Es Dhammo Sanantano #109

The essence of dharma is—dāna. By dāna I do not mean only the giving of money; dāna means: whatever one has—give, share; do not hoard. If there is jñāna—give jñāna. If there is shakti—give shakti. If there is song—share the song. For only by sharing does the soul become available.
Whoever hoards is stopped by his hoarding. In holding back, one becomes held back; in giving, there is expansion. The more one shares, the more one expands. The more one shares, the greater one becomes. The one who gives away everything, who becomes empty within—śūnya—becomes worthy of being a dwelling of the Paramatma.
So the culmination of dāna is—śūnyatā; let nothing of “mine” remain; let even “me” not remain as mine. All that has been received returns to the very source from which it came. As the Ganga pours herself into the ocean—what was received from That is returned to That. Tvadiyam vastu Govindam tubhyam eva samarpaye.
What has been received is not yours. It is no one’s. If it belongs, it belongs to the Paramatma. To impose “mine” upon what belongs to the Paramatma is greed. Greed is sin. Not imposing “mine” upon what belongs to the Paramatma—this is dāna. Dāna is punya.
Whatever is with you—keep sharing, keep scattering.
Jesus has a famous saying: To the one who gives, more shall be given. The one who shares becomes worthy of receiving more. The one who hoards, rots.
Like someone who refuses to draw water from a well for fear the water will be used up; locks the well, afraid it will be depleted in a drought or famine. He hoards it, guards it, puts a lock on the well as if it were a treasury. That well will rot. The stream of life will cease to flow in it. The water will grow foul. Slowly it will turn toxic, undrinkable.
A well remains pure, fresh, because water is drawn every day. The well gives away daily, and when the well gives, new springs keep filling it. The well stays youthful; it does not grow old. It does not rot; it does not decay. It does not become dirty.
A river remains clean, luminous, by flowing. Wherever a river is dammed, there is stench. The same is true of the river of life.
Dāna is the root of dharma. And remember—let me repeat it. You have often concluded that dāna means the donation of wealth. Because we are so infatuated with wealth that when we think of the world, we think in terms of money; and when we think of dharma, we still think in terms of money! Our obsession with wealth is pathological. So when someone says “dāna,” immediately you think: What do I have? Perhaps you even think: Yes, dāna should be; someone should give to me!
I have heard: In a village there was a wealthy man; he had never given anything to anyone. Still people kept going to him, because he was the richest man. Perhaps not today—tomorrow he may give; the day after he may give.
A feast was being arranged for the poor in the village. People thought: At least for this he will give. There was famine. So they went. The rich man heard them. They said, There is great glory in dāna. Through dāna one attains heaven; dāna is a staircase to heaven. Seeing him pleased, open, they praised dāna even more. Hope grew that perhaps today he will give.
But hope soon turned into disappointment. The man said: Absolutely right! The rich man said: You are absolutely right. He said: Come, I will go with you. They said: Where will you come? Give something. He said: No, I will go with you, so I can persuade people to give. Since dāna is so important, I won’t sit here—I too will go with you, and I will explain to people to give.
Those who speak of giving may also, perhaps, be speaking only to avoid giving. This rich man is ready to go! Ready to campaign for dāna. He says: When it’s such an important matter, I too will spread the message. But the feeling to give does not arise.
The feeling to give does not arise within us at all. For lives upon lives we have not given. We have given nothing. We are perpetual beggars. We are always asking. When people say “love,” they still ask for love; they do not give. The one who gives receives abundantly. He does not have to ask. He receives a thousandfold, a hundred-thousandfold, a millionfold. Yet people say: No one loves me!
Every day people come to me, they say: What shall we do? We do not get love in life! How to get love? Rarely does anyone come and ask: I want to give love—no one is ready to receive.
If you want to give love, there will be many to receive, because all are hungry for love. And if you give, you will receive. Without giving, no one receives.
But people extract even their own meanings! Because the shastras have praised dāna so highly, the result has been that pundits and priests have turned dāna into a trade. They began instructing people: Give. They exploited the scripture; they extracted their utility even out of scripture.
The beggar standing by the roadside says, There is no dharma greater than dāna. Give! And if you do not give, there is contempt in his eyes for you.
Beggars live by dāna. Your sadhus and saints live by dāna. Your priests and pundits live by dāna. But all have missed the point.
Dāna does not mean asking. Dāna means giving. Whatever is with you. If you have no money, forget the worry. Money is not the only wealth; there are other riches. There is love. No one is so poor that there is no love in his heart. And what is greater wealth than love!
If you can sing a song, then hum your song. If you can play the flute, then play your flute. If you can dance, tie the bells to your feet and dance. The music of your ankle-bells may fall on someone’s ears—that is dāna. If some insight has dawned in you, share your insight. If some understanding has come to you, share your understanding. Whatever you have... And there is no such person in the world who has nothing at all.
You can pick thorns lying on the path! You can remove pebbles from someone’s way! You can sit beside someone and smile. You can wipe the tears of someone who is weeping.
A man was passing by; a beggar stretched out his hand. The man searched his pockets. But he had nothing. He placed his own hand in the beggar’s hand and said: Brother! Forgive me. I have nothing right now. Tomorrow, when I come, I will surely bring something.
The beggar’s eyes moistened. He said: Now there is no need to bring anything; what was to be given, you have given. You placed your hand in my hand—you are the first person. You called me brother; you are my first giver. Now I need nothing more. Just sit with me for a while. Let this hand remain in my hand. This is the first hand that has come into mine. Many have given money; no one has given love. And no one has ever called me brother. How sweet is this word—said the beggar—how much nectar there is in it! You have given me everything. Whenever you pass this way, place your hand in my hand and sit for a moment. Again call me brother.
Whatever you have. At least you can call someone “brother.” Do not become so miserly that even calling someone “brother” becomes difficult.
There was a Christian fakir—Saint Francis. He used to call trees “brother.” He called fishes “sister.” He befriended the moon and stars. He spoke with mountains and rivers. He had nothing else; he was a fakir. But he could at least do this. And as much as Francis gave, even the donors of millions did not give. The whole of nature was exhilarated by his dāna. On whatever tree Francis must have placed his hand saying, Brother!...
Not merely formally. Who maintains formality with trees! Among men you may maintain some formality—if there is some utility, some work, you say “brother.” It is rightly said: When need arises, one calls even a donkey “father”! Yet within, one knows it is a donkey; circumstances compel me to say “father”! When need arises, you touch a politician’s feet and call him a “mahatma.” Though you know: a donkey is a donkey! Under compulsion you call him father. Formality!
But with a tree there is no need to keep up pretenses. The moon and stars will lodge no complaint. When Francis called birds, animals, trees “brother,” this voice arose from the innermost core; it became a prayer; it became dāna.
