because I love you—here is my caution, my counsel. Take it if you will; if not—my consent.

The monk slowly, in the end, agreed to put down his robe and become a householder.

Mark the word ‘in the end’. He struggled long. He tried hard to restrain himself. He did not agree quickly. Not all at once. The woman called—and he did not immediately follow. He wrestled; he tried in every way to hold himself together.

Hence Buddha remained yet more silent. He saw he was trying. Trying to hold himself. The effort to be saved was ongoing. If only—if only he could save himself, Buddha would never have spoken. If he had stopped by himself, these utterances would not have arisen. These gathas would not have been born.

At last he could not restrain himself. Temptation and lust grew dense. Security and comfort began to appear more valuable than freedom. Rather than journeying within, external conveniences began to seem more precious. When Buddha saw the scales tipping—the pan that had been heavy was lightening; the lighter was gaining weight; his mind was wavering, flowing towards the world…

When it became absolutely clear to Buddha that if a moment more is lost it may become too late, he called the youth near. He said: Guard your Smriti.

Remember these words. He did not condemn. No scolding. He did not brand him a criminal. You are about to sin—the great sin; you will be burned in hell—he did not throw such fears. He did not arouse dread of punishment. What did he say? Sweet words: Guard your Smriti.

Smriti is Buddha’s special word. Smriti is precisely what later saints called Surati. Surati is just a changed form of Smriti. Kabir says: Surati. Nanak says: Surati. Guard your Surati. What is Surati? What is Smriti?

Do not take it in your conventional sense. That is not Buddha’s meaning. For you, smriti means memory—recollection of the past. We say: so-and-so has a good memory—he remembers hundreds of names; reads a book once and never forgets. Memorizes a phone number once and remembers it for life—even after thirty, forty years he can tell it. One with a sharp memory is called smritivan.

Buddha’s meaning is different. For him Smriti is not memory; it is mindfulness. Smriti means: awakenedness—presence of remembrance—not the past but the present. What am I doing right now? What is happening through me this very moment? To act with awareness is Smriti in Buddha’s language.

Is that which I am about to do worth doing—or not? Have I done such acts before—what were their consequences? Where did they take me? What did I find? I have done this before and repented. Again I will repent. I had vowed not to repeat it, yet again I move to repeat—this whole state of awakened seeing is Smriti. To shake oneself awake, to startle oneself out of stupor, to observe the situation wholly—and then act only on the basis of that observation.

Ordinarily we do not observe. We rush in blind! Anyone can seduce us! Anyone can attract us. There is no center within us. We are like dry leaves blown where the wind takes them. Or like a piece of wood afloat on the ocean—no direction, no destination! Wherever the waves carry it.

You meet a woman on the road; she says: I love you. You were on your way to the temple—and you forget the temple! This stranger—you never met before! You do not know her. And in a second greed seizes you, lust grabs you—you are lost in a darkness. Your Smriti goes dim.

Buddha said: Guard your Smriti! Awaken your awareness. Madman…

He did not say ‘sinner’; he said ‘madman’. Understand the difference. Ordinarily your preachers say ‘sinner’. In sinner there is condemnation, insult. Does anyone ever transform through condemnation and insult?

Buddha said: madman. A meaningful word. Madman means: you have done the same before—many times—and again you do it!

What is the meaning of ‘sinner’? How can one call a stupefied man a sinner! Buddha does not abuse. He is a physician. He heals. He finds a way.

What use is it to call a sick man a sinner! He has to be brought out of his sickness. He needs a helping hand. Perhaps by calling him a sinner you will only increase the distance between you and him. Your hand will go further away. And perhaps your wound to his ego will provoke him to do exactly what you wanted him not to do.

One should weigh each word.

Buddha speaks each word mindfully. He said: Madman! Just like this you have fallen before. This is nothing new. If it were new, it could be forgiven. But you have fallen before—and repented again and again. Will you do the same again?

Even if you must err—err anew. Then something is gained. Repeating the same mistake is sheer inertia.

Remember: Buddha never says, do not err. He always says: without error, how will you learn! Error will happen. But do not repeat the same error. If you repeat, there is no way to learn. Err once and learn all there is to learn from it. Squeeze out the juice. And on the basis of that essence, build your life. To repeat means you did not learn.

We commit the same mistakes thousands of times! Yesterday you were angry, the day before you were angry, before that you were angry. All your life you have been angry—and after each anger you decide: no more. Enough. There is a limit. Now a firm resolve—no more anger.

And someone jostles you again. Someone touches a wound. In a second you flare up. You forget all repentance; forget all pledges; forget all vows. In a moment the blaze leaps up—the same again.

If you go on repeating like this, you will keep circling. How will life transform! How will revolution happen?

So Buddha said: Madman! Just so you fell before and repented again and again. The same again? Learn from your errors. Guard your Smriti.

Do you hear these loving words! There is no condemnation. A hand is extended in support. A call to awaken. Nowhere an insult. No fear of hell. No temptation of heaven.

There was a Muslim fakir, Rabia. Once people saw her running on the road. In one hand a burning torch; in the other a bucket full of water.

People asked: Rabia! Have you gone mad? Where are you going in the marketplace with this torch and this bucket of water?

