Es Dhammo Sanantano #108

Whoever has known, has always known by himself. Even if there is a master, he is only an instrument. And if there is no master, it will still do.

The real question—remember—is not whether a master is there or not. The real question is entry into oneself. Some courageous people enter within even alone. Some need support. Even those who need support actually enter alone. The support is only a device.

Support, in truth, does not help you meet the real; it only helps to increase your courage.

It is like you are afraid to go into deep water. Someone says: Don’t panic, I’m standing on the shore. You go. If there’s a need, I am here. I will jump in. I will save you. You go.

The need never really arises. Because that depth is your own depth. By drowning in it one does not perish; for the first time one truly is. Hence there is no danger in drowning. Not to drown—that is the trouble. If you drown, there is no danger. Drowned, you arrive. But one who has not known depth is afraid.

This is all the master does: he addresses your false fear... If he tells you your fear is false; don’t panic; no one has ever drowned; or, those who did “drown,” arrived by drowning—you might bolt. You will say, What firm guarantee is there that no one ever drowned! And even if no one did, I feel I will drown. I am helpless; I am weak; how can I go alone into this vast ocean?—Impossible.

And if the master tells you the naked truth—that if you drown, you will arrive; drowning is a benediction; death is the door to the great life—then you will leave him altogether. Even staying here seems dangerous! No one comes to a master to be annihilated; they come to be. But the process of being is dissolving.

So the master does not say these things. He keeps them veiled. You will know them only when you know. He reassures you: Don’t fear, I am here. Don’t you see me swimming in such depths? If you start to go under, I will save you.

This is using one untruth to support another untruth, only to give you heart, to give you courage. It is a device. In this way you enter. And once you have entered, you yourself will know that there was no need to be saved. Saving would have been costly. Once entered, one has to drown. By drowning, one becomes depth. In that very depth there is samadhi, there is nirvana.

So the master never actually has to go save you. He sends you on this pretext—that he’ll save you, don’t fear; go on.

Once you have gone in, the taste will be your own. And once you taste drowning, the secret is understood. When you attain, you will say: Ah! It happened by itself! Then you will understand well that the master had nothing to do.

Yet you will feel grateful, even though the master did nothing. He did at least this much: you were afraid of a non-issue; he gave you support. At that time the support was very necessary.

Now, this is a bit of a subtle matter. The master does not actually give support, because there is no need of support. And yet he gives it. Because you are false. You stand in darkness. You see nothing. You feel you need support; so he gives it. Even though the need never really arises.

The art of the master lies in leaving you unsupported. If a master truly gives you support, you will be deprived. That very support will become an obstruction.

So Buddha is right when he says: Having known by myself, whom shall I call master? No one has made me know. No one has given me truth. Truth has been discovered within; it has sprung up within. Whom shall I call master?

And when no one can be called master, whom shall I make a disciple? That follows. If I cannot call anyone master, then whom shall I make a disciple? Whom shall I teach?

I know there is no need to teach. Each person is born carrying truth. Truth is your nature. Nothing needs to be done; only your nature needs to be recognized. And the capacity to recognize is also within you. The whole arrangement is there.

You know how to play the veena. Your fingers are skillful. The veena is there. Yet music is not arising. You are not placing your fingers on the strings. You are not pouring your skill onto the veena. Pour your skill onto the veena; the veena will shower music on you. Everything is present.

You know how to cook. There is flour, salt, ghee, lentils, water, the fire is lit—and you sit hungry! And you also know how to cook! Nothing is lacking. Everything is there. Only a little coordination is needed. A little arrangement is needed. There will be no need to remain hungry.

Therefore Buddha says: Whom shall I teach? What shall I teach? Truth cannot be taught at all. Whatever is taught will not be truth. Even to say “taught” is too much; truth cannot even be said.

Whatever is taught is not your nature. All teaching is alien. Whatever you learn is from outside. The unlearned is lying within; it is not to be learned. For that, all learned must be forgotten. Whatever you have learned has to be dropped from memory.

The real master is the one who does not teach you, but makes you unlearn. Who says: Forget. Forget this too; and this too; and this too. This is all junk. Keep forgetting the junk. It has come from outside; keep dropping it; keep renouncing it. When nothing remains for you to renounce; when everything that came from outside has been thrown back out—then what remains—pulsating, luminous—that is you; that is truth.

What has come from outside has layered you over. Like dust on a mirror. The master says: Wipe away the dust. The mirror is within. The mirror is not to be brought from anywhere.

Hence Buddha says: Whom shall I teach? Whom shall I make a master?

And your question is pertinent. You ask: “Yet he initiated and taught millions for forty years!”

That is also true. Your question is relevant—and it can perplex you. On the one hand he said that neither do I have a master, nor will I teach anyone. Then for forty years he taught millions! No one else has taught as many as Buddha taught. And what did he teach? Only this: that there is nothing to teach. Into what did he initiate? Into this very fact—that there is no master. Appa Deepo Bhava—be your own lamp.

This too must be said, because the wrong learning has settled inside. You have taken a stone to be a diamond. Buddha taught only this much—that the stone is not the diamond.

A diamond needs no lesson. The diamond lies within you. Get free of the stone and, by yourself, your eyes will fall upon the diamond. But you have taken the stone to be the diamond. So your fist is clenched around the stone! The diamond lies within. Your gaze does not go there, because the gaze goes where you believe the diamond to be. You have abandoned the diamond; your eyes are fixed on the stone!

So what did Buddha teach for forty years? Only this: that there is nothing to teach. A little un-learning must be done. Know only this: the stone is not the diamond. As soon as it is seen that the stone is not the diamond, your gaze will be freed from the stone. A gaze set free will then begin to seek the diamond.

And if you understand where the diamond is not—that is enough. You will become free of those places. Becoming free and free, one day the gaze will settle where the diamond is.

To know the nonessential as nonessential is the key to knowing the essential. To recognize the false as false is the journey toward truth.

So Buddha taught nothing—and yet he taught. I understand your difficulty. Understand Buddha’s “difficulty” too. But Buddha is right.

Truth cannot be taught. But it can be explained that the false is false. And this is what he explained ceaselessly for forty years. And with this very spirit he gave initiation. Buddha is a wondrous master.

There are three kinds of masters possible in the world. First, the master who says: Without the master it will not happen. You must make a master. You must choose a master. Without a master there is no knowing.

This is the common master. There is a great crowd of these. And this approach “works” too. To a simple mind this makes sense. Because how will you learn without being taught? When you learn language you go to school. You learn mathematics from a teacher. Geography, history—anything is learned from someone. So God must also be learned from someone. This is a very ordinary logic—shallow, trivial—but it makes sense to the common man: Without being taught, how will you learn? You will have to learn. Someone will teach; only then will you learn.

Therefore ninety-nine percent of people go to such a master who says: Without a master it cannot be. And naturally, the one who says “without a master it cannot be” is indirectly saying: Make me your master. Without a master it will not happen. And no other master is right. So I alone remain. Now make me your master!