So keep in mind: the essence of dharma is dāna. Dāna means the capacity to give. Emphasis is not on what is given; emphasis is on the giving. And the one who gives receives abundantly. And the one who receives abundantly gives abundantly again. Thus the chain goes on expanding. There is no end to it. And the one who has given all, attains the All. The one who by giving becomes empty—upon him the whole existence showers; the Paramatma makes him His home.
Dāna means: the capacity to give, the art of sharing. Remember: dāna too can be vulgar if there is no art. You can give in such a way that you wound the one to whom you give. If you throw two coins toward a beggar, you have given less and hurt more. By two coins you have displayed your wealth. What did you give by two coins? You thrust a dagger into the heart of the poor! You gave with such arrogance that your dāna turned into poison. Better you had not given. Better you had turned your face and walked away. Better you had not heard the beggar’s voice. But this kind of giving is not giving.
Often you give in anger. Often you give merely to save face. In a crowded market, what will people say if a beggar stands with folded hands and you cannot give two coins! Often you give to the beggar, but you give because of the people watching. Your prestige is at stake. You give to your ego, not to the beggar. And having given, you want him to thank you. Having given, you want your praise sung.
If in your giving there is any desire—even the desire for thanks—then the giving has gone wrong. Better you did not give. Better you turned your face and went away. Better you were a little hard. But if you wished that the beggar feel obliged to you, you missed; then it was a deception of dāna, not dāna.
Dāna is the capacity to give and the art of giving. When one gives to someone, the giving should be utterly graceful. So graceful that the one who receives feels delighted; that he becomes uplifted—not humiliated.
If by your giving someone becomes small, you have erred. By your giving someone should become enriched, raised up. By your giving, let him become your equal. When you give to someone, give in such a way as if by accepting he has obliged you. This is the art of giving. Not that you have obliged him.
That is why in this land we give dāna and also dakshina. The world over there is dāna, but dakshina is uniquely Indian.
What is this dakshina? You gave something—that was dāna. Then he accepted your dāna—will you not also offer thanks? That is dakshina. It is your feeling of gratitude: I am blessed that you accepted what little I gave—not a flower, a petal of the flower—and yet you accepted; I am blessed. You could have refused. You could have said: Keep your petal; I want the flower. Your refusal would have broken me. You did not break me. It is your great grace, your compassion, your kindness.
Dakshina is a rare thing. It is India’s unique discovery. And within it lies the whole art of dāna. It means the giver is obliged to the receiver. Why? Why should it be so?
Ordinary arithmetic would say that the one who has received should be obliged. But we discovered a deeper mathematics. We said: the one who has given is obliged. Why? Because the one who has given will receive many times more.
The one who received—his receiving is over. But the one who gave has found the way to receive abundantly. The one who received has no new doorway opened. The one who gave has become the master, the rightful heir to receive much. Then who should thank whom?
Thanks should be given by the giver. If this poor man had refused, your gates to heaven would have closed. This poor man opened for you the doors of heaven. Thank him. This is the art of giving.
So dāna is: the capacity to give, the art of giving, and the joy of giving.
When you give, you should be joyful. Never give out of anger. Never give out of fear. Never give out of greed. Never give for the sake of prestige. These are all wrong ways of giving; poisonous. When you give, give out of joy. Give because you have so much—what else to do! If I do not give, what shall I do! Let the simple joy of giving be the only cause.
You have heard the story Jesus tells: A rich vineyard owner hired laborers in the morning. The grapes were ripe and needed picking. Then he hired some at noon, because by evening it would not be finished. Then he hired some even at dusk. When the sun set, he paid them all. He paid everyone the same wage.
Jesus told this story often.
Naturally, those who had worked since morning, in the blazing sun, sweating from sunrise to sunset—who had not even gone for a meal nor left work for a moment—received as much! They were a bit angry. They said: This is injustice! Those who came at noon—equal to us! They should get half. And those who came just now, who did next to nothing—equal! They should get nothing.
The rich man laughed and said: I ask you, did you receive the wage agreed upon for your work or not? They said: Yes, we received that; even a little more. That is not the issue. But those who came at noon, and those at dusk?
The rich man said: The money is mine and I have plenty. If I wish to give, do you have any objection? If I wish to throw it into the river, do you object? I have more than I need, therefore I am giving. They did not work? I have eyes too. Some came at noon, some at dusk—what work could those do at dusk! But I have more than needed, therefore I give.
This is giving out of joy.
Only that which is more than you need can be given joyfully. That with which you are still miserly, clutching, that which still feels scarce—how will you give that? If you do give, you will give for some other reason; a motive will enter. And where motive enters, dāna dies.
The soul of dāna is ahetuki-bhava—the causeless: giving for no reason, giving out of the pure joy of giving. The one who learns such giving becomes a sovereign.
A sovereign is not made by how much you possess. Sovereignty is determined by how capable you are of giving. The one who asks remains a beggar.
And remember: even the richest are asking. Not only the poor—also the rich are asking. The richest of the rich, the billionaires, are asking: More, more.
Hence this world is full of beggars. Poor beggars and rich beggars; but beggars all the same. Only rarely does a sovereign appear. A sovereign is one who is not asking; who has begun to share. By sharing the empire expands.
Such a causeless dāna is possible only when there is some fragrance of love in your life. Hence I said: the essence of dharma is dāna. And the root of dāna is love.
Love means: I am not separate. I am not different, not apart. I am connected with all. If somewhere someone is in pain, I run—because it is I who am in pain there.
If a tree is drying for want of water and I water it, it is because I am drying in that tree. If someone is weeping and I wipe his tears, it is only because those tears are my tears; those eyes are my eyes. This feeling is called love.
Love means: I am not other than existence—I am one, abhinna, non-dual. Love is the taste of Advaita.
And where can we be separate! Every moment we need breath, food, water, only then we live. And all this comes from without, from existence.
Fruits blossom on trees and ripen for you to digest; they will become your blood, flesh, marrow. Rivers flow so that water reaches the trees; fruits will ripen. Rivers flow to your home so that when you thirst there is water. Clouds hover in the sky and rain—for you. In the morning the sun rises—for you. At night the sky fills with moon and stars—for you—so that you may enter rest.
Look closely, all this is for you. All this for you—and you not for This—that is lovelessness. That is deceit. That is dishonesty. All this happens for you and you are not ready for it at all!
The day you see: this entire existence is for me—that day from your whole being the response arises: I too am for this All. Then love. And love is the root of dāna.
The essence of dharma is dāna. The root of dāna is love. And love means egolessness. This is the scripture of dharma and dāna. Only upon egolessness can dāna stand. If there is even a trace of ego in giving, you have missed; then there is no love.
Today’s sutras are on dāna—understand them well. Before we enter the sutras, understand the circumstances in which Buddha spoke them.