She said: I am going to set on fire that religion which promises heaven. I want to burn heaven—and drown hell—because a religion that tempts with heaven and frightens with hell is no religion at all.

It is politics. Petty politics. But that is exactly what your so-called religions do.

Buddha did not do this. He simply said: Take care. In mindfulness there is happiness—certain. In falling there is sorrow—certain. But not as a consequence only. Mindfulness is itself happiness; falling is itself sorrow. Fall—and you are hurt. Falling is sorrow by nature.

Not that if you fall now, sometime in the future you will suffer. Or if you are mindful now, in some future you will go to heaven. That is the very limit of madness. But that is the kind of talk that has been preached.

Put your hand in fire now—and you will burn in your next life. What nonsense! Put it in now, and the burning happens this very moment. Touch a flower now, and the fragrance comes now. Life is like this.

Life is cash, not credit. All your hells and heavens are on credit—imagined, not real. In truth, the reality is: whatever you do now—in the doing itself the fruit is hidden.

Look with compassion at someone—and bliss showers. Look with anger—and sorrow rains. Not as consequences only: sorrow is hidden in anger itself; joy is hidden in love itself.

Love and heaven are two names for one thing. Anger and hell are two names for one thing.

Buddha said: Be mindful. And he spoke these gathas—
‘One who is churned by doubt…’

This youth was tossed by doubt: should I do this or that? Remain a monk—or become a householder? What to do? What not? He was swinging like a pendulum. One who keeps swinging like a pendulum—this or that—whose mind remains undecided, his life can never become steady. And in steadiness lies the secret.

Krishna said: sthitaprajna—one whose inner wisdom has become still—he alone attains the great bliss.

Buddha said: ‘One who is churned by doubt, filled with intense passion…’

Raga is a lovely word—it means color. We say raga-rang—melody and color. Raga means: to be colored. When your eyes are colored, you cannot see life as it is.

When you fall in love—man or woman—you cannot see what is. You see what you imagine should be. The eye is dyed. And when it is dyed, you see something altogether different. Where there are dry trees, you see greenery. Where there is nothing but bone, flesh, marrow—you begin to see great beauty! Where filth of all kinds is piled, you imagine fragrance. Facts are no longer visible. Your dreams override the facts.

So Buddha said: ‘One filled with intense raga sees only the auspicious—only the good—everywhere.’

And when you are full of passion, everything appears fine. The wrong does not appear at all. And in this world the wrong is too much. The right is negligible—perhaps not at all. The wrong is everywhere. But when you are full of passion, everything looks right. Only that in which you are infatuated appears right.

And here, truly, nothing is right. How can it be, when death stands around you every moment? How can anything be right here? Here everything is transient—like a water bubble. How can anything be right? All comes and goes; nothing stays. Happiness is not possible here; only sorrow is possible. Nothing is right here.

This utterance may astonish you. Buddha says: ‘One who sees only the auspicious—his craving grows.’

Therefore, in Buddha’s tradition there is an instruction for the monk to contemplate the asubha—the unbeautiful. Buddha says: first see what is unwholesome. See thoroughly what is unwholesome. He sent his monks to the cremation grounds—sit there and watch the burning corpses: this is you.

Buddha himself was moved to renunciation by seeing the asubha. Riding in the chariot he saw a sick man coughing—the diseased body. He thought: will this become my state? He asked the charioteer: What has happened to this man?

The charioteer said: He is ill—wasted by disease. Buddha asked: Could I too one day be like this? The charioteer said: It is possible for all—this body is a house of diseases.

Then Buddha saw an old man—bent, walking with a stick. Buddha asked: What has happened to him? The charioteer said: He has become old—this is the state after youth and before death. Buddha asked: Will I too become like this? The charioteer said: How can I lie? This is the end for all. All become old.

Then Buddha saw a corpse—a man’s body being carried to the cremation ground. People were chanting, ‘Ram-naam satya hai!’ Buddha asked: Will this too happen to me?

Then he saw a renunciate and asked: Why has this man donned ochre? What has happened to him? The charioteer said: Just as you saw sickness, old age, and death, so has he seen—and he has awakened to the futility of this life. He is searching for the Eternal.

That very night Buddha fled the house!

Thus his emphasis on asubha-bhavana—the contemplation of the unbeautiful. He says: wherever the unwholesome is, look at it closely; look with full eyes; observe deeply. Life has so much unwholesome, so many thorns, so much pain, so much suffering—one who truly sees this, in the seeing itself is liberation. After such vision, no one needs to be told: ‘Ram-naam is Truth.’ One knows for oneself that Ram is True and all else here is maya.

‘One who sees only the auspicious, full of intense passion, churned by doubt—his thirst grows and he builds stronger bonds for himself.’

‘One who delights in the calming of doubt…’

One who works to still the pendulum within—this is sannyas. Sannyas means quietude—not to be tossed by many dilemmas. Not to be too worried—what to do, what not to do. As I am, I am right. This very moment to be content in every way. Then doubts do not arise. Then cravings and passions do not raise tempests; there are no inner tremors. Slowly your flame burns steady.

‘One who, ever alert, contemplates the asubha—he will cut the bonds of Mara and bring craving to an end.’

Buddha has used the word Mara for the devil. It is a lovely word. If reversed, it becomes Ram.