There is another kind of master too. Like Krishnamurti. He says: There cannot be a master at all. The very act of making a master is the mistake. As one says, “without a master there is no knowing,” so Krishnamurti says, “with a master there is no knowing!” Avoid the master. If you save yourself from the master, knowing will happen. If you get entangled with a master, knowing will never happen.

For the majority—ninety-nine percent—the first view makes sense, because it is straightforward. For a small minority the second view makes sense, because it caters to the ego.

Those we call intellectuals, the intelligentsia, are impressed by the second view. The simple people, the common folk, are impressed by the first. The highly intelligent, who have read deeply, thought, refined their intellect, find the second view appealing—because they have difficulty making anyone their master. To have someone above them is painful.

Hearing a person like Krishnamurti, they say, Aha! This is the truth. So there is no need to make anyone a master! No need to bow to anyone! Their ego is nourished by this.

Now understand the difference.

The first man said, Without a master there is no knowing; and he also explained that all other masters are false; the true master is me. Likewise, those he calls false masters also say all others are false; I am right.

Thus the statement “without a master there is no knowing” has been exploited by masters to create slavery; to make people slaves. The whole world became enslaved. Someone is a Hindu; someone a Muslim; someone a Christian; someone a Jain.

These are all names of slavery. Different names! Different colors and styles! Different prisons! But all names of slavery.

So the first view was exploited by masters. Even there, only half of it was true. And the second view is being exploited by disciples; it too holds half a truth. Krishnamurti’s statement is also half true.

The first is half true—that without a master there is no knowing. Because without a master you may not gather courage. The journey is solitary. Attainment is solitary. That which is to be attained is already attained. No one else is there to give it to you. Still, there is much fear; and because of fear the step into the unknown does not happen.

The first view is true—half true—that with the master a certain support is needed. Masters exploited that half-truth—for the benefit of masters.

The second view is also half true—Krishnamurti’s. Don’t even talk of “without a master”; talk of “with a master there is no knowing.” Why? Because truth is already attained; there is no need for anyone to give it. And whoever claims to give it is a deceiver. Truth is yours; it belongs to your own self; it is in your own being; hence seeking it outside is wrong. There is no need to take refuge in anyone. Remain without refuge.

The statement is absolutely true; but half. It has been used by egotistical people—egotistical disciples.

The first was used by egotistical masters—“without a master there is no knowing; therefore make me your master.” The second has been used by egotistical disciples—“There is no need to make anyone a master. We ourselves are the master. We ourselves are the guru. There is no need to bow anywhere.”

Buddha is a unique master. Buddha says both things. He says: With a master, knowing will not happen. And he gives initiation! And he makes disciples! And he says: Whom shall I make a disciple? How shall I make a disciple? I myself attained without being a disciple! You too will attain without being a disciple. Yet he makes disciples.

Buddha is very paradoxical. That is his glory. He holds the whole truth. And whenever the whole truth is present, it will be paradoxical; it will contain contradictions. When the truth is whole, it will not be tidy and merely consistent. It will include incongruities. Because in the whole truth both ends meet at once.

A whole person has both his left hand and his right hand. One who has only the left is not whole. He lacks the right hand. In one sense he will seem consistent, his talk will have logic.

Buddha’s talk will be beyond logic, trans-logical, because he has brought the two opposite poles together. Buddha has seen truth in its totality. So in his truth there is night and there is day. And there is woman and there is man. And there is life and there is death. He saw truth in such wholeness, and in that same wholeness he spoke.

Therefore he says both things. He says: Whom shall I make a disciple?—and every day he makes disciples!

To understand Buddha you must rise above both types of masters. Rise above those who say that without a master knowing is impossible. And also rise above those who say that with a master knowing is impossible. Only then will you understand Buddha. Buddha’s statement is so complete; therefore it appears so opposite, inconsistent.

You think he first said: Having known by myself, whom shall I call master? Whom shall I teach? And then, at the very end as he died, he said: Atma Deepo Bhava—be a light unto yourself!

There is no contradiction between these two. He accepted disciples. But having accepted them he said only this: Atma Deepo Bhava. That is his discipleship. Whoever accepts Buddha is accepting precisely this: that there is no master, no need to take refuge in anyone. Truth will not come from outside—not even from Buddha.

Buddha has a famous saying: If you meet me on the way, kill me at once. No one else has said anything so amazing. If somewhere on the path I appear before you, if I stand in the middle of the way to your samadhi, then remove me; kill me. Do not stop because of me. Do not let attachment to me arise in you. Do not cling to me. Become free of me as well. If ever I begin to stand in the way; if in your samadhi I begin to become an obstacle; if in your mind love and attachment toward me begin to arise, then leave me too. For attachment and infatuation—everything—has to be left. Do not even spare me; cut me into two.

Such a courageous statement is possible only for one who has seen the complete truth and has said it exactly as it is.

So let me give you Buddha’s statement in brief. Buddha says: There is no master and there is no disciple. And I am your master and you are my disciple! I have nothing to teach; and come, let me teach you. There is no need for a master; and come, take my support.

You will get into a tangle. Your intellect will be thrown into disarray: Now what to do! What to make of this man?

But this is the complete truth. It is the all-round truth. Because both statements are contained in it. In this, the master-disciple too is present; and yet no “masteriness” arises; and no inertia of the disciple arises. The unique bond of master-disciple appears; and yet that bond does not become attachment; it does not become a prison. That intimate relationship is created, but in that intimacy no knot forms; no jail is built.

In accepting Buddha you are being liberated. In accepting Buddha as a master you are not getting caught in the net of mastery. You are going beyond all nets.

Such a master alone the ancient scriptures have called sadguru. There are many gurus; a sadguru appears only once in a while. Remember: a sadguru is one who first frees you from the world and then frees you from himself as well. Because in freedom there should be no obstacle at the end.

Understand it this way: a mother teaches her child to walk by holding his hand. What is there to “teach” in walking? The capacity to walk is within him. What will your teaching do? If your teaching could make it happen, then teach a lame person to walk! If someone’s legs are broken, make him walk! Then you would know it is beyond your power. If walking could be taught, then teach stones to walk. And you will find—it will not happen.

The child walks because he can walk; the capacity is in him. But perhaps he cannot gather the courage to stand up. He is afraid. Naturally. I might fall. He has never walked before; fear will be there. The mother holds his hand. She walks along—See, I am walking. You are like me. You have two legs, I have two legs. Come, hold my hand and walk. With that support the child takes a few steps. And he gains confidence.

You have seen: as soon as the child begins to walk a little, he pulls his hand away from the mother. He says: Let go of my hand. Sometimes the mother gets a little scared that he might fall; he is still little. But he says: Let go of my hand. Now he wants to enjoy walking on his own. And the wise mother gradually lets go. The unwise mother keeps holding on by force.

So what is the mother’s art? First hold the hand, then let go. First place the child on his own feet, then step away; do not even let your shadow fall on him. Lest the child cling to the hem of your garment and remain weak for life!

Many times it happens this way. Mothers give too much support. Then the child cannot walk on his own feet.

