Es Dhammo Sanantano #111

First scene:
While the Blessed One was abiding at Jetavana, there were five monks, each guarding one of the five senses. One guarded the eye, one the ear, one the tongue. One day a great dispute arose among them as to whose guarding was the most difficult. Each held his own discipline to be most arduous, and therefore superior. When the dispute would not be resolved, they came to the feet of the Blessed One and asked: Bhante! Of these five senses, whose restraint is supremely difficult?
The Blessed One smiled and said: Bhikkhus! Restraint is arduous. Restraint is difficult. It is not this sense’s restraint or that sense’s restraint—restraint itself is difficult. Bhikkhus, do not fall into such futile quarrels, for beneath every quarrel lurks the ego. Therefore, no quarrel can be brought to a true conclusion. Do not waste your energy in dispute; pour your total energy into restraint. Guard all the doors. In restraint lies the way to freedom from suffering.
Understand this scene well; then the sutras will open easily.
First, it is necessary to go deep into the word sanvara. Sanvara, or sanyam, or samata, or samyaktva, or Samadhi, or Sambodhi, or Sambuddha—all arise from the same root—sam.
Whatever supreme states India has discovered in the search of consciousness, it has indicated them with words formed from sam: Samadhi, Sambodhi, Sambuddha. What does this root sam mean?
Sam means: a state in which a person comes to the balance that a scale reaches when its needle is exactly in the middle; both pans become equal, equi-poised.
In the human mind there is sorrow and joy; failure and success; darkness and light; attachment to life and fear of death. When all these dualities are brought to balance—no attachment to life, no fear of death; no longing for success, no escape from failure; no chasing of pleasure, no fleeing from pain—such a state is sam.
In the state of sam, shunya arises by itself. Because when positive and negative equalize, they cancel each other. It is simple arithmetic. When the positive and the negative are equal, they cut each other off; what remains is zero. That zero is of the utmost significance. The name of that zero is sam.
All the ways that lead one into that state of zero, and all the postures of being once one has arrived there, are proclaimed by the word sam.
Reflect. Examine. For a moment, you too can come into this samata. For a moment, your scale can become still—neither tilting here, nor tilting there.
Have you seen a rope-walker? That very art is the art of attaining equanimity. Exactly in the middle he stands. A little here or there—and he will fall. A slight leaning to the left—danger. A slight leaning to the right—danger. If the rope-walker leans to the left, he immediately leans to the right so that balance is restored. If he begins to lean right, he leans left to restore balance again. Moment to moment, between left and right, the rope-walker holds himself in the middle.
The Buddha has said: the process of meditation is like walking on a rope. Meditation means: a slight leaning is still happening; sometimes left, sometimes right—sometimes right, sometimes left. Samadhi means: now no leaning happens anywhere. Equanimity has become still. Dhyana is the method; Samadhi is the final fruit. On the tree of meditation, the flower of Samadhi blossoms.
This equanimity—you can sometimes hold it even for a moment. And from that very glimpse, the door of Dharma will open for you. Sit quietly sometime, and in that moment, hold it. Walk the rope. Neither opposition to pleasure, nor opposition to pain. No craving for pleasure, no craving for pain.
Remember: people often do exactly what the rope-walker does. When pleasure begins to trouble them enough, filling them with anxieties, they say: pleasure brings pain. So they turn in opposition to pleasure. These are the so-called renouncers—whose mouths have become bitter to pleasure.
Now they begin a reverse craving—they begin to crave suffering. From this craving for suffering, all your austerities are fabricated. Before, they sought a soft, pleasurable bed. Now they seek ground strewn with pebbles and thorns! Before, they sought tasteful food; now even if tasteful food is available, they go to the river and soak it in water, spoil it, and then accept it. Before, they sought silken garments; now if silk is offered, they run away from it—they want coarse, chafing cloth!
You will be astonished to know what man has done in the name of renunciation! He has whipped himself; made himself bleed. In Christianity there was a whole sect of flagellant monks. Their first prayer in the morning was to stand naked and lash themselves—to bleed. The more lashes one gave himself, the greater a saint he was thought to be. People came to watch. The whole village gathered. That was the saint’s prayer hour—when he whipped himself—everyone watched. And because people watched, the whipping became more juicy; competition arose. The urge to outdo each other was born.
These were the same people who competed in the world; now they compete in sannyas! No real change has happened. Equanimity has not arrived. Shunya has not flowered. Before, they asked for pleasure; now they ask for pain—yet the asking continues. And just as one day they got bored begging for pleasure and leaned toward suffering, so too one day, begging for suffering, they will tire and lean toward pleasure again.
Samata means: to know this truth—that pleasure and pain are two sides of the same coin. If you ask for one, the other is asked as well. And as long as both remain—duality remains—you will remain wobbly. As long as duality remains, you cannot be at peace.
You can go from this corner to that, swinging like the pendulum of a clock. But when will you halt in the middle?
See: a clock runs only because the pendulum swings. If the pendulum stops in the middle, the clock stops. In the same way, the day you stop in the middle, time stops.
Hence the wise have said: mind is time. Mahavira even gave the self the very name samaya—time. Therefore Kundakunda’s famous scripture is Samayasara—the essence of samaya.
The feeling of I is born from time. The feeling of I is the root of time. The day the I dissolves, time dissolves that day. And the I dissolves only when you come to the middle. When you do not sway to either side; when no choice remains in you—then samata.