First scene:
After the death of a childless merchant of Shravasti, the king of Kosala had his wealth hauled by cart to the palace for seven days. For those seven days he was so entangled in transporting the wealth that he could not go to the Blessed One even for a day. Ordinarily he used to come regularly every morning for the Blessed One’s darshan and satsang.
The day the transporting of wealth was complete, that day he remembered the Blessed One and went to him in the blazing noon.
The Blessed One asked why he had come at midday. The king narrated all and then asked: Bhante! One thing churns my mind. That childless merchant had so much wealth that it took me seven days, cart after cart, to bring it to the palace—yet he ate coarse food! wore tattered clothes! and rode in broken, decrepit chariots!
Hearing this, the Blessed One said: Maharaj! In a previous birth he had given dāna to Tagarasikhi Buddha. The dāna was not great; he did not have the capacity for great gifts. It was small. But the vast result of a small dāna came to him—he received such wealth in this life.
He gave little—but after giving he repented greatly—What mistake I made! How did I get into this!
Because of that repentance his mind lost its taste for good food and clothing. That repentance haunted him. Because of it his capacity to let money go from his hand was destroyed. Far from giving dāna, he lost even the capacity to spend for his own use.
From that giving two results arose: one—by giving he received much in return. And by repenting deeply after giving, his life became filled with extreme miserliness. So much so that he could not eat himself, nor wear clothes. He became a great miser—because of repentance!
For the sake of property he had even murdered his brother’s only son by taking him into the forest, upon his brother’s death, so that he might seize that property too. As a result, he himself had no offspring. His barrenness had this as its root cause.
At this time, having died, he has been born in the Maharaurava hell. Because the old punya was exhausted and he did not perform any new punya.
The king, hearing the Blessed One, said: Bhante! He did a very evil act, who, even while you, a Buddha, were residing nearby, neither gave dāna nor listened to dharma, nor used his wealth well. He earned no punya and in the end died leaving everything!
The Shasta smiled and said: Just so, Maharaj! Obtaining wealth, foolish men still do not seek Nirvana. And the thirst that wealth creates harms them for long. Then he uttered this gatha:
Hananti bhoga dummedhaṁ no ce pāragavesino.
Bhogataṇhāya dummedho hanti aññe’va attanaṁ.
“Pleasures destroy the foolish who do not seek the Further Shore. Falling into the thirst for enjoyment, the fool kills himself as if an enemy.”
Before the sutra, let us analyze this incident rightly.
First: After the death of a childless merchant of Shravasti...
Often it happens so. Those who have wealth, have no sons. Those who have wealth, have no progeny. Often rich men have to adopt sons. This is so the world over! In poor homes, many sons and daughters are born; something goes awry in the homes of the rich. There must be some psychology behind it.
As I see it, the psychology is that the rich man has no love. In truth, in order to accumulate wealth he has to destroy his love utterly.
The lover cannot accumulate wealth. And even if he earns, he cannot save. For the lover, to earn is difficult, for a thousand compassions will arise. He cannot thrust a dagger into anyone’s chest. He cannot pick anyone’s pocket. He cannot take more than is fair. He cannot cheat, cannot forge. In whose heart love flows, at best he will earn his daily bread—enough, very much. Even that, if it happens, is much!
To pile up wealth requires violence. To accumulate wealth requires hardness. To accumulate wealth requires a stone in the chest in place of a heart; only then does wealth accumulate.
Wealth is amassed upon the murder of love. And the one whose love is murdered becomes barren—barren in every sense. Flowers no longer bloom in his life. Offspring is a flower. As a tree blossoms and fruits, so too. If the sap stops flowing in the tree, there will be neither flowers nor fruit. Progeny is the fruit and flower of your life. Only if the stream of love flows do flowers come.
There is a profound psychological reason behind this. The richer one becomes, the poorer one grows in love. You will often find the poor brimming with love; the rich empty of love. This is not accidental. The truth is reversed.
You think: the poor are loving. The real thing is: the loving remain poor. The matter is reversed. You ask: Why is there no love among the rich? You have not understood. If there had been love, how would they have become rich! It would have been difficult. They had to kill love, cut it off, bury it in the earth. The day the desire to be rich arose, love was murdered. Only upon the corpse of love can the palaces of wealth be raised.
And love is the fragrance of your Atman. The fragrance is lost, and your body gets surrounded by wealth. Inert objects gather around you, and your vital source dries up.
Therefore you will not find anyone poorer than the rich. His poverty is inner. Within, all is dry. No sap flows within. His life is like a desert. No greenery. No birds sing. No peacocks dance. No flute plays. No rasa happens. In such dried life even the fruits of progeny become difficult.
After the death of a childless merchant of Shravasti... Naturally he had no son. When he died, all his wealth went to the king.
The king of Kosala had carts bring his wealth to the palace for seven days. He was so entangled that he forgot the Blessed One for seven days.
Now see the irony! The same king of Kosala wonders about that rich man—So much wealth! And yet he never dressed well, nor ate well, nor rode in sound chariots! The Blessed One lived nearby; he never went to satsang! He could have used some of that wealth in the vast work of the Buddha—he did not. And now he is dead; all lies here!
He thinks about the other—but not about himself! For seven days he hauled another’s wealth to his house; he forgot the Buddha. Clearly, the Buddha occurs to him only when he has leisure, when no other work remains. The Buddha is not first in his life’s list. First is wealth.
When all is comfortable and there is nothing else to do, he thinks: Sitting idle—let me go for satsang. His life is not at stake for satsang. He is busy hauling another’s wealth to his home for seven days.
He must have stood watching lest someone else take it; lest the wealth be scattered; lest servants pilfer; lest some cart turn toward some other house instead of the palace. He must have come along with the bullock carts from the merchant’s house to the palace. He forgot the Buddha!
Remember: if the Buddha is not first in your list, he is not there at all. If dharma is not first in your list, it is not there at all.
All have placed the Paramatma at the end of the list! People say: First let us earn money, gain position, marry off the son, raise the children, settle the house—then—then we will turn to prayer. Lastly!
But the house is never fully settled; one problem gives birth to another. After the children are married, their children appear. Now their marriages have to be arranged. New worries grip you.
Here entanglements never end. Life is not like films—The End. Here the story never ends—Itishri!
No; life goes on. You will end; life goes on. You have ended many times; life flowed on. Life never ends. Persons come and go; life keeps flowing.
So do not think: When the stream of life stops; when I am freed of worries; when all accounts are settled—then I will sit for Hari-bhajan.
Then you will not. Your corpse will go; others will sing Hari-bhajan: Ram-naam satya hai. Others will sing for you—poor fellow could not himself; at least carry him to the cremation with God’s name! Though now only a body remains; there is none to hear!
You couldn’t reach the Ganga; when you are dying they will pour bottled Ganga water into your mouth! You won’t be able to swallow; half will spill out! You won’t even have the capacity to gulp.