Just now a young man came to me and said he cannot sleep alone in a room. I asked: What’s the case! He said his mother always had him sleep in her room. Now he is twenty-seven. He cannot sleep alone! He needs someone. He needs a substitute for the mother. If there is no one in the room, he does not sleep. He says: I just can’t fall asleep.

Now this is a bit too much. Yes, a small child cannot sleep alone—understandable. Let the mother sleep there. But as soon as the child’s capacity begins to awaken, the mother should withdraw. This boy has become pathological. What was support has become poison.

And the same thing happens in the subtle realm—between master and disciple. If the master grips your hand hard, as masters tend to do... Whoever grips your hand tightly, understand that he is a false master. The one clutching you tight is giving you less support; he is taking more support from you. Keep this in mind.

The one who grips tightly may say, Out of goodness I am supporting you—but he himself is afraid of being alone. And if you leave him, he will be very angry. He will be filled with rage. He will curse you. He will say this is rebellion; betrayal; treachery!

Such a master is himself weak. Holding your hand, he was gathering courage. He is of no use. What courage can he give you? He has none himself.

The definition of a sadguru is: one who holds your hand very gently—so gently that if you need to slip your hand away, you can do so without even noticing. There is not even pressure on your hand. You do not develop the habit of being held. Before a habit forms, the hand has already slid free.

A sadguru is one who ultimately throws you back upon yourself, so you can stand on your own feet—in your own freedom, in your own glory; so you can know the truth within you.

Gurus like Muktananda do one thing: they seize you hard. Gurus like Krishnamurti do the opposite: they do not take hold at all. They stand away at a distance. Whether the child is still small, still crawling—no matter—they say: No, holding the hand is dangerous. I will not hold your hand. Stand up on your own. Walk on your own. They stand far away. From a distance they say: Walk, stand on your own feet!

This also does not work, because a small child cannot yet stand on his own. Very likely he will keep crawling all his life; he will go on walking on his knees. So it seems that among Krishnamurti’s disciples not one has become realized. They are all still crawling on their knees. This is one error.

The other error: people like Muktananda grip hard. Then they never let go. They say: Where are you going? Now I will not let go. Once I have taken hold, I will not release you! So you grow up, and their hand becomes a chain on you. And they plant in you a sense of guilt that if you leave me, it will be a great sin; treachery; betrayal.

A Sindhi woman came and told me—she must have been going to some Sindhi guru—that since she began coming to me, her guru is very angry. He must be called Dada Guru. She said: Dada says you have committed the same betrayal a wife commits against her husband.

This is the limit! If a disciple goes to someone else, it is the same adultery as a wife finding another husband. As a wife should be faithful to her husband, so a disciple should be faithful to his guru. They are angry. Dada is very angry.

I said: Good that you slipped out of their snare. This Dada is dangerous. He would have choked you. He would have killed you.

In this sense Buddha’s words are unparalleled. Buddha gives you support only as far as it seems you cannot walk without support. As soon as he sees that you can walk without it, he removes his hand.

Therefore Buddha both gave initiation and kept saying that initiation is unnecessary. He made disciples and also kept saying that there is no need to be a disciple. This is a majestic stance. Understand it. Understand it, and you will also understand the meaning of being with me.

This is my process too. I want to be no more than a device for you, no more than a pointer. If I become more than a pointer, it turns dangerous. Like a milestone that points with an arrow—go ahead, Delhi is fifty miles away. You are not to sit hugging the milestone.

I too want this: understand my indication and move on; and do not keep looking back. Do not say, The milestone that pointed the way—how can we now separate our loyalty from it! Now we will sit hugging it. Or, if we have to go, we will uproot this stone and carry it on our shoulders.

In both cases you will become crippled. If you carry that stone on your shoulder, the journey will become difficult. And think of others too who will be walking behind you—on the same path. You uprooted the stone and carried it away! And if you sit by the stone, when will your journey be complete?

Understand the master just like a finger pointing to the moon. Look at the moon; forget the finger. The finger must be forgotten. This does not mean you have betrayed or deceived. The truth is: the finger you forget completely and the moon alone remains visible—that finger will be held in your gratitude forever. Because it showed you the moon. And not only did it show you the moon, it also removed itself—silently. Lest the finger become an obstacle.

The eye is very small. Even a finger can become an obstruction in seeing the moon. If I put my finger right in your eye, will you see the moon? You will see stars in broad daylight!

Even if a mountain like the Himalayas stands before you, and someone puts a finger in your eye, you will not see it. A tiny grit in the eye hides the Himalayas. The eye must be pure. So pure that not even the shadow of a master falls upon it.

Such an amazing process Buddha has given. In understanding Buddha you can also understand me. I too say: there is no need for a master. And yet I say: there is need for a master. I too say: there is no reason to become a disciple. And yet I say: without becoming a disciple it will not happen. And I too say: there is nothing to teach! There is to forget. Yet I teach you.

There is a very ancient saying in the Egyptian scriptures: before the disciple chooses the master, the master has already chosen the disciple. I want to remind you of this.

You have said: “Whether or not you count me as yours, I have made you mine.”
Before you made me yours, I had already made you mine. Otherwise, you could not have made me yours.

The disciple is wandering in darkness. He does not even know himself—how will he make another his own? He does not know light; even if light stands before him, he will not recognize it. We recognize only what we have, in some way, already known.

A car passes on the road; you recognize it as a car. But bring a tribal from the jungle who has never seen one. The car will pass; he will see it—his eyes may be better than yours: cleaner, clearer, not dulled by dust and smoke or by spectacles from schooling. He will see it distinctly, yet he will not recognize it. He will be startled and ask strange questions: “What kind of animal is this? I see no mouth, no tail, no horns—what is it?” And if, after it passes, you ask him to describe it, he will not be able to. Though he saw it, recognition did not happen; and without recognition, how can description be?

The disciple has lived in darkness; even if light comes, he may not recognize it. If light stands before his eyes, they will smart; he may close them. Accustomed to the dark, seeing the light, he shuts his eyes and retreats into his familiar night.

No—the fact that you could make me yours was only possible because I had already, even before your understanding, accepted you as mine. If you could come close to me, it is because I called you. Otherwise you would not have come near.

People also come here whom I have not called. They come and they go. For them this is an inn. Curiosity brings them—“Let’s see what this is.” They cannot even listen to me fully. Every day I see a few like this. They get up and leave mid-talk. Nothing lands in their hands, nothing enters their understanding. However much compassion one has for them, nothing can be done; their ears are deaf and their eyes quite blind. They came by chance—saw others going and joined in; or a friend said, “Come along someday,” and they said, “All right, it’s a holiday—let’s go.” Perhaps a book came to hand; they read a little and thought, “Let’s go once and see what it’s about.”

Such people do not stay. They come and go. Only those remain who have been called. Only those stay who have been chosen. You come to know late that you have chosen me; I know first that you have been chosen.

So do not say, “Whether or not you count me as yours, I have made you mine.”

“Many who rushed ahead lost their way; many who moved like lightning vanished.”
This is true. Life is not resolved by speed alone. Sometimes one arrives by going slowly. It is not that only the fast reach.