To attain Ram, to attain Truth—this world is Mara; the reverse of Ram. The reverse of Truth. In it one must awaken.

One who awakens in this world begins to slide towards Ram. One who walks asleep falls ever more into the claws of Mara—into the hands of the devil.

Second scene:
Bhagwan was staying in Jetavana. One day many visiting monks arrived. Bhagwan housed these guests in Rahula’s quarters.

At night, finding no other place to sleep, Rahula went and lay down on the veranda of Bhagwan’s dwelling—the Gandhakuti. Though Rahula was a shramanera then, he was nearing arhatship. Seeing him asleep in the veranda, Mara took the form of an elephant, came near, circled Rahula’s head with his trunk, and trumpeted a piercing cry.

From within the Gandhakuti the Master recognized Mara and said: Mara! Even if there were hundreds of thousands like you, they could not frighten my son. My son is fearless, desireless, of great strength and great intelligence. Saying this, he spoke these two gathas:

Niṭṭhaṅgato asantāsī vīta-taṇho anaṅgaṇo.
Accchindi bhava-sallāni antimo ayaṃ samussayo..

Vīta-taṇho anādāno nirutti-pada kovido.
Akkharānaṃ sannipātaṃ jānā pubbāparāni ca.
So ve antimasārīro mahāpañño’ti vuccati..

‘He who has attained arhatship, who is fearless, who is without thirst and without stain, who has cut the darts of becoming—this is his final body.’
‘He who is desireless, unpossessive, skillful in etymology and expression, who knows the gathering of letters—their before and after—he is called one with the last body, a great sage.’

Rahula was the son of Gautama the Buddha. Let us understand a little of Rahula—and then this scene will be easier.

The night Buddha left home—the Great Renunciation—Rahula was a newborn. Just one day old. Buddha went to Yashodhara’s chamber to see the newborn before leaving. Yashodhara was asleep, pressing Rahula to her breast. He wanted to see the infant’s face—perhaps he would never see him again. But he feared that if he went closer to look, Yashodhara might awaken! If she awoke, she would weep, cry, scream! She would not let him go. So he silently turned back from the doorway.

Buddha himself gave the child the name Rahula—like Rahu-Ketu. He was leaving home, and at that very time the boy was born. He had been thinking—when to leave, when to leave—and then the boy arrived. The powerful pull of the child—crowds of doubts arose in his mind.

A son has come to my house, and I run away—is it right to leave? Responsibility… This child’s birth is my doing as much as Yashodhara’s—and I am fleeing, leaving this helpless woman with the burden alone! Is this right or not?

Such doubts rose—thus he named him Rahula: I was about to be free—and you came, like Rahu, to snare my throat!

Twelve years later, having attained Buddhahood, Buddha returned home. Rahula was twelve. Yashodhara was very angry—naturally. She was a proud woman, so she said nothing directly. She spoke bitterly with indirect barbs.

When Buddha arrived, she said to her son: Son, this is your father! When you were one day old, he fled leaving you. He is a runaway. He is your father! You have often asked: who is my father? This gentleman who has appeared—he is your father. Ask him for your inheritance. He is your father. Who knows if you will meet again. Ask him with outstretched hands—what legacy for my life in this world?

She meant it as sarcasm. But sarcasm proved costly.

Buddha said joyfully: Ananda, where is my begging bowl? For I have nothing else to give. A bowl—I will give it to my son. But a bowl can be given only to a monk!

Giving the bowl, Buddha said: Son, you have become a monk. You are a renunciate. I have no worldly wealth. I have the wealth of sannyas—you are its heir now.

The sarcasm proved expensive. Rahula was Buddha’s son—he offered no protest. He touched Buddha’s feet and followed him. Yashodhara panicked. The husband had gone—now the son too. Seeing no other way, she said to Buddha: Then make me a nun also. For whom will I remain now? Thus, because of Rahula, Yashodhara too became a nun.

Rahula was a wondrous child. To expect this of a twelve-year-old! But being Buddha’s son, he had to be unusual. He lived as a monk. Because he was young, Buddha gave him only the first ordination—shramanera. Yet even as a shramanera the child drew near to arhatship—near to Buddhahood.

Mara attacks only when one draws near to Buddhahood. Before that he does not bother. If you have not met the devil yet, it is not because there is no devil. It is only because you are not yet worthy of his attention. There is a qualification needed for that.

Mara has no taste for you yet. You are already lying in the ditch. Whatever he would make you do, you do by yourself. Wherever he would take you, you walk by your own will. What else should he do! There is no work with you.

Mara appears in your life only when the last remnants of evil are about to drop from your life.

The devil is not outside; he is the mind’s last effort to keep you in bondage. The meaning of Mara is simply this: your mind will not easily give up its mastery over you.

But as long as you are its slave anyway, there is no need to assert mastery. When you begin to be the master, and the mind senses: now I am going; my sovereignty is slipping; this man is becoming mindful; soon my rule will end; his rule is near—then the mind gathers all its forces…

And the mind has great force—it has been master for lives upon lives. It knows all your weaknesses, all your fears, all your desires. It knows you intimately—where you are weak. It knows how to press the tender spot. Who knows you better! It has known you for lifetimes.