Therefore Krishnamurti is right—choiceless awareness. When you do not choose at all. When you do not choose, you become still.
So sometimes, seated quietly, take a dip in choicelessness—and you will know the taste of sam. These are not words whose meaning can be found in a dictionary. The dictionary meaning is written there, but nothing will open; the secret will not be revealed. These words are so precious, existential, that you will only know them by experiencing them; only then will you recognize them.
And when the experience of sam happens, the root formula of Dharma is in your hand. Then this sam will become samata; this sam will become samyaktva; this sam will become Samadhi; this sam will become Sambodhi; this sam will become sanvara—sanyam.
So the meaning of sam is: when positive and negative—opposites—become exactly equal in weight, so that they cancel each other, and in your hand remains zero. The name of that emptiness is samata. The name of that impartiality is samata.
If you leave the world for moksha, you will not attain samata. You have leaned again; you have chosen again. You were leaning left, now you have leaned right. If you leave woman and run into the forest… Before you ran after women, now you run away from women—but samata has not come. The opposite has arrived. How can there be samata in opposites? Earlier you chose one; now you have chosen its reverse. Earlier you stood on your feet; now you stand on your head! What change does that bring in you?
Whether you stand on your feet or on your head, you remain you. By choosing among such petty things, nothing essential will happen. One pettiness will drop and another pettiness will be grasped. Earlier you clutched at wealth; now you tremble on seeing wealth.
In this way you will never step outside duality. You have not been able to do so for lives upon lives. And the formula to go beyond duality is: do not choose, understand. See—see deeply. Sharpen the eye. Put an edge on your seeing. Polish your vision. And then what will be revealed?
He who asked for success, asked for failure too. And he who asked neither for success nor for failure—he became silent. He who asked for wealth, asked for poverty too. And he who asked for pleasure, asked for pain as well. The opposite follows—just like a shadow. You asked for love, and you asked for hate too.
Do not ask at all. Let a state of non-asking arise in the mind; let no storm blow; no tempest arise; no wave be born. The name of that unmoving state is—sam. From that very sam the word—sanvara—is made.
Now it is appropriate to understand sanvara.
Generally, people have not understood sanvara because they have not understood sam. So, in ignorance, sanvara has become repression. Sanvara does not mean repression. Sanyam is not repression either.
Sanyam and sanvara are absolutely different from repression. Repression means—you did not understand and you pushed it down. People said: anger is bad; you heard it; read it in the scriptures; listened to the saints; again and again it was said—anger is bad; anger is poison; anger is fire; and the angry man is bad, he is insulted; the non-angry man is honored. You too thirst for honor. You too do not want to be thought ill of. You too do not want to be counted among the wicked. So you said: I will master it. I will bring anger under discipline.
But you have not understood yet, so you will not be able to master anger; you cannot bring it under sanyam. You will only become skillful in pushing it down. You will press your anger into your chest. Then it will not appear on the surface, but within, like poison, it will spread through the architecture of your life; it will enter into your very fibers.
That is why your so-called monks, saints, renouncers appear exceedingly angry. They may not act in anger, yet they look angry. You will find Durvasa seated in every temple. Why? They may not do anger, but their expression is full of anger.
The ordinary man is not as angry as your so-called great men. The ordinary man gets angry every day and is done with it. The ordinary man’s anger is a palmful. An incident occurs, a context comes, he gets angry. The matter ends; the anger ends.
But your saint collects anger. It comes by the palmful; he collects it. Drop by drop the ocean fills. Little palmfuls collecting become so much that the saint’s entire pattern of life becomes anger. He does not act in anger, but anger is being stored. And what is stored is more dangerous.
Psychologists say: a small, occasional anger—that is natural, human. But the man who keeps repressing anger—this is dangerous; beware of him. One day he will murder someone. If his anger bursts someday, it will not be a small incident. One day the anger bursts, and a great catastrophe will happen. He has enough poison.
Repression is not sanyam. Repression is not sanvara. Repression is to divide oneself in two, to fragment oneself. Repression is a kind of disease. The natural man is better than the repressed man. But repression creates the illusion that sanyam has been attained.
I have heard a story: a man was a great angerer. So angry that once, in anger, he threw his child out of a window—the child died. And once he pushed his wife into a well; she fell in.
In that village a Jain muni came. He called the man. He explained: madman! What are you doing!
That day his wound was fresh. The wife had died. He had not intended to kill her. In the blaze of anger the event happened—despite himself it happened. Now he repented. It was not that he had no love for his wife. There was attachment. Now by his own hand he had pushed his beloved into the well. On that sting, the iron was hot.
The muni called and said: Change! How long will you do this? You killed your son! You killed your wife! What sense is there? Now only you remain; someday you will kill yourself! No one else is left. Your anger ate your family; it will eat you too.
That day the iron was hot. The sting had struck. He said: What shall I do? You say. Whatever you say, I will do. The muni said: Become a sannyasin.
The man was angry. Had he been ordinary, he would have said: I will go home; I will think it over; there are complications. But he was angry; stubborn; obstinate. How long does it take for a stubborn man to become a hatha-yogi! He was angry—and that day the iron was hot too. He threw off his clothes on the spot; became naked. The muni was Digambara. He said: Initiate me right now. No need for delay.
The muni was very pleased. They must have been ununderstanding—hence pleased. Had they been wise, they would have seen that this act too is full of anger. Even in this act there is no equanimity, no awareness. This act too is wrong.