There is an old Buddhist tale. Two monks crossed a river—one old, burdened by scriptures, and one young. They reached the bank and asked the ferryman who had brought them across, “It’s near dusk; the sun is setting and we want to reach the town before the gates close—this is an old-time story; after sunset the city gates will be shut, and we’ll have to spend the night in the forest with wild animals about. Do you know a subtle, shorter path so we can reach quickly?”

That boatman said something strange—he must have been an extraordinary man; the tale says he was an arhat. He said, “If you go fast, you will get lost. If you go slowly, you will arrive.”

Hearing this, both monks said, “He seems mad! This is against all arithmetic.” Who would heed such a man? “Don’t waste time with him,” they said. “He’s not in his senses.”

They ran, for the sun was sinking and the town’s walls were visible in the slanting light. Hills and gullies lay between. Panic: will we reach or not? Why waste time talking—especially to a man whose words have no sense?

They ran. As they ran, the boatman laughed and called after them, “Remember what I said: go slow and you’ll arrive; go fast and you’ll get lost.” They ran even faster, as if even hearing him was risky. And it happened just as he had said.

The old monk, hurrying—head loaded with tomes—fell on the uneven path. His legs were bloodied; the scriptures scattered and their pages flew in the wind. The youth began gathering the pages.

The boatman tied his boat, came up to them, and laughed. “You must have thought me crazy,” he said. “I told you: go slowly and you’ll arrive. The path is rough, unfamiliar—you’ve never walked it. I go by it every day. You’re an old man with such a burden of books. I knew you’d fall; that’s why I told you to go slow. And you didn’t see I had to tie my boat; then I too must go to the village. I’m coming right behind you. If I arrive, you will arrive.”

In this small story there is a great secret. For petty things, perhaps you can run and manage; but toward the Vast—do not run. Running breeds impatience.

If you want wealth, you must run—wealth is a kind of madness; the madder you are, the easier it comes. If you want position, you must run—position too is a kind of madness; the wise feel no taste for it; the foolish are eager for it; those whose intelligence has been blunted take delight in it.

But if you want the Divine, do not run. To attain the Divine a quiet state is needed. Running brings fever; peace is lost; the mind becomes agitated.

Look at how much restlessness there is in the West—though there should not be. They have everything: wealth, comforts, machines, a vast web of science—yet such unrest. The puzzlement is: why? The fundamental reason is faith in speed—velocity in everything. When you are always in a hurry, you are always fleeing; and in flight, life becomes perturbed, deranged.

Walk gently. Walk as if you have gone out in the morning to stroll in a garden, with nowhere to go. Only then will you see the trees, the flowers; hear the birdsong; taste the essence, the beauty of dawn.

But in the West, even to stroll people go by car—and fast! They never reach the garden; some accident happens instead. Do you know, on holidays more people die in accidents there than on any other day? Because on holidays everyone goes “out for a drive.” All are rushing. No one asks, “Where? Why?” When the whole town is rushing, you too take out your car and join. To be left behind feels painful—so wherever others go, you go too.

I heard a story: a young man was driving his beloved. “We’ll reach the next village soon,” he said—but that time passed long ago. They were going a hundred miles an hour. The girl asked, “That village never seems to come!” He said, “Why worry about reaching? Look at the speed! What does it matter whether we arrive or not—just look at the pace!”

This is how it has become: the goal forgotten; delight only in the pace.

And this Western shadow is falling upon the East; speed is creeping in here as well.

Let me tell you: some things grow only slowly. Seasonal flowers sprout quickly—and die quickly. In two or four weeks they come—and in two or four weeks they are gone, leaving no trace. Trees that touch the sky do not grow in a few weeks. They take time—hundreds of years. Those trees that will speak with the sky for centuries, converse with the moon and stars—do not shoot up overnight. Time is needed; and the slower the tree grows, the longer it abides.

So let me add one more thing—perhaps that arhat of a boatman did not say it lest he be taken for utterly mad. But even if you take me for mad, it is fine. If I had been that ferryman, I would have said: If you go fast, you will get lost. If you go slowly, you will arrive. And if you do not go at all—if you simply sit down here—you have already arrived. If you drop going, you have arrived. Because where is there to go? That which is to be reached is present within you. Sit—and you are there.

All right.

“Many who rushed ahead lost their way; many who moved like lightning vanished.
But those who halted at your threshold—the destination itself came and found them.”
True. If you stop, the Divine will come and find you.

“...the destination itself came and found them.”
Consent; become quiet; become meditative. The Divine comes seeking you—his arm reaches out for you. From far skies his hand comes to rest upon your head.

But you must sit! You are so busy leaping about—as Buddha said, like monkeys from branch to branch. When the Divine extends his hand to the tree you are on, you have already jumped to the next. His hand keeps searching for you; meeting never happens.

You are busy in hopscotch—from one thing to another. You never abide anywhere. Not abiding, you miss Ram. Wherever you abide, there you will meet Ram. To abide means: stop, stay utterly still—no tremor. All movement dissolves. In that stunned stillness, which Krishna calls sthita-dhi—one whose intelligence, whose consciousness has become completely still—one who, even while walking, does not walk; even while speaking, does not speak—In such stillness the Divine himself finds you.

“...the destination itself came and found them.
It is our gaze that is at fault, not any veil upon the splendor.
Some pined for a single ray; some bathed in moonlight.”

It is only the error of vision. Moonlight is pouring all the time. Open your eyes and see. Open to the moonlight. Everything depends on how you look. Supreme bliss is raining down in this life, but if your way of seeing is wrong, you will go on seeing suffering.

There are people who would find hell even in heaven; and those who would see heaven even in hell. The one who sees heaven in hell—that one is knowledgeable, wise. How will you send a happy person to hell? An old Tibetan saying goes: a happy person cannot be sent to hell.

You think a happy person is sent to heaven—your thinking is mistaken. Send him anywhere; the happy person is in heaven. He does not need to be sent; he is in heaven.

If you have become adept at the art of misery—and some have become masters—nothing is visible to them. However many flowers bloom, however many stars shine in the sky, they see nothing; they walk with their eyes nailed to the ground.

I have heard: Two prisoners were locked in a jail. It was the full-moon night. Both came and gripped the bars to look out. One said, “These wretches—what a place they’ve built this prison! How many ways they have to torment us! One cannot even stand at the bars without seeing that cesspool—filth and mosquitoes.” He stared at the puddle, and what did he see? A rotten shoe, an old tin can—and he grew furious.

The other looked at the moon. “Blessed fortune,” he said. “For a while I forgot the prison. The bars ceased to be bars. I flew into the open sky; my wings spread. What a wondrous moon!”

Both are in the same prison, gripping the same bars. One saw the puddle; one saw the moon. Each became what he saw. The one who saw the moon opened his wings and flew into the sky. The one who saw the puddle had satsang with rotten shoes and cans. It is all a matter of vision. Moonlight is pouring all the time.