Perhaps that is why Mara attacked. There were guests; Rahula’s room was given to them. At night Rahula could not find a place to sleep. Seeing no other way, he went to the Gandhakuti where Buddha was staying…

Wherever Buddha stayed, that hut was called the Gandhakuti—the Fragrant Hut. For in Buddha there is the fragrance of the beyond. Wherever he stayed, it was called Gandhakuti. There was the fragrance of the Divine—even without any perfume. There music played without instruments. There was a light in the dark. There Buddhahood breathed. That place was a temple.

With no other place, Rahula lay down in the veranda of Buddha’s Gandhakuti.

Rahula was becoming still within, though outwardly a shramanera, a child. The final hour was drawing near. That night the last hour perhaps came very close—because of the Master’s presence. For the first time Rahula slept in the veranda of Buddha. The presence of Buddhahood would have been a great support to the awakening Buddhahood within.

This is the secret of satsang—the company of the holy. Near a saint, your saintliness finds a chance to leap. Near the unholy, your inner devil gains sway. Man lives by imitation.

Notice: four people sit gloomy—sit among them, you become gloomy. Four people are laughing—you came sad, but seeing them laugh you smile, you laugh. You forget.

That night, in the presence of Buddhahood—Buddha asleep inside, Rahula lying outside—Mara attacked.

Mara knew: he is a small boy—twelve or thirteen. You cannot attack through sex yet. That assault works after fourteen.

Two attacks are possible: sex or fear. A small child can be shaken by fear. A young man may not be shaken by fear—but by sex he is.

He is a child. Dancing naked apsaras will not work. That is for the rishis. This is a child—he will not even understand. He may sit and enjoy the spectacle: What is this! A show! He may go to sleep saying: Fine—dance, dance as you like. No effect. Effect comes only when lust is aroused.

In the old it may arise—sometimes more than in the young. The young have energy as well as desire. The old has as much desire—but his energy is gone. A young man’s strength can subdue desire. The old lacks strength—even to suppress. The old is helpless. Desire remains as alive as ever; vigor is gone.

Once, a renunciate came to see me in Kashi—around forty or forty-two. He said: I have come to ask one thing—the attack of lust on me is fierce! I said: Don’t be alarmed. Lust and sannyasins have an old relationship! It has always been so. Have you read the stories of rishis? He said: I read them. In fact, I see it in myself now. But I do not go out of control. Whatever happens, I stay in control. I have come to ask—how long will this continue?

I said: It will be always. At forty-five you will be in trouble. Your strength to suppress will wane while desire remains. The enemy remains as strong—you grow weak. If you rely on suppression, old age will trap you. Do not rely on suppression. Power has two uses: either suppress—or transform power into awareness, into Smriti. Let power become repression—or awakening. Let it become awakening—that is right. Repression will do nothing.

He said: What are you saying! I always thought—youth, a few years—after fifty what can remain! I lived in this hope: now youth is why lust presses. Once youth is gone, the pressure will go.

I said: Meet me at forty-five.

He was honest. He came around forty-seven. He said: You were right. I am overwhelmed. My capacity to fight waned—desire is as strong. The enemy is strong; I am weakening. You were right. I erred. If the energy I spent fighting lust had been invested in awakening, perhaps there was a chance. This life is gone.

I said: Life is never gone. Even at dusk, to return home is not a loss. Try still. Do not fight desire with the little strength you have—turn it into meditation.

But Rahula could not be shaken by lust. Hence this is a unique story. Because twelve- or thirteen-year-old rishis hardly exist, the story is unique. The stories you have read are of old rishis; there apsaras come and dance in their finery—that is another kind of scene. Here Rahula is a small child.

What did Mara do? Since he is nearing arhatship, he came as a great elephant. For a child, a huge elephant! Not only that—he trapped Rahula’s neck in his trunk and let out a terrifying cry.

Do not take the story as literal fact. It happened within. It could have been a dream—a nightmare. It is the mind that takes such forms. But the cry—perhaps it escaped Rahula’s own mouth.

Sometimes cries escape your mouth in nightmares. A demon sits on your chest—you cry out. You fall from a mountain—you cry out. Someone stabs your chest—you cry out.

Such a cry might have burst from the little Rahula. From inside the Gandhakuti, recognizing Mara, Buddha said: Mara! Even a hundred thousand like you cannot frighten my son.

Keep one more thing in mind. Buddha does not call only Rahula ‘my son.’ He calls all monks his sons. Rahula is a son indeed—but all bhikkhus are sons of Buddha—Buddha’s lineage.

The Guru is father—in a new sense. From the father you are born in body; from the Guru you are born in soul. What you received from the father will be taken by death; what you receive from the Guru cannot be taken. From the father you get the world; from the Guru, sannyas. The world is transient; sannyas is eternal.

Buddha said: Mara! Even a hundred thousand like you cannot frighten my son. My son is fearless, desireless, of great strength and great intelligence. And he spoke the gathas:
‘He who has attained arhatship…’

Arhat means: one whose enemies are finished—ari-hata. Ari—enemy; hata—destroyed.

Among the Jains the word is in another form—arihant—one who has killed his enemies. There is a slight difference. Arhat—whose enemies have died. Arihant—who has slain his enemies. The Jain tradition is of resolve and struggle—hence Mahavira is called Mahavira. His name was Vardhaman, but the tradition is struggle; its very name ‘Jain’ comes from jina—conqueror. For conquest, there is struggle.