When the man is wrong, even the right thing in his hand goes wrong. And when the man is right, even wrong things in his hand become right. Remember this sutra. In the hand of the right man, even wrong things become right—the real question is the hand. In the hand of the wrong man, even right things go wrong—the real question is the hand. In the hand of the skillful, poison becomes medicine. In the hand of the unskillful, medicine becomes poison.
The muni must not have been very wise—perhaps himself a man of this same kind. He was very pleased. He blessed him. And in his joy he gave him a name: From today your life begins anew—your name is Shantinath. He had been Cruddhanath—Lord of Wrath; transformed, he became Shantinath—Lord of Peace.
Years passed. The guru left the world. Now Shantinath became guru. And he was a great angerer; so just as he had tormented others with anger, now he could not torment others—so he tormented himself. He would not sit in shade, he would stand in the sun. He would not travel on a smooth road, but on paths of gullies and pits, rugged and rough. He took not even the food needed by the body. He dried the body out. And in the initiation of a Digambara Jain monk, there are very convenient methods to express anger. He adopted them too.
When the hair of a Jain muni grows, he plucks it. Have you seen—women in anger tear their hair! When the Jain muni’s hair grows, he plucks it out. Hundreds gather to watch. They cry: Blessed! Blessed! Sadhu! Sadhu!
This man plucked out his hair. He awaited: when will my hair grow—so that the joy of plucking…! Now he tormented himself. There was no way to torment others. That had become difficult. Now the ego had been bedecked with many garlands—much prestige had come to the ego. So he could not torment anyone openly. But indirectly he tormented. Whoever came, he said: Leave the world, else you will go to hell. Now he tormented by giving the fear of hell! He could not create hell, but at least he could implant it in your dreams. He could instill the fear of hell in your mind.
And whoever came into his circle, he immediately made him a monk; made him naked; taught him to pluck hair; handed him the method of self-torture. He could not torment himself alone—he could at least propagate torment in the name of religion. This he did. He gained much fame. Such people often become famous. People call them great—Look how renounced he is!
Often ninety-nine out of a hundred of your great men suffer some mental disorder. They need therapy, not honor. They need psychotherapy. They need treatment.
But you are blind—how will you see that they need treatment! You too have been brought up on their doctrines. They have taught you for centuries. They are your doctrines; through them you cannot catch that a mistake is happening. Everything appears right.
If a Christian fakir lashes himself, the Hindu can see that a mistake is happening—because a Hindu was not brought up in that doctrine. The Christian does not see the mistake. And when a Hindu renouncer sits in the blazing noon, kindling fires around himself, the Hindu does not see any mistake; the Christian sees—what kind of obstinacy is this! This is self-repression. This is self-torture.
And when a Jain muni plucks his hair, the Hindu sees the madness. The Hindu has even made it an insult. Have you heard the slur—nange-lucche—‘naked rascals’? That word was first used for the Jain muni. They go naked and pluck hair—hence ‘naked rascals’! It became an insult. The Hindu uses it as abuse. But the Jain does not see that there is a mistake in it. This is religion itself!
You think along the line in which you have been bred and fed. Hence one can see another’s mistake, but not one’s own.
This muni gathered many followers. His prestige kept increasing. And as his prestige increased, he moved toward the capital—for ultimately, prestige is in the capital. He must have reached Delhi!
Not only politicians reach Delhi—great men too reach there. For behind the great men too, there is politics.
Some thirty years had passed since he had become a monk. A childhood friend of his came to Delhi—on some business perhaps. He thought: Let me pay my respects to Shantinath. A childhood companion. They studied together. He could not believe that that Cruddhanath had become Shantinath. But so much fame—so he went to see.
Shantinath was seated on his throne. He saw; he recognized the man. But now he had become so high, reached such heights—how to recognize him! How to admit we once played together! How to descend so low! So he turned his eyes away. He recognized, and he did not recognize.
The friend sensed it. He too saw that he had been recognized, and now the monk was hiding it. He felt perhaps nothing had changed. He said: Did you not recognize me? The muni said: How should I recognize you? Who are you? Where have you come from? The friend introduced himself. He listened; took no delight. He did not even admit: Yes, I remember—you were once known to me; we once played together; swam in the river together; fought together. Why recall such meanness? How can this extraordinary great man remember such ordinariness!
The friend watched. The same anger was on the face. Those who do not understand will say—there is radiance! But it was the same anger, sitting on the nose. It was clear from all sides. The friend knew him since childhood. There was no change in his manner. Only the form had changed.
To test, the friend asked: May I ask, what is your name? Hearing this, the muni became very angry. He said: Do you not read the newspaper? Do you not listen to the radio? Do you not see television? You ask my name! You do not know my name? My name is Shantinath!
The friend talked a bit more, then said: Forgive me! I have forgotten again. What is your name?
Now the muni became very angry indeed. Anger had begun the moment he saw this man, because his very arrival… all the memories were rising. The old days began to surface. He had been keeping them repressed—they were emerging. Just seeing this man, anger began. His face—like an untied hag—chandali—was coming loose. Somehow may he go! And now the wretch pokes again! He asked again: What is your name, Maharaj! He said: I told you once—do you not understand? Shantinath! Are you deaf?
The man chatted a bit, and for the third time asked: Forgive me! I have forgotten!
At that, the muni lifted his staff and said: I will smash your head! For a moment he forgot it all.
The friend said: Now I recognize, Shantinath-ji! You are exactly the same. No difference anywhere.
You can be the opposite, but the opposite changes nothing. When you come to sam, then the change happens. In sam is revolution.