“Some pined for a single ray; some bathed in moonlight.”
It is a matter of seeing. Do not mistakenly think moonlight is not falling upon you. The Divine is equally available to all. But you stand with your back turned. Moonlight is falling—and your eyes are closed. The light is raining—and you have drawn a veil. The shower is on—and you are shut inside the house.

If even a single ray reaches you, it comes by some slip, some accident—despite you. Despite yourself, even a single ray finds you.

But moonlight is pouring. This entire existence is soaked with the rain of the Divine. He is in every drop, in every breath. It is only a matter of turning around.

Both are true. All of it went to waste, and all of it proved useful. You will understand only if you wake up a little—shake your consciousness awake, only then will you understand.
It is not that nothing was of use. It is not that everything was of use. The answer is: nothing was of use and everything was of use. What am I trying to say with this paradox?

First: those six years of effort brought nothing. Attainment has no connection with effort. It is not outside at all. Whether you run for six years or sixty—what is found is found by stopping. Let this sink very deeply: it is found by stopping. When the running ceases, it is found.
You ran for six years; someone else ran for twelve; someone for sixty—it makes no difference. The one who ran for six years got it when he stopped. The one who ran for twelve years got it when he stopped. The one who ran for sixty years got it when he stopped. In that sense, all the running was wasted. Labor achieves nothing; it happens through stillness.
The destination is not far that walking would bring you to it. You carry the destination within; therefore, by walking you keep missing. Stop, and you will have it.

Hence I say: all was wasted. And yet I also want to say to you: all was useful. Because without running, no one can stop. Only the one who has run thoroughly can stop; otherwise the itch to run remains. The one who gets tired by running, who sees through running that nothing is gained—only that one stops. Stopping is not an easy thing.

You may say, “All right, we’ll just stop!” You may say, “Fine—Buddha stopped after six years; we will stop right now.” You will not attain by stopping. Because between your stopping and Buddha’s stopping there is a fundamental difference.
Buddha stopped knowing that through running one does not get it. You stop cleverly, without knowing, thinking, “He got it without running; we too will sit right beside him. We too will find a bodhi tree.” There are many banyan trees—sit under any. “We’ll sit beneath a bodhi tree and we’ll get it too!”
In the morning you will open your eyes and see the last star sinking: “When will our inner star rise?”
Nothing will rise. After sitting a short while you will feel it is time for breakfast. “Let’s go to Blue Diamond! Well, the day’s gone like this; no buddhahood. And I’m terribly hungry, and I didn’t sleep all night. And under the bodhi tree… samadhi and all that—where! Mosquitoes—nothing but mosquitoes!”
Remember: under bodhi trees there isn’t only samadhi; there are mosquitoes too.
You won’t even sleep at night. “What trouble have we gotten into! At least we could have brought a mosquito net. At home we used to sleep peacefully.” And throughout the night there will be fear—some wild animal might come, some thief or robber might appear! And through the night you will open your eyes again and again to check: “Still no buddhahood. Let’s see when it comes.”
Doubts will arise many times: “Hey! Are you crazy? Does it happen like this? If enlightenment were gained by sitting idle, everyone would have got it. Does buddhahood come by lazing about? Get up! Go home. Get back to your work. Don’t waste time like this.”
You’ll think, “We could at least have gone to a movie, or to some music program. If nothing else, we could have watched TV. The night just went like this!” You will regret it a lot.

So let me tell you the second thing: the result of those six years of running did come. Running did not bring the truth; but running gave the capacity to sit. That is why I want to say both things together.
Had Buddha not run for six years, the art of stopping would not have come. Only the one who has run knows how to stop. The failure of running becomes the worthiness to stop.

And then “six years” … don’t think that the number six has any special relation either. Don’t decide, “All right, we too will run for six years.” It depends on how intensely you run, how totally you run. If you have Buddha’s urgency, it happens in six years; otherwise not even in sixty.
If you run slowly, limping along, checking the clock to see when the six years will be over—“Come on, let’s trudge a little more”—dragging yourself somehow, then in six years the work will not be done; even six lifetimes may pass. It depends on how total your running is.
Buddha staked everything—that is his glory. He staked wealth, position, prestige—everything. Body and mind, everything was dedicated to that search. He held nothing back, no miserliness. The running was not half-and-half, not lukewarm. Only at a hundred degrees does water turn to steam.
After six years of running utterly, running from every side, trying every method, it became clear that it simply is not attained that way. “I have tried every method there is; it simply is not found.” In that unparalleled despair he sat down; in hopelessness he sat. Now nothing remained to be done.
But if you have done things lukewarmly, there will be much left to do. You will think, “All right, I did some things, but I didn’t do TM, Transcendental Meditation—maybe that would have done it. I didn’t do yoga—maybe that would have done it. I didn’t fast—maybe that would have done it. I surely did something, but there is still something I didn’t do. Perhaps the secret lies there; perhaps the door opens from that side!” Then your despair will not be total.
Despair must be total. In that despair you don’t merely sit—you collapse.
Buddha collapsed that night. Running and running, he exhausted all his strength. Nothing was left. He fell. That fall became the dissolution of the ego.
When there is no running, where can the ego remain? When doing achieves nothing, the doer dies. In that state of non-doership the revolution happened, the sunrise occurred.

You asked: “Before enlightenment Buddha performed severe austerities for six years. Did all of it go to waste, or did some part of it serve a purpose?”
The whole of it went to waste—and the whole of it served a purpose.