You are dying, your awareness is fading, and people will chant God’s name in your ears, recite the Namokar mantra or Bhaktambar Stotra or Gita or Vedic hymns!
He is dying! He can hear nothing now! All his life he thought: When I am totally free of worries I will sit and remember the Lord. But that never happens.
If you wish to remember the Lord, then now—or never. This very moment! Do not postpone even for a moment; there is no guarantee of the next. Who knows, in the next moment death may come; Ram-naam satya may become true! So before that, make Ram-naam true in your life.
This king of Kosala forgot the Buddha in hauling wealth. This happens to all. A speck in another’s eye looks like a mountain, and a mountain in one’s own is not even seen as a speck.
We are very skilled in judging others! We go on saving our own selves. We never think about ourselves.
While hauling wealth he did not think: Seven days have passed! I used to go every morning to the Buddha’s discourse—to satsang, for darshan! In seven days I found no leisure! So entangled in wealth! And it is another’s wealth! Not even my own. And I am seeing the other has died leaving all; so will I die.
But that question does not arise. It does not arise at all. The intelligent turns every question of life toward himself, and the unintelligent keeps it always turned toward others. If this man had had a little intelligence, instead of bringing the carts to the palace, he would have left them there; left the palace; gone and said to the Buddha: I have come to refuge. Buddham sharanam gachhami! I will go nowhere else. I have seen—a man died leaving so much wealth; it was of no use. And when he died, he could not take a penny. What will I take! My death too approaches.
In that childless merchant’s death, he would have seen his own death. In that futile life-stream of the merchant, he would have seen the futility of his own life. A revolution would have happened.
But for seven days the Buddha did not even occur to him. Yes, many times the question arose: What kind of man was he! In the end all lies here! Ah! He should have enjoyed. Used some. Now others are taking it!
And this king of Kosala has no idea that he will die the same way and others will take it.
One hoards; another takes! The one who takes is hoarding to be taken by another. Wealth remains here; we come and go. No one brings wealth, no one takes it—if this becomes visible, great transformations happen in the meanings and gestures of life; new meanings come. Then dāna becomes possible.
That which is not mine—why cling to it! That which I must leave behind—why not give it in joy right now! Why miss the chance to give with joy what will fall into someone’s hands anyway! And who knows into whose hands it will fall!
Consider: the merchant died—he could have given to the Buddha. But now it fell into the king’s hands. Perhaps he had swindled this very king in taxes. Saved it from him. It fell into his hands! It could have been dāna. There were poor in that village—he could have given to them. There were sick—he could have arranged medicines. But he could do nothing. He could not do for himself; what would he do for others?
So let me tell you one more thing here. When I say, Love, do not ever misunderstand that I am saying: Do not love yourself. Only the one who loves himself can love another.
This merchant did not eat properly himself; seeing a poor man hungry will not evoke compassion in him. How would it! He himself is living like a poor man! He will say: What is special in that! I too eat coarse food. What will you do with wealth? I have wealth and still eat coarse food; you too eat coarse food—what is the need of wealth? Look at me; I wear tattered clothes; you wear them and think you have made some great sacrifice! Look at my broken cart—yours is also broken. I am like you. What need is there for wealth!
The one who has not eaten properly himself will not understand another’s hunger. Generally you think the opposite: One who has seen suffering will understand another’s suffering. It is wrong. The one who has lived in suffering becomes numb, he cannot see another’s suffering. The one who has known joy can see another’s suffering. By joy, comparison arises. A poor man cannot have compassion for another poor man.
Have you ever seen a beggar feeling compassion for another beggar? A beggar will snatch from another beggar. Even beggars have their own bosses! Their own gurus. A beggar will snatch from another. But beggars never give dāna.
If the experience of poverty and suffering brought compassion, beggars would be the most compassionate. They are the hardest.
My understanding is different. The understanding of those who have known is different: The more you live in joy, the more you will perceive how many are suffering.
Therefore I am not against joy. I do not tell you to distribute everything and become miserable. I do not tell you to become a fakir. I do not tell you to wander broken and crushed.
I tell you: Love yourself. Love yourself, and with that love you will gradually be able to love others. The one who has not loved himself has never loved anyone.
Therefore, what your so-called mahatmas say, I do not say. They say: Be harsh with yourself and compassionate to others. One of Mahatma Gandhi’s sutras was—harsh to the self and compassionate to others.
But the one who is harsh to himself can never be compassionate to others. One who is not his own—how can he be anyone else’s? The one who is harsh to himself will be terribly harsh to others.
For example, Gandhi took a vow of brahmacharya. It was a vow, not Brahmacharya. It was force. The day he forced brahmacharya upon himself and became harsh, from that day he became void of compassion for others. He could not tolerate even his sons falling in love. He kept strict surveillance in his ashram that no one fall in love. He could not forgive whoever fell in love.
The one who has bound his own life forcibly into brahmacharya will impose the same force on others.
When Gandhi’s secretary fell in love, he expelled him from the ashram. If two persons in the ashram fell in love and wanted to marry, Gandhi placed every obstacle. First he said: Remain in brahmacharya for two years. Do not even look at each other, do not write letters. Then, if after that love remains, we will see.
What can one expect of helpless, weak people! In two years he will suppress himself, become harsh. The tender sprout of love that had emerged will die. After two years he will think: Why get into this trouble! The sprout is dead anyway. Better become a mahatma!
Gandhi was overly harsh with his own food; thus he was overly harsh with others regarding food. Harsh to oneself—harsh to others.
Your mahatmas are harsh towards you because they are harsh towards themselves. If your mahatmas look at you as sinners, do not be surprised. Because they see: We are fasting; you eat happily! We are drying our bodies; your bodies are well-fed! We sit naked; you wear beautiful clothes! We possess nothing; you have everything! You are great sinners.
Thus their fingers constantly point to you as arch-sinners. And what secret joy do they get sitting so? Only this: All will rot in hell, except us. This gives great solace—Fine; today enjoy. Tomorrow you will rot in hell; then you will remember how much the mahatma warned you! We will sit above in heaven, and you will rot in hell; then you will know the real thing; then the secret will be revealed to you.
But the one who is sending others to hell, he will reach hell before them. Your mahatma will be found leading you as a guide on the road to hell. Here too he is your guide; there too he will be. No difference. Because the harsh cannot reach heaven. The harsh cannot be filled with the spring of joy. The one who is harsh to himself becomes harsh to all.
Look: there is not much difference between Adolf Hitler and Mahatma Gandhi. Hitler was as harsh with himself as Gandhi. If he had been in India, we would have called him Mahatma Hitler! He was vegetarian. Never ate meat. Woke at Brahma-muhurta—remember. Quite Hindu! Never slept after sunrise. Rose before the sun. Did not drink tea, nor smoke cigarettes, nor drink alcohol. What more qualities does a mahatma need!