We have a beautiful word—samkranti. It is born of kranti—revolution—and sam—equanimity. It is more precious than revolution. Revolution is simply going from one corner to the other—rich to poor, fine clothes to nakedness, from interest only in wealth to refusing to touch wealth. That is revolution.
What is samkranti? Samkranti is coming to the middle. Neither here nor there. Neither renouncer nor indulger. When both are absent, what happens is samata.
It cannot happen through repression. How can repression become sanvara? Repression can never become sanvara. Therefore sanvara and sanyam are not names for repression.
Repression is merely indulgence turned upside-down. It is the same indulgence doing a headstand. There is not a whit of difference. If you understand this, these sutras will be clear to you.
While the Blessed One was abiding at Jetavana, there were five monks, each guarding one of the five senses.
That could not have been sanvara—it must have been repression. Had it been sanvara, no dispute would have arisen. Had it been sanvara, vision would have opened. How would dispute arise? Had it been sanvara, the experience would have happened. Had it been sanvara, there would have been no need to go to the Buddha. Had it been sanvara, the Buddha would have come within; Buddhahood would have come close. It was not sanvara.
They must have heard the Buddha—Restrain the senses. Be awake to the senses. Hold to awareness. Enter sanvara. Become one of sanyam. They must have heard it again and again. Daily the Buddha said this. Because by this there is freedom from suffering. Attain samata, and you go beyond suffering. Attain samata, and you go beyond the world. That is moksha.
So the Buddha’s sweet words about moksha must have created greed in the mind. And his descriptions of hell must have created fear in the mind. Having heard the Buddha, motivation must have arisen—self-interest must have arisen—that this is the thing to do. But understanding did not arise; awareness did not arise. They heard the Buddha’s words, but did not understand them.
Hearing is one thing; understanding is entirely another. Everyone hears; who understands? The one who experiments with what he has heard—he understands. And he does not experiment by force, but with natural spontaneity. Experiments that are full of motive cannot be called experiments.
For example, you think—to attain moksha, let us renounce food, moksha will come. That is not an experiment. That is greed—just a new greed. You think: to avoid hell, let us renounce delicious tastes; let us renounce music; let us renounce pleasure—otherwise we will rot in hell. That is fear, not sanvara.
Sanvara knows neither greed nor fear; sanvara knows no motive at all. Sanvara is without purpose. It is done to understand life—nothing else; it is purposeless.
These monks were mastering one sense each. One was controlling food; one, form; one, sound. One walked with eyes lowered, so that forms would not be seen.
Now one who walks with eyes lowered will never attain sanvara over form. If to gain sanvara you have lowered the eyes, that is fear. Sanvara is attained when one looks at form with fully open eyes, and no stir arises within; the inner state remains without feeling. See the form attentively and be free of form—in that very seeing, in that very vision—that is sanvara. A beautiful woman passes in front of you; she passes—nothing passes in the mind. The mind remains as it was—as if no one passed at all—that is sanvara.
But generally, you have heard the stories… About Surdas they have woven a story. If the story is true, then Surdas was wrong. If Surdas was true, the story must be wrong. That on seeing a beautiful woman he became infatuated; he gouged out his eyes.
How will gouging out your eyes free you from a beautiful woman? At night the eyes close—but dreams continue, even more intensely! The loss of the eye will not stop the dreams. With the eyes present, sometimes the dreams stop—because life offers other things to see.
If Surdas gouged out his eyes out of fear of some beautiful woman, after the eyes are gone, nothing will be seen except that woman—again and again she will appear. And for whose sake the eyes were gouged, the attachment with that woman becomes very deep. So much has been sacrificed for that woman! Such a sacrifice made! The alliance deepens. Nothing else will be remembered. Only this woman—this woman—will be remembered.
And with closed eyes, that woman will become more beautiful day by day—because every day you will paint her with brush and color. Had the eyes remained open, one day her ugliness too would have been seen—for where beauty is, there ugliness is also. And had the eyes remained open—this woman was young; one day she would be old. How long does youth stay? It is momentary.
But once the eyes are gone, the woman Surdas desired will remain forever young; she can no longer age. Now he is stuck.
Why should dream-women ever grow old? And now the woman herself must have grown old. But Surdas will remember the woman who was young—the one whose sight made him gouge his eyes; the one who so shocked him, who so disquieted him—with her the alliance has been forged.
No—if Surdas is right, the story must be wrong. And if the story is right, then Surdas is wrong. If the story is right, then the praise he sings of Krishna is not Krishna’s praise—it is the praise of that same woman.
And if Surdas is true and Krishna’s praise is true, why would he gouge his eyes for any woman? In that woman he would have seen Krishna himself. Where beauty appears, there the Divine appears.
One who arrives at sanvara sharpens the eyes; opens them; learns to see rightly. He does not become blind. Nor does he lower the eyes.
There is a famous Zen story, which I have told you many times. Two monks came to a river bank. One old, one young. They saw a beautiful young woman standing by the river. The old monk walked ahead, as is the rule—the elder first, the younger behind. The old man quickly lowered his eyes. The woman was of exceptional beauty.
Perhaps she was not that beautiful—but to old renouncers, every woman appears beautiful! The more you run from women, the more beautiful they appear. The more you run, the more beautiful they seem. But perhaps she was truly beautiful. He became very shaken.