You’ve come to the wrong place. If you want hope, go somewhere else.
Hope means the world. Despair means: the world has proved futile. You have seen there is nothing here. Hope means: more dreams. Despair means: all dreams have broken and fallen apart. Hope means: again desires, again longings. Hope means: it hasn’t happened till today—perhaps tomorrow; maybe the day after. Hope means: the future has been resuscitated; plans start forming; dreams spread their wings again.
No; you’ve come to the wrong place. Here the wings of dreams are cut. Here you are taught disillusionment. Only when despair becomes complete can anything happen here.
You say, “I am sinking into despair.”
Then sink. Don’t try to save yourself now. That very effort is your enemy. Let yourself drown. You’ve protected yourself long enough! What did you gain by protecting yourself? Now drown.
You have kept hope for so long. You guarded it so carefully. What came into your hands? Now let hope die. Stop breathing life into it. Say the final words over it. Lash it to the bier and carry it to the cremation ground. Say: hope is dead. Say goodbye to it. Let it go.
Now abide in despair. And you will be surprised to discover that if hope dies utterly, despair dies with it. This will feel a little difficult to grasp, because you think that if hope dies, there will only be despair. Then you are thinking wrongly. You don’t know the arithmetic of life. You are living by man’s logic.
Man’s logic has no depth; it is shallow. Man’s logic says: if hope goes, there will be despair. But life’s arithmetic says something else: as long as there is hope, there will be despair.
What does despair mean? You made a hope; it didn’t come true—so you fell into despair. When you drop hope itself, how will you be disappointed? Who will disappoint you? When hope goes, its shadow goes with it. Despair is the shadow of hope.
A guest comes to your house; when the guest leaves, do you say his shadow remains? If the guest has gone, the shadow has gone. A shadow cannot stay.
You say, “I am drowning in despair.”
But you are still clutching hope; you are not drowning. They say, to a drowning man a straw is a support. You must have fashioned a few straws. You think: well, nothing happened in the world; in religion’s realm something will. Fine—money didn’t come; meditation will. Not this world? Then let’s secure the other world. This one is gone; we’ll manage there. Let me earn merit (punya). I didn’t get position; at least let me get virtue.
So you’ve found new fields for hope, that’s all. You made fresh straws. You tangled yourself in those straws. You launched paper boats. Now again you’re thinking: any moment we’ll arrive. The paper boats will sink again, and there will be despair again.
Whoever has dropped hope, his despair has gone too. See this truth. Contemplate it well. Where hope has gone, despair has gone. Whoever has left happiness, his sorrows have gone. Whoever has left success, his failure has gone. Whoever has left respect, his insult has gone. Whoever has left life, his death has gone.
Clutch life, and death arrives. The tighter you clutch, the stronger it comes. Run after success, and failure lands in your hands. What a joke! And you don’t see it, so you keep running—and failure keeps growing. You keep thinking: one day or another success will come. In the hope of that “one day,” a mountain of failure keeps piling up.
Success has never come to anyone here, nor can it. The ones you call successful are defeated in an even worse way.
Have you seen the defeat of the one who gets wealth? The one who doesn’t get wealth—his defeat is nothing compared to the one who does. Because the one who didn’t get wealth still retains hope: “I’ll earn it.” Even the beggar of beggars keeps hope. Even the beggar of beggars counts his coins daily, buries them in the ground. And the “educated” beggars deposit them in the bank!
I knew a beggar who died leaving seventeen thousand rupees in the bank.
Beggar or king—both are full of hope. But the one who gets everything he wanted—have you seen his failure? Inside him an utter poverty descends. He sees: the pile of money has grown into a mountain, yet I remain the same poor man—indeed, poorer. Against this mountain of wealth, the inner poverty now stings even more.
It’s no accident that Buddha was a king’s son and left. Have you ever seen a beggar’s son renounce? Have you ever heard a story of a beggar’s son giving up beggary and becoming a sannyasin? You haven’t. It doesn’t happen—because what can a beggar’s son leave? How could he leave? He hasn’t yet had success, so how can failure be revealed to him?
Buddha left; he was a king’s son. Mahavira left; he was a king’s son. The Jains’ twenty-four Tirthankaras were sons of kings! What’s going on? Why did the sons of kings renounce? They must have seen a poverty that beggars cannot see. They saw failure enthroned within success. They saw suffering standing in the midst of happiness—a peak, a mountain, towering to the sky.
You say, “I am drowning in despair.”
You don’t want to drown. You want me to launch a few paper boats for you. I will not commit that sin. You’ve come to the wrong place. Go to some old-style sadhus and sannyasins who will bless you: “Don’t worry. Take this talisman. The lottery is certain to hit. Place one more bet.”
Even if a lottery is heading your way, I will bless you that it never comes—because you’ll get tangled in useless nets and fall into greater misery.
Despair is arriving—accept it. Leave your heart open. Don’t close the doors. Welcome it; hang festoons of welcome. Say, come, be seated!
You lived long with hope and gained nothing. Now befriend despair as well. Who knows, what didn’t happen through hope may happen through despair! And I tell you: it does. What hope cannot do, despair does. Where hope is defeated, there despair wins.
And what is despair’s victory? If you accept despair with a complete heart—meaning, you will not hope anymore—then in that instant despair dies. Despair’s life-breath lives in hope.
You’ve read the children’s stories: the king keeps his life in a parrot. No matter how much you strike the king, he won’t die—until you kill the parrot. Who would imagine that the king’s life is in a parrot? Who knows where it’s kept—in a parrot, in a myna, in what, where? But until you kill the parrot, the king won’t die.
So it is with despair: it lives on hope. Despair has placed its life in hope. When hope’s neck is cut off, you will suddenly find: hope dies here, and there lies the corpse of despair.
Welcome it. With your welcome, hope will die. Welcome wholeheartedly. Despair is coming—let it come. You are fortunate! Let it come fully. Drown in despair. In that very drowning you will find you have crossed. Suddenly you will emerge and see: hope gone, despair gone—you are free.
You ask, “Give me hope, give me support.”
It is supports that have killed you. Because of supports you have become crippled. You walk with crutches!
Here the work is precisely to snatch away your crutches. When crutches are taken for the first time, a person does fall—this I know. For a whole life you have walked on crutches. Some carry the crutch of the Gita, some the Quran, some the Bible, some another. Everyone has taken up their crutches. All are hanging onto their crutches! They have forgotten they have legs of their own!
As if children, the moment they are born, were handed crutches—that’s what has happened. Everyone has been given crutches. A child is born, and he’s made a Hindu, a Muslim, a Christian. The child arrives, and we rush to thrust a crutch into his hands. We don’t let him walk on his own legs. We don’t let him discover religion for himself. We hand him a borrowed, false religion.
Every religion given by another is false. Truth is that which is discovered by oneself. Truth is that which emerges from your own interiority. Only what ripens within yourself is truth.
That’s why you see false Hindus, false Muslims, false Sikhs, false Christians, false Jains. They are all false. It is not their fault. Their only fault is that they accepted crutches. Crutches were handed to them.
Try an experiment with a child: as soon as he is born, quickly give him small crutches. First let him play with them so he gets familiar. Then as he starts to crawl a little, prop him up on crutches. Slowly teach him that one should walk only on these. “This is our family custom; we have always walked on crutches. Our ancestors walked this way; their ancestors walked this way; you must also walk this way. Never stray from this. These crutches are our honor. To manage oneself well on crutches is what we call walking. The one who gracefully balances himself on crutches is skilled, accomplished.” Teach such things.
The poor child sees you all walking on crutches. It will never occur to him that anyone can walk without them. Mother walks; father walks; the brothers walk—on crutches. He too will walk. His legs will grow crippled. He will never even remember that he was born with legs.
And if one day someone suddenly snatches away the crutches, do you think he will instantly walk? No; he will fall. But from that very falling the rising begins. If the crutches are snatched away, today or tomorrow he will crawl—as he would have in childhood, he will crawl now at forty or fifty. But that crawling is auspicious.
Better to crawl than to walk on crutches. Because in crawling at least there is your own authenticity. The knees will scrape. He will be angry with me that I snatched his crutches: “Everything was going fine!” He will get up again. He will fall many times; the knees will bruise. But one day his legs will be resurrected. Energy will flow in them again as it should have from the beginning. It could not, because parents, society, conditioning—all killed it.
My work here is to take away your crutches. That is why those who are very attached to crutches don’t come here. Those deeply attached to crutches consider me an enemy. Those who have come to mistake crutches for their legs say I am very dangerous—I make people lame. Because for them crutches are legs; if I snatch the crutches, people become lame.
Those who have mistaken glasses for eyes say I make people blind, because I take away their spectacles. Those who have taken scriptures for truth think I mislead people, because I take away their scriptures. Only those who have courage will be able to understand me.
Don’t ask for hope. Don’t ask for support. I want to make you stand on your own support. And for that it is necessary that you become utterly without supports—only then will you stand. Otherwise you will not.
And one day or another, despair is bound to come, because it is the result of hope. If it has come—good.