In Buddha’s path there is no emphasis on struggle, or tapas, or firm resolve. In Buddha’s sadhana, the emphasis is on awakening. And when awakening dawns, the enemies fall by themselves—you need not slay them.

The Jain tradition emphasizes austerity; the Buddhist, Smriti.

Hence an unparalleled thing happened. No one in the world developed meditation as the Buddhists did. Meditation is Buddha’s essence.

Arhat means: whose enemies have fallen. The lamp is lit—and darkness disappears. So with the arhat. Arihant means: he fought enemies, slew them, conquered. Mahavira’s path is of resolve; Buddha’s is of surrender.

But there are kinds of surrender. Buddha’s surrender is not like Narada’s or Mira’s—surrender to a God. His surrender means: not to struggle—be at peace; to find rest within. There are no feet to clasp. There is no God whose feet to hold. One dives into oneself. One does not fight—one abides in awareness.

‘He who has attained the state of arhat is forever fearless,’ said Buddha. ‘Who is desireless and stainless, who has cut the barbs of becoming—this is his last body.’

He said to Mara: Listen, madman! This is Rahula’s last body. You will not frighten him now. His final hour has come. After this he will not take birth again. You cannot frighten him with death. Death can frighten only so long as there is attraction to life. Remember—so long as you want life to continue, to continue forever—so long as the urge-to-live remains—death can frighten you.

Buddha says: His urge-to-live is gone; he does not want to be born again; the desire to continue is finished. This is his last body. When this body falls, he will not enter any womb again. He is ready to enter the Great Void. You cannot frighten him now—not with sex, not with fear. Your effort is futile, Mara!

Third scene:
Bhagwan was traveling from Uruvela toward Kashi, to give his first teaching in Rishipattana—Deer Park of Sarnath—to the five monks. On the way an Ajivaka met him. Seeing the Tathagata, he said: Avuso! Your senses are pure and spotless. For what purpose have you gone forth? Who is your Master, who your teacher? Whose Dharma do you follow? The Master said: I have no Acharya or Upadhyaya. I have no religion. There is no purpose in my life. Then he spoke this gatha:

Sabbābhibhū sabbavidū’hamasmi sabbesu dhammesu anupalitto.
Sabbañjaho taṇhakkhaye vimutto sayaṃ abhiññāya kamuddise yyaṃ..

‘I am the overcomer of all. I know all. I am unstained by all dhammas—by all phenomena such as craving. I have abandoned all. By the ending of thirst I am free. Having known the immaculate knowing by myself—whom shall I point to as teacher, whom shall I teach as disciple?’

This is a most extraordinary utterance. First understand the scene rightly.

Before ultimate awakening, Buddha practiced great austerities for six years. He went to many masters. He served greatly. Whatever was told, he did. Whichever practice was prescribed, he practiced. And after each practice he found: the world did not end; the root disease was not cured—the ego remained.

To every teacher he said: the ego has not disappeared. I did everything you said! And he had done so with such totality that no teacher could say: you did not do fully—therefore the ego remains. His dedication was unparalleled—total. Hence no teacher could make that excuse.

Otherwise teachers have this convenience: What can I do! You did not do as told; therefore nothing happened. This cannot be said to Buddha. It is because of this that false teachers flourish in the world—by setting impossible conditions.

Someone tells you: meditate—but while chanting the mantra do not think of a monkey. Sit—and the monkey will come. The more you try, the more it will come. You return: Master, nothing is happening! He says: What can I do. You did not keep the condition. You must not think of the monkey.

Such unnatural conditions are made that you can never reach a point where you can see whether the path is right or wrong—since you never complete it. Thus false teachers thrive. There is always a safety: I told you—but you did not do it. And they tell you to do such inhuman things, perhaps impossible, or needing an immense will.

Buddha had that will. He staked everything. He was no lukewarm man that if Truth happens, fine; if life is lost, fine—no; he was ready to lose all for Truth. He was a gambler—a kshatriya—he knew how to stake. He was not a shopkeeper. Not someone who believes that by ringing a bell and muttering Ram-Ram you will get it.

So whatever was said—however foolish—he did. Someone said: each day eat less; when only one grain of rice remains as food, then knowledge will happen. He decreased day by day. In six months only a grain remained. Knowledge did not happen—but the body was ruined.

He tried to cross the Niranjana river—he could not. A small river—not big. He fell in exhaustion. He clung to a root. He had no strength even to cling! Then he remembered: What am I doing! Ruining the body like this, only strength is lost. I cannot cross a stream—yet I intend to cross the ocean of becoming!

Buddha went to many teachers—did what they said—yet nothing worked. The teachers begged his pardon. Reading this, I remember always a tale of Kahlil Gibran.

A man roamed from village to village saying: Whoever wants to meet God—come with me. I know the way. I will take you—He resides in the mountains.

But who wants to meet God! People said: When the time comes we will come. They fed him, honored him, said: Maharaj, now you go.

In one village a troublesome man appeared. He said: Master, I will come—let’s go!

The guru thought: I will mislead him in the hills—he will tire. But this one—he was a great disciple—he did not tire. Every morning he asked: Master, how much longer! Where next! He wore the guru down.