The woman said: I am afraid; I need to cross this river; will you not give me your hand? The old man did not even hear. He hurried away. He thought: to listen is dangerous, because he could see the condition of his mind. The mind said: take her hand. This hand is lovely. May I ever meet it again! The hand itself moves to hers—do not let go. And the more the mind said this… he feared that the forty years of vows would all go to dust; the terror grew. He must have broken into a sweat that evening. A cool breeze was blowing. The sun was setting. Yet he must have been soaked in sweat. He hurried to cross. He did not look back. He gave no reply—for to reply is dangerous.
When he crossed, suddenly he remembered: I crossed, but my young companion is behind. He might get into trouble! He looked back. Trouble had indeed arrived for the youth—so he thought.
The youth also had come to the river. The woman said: I must cross, give me your hand. The youth said: The river is deep; a hand will not do—climb on my shoulder. He seated her on his shoulders and carried her across.
When the old man looked back, they were in midstream. He was filled with rage and resentment. Perhaps a touch of envy mixed in— that I could not even take her hand and he carried her on his shoulders! So beautiful a woman! Dream-like! Flower-like! Anger rose. Envy rose. Jealousy rose. I missed it—regret rose. All this gathering became one: this is intolerable. He is corrupted. I will tell the Master. I must tell.
When the youth came ashore and the two walked toward the ashram, the old man did not speak to him for two miles. Fierce anger throbbed. As they climbed the steps to the ashram, the old man said: Listen! I cannot hide this. The sin you have committed—I must report it to the Master. For a monk, the touch of woman is forbidden. And you did not merely touch—you carried that maiden on your shoulders. This is the limit!
You know what the youth said?
He said: Strange! I set that woman down at the riverbank. Are you still carrying her on your shoulders?
Those who never carry, may carry forever. Those who have carried, someday set the burden down. A burden becomes heavy.
If Surdas gouged out his eyes, he must have carried her on his shoulders all his life. No— that is no method. And I understand Surdas; therefore I say the story must be false. Some stupid folk must have invented it. The same folk who have distorted the whole of religion.
These five monks must have been closing eyes; closing ears; binding themselves by force. And when one forces oneself, the ego is born. Ego is a symptom. The ego arises when you do something to yourself by force and succeed at it.
When a man enters life in deep understanding, the ego is not formed. For there is nothing to do there. By understanding alone the knots untie themselves. Nothing needs be done.
One who has seen the forms of the body with awake eyes will see they are momentary; bubbles of water—they are today, gone tomorrow. Now nothing remains to be done. The matter is finished.
One who, awake, hears music, it becomes clear that these are but impacts of sound. A struck sound—ahat nada. There is nothing special here—only noise. And to the one who sees that the music outside is noise, the music within begins to be heard—the unstruck sound, anahat nada. There the veena is already playing. And the one playing is the Divine himself.
But one entangled in outer music does not hear the inner. One entangled in outer taste does not taste the amrit within. But if you repress the outer taste, you remain entangled in outer taste. There is no freedom through repression. Understand the outer taste.
One day a heavy dispute arose among these five.
All five must have become egotistic. One walked with eyes lowered—this became his pride: Look how I have restrained form—none has done as I have. And it is most difficult to restrain form. To conquer the eye is the hardest task; arduous, because the attraction of form is so powerful.
Another must have said: What is there in that! The real point is the tongue. The tongue must be controlled. Look at me! I take no salt; no sugar; no ghee—nothing this, nothing that. I eat coarse fare. The essential thing is the tongue.
The taste for form arises only when one reaches fourteen years. The tongue’s taste arises on the very first day of birth. The taste for form disappears as one grows old. But the tongue’s taste remains to the last breath.
So the one controlling the tongue says: Look—from the first day to the last day, from cradle to grave, the thing that remains is the more arduous. Form comes and goes.
One controlled the nose—smell. One the ear—sound. One the body—touch. Each gave his arguments.
The one arguing for touch says: Right—the child is born and takes milk. But the child’s joy in touch begins in the mother’s womb. There the two bodies touch. And this longing for touch remains lifelong. The warmth, the heat that comes in the touch of two bodies—its flavor lasts forever.
Thus they argued. Such dispute cannot arise from sanvara. It arises because each has done control. And he who has controlled wants to say: My control is greater than yours. Naturally—my control is more difficult, greater; therefore I am greater than you. This ego roils within.
If a renouncer is egotistic, know he is not a renouncer. If a renouncer is egoless, then he is a true renouncer. But to find an egoless renouncer is almost impossible. Because the egoless person is neither a renouncer nor an indulger—he stands in the middle. His clock has stopped; his pendulum is still. He attains sam.
In the world there are three kinds of people: the indulger, the renouncer—and between both I place the sannyasin, for that word too arises from sam. I do not call the sannyasin a renouncer. I do not call the sannyasin worldly either.
Therefore I do not say to my sannyasins: Leave the world and become renouncers. I say to them: Attain samyaktva. Remain where you are. There, in the midst, hold your balance. There is no need to overturn your life.
A great dispute arose among the five as to whose restraint is most difficult. Each declared his own discipline the more arduous and therefore superior. The dispute found no end.
It cannot. No dispute has ever found an end. In five thousand years how many disputes have run, but not one has found a true conclusion. No dispute can.
For centuries man has debated: Is there God or not? Those who say there is not, keep saying—there is not. Those who say there is, keep saying—there is. There is no conclusion. Neither the theist convinces the atheist, nor the atheist convinces the theist. The Veda-believer keeps quoting the Veda; the Quran-believer quotes the Quran. Everyone draws arguments for his side. But neither cares for the Veda nor for the Quran. Neither cares for God nor for the absence of God. Each cares that what I say must be right—because I am right.