Evening descended from the sky,
the forest turned dark.
With an unfamiliar ache
every corner
filled.
From cupped hands
the fair, blooming,
lovely form
dripped away.
Messages came from memories,
the body recalled morning.
Evening slipped into the room.
Standing, silent,
as if thinking,
the corridors—
on the fragrant mirror
all the sun-colors
were washed away,
they themselves began to turn indigo-blue;
the mind turned dark.
Evening slipped into the room.

One day or another the evening will come. The sooner it comes, the better. For all these mornings you see—the mornings of hope—are false mornings. The mornings in which you are deluded and wander are mirages.
Evening has come to your life; despair has come. Evening has entered the inner chamber of your being. Don’t fear. Let those false mornings be extinguished—this is auspicious. After they go out, you will suddenly find the evening goes out too.
You will feel hindered, because till now you walked supported by hopes. Hopes gave you enthusiasm, excitement. Hopes gave you dreams, gave you songs. Because of hopes your life seemed meaningful. Now suddenly you will find: it’s all become futile. Suddenly you will find: all meaning has been lost—empty, empty.
As when someone mistook a stone for a diamond; his fist felt full. Today he sees it is a stone; the fist is empty. All life long the fist felt full, and today it is empty! You will feel a great emptiness, a great void.

I cannot sing anything today.
My songs,
which once touched
the edge of the sky,
which made
each particle of silence speak,
which swayed
in the wind,
which were once awakenings,
awakened dawn in the world—
today those very songs
have become a dwelling for bygone dreams.
When has the world
of anyone’s dreams ever come true?
Today, leaning on dreams,
I cannot spread across the world.
I cannot sing anything today.

Dense darkness
has spread
far and wide,
the path is desolate.
Amid storms, a lamp—
who knows
what shelter it has!
Along the moist-breathed path
life is walking,
and in the stars, who knows
whose story is speaking?
Today, in the stormy new-moon night,
when no one is with me,
I keep searching—who knows now,
on whose life-breath I might lean?
I cannot sing anything today.

My songs,
which once touched
the edge of the sky,
which made
each particle of silence speak,
which swayed
in the wind,
which were once awakenings,
awakened dawn in the world—
today those very songs
have become a dwelling for bygone dreams.
When has the world
of anyone’s dreams ever come true?
Today, leaning on dreams,
I cannot spread across the world.
I cannot sing anything today.

Such a state of mind feels painful: when all your songs dry up; when no new leaves sprout in you, no new flowers bloom. You will feel like a dried-up stump. You will seek support. You will search for some hope, some consolation—someone to rekindle your broken hopes, to polish up the abandoned dreams, to set your songs in motion again, to bring words back to your throat, to make you sway again.
No; I will not do that. You have wandered long enough in that delusion. For how many lifetimes have you walked on the supports of hope? Now take the support of despair. For how long have you sought consolations? Now don’t seek consolation. If there is meaninglessness, let it be meaninglessness. If there is dryness and roughness, let it be dryness and roughness. Now accept life as it is. Do not reject it any longer.
By rejecting, rejecting, you have made life false. Now let life’s suchness be accepted as it is. From that very acceptance the new will be born.
And that new will not be a new hope; it will be truth. It will not be your dream; it will be truth. Hope and despair will both go, and within you that will remain which truly is.
And in that is bliss; in that is freedom.

Buddha’s statement will surprise you, because in fact there is no relation at all.
What connection does a connoisseur of words, a master of verbal arrangement, have with truth? And what has one who knows nirukta and pada—who is well-versed in the scriptures, who understands the innermost architecture of words, who knows the secrets of grammar and language—to do with inner wisdom?
Buddha is saying something very strange! It is quite right that the wise one will be free of craving, free of fear, free of possessiveness—that we can understand. But that he is a knower of nirukta and pada—what does that mean?
If you ask Buddhist scholars, they have been giving the wrong meaning for centuries; they’ll tell you the same. They read it as knowledge of the scriptures, of grammar, of language.