Six years they wandered. The guru was exhausted. If he knew the way, he could take him; where would he take him, he did not know. They circled the mountains—now, now!

One day the guru said: Enough! He will ruin my life along with his. He folded hands and said: Sir, I knew the way—but since your company, I have forgotten everything. Now even I cannot find God. Please spare me. In your company, you will not reach; in my company, I am lost. Forgive me. Seek another master.

So was Buddha. He did whatever was said. Every teacher told him: now go to someone else. For seeing him, other disciples might run away—thinking, if such effort brought him nothing, how will we get anything—we cannot work that hard!

At last Buddha left all teachers. He left all paths and methods. When he dropped everything—then it happened. A unique event.

One night he decided: I will not seek anymore. He even dropped the desire for Truth. The desire for Truth is also desire. That night he slept under a tree—no worry, nowhere to go, nothing to attain—not wealth, not meditation; not status, not God—nothing to attain.

The mind vanished—because the mind lives by craving to attain. Its very life-breath is to get something. Ambition is the soul of mind.

In that moment there was no ambition. At dawn, as his eyes opened, the last star of night was setting—and as it set, his inner star rose. It happened. But it happened by itself.

These five monks were his disciples when he ate a single grain of rice. They considered him a great master—such an ascetic! Only bones left; skin withered; the lovely body turned dark; a skeleton remained. They honored him—although he had attained nothing—his austerity impressed them.

People are strange! What impresses them is worth pondering. The man is dying; he is engaged in suicide—and they are impressed! There is much wickedness in the world.

Beware: if you fast and someone praises you, know what he wants—he wants you to starve. Stand on your head, and he will say: Bravo! Great ascetic! Beware—he will ruin your life. He wants you to remain on your head.

Wicked people gather around ascetics and penitents. They say: Maharaj, amazing! You lie on thorns! They crowd. You sit by a blazing fire in burning heat—amazing!

In psychology there is a word for such people: masochists? No—those who enjoy others’ pain—sadists. They are paradukha-vadis—they take pleasure in others’ suffering. Like a man who makes wounds on his body and keeps picking them with a knife—and they say: Bravo! Great sadhana! We will take out a procession for you.

In Paryushan, you fast ten days—they take out a procession. You stayed hungry a month—you are a great ascetic!

You give yourself pain—and others honor you. There is some secret here. When they honor you, you are ready to hurt yourself more—for your ego is gratified. And surely they too are gratified.

People read detective stories—why? They watch films of murder and robbery—why? Ask yourself.

Two people quarrel on the road—and a crowd gathers. You were going to buy medicine for your mother—but you too park your bicycle and stand—let mother think… What’s a delay of an hour or two! But this spectacle cannot be missed.

Two men are about to fight—you anticipate: now something will happen! If nothing happens, you return disappointed.

If they suddenly say: what is the use of fighting! Become Gandhian: what’s the point—you hit me, I hit you—no sense. The whole crowd will return sad—nothing happened! An hour wasted. Only abuses were hurled!

People take a certain relish in others’ pain—and are pained by others’ happiness.

If you build a big house, the whole village becomes your enemy. If you appear happy, no one is delighted. If you are healthy, people do not like it. If you eat and drink and live joyously—if there is music and dance in your house—the village brands you corrupt, a hedonist—bound for hell.

But if you starve and sit in the sun and wound yourself—the whole village showers sympathy! If your house burns, they come to sympathize: very bad! But if you add a new floor—no one comes to say: very good!

Think. When the good happens, no one comes. When the bad happens, people come: so bad. Look in their eyes then—you will see they are enjoying it. In their sympathy there is a certain relish. You are down; they have the chance to pity you. They never had this chance before. Today you are knocked out—any passerby can pity you. But inside, look—they are enjoying.

The human mind is complex.

These five remained with Buddha—but when he abandoned fasting and austerities, they left him. They said: Gautama is corrupt. He has fallen. As long as he tormented himself he was a great ascetic. The day he dropped these foolishnesses—self-torture, self-murder—the five left him! They said: He is no longer of use. We will find another master. They left. That very night Buddha awakened. The evening they left—Buddha awakened that night.

In the morning his first remembrance was of those five: poor fellows! So many days with me—and at the last moment they left. Now that I have something to give—no takers. When I had nothing—when I was full of stupidity and darkness—they followed me. Such an upside-down world.

So Buddha went in search of them—wherever they had gone—to give the first message to them. Though they had abandoned him—though they thought him corrupt—still they had been with him long. It was his duty to give the first message to them. So Buddha gave the first discourse to those five.

Following them he came to Sarnath. Wherever he heard they had gone to another village—he went. In Sarnath he saw them sitting under a tree.

They saw Buddha approaching. They said: Here comes the corrupt Gautama! We shall not bow to him. He is not worthy. He has fallen. They turned their backs.

When Buddha came near and stood before them, he said: Look at me once. The one you left—I am not he. Today one has come who is different. Look at me once.

They raised their eyes—first one fell at his feet, then another, then all five. Forgive us! We thought the corrupt Gautama was coming. But we can see—everything is transformed. The light has arisen. You are illumined. How did it happen? Show us the way.

Buddha said: That is why I have come.

This incident happened on the way to Sarnath.