Yet this evil man led the world into terrible destruction. His harshness! He was harsh with himself; he turned the entire German nation into a barracks. He made every German hard. These are tricks for becoming harsh.
I often think: if he had smoked a couple of cigarettes, there would have been no harm—rather a benefit to the world. If he had fallen in love with some woman and done some foolishnesses, the world would have benefited. If he had had a child or two and not remained brahmachari, some sap might have entered his life. Then others’ children—bombing them—would have been difficult. To see that others love too, that they too have longings of love—killing would have been difficult.
But he was a harsh mahatma. A mahatma who led the world to a great war.
The world has been badly tormented by mahatmas. Why? They are incapable of loving themselves; they cannot love others. They are skilled at tormenting themselves; they will search for opportunities to torment others too.
This king of Kosala! He is thinking that that man will go to hell. He never lived in joy, never ate, never drank. All lies here! He should have performed dāna; earned punya; done something. But he forgot the Buddha. He was so entangled in transporting wealth that he could not come even one day to the Blessed One—though ordinarily he came every morning.
Today was the test. It was not possible to leave wealth and come. When everything was convenient, there was no obstacle in coming. There too he must have dozed; there too he rested. He did not listen to what the Buddha said. If he had, how would he forget the Buddha for seven days? All that listening went to dust. There was no essence in that hearing.
If he had listened, today he had a great proof of what the Buddha says: All this will be left behind. All pomp will lie here when the caravan moves on! Today would have been the proof; today the eyes would have opened: The Buddha is right. Now further delay is not right. As this merchant died, I too will die tomorrow. Before that, let me do something, search something, connect with Truth. Take hold of the Buddha’s feet. Contemplate what he says; embody it.
But only when the work of hauling wealth was finished did he remember the Blessed One!
Now he was free again. Leisure again. So the Buddha means a kind of entertainment. No work now. Let’s go there too. Let us manage this world and that world as well. And whenever there is conflict between the two, manage this first and relegate that to later.
So he arrived at noon.
Perhaps a little guilt was inside—that for seven days I did not go; the Blessed One will ask: Where have you been! Perhaps some inner blemish, some darkness clung—What did I do! Perhaps from that guilt he came at noon. He used to come in the morning; that was the time. He came at an odd hour. High noon!
The Blessed One asked why he had come at noon—not why he had not come for seven days.
No; those like Buddha do not wish to wound you in any way. To ask why he had not come for seven days would be unbecoming; it would touch the wound. What is done is done.
Those like Buddha know how to forgive. They see he has not come for seven days. They would have heard the news—the merchant died; the king of Kosala is hauling his wealth. But they did not ask. They asked only: How come at noon!
Those like Buddha always see the positive, not the negative. They leave the darkness, they hold the light. Since you have to be led into light, better hold the light.
The king narrated all and then asked: Bhante! That childless merchant had so much wealth, yet he ate coarse, wore tattered, rode broken chariots! What is the matter? What is the secret?
Hearing, the Blessed One said: Maharaj! In a past time he had given to Tagarasikhi Buddha, and as a result obtained wealth. The dāna was very small...
Like a seed—small—yet it becomes a vast tree. So is the seed of dāna. And remember: the same is true of the seed of sin. Whatever you sow grows vast. So be alert when sowing. Do not sow seeds of poison. Once you have sown, you will have to reap. And what you sowed will return multiplied.
A tiny seed becomes a tree under whose shade hundreds can sit; many carts can rest; many birds can nest. The tree becomes great. Fruits and flowers abound. From one seed, countless seeds again. So sow with understanding.
He gave a small dāna to a Buddha—Tagarasikhi. He did not have much capacity to give. If he had, why would he regret? He must have given in a moment of emotion.
Take this to heart. Often there is a moment of emotion. He must have heard Tagarasikhi’s incomparable words, become full, overwhelmed; in that surge he stood and pledged—Very well, I donate so much. It was an ecstasy. When he returned home, on the way he thought: What have I done!
Mark Twain has written: I went to hear a sermon in a church. I listened for ten minutes. Never had I heard such a sermon. Incomparable. I had a hundred dollars in my pocket. I thought: Today I will donate all hundred.
As soon as I thought I would donate a hundred, a thousand doubts arose: Maybe this man is only skilled in speaking! Maybe this is a web of words, a play of style. No; a hundred is too much; fifty will do.
Once the thought of giving arose, listening ceased; an inner calculation started: fifty will do. The taste of listening was gone because the feeling of giving had arisen. Now there was a nervousness.
After another ten minutes I thought: Not worth fifty! You always find a way to match your mind. Twenty-five will do!
By the end of the hour it was down to two dollars! And then I fled—lest when the plate comes to me, I take something out of it. From a hundred to two—how long before I start taking! Mark Twain wrote—so I ran away before the plate arrived; otherwise I might commit some reverse sin!
There was a surge. Had he donated within ten minutes, he would have given a hundred. But he would have regretted. Reaching home he would have wept: What mistake did I make! How did a man like me fall into such hypnosis!
This rich man had given to a Buddha, and from that arose the wealth you hauled for seven days. It sprouted from that tiny seed.
Give—and much comes. What you give—that returns. As much as you give, infinitely more comes. And it is not necessary that you go and give in a temple or mosque; give wherever it is needed. Give to your wife, your children, your neighbors, your friends. Maintain the feeling of giving.
He had given a little, the Buddha said, but then regretted much. He sowed one seed of nectar and a thousand seeds of poison around it. The tree of nectar grew, and so did poisonous shrubs. They fenced the tree. Poisonous fruits grew like thorny bushes around the nectar. They were many.
Because of that repentance he lost taste for food and clothing. This began from that very birth. He had given something and now thought: How to recover that amount! From where? Eat a little less, wear a little less. This year, no new coat for winter; the old will do. No new chariot. In our day cars are bought; then chariots! No new model; manage for a year. Paint and patch the old. The horse though old will go two more years.
What he had donated had to be saved now. The rasa for eating and wearing drained away. And once it drained, it was gone. It has not returned. Endless births must have passed; Tagarasikhi Buddha lived some five thousand years before Gautama. How many lives he must have had!
Remember: at Gangotri the Ganga is very small, falling from Gomukh. At the Ganges’ mouth she is vast, an ocean. So is your life. Whatever you do grows daily.
Do every act with awareness, with attention, or you will regret much. Avoid the inauspicious, if you can. Do the auspicious, if you can. And weigh by one thing: ego and egolessness. Whatever feeds ego—know you are about to do something wrong. Whatever melts ego—know punya is happening. For fundamentally there is only one sin—ahankara.
Because of that repentance his capacity to let money go dried up. For others it was out of the question; even for himself it became difficult.
For the sake of property he murdered his brother’s only son—to seize even his brother’s estate, though he had more than enough and no heir.
So hard did he become that he could kill his brother’s son!... And there was no need, he had plenty—left-over even that no one would inherit.