It happened once: Swami Rama returned from America. He had received great honor there—deservedly so. He was a very lovely being, with a great aura. Naturally, when he came back he thought, “If strangers could honor me so much, how much more will my own people understand!”
But that’s exactly where he erred. He forgot that Jesus said a prophet is not honored in his own village.
He went and stayed in Kashi. He thought, “Having awakened so many abroad, first of all I should go to Kashi—the city of pundits!” His first discourse was there.
He did not know Sanskrit. He knew Arabic and Persian, but not Sanskrit. And the original inspiration of his life had come from Sufism, not from the Upanishads—though truth is one; what does it matter where it comes from! The Sufis had plucked the strings of his heart; with that song, the Upanishads became clear to him, the Vedas became clear to him. But the first wave in him was Sufi.
What was to happen in Kashi, happened. He began to speak, and in the middle a great pundit of Kashi stood up and said he had a question.
Swami Rama was a bit startled—he was still in the middle; this was not the time for a question. But he was simple and courteous. He said, “All right, what is your question?” The pundit asked, “Do you know Sanskrit? Do you know grammar? Are you versed in nirukta and pada?”
Swami Rama said, “I am not a knower of Sanskrit.” The pundit laughed, and with him all the other pundits laughed too.
It was the scholarly assembly of Kashi that had come—not so much to listen as to examine. His repute in America must have pricked their jealousy and hurt: “Who is this great knower we have never even heard of? He hasn’t studied in Kashi—how did he become a great knower?”
So the whole crowd of pundits and Brahmins laughed. And the pundit said, “If you don’t even know Sanskrit, how can you know Brahman? First learn Sanskrit, sir! Then talk of Brahman-knowledge!”
This has always been the pundits’ notion—as if Sanskrit were necessary for Brahman-realization; as if those who don’t know Sanskrit could never be enlightened.
Then Jesus was not enlightened? Buddha wasn’t either? Nor Mahavira! Nor Nanak! Nor Kabir! Nor Lao Tzu! None of them were scholars of Sanskrit.
It is sheer foolishness. It is as foolish as saying, “Without Arabic one cannot know God.” Then only Mohammed could know—and Krishna would have missed, Rama would have missed.
Or, “Without Hebrew, how can one know God?” Then everyone but Jesus missed.
It is foolishness—but the ego loves such claims.
Those who revere Sanskrit say: Sanskrit is the language of the gods; all other tongues are human. God’s language—Sanskrit!
God’s language is silence. No other language is God’s. All languages are human—be it Sanskrit, Arabic, Pali, Prakrit—every language is human. Language is a need of man; God has no need of language. God is silence.
Whoever attains to silence attains to Him. Whether you came to silence through Persian or through Sanskrit—what difference does it make!
The real question is: did you attain silence? Whether you threw away Sanskrit or Prakrit or English or German—what does it matter? You became a zero, at peace—that alone matters.
Tears came to Rama Tirtha’s eyes when he heard that without Sanskrit one cannot be enlightened. That is the limit of stupidity.
Yet this is the meaning Buddhist scholars have kept repeating for centuries. Because this statement has fed their ego. They are experts in nirukta and pada, and know how to line letters up correctly. Knowing exactly where each letter should be gave them a fixed idea: without erudition no one attains wisdom.
Though the word pundit itself comes from prajña (wisdom), its meaning has been distorted. A pundit is now one who knows scriptures; the wise is one who knows truth.
Then why did Buddha say this? I give it a very different meaning. My meaning is: the one who truly understands language becomes free of language. The one who truly sees the web of words can move into the wordless. Because one has to go beyond words—and if you don’t know words, going beyond them will be obstructed. One who truly knows the scriptures finds the scriptures become useless. That is the very gain of knowing them.
That is why I speak to you about the scriptures: so that you may know them rightly—and in that very knowing be freed of them.
Hence Buddha said: my son Rahul is a knower of the scriptures. And the true knower of scripture is the one who has gone beyond scripture. Whoever is still entangled in scripture has not really known it—because all scriptures say: the truth cannot be attained through scripture.
Truth is beyond the senses, beyond sight, beyond words—all scriptures say so. The Upanishads say it, the Vedas say it, the Quran says it, the Bible says it. All declare you must be free of words. Because it is ineffable, inexpressible—without definition, without exposition.
You will have to drop all doctrines. You must become utterly silent. Shake off the dust of all theories. When you are neither Hindu nor Muslim nor Christian—when within you there is no Quran, no Veda, no Bible—then the real Veda, the real Quran, the real Bible will awaken within you. Your Veda will awaken; your Bible; your Quran.
Therefore Buddha said: my son is a knower of nirukta and pada—you will not be able to deceive him.
They say: even the devil can quote scripture.
Buddha is saying: O Mara! You will not be able to ensnare my son. He is a knower of scripture; even if you quote scripture, you will not entangle him. My son has gone beyond ignorance—and beyond erudition as well.
To go beyond ignorance is the first step; to go beyond knowledge is the second. And in two steps the journey to the divine is complete.
And then Buddha added: he knows how to place letters before and after. Stranger still! What comes of arranging letters? Why did Buddha say that?
It is only an idiom. It means: my son is a poet. The skill of placing letters and words is the poet’s art. The poet knows where to place them; by shifting them he creates tone and rhythm; he is the artist of words.
As a painter knows colors, as a sculptor knows the chisel and form, so the poet knows the gestures and moods of words and how to array them. From that arrangement, poetry is born.
Buddha is simply saying: my son is a poet. Now understand what “poet” means.
In the old language and scriptures, no real distinction was made between kavi (poet) and rishi (seer); they mark the same state, with a subtle difference—that is why there are two words.
A rishi is one who has known in total. A kavi is one who has glimpses. At certain moments the poet becomes a seer. For example, when Rabindranath wrote Gitanjali he became a rishi, not a mere poet. Gitanjali is as sacred as the Upanishads. But not all his poems are like that. In some he is a poet—on the ground; in some he takes wing in the sky.
So remember: sometimes a poem can shake you to your depths. But don’t set out to find the poet himself! You may find him sitting in a hotel, smoking a bidi—and you will be shocked. The poem soared so high you felt for a moment you had flown to God; a door of love had opened—and here is the gentleman, worse than ordinary! He may be abusing someone, quarreling, or drunk and lying in a gutter.
Don’t go looking for the poet after being enthralled by the poem—or you will often be disillusioned. The one lying drunk in a gutter has only this capacity: sometimes he can leap; in certain moments he rises. But it doesn’t last; it is not his settled inner state. It is only for a moment, like a flash of lightning.
The poet is like lightning; the seer is like the sun.
So Buddha says: my son, though not yet a rishi, is a poet. He has begun to receive glimpses. He is nearing the arhat state. Lightning has begun to flash within; the sun is close to rising—it will rise soon. He is not in utter darkness anymore.
So, O Mara—O tempter!—don’t think you can deceive him. My son has begun to leap. Now and then he flies in the sky. He has seen the sky. You will not be able to entice him. He has tasted a few drops of his own inner nectar—so you cannot frighten him with death either. His samadhi is not yet complete; he is not yet a seer—but he is certainly a poet.
It is just an idiom—“the one who knows how to place words before and after” is a way of saying: he is a poet.
Thus Buddha said two things: first, he is a knower of the scriptures—and by knowing, he has become free of scripture. Second, he is a poet—glimpses of the Ultimate have begun. A drizzle has started; the flood has not yet come, but the beginning is there. The flood will come soon.
Now you will not be able to unseat him—neither by arousing lust nor by instilling fear. Life no longer allures him, and death no longer frightens him. My son stands at the door of the immortal, on the very threshold—on the verge of entering the temple.

This is not your condition alone; it is everyone’s. This is the very nature of the mind.
The mind is either in the past or in the future; it cannot be in the present. Hence, for the mind, the word “present” is an empty word.
Just inquire a little: whenever you are thinking, you either think of the past—what has happened, what is gone—or you think of what is going to happen. But how can you think about what is? It simply is. Where is the scope for thinking? What is, is. What difference will your thinking make? And if you think, you will miss—because thinking creates an interference.
You ask, “What should I do?”
Become a mirror.
As long as the mind remains, you will keep swaying between past and future. The mind is like a clock’s pendulum—swinging from one end to the other, never resting in the middle.
Become a mirror. A mirror is as if the pendulum has come to rest at the center. In a mirror, that which is is seen; in the mind, what is seen is what was or what will be. Neither exists. What was is gone; what will be has not yet happened. Hence the mind deceives you. The mind is maya—illusion.
Become a mirror. And the art of becoming a mirror is meditation, or witnessing. Watch. When thoughts of the past are moving in the mind, stand silent and keep watching: this is the past passing by. Do not get involved with it. Do not jump into the current. Do not identify. Stand on the far shore.
The river is flowing; sit on the bank, cross-legged, settled. Keep watching: this is the past flowing in the mind. Then the mode changes, the river takes a turn: this is the future flowing in the mind. Keep watching. Be only the seer. In that very seeing you will become a mirror.
And you will be amazed: as you begin to become a mirror, the current begins to slow. As your witnessing awakens, you will find that the river which was once like a monsoon torrent becomes a summer stream—drying up, its flow thinning. What once drowned you is now only knee-deep; you can cross it easily.
Keep awake, keep awake, keep watching—and one day you will find: there is no current. And the day there is no current, that very day there is God.

O ambitious mind!
Descend from the sky,
come to the earth,
cherish the soil’s fragrant soul.
Dreams do not sell
in the marketplace.
The emptiness you have draped,
take it off
and hang it on a peg.
With the scissors of thought,
do not rip the seams
of days, months, years.
Only this present
in which you live
is yours.
Do not peek here and there.
From the narrow alleys of frustration,
come out—
come onto the highway.
O mind!
Become a mirror!

Enough for today.