Bhagwan was going from Uruvela to Kashi to teach the five. On the way an Ajivaka met him.

Ajivaka was a sect of that time—now extinct. The Buddhist and Jain sects have much in common with the Ajivakas—echoes, reflections.

An Ajivaka monk saw Buddha—was astonished. Never had he seen such a man—so radiant; such pure senses; such clear eyes; such a pristine aura; such a climate of peace around.

He said: Avuso! Your senses are purified and spotless. For what purpose did you renounce? Tell me your purpose. I too am seeking. Who is your teacher? Who is your Master? I too am seeking. I have not yet found the right master, the right path. Whose Dharma do you follow? Which scripture do you trust? What methods do you practice?

The Master said: I have no Acharya, no Upadhyaya. I follow no religion. I trust no scripture. What I have found—I found within.

This is Buddha’s ultimate message. For what is to be found lies within you. None can give it to you from outside. Truth cannot be transferred by hand. It is within you. If the Master does anything, it is only to call forth what is within you. You can call it forth yourself too.

A Master is not indispensable on Buddha’s path. If you cannot call yourself forth—he is needed. If you find yourself unable—he is needed. Otherwise, you can call yourself. For the mine is within you. You can dig yourself. The Master will not give you treasure—he will say: This is how I dug within; dig so within yourself.

But what is, is within you. It is hidden in your nature. It is your birthright.

So Buddha said: I have no master. I did not find through masters. Not that I did not live with them. I did—but I found nothing there. And when it happened, I was with no master.

And what I have found is such that I can tell you: there is no need to go to anyone else. Go within—and you will find. It is not in scriptures, it is in yourself. Not in words and doctrines—it abides in your consciousness. You are the temple; the Divine sits within you.

‘I am the overcomer of all.’

He says: all my enemies are gone.

‘I know all.’

What was to be known is revealed.

‘I am unstained by all dharmas—by phenomena like craving. I am a renouncer of all.’

Sarva-tyagi means: I have even renounced renunciation. I am free of all dharmas. I have dropped worldly thirst—and even the thirst for liberation. I have no purpose. I am utterly purposeless—like the flower that blooms without purpose; like the morning sun that rises without purpose. I am purposeless. I have no goal. All goals are gone, all purpose gone. All future is gone. I have no desires—not even for moksha.

‘I am freed by the ending of thirst.’

This is a strange utterance. He does not say: I am free of thirst—he says: I am free of thirst—and free of the ending of thirst. Not only desire is gone—non-desire is gone too.

Otherwise, the reverse happens: you drop the world and clutch renunciation; you drop wealth and clutch poverty; but the clutching remains.

Buddha says: the ultimate renunciation is when renunciation itself is renounced. The ultimate sannyas is when not only the world is dropped—but sannyas too is freedom. Otherwise it becomes another grip—then nothing is gained. The fist must open utterly.

‘I am free of thirst, free of the ending of thirst. Having known the immaculate knowing by myself, whom shall I call my guru?’

Not only this—he says: ‘Whom shall I teach as my disciple?’

I did not receive from another. I found within. Those who come to me will also find within. What use of the word ‘disciple’!

So Buddha said: I am a friend. Not your guru; nor you my disciples. I am a friend. And he said: when I return again in the future, my name will be Maitreya. Then I will appear as the Perfect Friend.

Final scene:
Once the gods debated: Among gifts, which is supreme? Among rasas, which rasa is supreme? Among pleasures, which rati is supreme? And why is the ending of thirst called supreme?

None could answer. After asking everyone, they asked Indra. He too could not answer. Then Indra and all the gods went to Jetavana and put these questions to Bhagwan.

Bhagwan said: In the experience of Dharma lie the answers to all questions. And they are not many—they are one. Mere thinking will not solve them. Awaken. In awakening is the solution. In the experience of Dharma is the solution. For all ailments there is one medicine—Dharma. Then he spoke this sutra:

Sabbadānaṃ dhammadānaṃ jināti sabbaṃ rasaṃ dhammaraso jināti.
Sabbaṃ rati dhammaratī jināti taṇhakkhayo sabbadukkhaṃ jināti..

‘The gift of Dharma surpasses all gifts. The taste of Dharma surpasses all tastes. Delight in Dharma surpasses all delights. And the destruction of thirst conquers all suffering—and through it Dharma is attained—therefore it is supreme.’

First take in this scene.

Once the gods raised questions… The gods have nothing else to do. Idle talk! What else will gods do? There is no work in heaven. Under the wish-fulfilling trees, all desires are fulfilled!

The gods live in nothing but pleasure. The outer occupations are over. When the outer work ends, the mind’s occupations begin. Great puzzles arise. Great debates.

Remember—philosophy arises when the belly is well filled. Bhookhe bhajan na hoye Gopala—on an empty stomach even devotion is not possible.

Life has steps. When the body’s needs are fulfilled, the mind’s needs arise. If the body’s needs remain unfulfilled, the mind’s needs never arise.

One who is starving—tell him to listen to Beethoven—he will break your head. He will say: I am starving—and Beethoven! You insult me!

With an empty stomach—how will music enter!

Tell a starving man to read Kalidasa’s poetry—he will say: give me bread! You read Kalidasa; give me bread!