By murdering his brother’s son his love utterly dried up. Therefore he remained without progeny. That is the root cause of his barrenness. Now, after death, he is born in Maharaurava hell. Because the old punya is finished and he has done no new punya.
Remember: even punya gets exhausted! Punya too has limits. Only if you continue earning will it remain with you. Only if the stream of punya keeps flowing is it well. If it stops—it is gone. Just as a fire: keep throwing fuel and it burns; stop the fuel, it burns a while, then dies.
All things get exhausted. Punya too. Only one thing does not—it is beyond punya and papa—that is sakshi-bhava, the witnessing. That alone does not exhaust. That alone is eternal. All else is transient.
Punya accompanies you far—but not forever. It is a kind of earning; you enjoy its fruit and it ends.
Therefore whenever the occasion for the auspicious arises, keep doing it. Do not think: We have done a lot of good, what more? The day you think: We have done enough—on that day the auspicious begins to die, your capital begins to be spent. As a man must keep earning to have capital, so you must keep doing punya for the stream to flow and continuity remain.
The king, hearing, said: Bhante! He did a very bad deed—residing near you, a Buddha, yet giving no dāna, hearing no dharma, and leaving such wealth at death!
That mistake he made with a former Buddha—because of that he probably avoided this Buddha too! In my view that is so. The repentance dug so deep that somewhere, unconsciously, was the impression—I went once to a Buddha, made a mistake, gave dāna. Do not go near such places now. Do not go near such people. Dangerous people! Near them one becomes inundated with feeling and does something! One loses one’s senses, falls in love with them, becomes intoxicated. Do not go near. He would have strengthened himself with this resolve, a strong current.
The Buddha’s camp was nearby, perhaps two or four houses away. He passed daily. But passing, he turned his face away, or stuffed his fingers in his ears. Though there was no need—for people are deaf anyway! He would turn his eyes away—though no need, for people do not see even with eyes!
He would hurry lest some acquaintance meet him and say: Come, at least today sit in satsang. Lest the king of Kosala meet him returning from satsang and say: Ah, you never come! Lest he be caught in shame and someone’s influence! He would avoid that road, take other roads, avoid.
The king said: Bhante! He did a very bad deed—living near you, yet neither giving dāna nor listening to dharma—and in the end died leaving so much—what use was it!
And to whom is this king saying this? He himself does not see that the wealth he hauled home is not his; if he will not give his own, at least give that which is not his! He does not recall that for seven days, in hauling another’s wealth home, he forgot the Buddha. That poor fellow forgot for the sake of saving his own; this one forgot for looting another’s! This too is not seen.
There is a great secret here. We see others’ deeds; we do not see their inner states. We see our inner states; we do not see our own deeds. This is a subtle psychological knot.
Someone steals. We see his act—he stole. We do not see what was within him. The thief himself does not see his act; he sees his inner state. Understand his inner state.
Therefore the thief says: No one understands me. No one can understand me.
You all say this: No one understands me! Wife does not understand husband; husband does not understand wife. Father does not understand son; son does not understand father. Brother does not understand brother. No one understands anyone! Everyone has one complaint: No one understands me.
What is the reason? It is universal. The reason is this: you see your inner states.
The one who goes to steal also has a thought arise that stealing is not right. But a thousand other thoughts arise: The one I will steal from already has more than needed. What harm in taking a little! Perhaps I am spreading a kind of communism; I am not stealing. What is his own? He has taken from others. He is himself a thief. What harm if I take from him?
Then he thinks: Look at me; my wife is ill, the child has no milk. To save my wife’s life... My wife has no medicine, my child no milk. To save two lives—if I steal a little, how is it sin? I am saving lives.
Then within he thinks: Today there is need, so I will steal. When I have enough, I will donate. All will be set right. I will go bathe in the Ganga. I will do punya in the temple. And if the theft goes well, I will offer a coconut to Hanumanji! I will distribute some of it to the poor.
His inner states—he sees them. He beautifies them. Under that long chain of good inner states, the small act of theft gets buried. He sees nothing wrong in it. By weaving his inner states he goes to steal—as if going to do punya, some great deed, some service to the world!
You see his act and say: He is a sinner. Then he says: You cannot understand me.
You see the act; he sees his inner state. And the same is your condition. You do not see your acts; you see your inner states. Therefore no one seems to understand anyone.
Hitler killed millions of Jews. He thought that by killing them the world will benefit. He did it for the welfare of the world. Stalin killed millions in Russia—Communism will come! The world will be happy!
From Hitler’s killing no happiness came to the Jews. From Stalin’s killing no communism came. Later Mao did the same. Everyone does the same. But the doer thinks of his feelings. Those feelings are visible only to him, to no one else; and great errors happen.
A silly joke.
Two of my sannyasins, Vijayanand and Vinod, were traveling in a bus, and between them sat a most extraordinary woman—Tuntun. When Tuntun sits in the middle, she occupies the whole seat. They somehow balanced themselves on the edges, about to fall with every bump.
Then Vinod softly said, Sister! Please don’t elbow. But she did not hear. Then Vijayanand gathered courage: Sister! A bit louder—Please don’t elbow. She did not hear. Then Vinod got angry: Do you hear or not, Sister! Don’t elbow! Tuntun said: My God, has even breathing become a crime!
Poor lady was only breathing. But she was hefty! Her breathing felt like elbowing to the others.
Such errors happen daily. A person sees his inner state. The other sees what appears outside. Thus no one understands anyone.
This king sees the act of the merchant, not his inner state. How could he? He sees his inner state; not his act. How will he see?
The one who begins to see his own act and the inner state of the other—that one attains Buddhahood. Then he does not err. Then he does not err in understanding anyone.
The Shasta smiled and spoke... Therefore the Buddha smiled, hearing the king’s words. He saw the irony: He shows compassion for the poor man who died; he feels none for himself! He thinks the other committed great sin; but he does not consider himself at all!
We think about others to avoid thinking about ourselves.
We go on thinking about others! Have you ever thought about yourself? Ever sat for half an hour and thought about yourself? Even when you sit quietly, you think about others! About neighbors, about news read in newspapers, stories seen in films, songs heard on radio—the same go on echoing. And you engross yourself in them!
The other is not important. First awaken in yourself, see yourself! First hold the mirror before your own face; from that begins revolution, from that begins dharma.
Therefore the Shasta smiled and said: Just so, Maharaj! Obtaining wealth, foolish men do not seek Nirvana. And thirst born of wealth harms them for long.
Still the Buddha did not speak directly. He spoke indirectly. He spoke the truth, but did not point at the person. He said only: Just so, Maharaj. The foolish, even when they obtain wealth, do not seek the Further Shore.
Those who have no wealth, no food, no clothing, no shelter—if they do not seek Nirvana, they can be forgiven, for their petty problems are so huge, they cannot solve them. But those who have everything, who have no entanglement—if they do not seek the truth, they cannot be forgiven.