When you argue, notice—you are not concerned with what is true. You are concerned with whether what you say is true.
Ruskin has a famous saying: There are two kinds of people in the world—those who want truth to walk behind them, as one holds a cow by a rope and draws it after oneself; these are the disputants. They want even truth to be their follower. And there are those who want to walk behind truth—where truth goes, they are ready to go. If truth resides in the camp of the opponent, they are ready to go there. Wherever truth is, there they will be. They become the shadow of truth. These are the seekers of truth. They alone can find. The disputants cannot find.
The disputant says: I have already found—hence the dispute. He says: I know; and I can prove it.
Remember, logic can prove anything. Logic is like a prostitute—it has no concern who is right, who wrong. You use it—it serves you; another uses it—it serves him. Logic is a lawyer.
There was a great lawyer—Dr. Hari Singh Gaur. He founded Sagar University. He was among the world’s renowned lawyers. But sometimes he drank a little too much.
There was a case before the Privy Council—a princely state’s dispute. A big case. Crores at stake. He drank too much at the club the previous night. In the morning he still had a hangover. He forgot which side he was on—and spoke for the opposite. He spoke for an hour. His junior tugged at his coat several times; but he shook off the hand, inebriated. Anger came—and with anger his logic grew sharp. He did not stop.
The other lawyer, for the opposing side, was shocked—what will be left for me! The magistrate too was astonished—what now! The opposing party was amazed. And the party of Dr. Gaur was stunned—our own has killed us! What has happened to him! Is he mad!
After an hour, when he stopped—having thoroughly demolished—his junior said: You killed us! You killed your own client! You forgot. He said: Do not worry.
He began again: Just now I have given the arguments the opposing counsel will give. Now I begin their refutation. And he refuted with equal skill. And he won the case.
Logic is a lawyer. Logic has no fidelity. Whoever takes it along, it goes with him. For everything an argument can be made. And the same argument that proves can disprove too.
The theist says: There must be God, because the world is. If there is a pot, there must be a potter. How can it be without a maker? Such a vast expanse of creation! There must be God, a creator. How else could this be? That is his logic.
Ask the atheist.
He says: We agree. The logic is correct. Now we ask: Who made God? If every made thing—if everything that is—must have a maker, then who made God?
The theist says: That cannot be asked. No one made God. At some point you must admit that something is unmade; otherwise it will go on forever—A made by B, B by C—without end. At one place we must stop. We stop at God.
The atheist says: We agree—we must stop somewhere. Why not stop at the world itself? Why go to the maker?
The logic is one; it serves both. But neither cares for truth. I am right!
Ego brings dispute. Where the ego ends, dialogue with truth begins.
Seeing no resolution to their dispute, the five presented themselves at the feet of the Blessed One.
This is symbolic too. When you cannot resolve a dispute by thinking, go to one who is non-disputatious—to one who does not live by argument, who has known truth.
You are thinking about truth. Thinking does not resolve. Go to one who has known truth. Only from the knower can resolution come.
Yet another point: Even then, this is still from the outside. And what the Buddha will say, each of the five will interpret differently. The dispute can start again. If one wants to continue disputing, there is no way to be free of it.
Even after going to the Buddha, the five may return and one will say: The Buddha said this. The other will say: You are wrong. He did not say that. His intention was this. The dispute will arise again with a new issue—but the quarrel will continue.
The moment the Buddha died, Buddhism split into thirty-six sects! Those thirty-six sects must have existed even while the Buddha was alive—how could they arise suddenly! It does not happen that today the Buddha dies and suddenly people split. These thirty-six groups were already there, suppressed. In the Buddha’s prestige, his heat, they were kept down. They could not show themselves before him. The moment the Buddha died, the quarrels sprang up. Buddhism broke into thirty-six pieces.
When Mahavira departed, Jainism split into fragments. These disputes must have been there. They cannot fall from the sky in a flash. Some time is needed. If Mahavira goes, and a hundred or two hundred years later disputes arise—one can understand. Those who had heard him are gone; those who had seen are gone. Now dispute is natural. But here, the moment Mahavira dies—the body is still lying there—the dispute begins!
When Kabir died—the quarrel arose over the very corpse! The Hindus wanted to cremate; the Muslims to bury. What kind of disciples were these? In the presence of Kabir this one was Hindu, that one Muslim—only in Kabir’s light they were kept suppressed. When that light went, all the fireflies began to twinkle. The disputes returned.
So the deeper symbol is: going to the outer Buddha may or may not resolve the quarrel. If you go to the inner Buddha, the resolution is certain. Your own Buddhahood is the only conclusion of the dispute.
The five presented themselves at the feet of the Blessed One and asked: Bhante! Of these five senses, whose restraint is the most arduous?
The Blessed One laughed and spoke…
He laughed, because none of the five cared for which sense is most difficult. They had no concern with truth. They had all come to have themselves affirmed. All five stood stiff with pride, wanting the Buddha to endorse them. Therefore he laughed—at the foolishness.
So many days the eyes were kept lowered; so many days food was renounced; so many days they lived in solitude! And in the end—dispute arose! A stench at the end—no fragrance. He laughed at this plight, at man’s pitiable condition, at his stupidity.