There are steps. When the body is satisfied, the mind’s needs—poetry, music, art. When the mind is satisfied, the soul’s needs arise.

One who has not tasted music or poetry cannot enter Dharma. One who has not wrestled with philosophy cannot enter Dharma.

Dharma is the final need—the last. It is the soul’s need. Hence when a country becomes affluent, it becomes religious. When it grows poor, irreligious.

Therefore a country like India cannot be truly religious yet. It can become communist—not religious.

People wonder: why are Westerners coming East seeking Dharma? And Easterners are going West—for engineering, medicine, technology, science.

The thinking people of the East run West for degrees. The Westerners drop degrees as trash…

Among my sannyasins there are at least twenty Ph.D.s. You would not recognize a single one. There are at least fifty M.A.s—you would not recognize them. Everyone has thrown this junk away. These things became worth two pennies.

Here if someone becomes a Ph.D., the newspapers report it; a procession is taken out. I have heard—in Allahabad when the first man passed Matric, they took him on an elephant!

If someone goes West to study, it is news—as if a great event has happened! The West is coming East—because it is affluent; it has known bodily pleasures, mental pleasures; now the pang of the soul has begun.

There is every possibility that in the future the West will become the East, and the East the West. The sun may rise in the West and set in the East.

The gods have nothing else to do—hence so many stories in Buddhist, Jain, and Hindu scriptures: the gods argue over trifles. Yet they cannot provide answers—for it is intellectual play; there is no spiritual experience. In heaven, spiritual experience does not occur—it cannot.

The happy man begins to contemplate the soul—but he gets stuck in contemplation. He must go beyond—to experience, to sadhana.

They asked: Which gift is supreme? Which taste is supreme? Which delight is supreme? And why is the ending of thirst supreme? No one could answer.

Do not think they did not give answers. They surely gave thousands. But none was an answer—none that, upon hearing, the mind settles; that, upon hearing, truth is felt; that, upon hearing, the web of thought breaks—and you feel: yes, this is so.

No self-evident truth could be found. They asked Indra. He is king of the gods—perhaps he knows. He too could not answer.

Not that he did not give answers! Surely he did. Anyone gives answers. Ask a donkey—he too will answer. Ask anyone—he will answer. Whether he knows or not—he will answer. For who misses a chance to sound wise!

Rare is the man who says: I do not know. If you meet such a one—hold his feet. There is some truth in him.

Otherwise, everyone answers whatever you ask—without experience. Those who never did anything in life—advise everyone! They do not walk by their own advice—even if the chance comes—yet they advise! The blind leading the blind—hence all are in pits—leaders and followers alike.

Indra too must have answered. As king, he would not admit ignorance. He sat proudly on his throne and lectured. But no one was satisfied. In helplessness they came to Buddha.

Answers are with the Buddhas. In Buddhahood is the answer. In the awakened is the answer. One who is lit within—he has answers. What did Bhagwan say?

He said: In the experience of Dharma lie the answers. Your questions are not many—they are one. You ask: which gift is supreme? Which taste is supreme? Which delight is supreme? And why is the ending of thirst supreme? These are not separate questions. They are one. And there is one answer.

But mere thinking never solves. Knowing solves. Vision solves. Experience solves.

For all ailments there is one medicine—Buddha said: Awaken—be as I am. As I awakened, awaken so. Once awake, the answers are known. And what are the answers?

‘The gift of Dharma surpasses all gifts.’

What will money give? You got nothing from money—what will another get by your giving it? To give money means you found it to be trash—and now you pass it on to another!

The gift of Dharma—what is it? First, attain Dharma—only then can you give it. How can you give what you do not have? If you have wealth, you can give wealth. If you have Dharma, you can give Dharma. Dharma is the inner wealth—the soul’s wealth.

First attain Dharma—then share it. Pour it into those who thirst. Awaken—and awaken others.

‘The taste of Dharma surpasses all tastes.’

There is a little rasa in music. Why? Because in music a little absorption happens. There is a little rasa in sex—because there too, for a moment, absorption happens. But in Dharma, absorption is forever. Once drowned—one does not return. You become of one taste with the Divine.

In sex, with the beloved, for a moment you become one—then separate; and the pain of separation is more terrible. Music sweetens the ears briefly—then it is gone; then the world’s noise. Drink wine—you are absorbed a while—then the intoxication fades.

Dharma is such a wine that once drunk, never fades. And it brings ecstasy without destroying awareness. It increases awareness. Dharma is a wonder—the drunkenness and the ultimate alertness arise together. On one side, intoxication; on the other, supreme awareness.

‘Delight in Dharma surpasses all delights.’

The greatest love is love for Dharma. The greatest rati is Dharma-rati.

Play with a woman a while—there is a little joy. With a man—there is a little joy. But play with the Divine—forever. Buddha calls it Dharma-rati. Make love with existence—be one with existence. Then none can separate you. Why? Because with existence you are in truth already one. We took ourselves to be separate—that is our illusion. From that illusion comes sorrow. When illusion falls, there is only bliss.

‘And the ending of thirst is supreme because by the ending of thirst Dharma is attained.’

Thus Buddha said: Your questions are not many—they are one. My answer too is one—in a single word: Dharma. Eso Dhammo Sanantano—the Eternal Dharma.

Enough for today.