If a poor man is irreligious, forgivable. If a rich man is irreligious, he is foolish—unforgivable. He is dull, insensate. If a poor man is religious, he is supremely intelligent. If a rich man is religious, that is as it should be; nothing exceptional.
Keep these truths in mind. When you have all conveniences, when you can close your door and sit quietly for a while, forget the world for a while—then forget. For in that forgetting the remembrance of the Paramatma will arise; surati will awaken.
The Buddha said: Yes, Maharaj; so it is. And he smiled. The king probably thought he smiled at the foolish merchant. He still did not think that the arrow of that smile was aimed at him.
Man saves himself. The arrow comes; he shifts this way or that and lets it pass.
This arrow was straight. By smiling the Buddha said what had to be said. Seeing he smiled: What a plight of man! He sees the errors of others while he himself is caught in the same errors!
Thirst born of wealth harms for long.
“Pleasures destroy the foolish who do not seek the Further Shore. In lusting after pleasure, the fool kills himself like an enemy.”
Remember: the one who is not meditating is knowingly or unknowingly committing suicide. For without meditation he will not find the soul. Without meditation he will remain tied to the mortal. In the trivial he will be entangled. And in the trivial there is no bliss, no liberation. This is self-murder.
What you call life is self-murder; you die daily. With each passing day, life diminishes. So many days gone—so many opportunities gone. So many days gone in which you could have attained yourself, in which the Paramatma could have been encountered, in which emptiness and fullness could have happened—so many opportunities gone.
But I do not say sit and weep for the days gone. What is gone is gone. Do not waste this too in weeping.
If one lost in the morning returns home by evening, he is not called lost. There is always time. If even one moment remains of your life—and you are certainly alive, so this moment is—this moment is in your hand. If in this moment, with total urgency, you see yourself, it can become the moment of transformation.
In a single instant the world can disappear and the Paramatma can stand before you. You need intense ardor, a burning urgency, a capacity to put all at stake.
Second circumstance:
When the Blessed One was sitting in the Trayastrimsha heaven upon the pink-lotus stone-seat, there arose among the devas a discussion: The fruit of a ladleful of food given by Indaka from his own portion to the elder Anuruddha surpasses even the great fruit of Ankura’s dāna—he who for ten thousand years arranged rows of hearths stretched for twelve yojanas and gave daily. What is this arithmetic? What is the logic behind it?
Hearing this, the Shasta said to Ankura: Ankura! Dāna should be given with discrimination, by choosing. Then it becomes like seed sown well in good soil and bears great fruit. But you did not do so; therefore your dāna did not become of great fruit. Dāna alone is not everything; to whom it is given is supremely important. And with what inner state it is given—more important still. And then he uttered these gathas:
Tiṇadosāni khettāni rāgadosā ayaṁ pajā.
Tasmā hi vītarāgesu dinnaṁ hoti mahapphalaṁ.
Tiṇadosāni khettāni dosadosā ayaṁ pajā.
Tasmā hi vītadosesu dinnaṁ hoti mahapphalaṁ.
Tiṇadosāni khettāni mohadosā ayaṁ pajā.
Tasmā hi vītamohesu dinnaṁ hoti mahapphalaṁ.
Tiṇadosāni khettāni icchādosā ayaṁ pajā.
Tasmā hi vigaticchesu dinnaṁ hoti mahapphalaṁ.
“The fault of fields is grass and weeds; the fault of people is rāga. Therefore, giving to the vitarāga brings great fruit.”
“The fault of fields is weeds; the fault of people is dveṣa. Therefore, giving to the vītadveṣa brings great fruit.”
“The fault of fields is weeds; the fault of people is moha. Therefore, giving to the vītamoha brings great fruit.”
“The fault of fields is weeds; the fault of people is icchā (craving). Therefore, giving to the vigaticchā—those beyond craving—brings great fruit.”
First heartfully take in the scene. This story is a little unusual; within it are two scenes.
One: The Blessed One sits among his bhikshus. They surround him. In front sits a great donor, Ankura—he has given uniquely. His giving is such that history can hardly find a match: For ten thousand years—birth after birth—he has given. He arranged hearths in rows stretching twelve yojanas and gave continuously.
As much as he gave, he received more. Every time he received more, he gave it away again. Thus his wealth increased, his dāna increased. The more he gave, the more wealth increased. The more wealth increased, the more he gave. For ten thousand years his life’s journey is a grand saga of dāna. For twelve yojanas hearths were built. Whatever was cooked daily was given away. He fed hundreds of thousands; he clothed them.
Ankura, the great merchant, sits before the Buddha.
Above in the sky a council of devas is in session. They think: Strange! Ankura sits before the Buddha; he has given so much. But we have heard that even compared to a small gift, his dāna is nothing. That gift was given by one named Indaka.
Indaka too is present there with the Buddha; sitting somewhere behind, unknown. He is no great merchant. No one knows him. His dāna is not of the sort people praise. He gave to an old bhikshu—Elder Anuruddha. Anuruddha was among the Buddha’s foremost disciples, who attained Buddhahood before the Buddha himself. Indaka, a bhikshu himself, had begged alms for himself; seeing Anuruddha ill, he gave a ladleful from his own portion. And the devas say: We have heard that the fruit of his dāna surpasses Ankura’s.
While the Blessed One sat upon the pink-lotus stone in Trayastrimsha, the devas discussed: The fruit of a ladleful given by Indaka to Elder Anuruddha surpasses the fruit of Ankura’s ten-thousand-year dāna along hearths twelve yojanas long. What arithmetical law is this? What logic?
There is a deep logic. Ankura gave because he had much. Giving caused him no hardship. Giving was convenient. Truth is, he caught a knack, a key: The more he gave in ten thousand years, the more wealth increased. Giving brought no pain, no sacrifice. It was convenient.
Indaka’s giving proved of greater value. Indaka is a poor bhikshu, unknown, unrenowned. Even to obtain alms was difficult for him.
Think: when the Buddha came to a village, ten thousand bhikshus came with him. In those small villages of Bihar, to feed ten thousand bhikshus—difficult. The foremost received easily—people invited Mahakashyapa, Sariputta, Maudgalyayana, Anuruddha, Manjushri—great bodhisattvas; they were invited. But then there was the crowd—unknown, poor bhikshus—no one even knew their names. To them getting alms was difficult.
Indaka is such a poor bhikshu—unknown. After days he must have obtained a little. Perhaps after two or four days of hunger. And he saw Anuruddha ill, old—unable to go for alms. Perhaps what little he had brought—half or more—he gave a ladleful to Anuruddha.
Here is simple arithmetic. When you give without any pain—good, but there cannot be great fruit. There will be fruit. Great fruit happens when, if needed, you give even at the cost of yourself, placing yourself at stake.