Bhikkhus! he said: Sanvara is arduous. To say—this sense’s restraint, that sense’s restraint—this is vain. Sanvara is arduous; awakening is arduous. To attain the state of samata is arduous. And none of you has attained that state yet. You are still engaged in repression.
The real difficulty is where you awaken—and through awakening, sanvara is accomplished; no striving is required. A sadhu is one in whom it is accomplished; not one who strives.
Kabir has said: O seekers! Sahaj Samadhi is best. Sahaj Samadhi! That is what the Buddha calls sanvara—in the Buddha’s language, it is sanvara. Sahaj Samadhi—natural, effortless. What does it mean?
It means: as if your house is on fire, and you see it, and you run out—you are outside. This is Sahaj Samadhi. You see the house is burning—how can you stay inside? It is seen; you go out.
But your house is on fire and you are blind. A neighbor comes and says: Brother, come out, the house is on fire. You say: Stop this nonsense! Are you going to loot my house? What fire? Where? I see nothing. Until I see it, how can I run?
But if the neighbor is very wise and skilled in explaining, and can convince you the house is on fire—you will, unwillingly, drag yourself out. You do not want to come. You are being forced. To get rid of this neighbor somehow—you come. This is unnatural. It is forced. Sahaj means spontaneous.
The Buddha said: Sanvara is arduous. Not this sense or that sense—sanvara itself is arduous. Bhikkhus, do not fall into such futile debates. For at the root of debate is ego. No debate can come to a real conclusion, for the ego has no conclusion. The ego deludes and bewilders—it does not bring you anywhere. It cannot.
Do not waste energy in disputes; instead, bhikkhus, pour your total energy into sanvara. Pour all your strength into the lamp within you, so the flame flares up. In the rising of that flame everything will be seen—what is futile and what is meaningful. What is essence and what is non-essence. And to see the non-essential as non-essential—that itself is freedom from it.
Guard all the doors, bhikkhus!
Do not fall into the tangle—this sense or that sense. If you somehow suppress the eye, the passion-energy that moved through the eye will shift to the ear.
This happens every day. You have seen—an blind person becomes very skillful in music. His capacity to hear increases. Why? Because the energy that used to flow out through the eye—now that door is closed—so it begins to flow through the ear. If you dam a waterfall on one side, it will break through on another. Dam it there, it will find a third way. The stream will flow.
Therefore, it often happens that those who control one sense find another sense becoming very powerful. And sometimes that other sense becomes even more dangerous—for it receives the collected force of two senses.
Hence the question is not—this sense or that. The Buddha says: Practice sanvara. Awaken. Go beyond all the doors of the senses. Sanvara is the way to freedom from suffering.
Then he uttered these gathas:
Cakkhunaṃ saṃvaro sādhu, sādhu sotena saṃvaro.
Ghānena saṃvaro sādhu, sādhu jivhāya saṃvaro.
Restraint of the eye is auspicious, it is noble—it makes one a sadhu. Restraint of the ear is also auspicious—it makes one a sadhu. Restraint of smell is auspicious; restraint of the tongue is auspicious.
All restraints are auspicious, because sanvara makes a person simple; it frees him from complexity. Sanvara gives a person unity. Otherwise the five senses pull into five fragments. One pulls this way; another that way. When the senses no longer pull, the person becomes jitendriya—master of the senses. In that mastery is sadhuta—the quality of the sadhu.
Kāyena saṃvaro sādhu, sādhu vācāya saṃvaro.
Manasā saṃvaro sādhu, sādhu sabbattha saṃvaro.
Sabbattha saṃvuto bhikkhu sabbadukkhā pamuccati.
Restraint of the body is auspicious. Restraint of speech is auspicious. Restraint of the mind is auspicious. Restraint of all the senses is auspicious. The bhikkhu who is restrained in all ways is freed from all suffering.
Restraint of the body is auspicious. Restraint of speech is auspicious.
Restraint of the body means—the capacity to be alone. The first circumference of restraint—the joy of living in aloneness.
You have seen—aloneness bites! When you are alone in the house, a thousand urges arise—where shall I go? To the cinema? To the hotel? To some club? To the neighbor’s house—where shall I go?
Why? For what are you going? To the cinema? To the neighbor? To the club? Because there is no capacity to be alone. You need others. With others you remain entangled with others.
Restraint of body means—the capacity for aloneness, the capacity for solitude. It does not mean you must run to some Himalayan cave. Here, walking in the bazaar, you can be alone if you choose. And in a cave, if you choose, you can be in a crowd.
Even sitting in a cave, if you are thinking about people, that is not bodily restraint. And walking on the road, in the market, if you are not thinking of anyone—walking silent, balanced, seated in yourself—then it is restraint.
Bodily restraint means—the capacity for solitude. Restraint of speech means—the capacity for silence, the capacity to be quiet.
Speech connects with others. Speech is a bridge of relationship. If there is the capacity to be free of speech… It does not mean do not speak at all. It means that when it is necessary—utterly necessary—then speak.
In speaking, one should have the same restraint as when sending a telegram—you weigh every word: cut this word, cut that word. This is extra. That is extra. Only nine words can go; these are ten—cut one more. And you have noticed a strange thing: a telegram has more effect than a letter! In a letter you write whatever comes to heart. Ten pages you write. Because of that, the urgency of what you say is lost. Its force is lost. Its density and impact are lost.
In the ten words of a telegram there is density, intensity. You keep cutting words—this is unnecessary, that too. What remains necessary becomes weighty. Therefore the telegram has effect; it strikes.