What is the difference between fruit and great fruit? Fruit is outer; great fruit is inner. Fruit came to Ankura: he gave wealth, he received wealth. Give ten, receive a thousand; a thousand—ten thousand. In your account it seems great fruit. But in the Buddha’s calculus this is not great fruit—for wealth is still wealth. You gave the outer; you received the outer. Give the outer; you receive the outer. But from the outer, the inner is not attained. The inner is the true great fruit.
This poor Indaka gave a ladleful—but with it he gave something from within. The outer he gave—visible to all. But inner too he gave. There is sacrifice here, ahuti. There is the capacity to set oneself aside.
He removed himself from the center. He did not allow his ego to come in—That I too need, I too am hungry, I am hungry since two days. He allowed no such thought. Seeing the old, ill Anuruddha, he gave his food. He perhaps remained hungry that day. Or half-fed. Slept only with water. He gave something of the within. This bore great fruit.
The devas discuss. For devas cannot see the inner. They see only the outer. The one who sees the inner is a Buddha. They have gone beyond the devas.
Devas see pleasures—of wealth, status, prestige. Devas are immersed in pleasures; their reach is outer. They cannot understand this rule. Perhaps the Buddha had said that Indaka’s fruit is greater.
Ankura has fruit, but it is not much. It is outer. His soul remains untouched.
Hearing the devas, the Shasta said to Ankura, who sat before him: Ankura! Give dāna by choosing. Then it becomes seed sown well in good soil and bears great fruit. But you did not; therefore your dāna did not become great fruit. Dāna alone is not everything; to whom it is given is crucial. And the inner state in which it is given—more crucial still.
To whom was it given?
Jesus too speaks of seed and field. He says: Someone sowed. Some fell on the road—the road was hard, stony—did not sprout. Some fell on the embankment; they sprouted, but people walked there and they died. Some fell in the middle of the field; they sprouted and became richly fruitful.
So, says Buddha, where the seed is sown matters greatly. The seed is important; but what soil is chosen is also important. Did you seek good soil, or throw it anywhere? On the road? On the embankment, where people tread? Or did you truly seek good soil?
If dāna is given by finding right soil, it becomes of great fruit. To whom did you give? And with what inner state?
Ankura found a key: wealth begets wealth when given. This is cheap arithmetic. It becomes shopkeeping. Whoever gets such a key will do it.
You fear that by giving, it will be lost; hence you clutch. Ankura gives because he knows by giving it increases.
I have heard: A beggar stopped a car. The car halted. He asked: Give something. The owner peered out. The beggar was a beggar, yes, but his face bore a noble look. The clothes, though old and torn, were of fine fabric. There was refinement in his manner—educated, perhaps a university graduate. Though he stood poor and crushed, there was a cultured aura.
The rich man was surprised. He said: Seeing you I can tell you are from a good family, educated. How did this happen?
He said: Please don’t ask. Don’t ask my sorrow. If you can give, give.
The rich man took out a hundred dollars and gave him. The beggar laughed, took them, and said: Now I must tell you. I was in your condition some years ago. Handing out hundreds like this, I was ruined. You too will not remain long in your present state. Let me predict: What happened to me will happen to you!
Ordinarily we all think: If we give, it is gone! Hence we hold. This Ankura found the trick: If you give, it grows.
But there is no fundamental difference between you and Ankura. You are holding wealth; he too is holding wealth. Hence the inner state is not meritorious. He is throwing seeds—but not into right soil.
And since giving brings return, he does not care about the worthiness of the recipient. “If I give, I will receive”—let anyone take. A thief, a murderer—let them take. If murderers get his money, they will murder; if thieves get it, they will steal—he has no concern. He does not care into which field the seed is falling. He has got the secret of getting.
Therefore the Buddha says: To whom you give—keep that in mind. Who is worthy...
“The fault of fields is weeds... the people’s fault is rāga.”
Where there are weeds and grasses—if you throw seed, they will be ruined. Weeds will snatch the nourishment. Even if they sprout, they will not grow; they will be lost among weeds.
“Likewise, the people’s fault is rāga.”
If you give to a rāgi, your giving will be lost—it will only feed his rāga. If you give money to one addicted to prostitutes, what will he do? He will go to a prostitute.
I have heard: In a church, a certain family never came. The women’s committee worried. They all went: You never come to church! They said: How can we? We have only one set of clothes. We wear them in the market and at work. They are torn and dirty. How can we come to church in these! We have no second set.
The women were moved. They quickly collected money, went to market, bought good clothes for the whole family—wife, children, husband. They waited the next Sunday at church—but the family did not come. Surprised, they went to their home. Why didn’t you come?
They said: We wore the clothes and looked in the mirror—we looked so beautiful that we went to the cinema! We looked so good we thought—What’s the point of church! What will we get there? You left some extra money too—after the cinema we went to a hotel. Time passed in that!
You need some intelligence regarding what the recipient will do.
“The fault of people is rāga; therefore dāna to vitarāgas brings great fruit.”
One who has gone beyond rāga, whose lust has died, whose greed has vanished—if you sow your seed of dāna in that field, there will be great, inner fruit.
“The fault of fields is weeds; the fault of people is dveṣa...”
If you give money to a murderer, what will he do? He will buy a gun and murder.
I have heard: A blind man and a lame man lived together. You know the story. When a forest fire broke out, they supported each other and got out, because the lame could see but not walk; the blind could walk but not see. The blind took the lame upon his shoulders; the lame guided; both escaped. Outside they quarreled—as often happens—each saying, I saved you. Blows were exchanged.
An old tale. In those days God watched from above what was happening. Now He is tired—how long to watch blind and lame!
He felt compassion. He thought: Let me cure them. He came. Both, angry, sat under different trees. The blind thought: How can I gouge out his eyes? He is so proud of sight! And the lame thought: How can I break his legs?
God asked the first—He thought: When I ask the blind to ask a boon, he will ask for sight. He asked: Ask a boon. The blind said: Lord! Since you have come and are so kind, do this: Pluck out the lame man’s eyes. The lame asked the same about the blind’s legs.
God was shocked. From then on He stopped coming—these blind and lame are dangerous.
As man is, even God’s boon will be misused. What to say of your dāna!
“The fault of fields is weeds; the fault of people is dveṣa. Therefore giving to vītadveṣa brings great fruit.”
Give to those beyond hatred and your gift will have only auspicious consequences.
“The fault of fields is weeds; the fault of people is moha. Therefore giving to vītamoha brings great fruit.”
“The fault of fields is weeds; the fault of people is icchā. Therefore giving to those beyond desire brings great fruit.”
Reflect on these words. Contemplate, meditate.
Let your life become dāna, become love, become egolessness. And let your life be engaged in those directions, let your seeds—of dāna and of love—fall into fields where the poisons of rāga, dveṣa, desires, hatreds, thirsts are not present. Then great fruit is certain.
Enough for today.