Restraint of speech means—the capacity to speak only that which is necessary. Why call it capacity? Because you speak unnecessarily; you entangle yourself in speech. Speaking is a kind of entanglement, a busyness.
Whoever you meet—you speak. Anything. He speaks something; you speak something. When nothing else, you talk about the weather! He knows; you know. Yet you talk! You have both read the same newspaper. You talk about it. But something must be said. And that which you have said a thousand times, you repeat again.
Restraint of speech means—speak the necessary; do not speak the unnecessary.
Then restraint of mind. Restraint of mind is inner silence.
One silence is outer—do not speak uselessly. And the other is inner—do not think uselessly. Thus, gradually, solitude grows. First from outside—free of crowd. Then free of words. Then free of the waves of the mind. Then sanvara of all the senses is accomplished. One becomes jitendriya—master of the senses.
A bhikkhu who is restrained in all ways is freed from all suffering.
Hatthasaññato pādasaññato, vācāya saññato saññatuttamo.
Ajjhattarato samāhito, eko santusito tamāhu bhikkhuṃ.
One whose hands and feet are restrained, whose speech is restrained, who is supremely restrained; who delights in the inner, is samahita—collected; who is alone and content—that one is called a bhikkhu.
The Buddha has emphasized much: even as you walk, keep restraint. What restraint in walking? Walk with awareness. Even as you lift a foot, remember—I am lifting this foot. Do not lift it in unconsciousness.
One whose hands and feet and speech are restrained…
He speaks only when he knows—and then only.
How many things do you say which you do not know! Someone asks: Is there God? You say: Yes—there is. You thump your chest: there is. You have no idea of God. In the world, tell lies if you must—but at least leave God aside! In that matter, do not lie!
Someone asks: Is there Atman? You say: Yes. And you have never gone within; never seen this Atman! Someone asks: Will people survive after death? You say: Yes. There is rebirth. The Atman is immortal.
You have not yet seen life—leave death aside. You fall asleep at night, and you do not know who you are—how will you know in the deep sleep of death? Every night in sleep you break from your identification; you forget who you are—so when the great death comes, when you die in every way, will you remember?
You have no memory of past lives; you have no knowledge of the eternity of the Atman. Yet you keep saying anything at all. Guard yourself against these lies. Whoever guards himself against such lies—only he can attain truth.
Whose hands, feet and speech are restrained; who is supremely restrained; who delights in the inner—who remains absorbed in himself—samahita… Again a word made from sam—samahita. In every way established in oneself; in every way steady in oneself; in every way rooted in oneself; alone and content… Again sam—santushta—contentment.
As he is, where he is—thus he knows himself blessed; he has no demand for otherwise.
One who has no demand for otherwise—there is no anxiety in his life. One who has no demand for otherwise—there is never sorrow in his life. As it is—he is content.
You say: If it becomes such-and-such, then I will be content. Then you will never be content. Who is there to fulfill your desires? Everyone is busy fulfilling their own. And if this vast existence ran to fulfill the desires of each and every one, it would have fallen apart long ago.
But the one who says: Whatever comes to me from existence—that is my joy—this man cannot be made unhappy. The one who ties his alliance with existence—who flows with its current—is content, samahita, alone. The Buddha says: He alone is called a bhikkhu.
Yo mukhasaññato bhikkhu mantabhāṇī anuddhato,
Atthaṃ dhammañ ca dīpeti, madhuraṃ tassa bhāsitaṃ.
The one who restrains his mouth; who speaks after reflection; who is not inflated; who reveals meaning and Dhamma—his speech is sweet.
Yo mukhasaññato bhikkhu mantabhāṇī anuddhato…
He speaks only as much as he knows; only as much as he has lived; only as much as he is himself witness to—and his speech naturally becomes sweet. Where truth is, there is sweetness.
Atthaṃ dhammañ ca dīpeti…
From his words, the lamps of Dhamma begin to be lit.
Madhuraṃ tassa bhāsitaṃ.
And from his very presence, sweetness showers. Whoever comes near becomes intoxicated. Whoever comes near begins to be luminous. The nearer he comes, the more luminous he becomes.
Like an unlit lamp, lit by coming near a lit lamp—so, near such a samahita person, a contented person, a person in Samadhi, a person in Sambuddhahood—even a burnt-out man is lit by the lamp of Dhamma. The sleeping consciousness catches fire. Darkness is dispelled. And a rain of supreme sweetness falls.
Second scene:
When the Blessed One said that after four months my Parinirvana will be, the bhikkhus could not restrain themselves—they wept bitterly. Tears flowed. Not to speak of the bhikkhus—even the arahants felt a surge of Dhamma-emotion. Their eyes did not fill with tears, but even their hearts trembled.
At that time, a sthavira named Dhammarama thought: I am not yet free of passion, and the Master’s Parinirvana draws near. Therefore, while the Master still lives, I must attain arahantship. Thinking thus, he went into solitude and, with whole resolve, entered into practice.
From that day Dhammarama lived in solitude, kept silence, meditated. Even when asked something by the bhikkhus, he did not answer. Naturally, the bhikkhus were offended. Who does Dhammarama think he is? He does not answer when we ask! He neglects us! He walks as if alone, as if no one else is here!
There were ten thousand bhikkhus with the Buddha. Dhammarama forgot those ten thousand. Naturally, many were hurt. Many did not like it. People said Jayaram-ji to him; even that he did not answer! He left off speech entirely—as if the world had vanished.
The bhikkhus complained to the Blessed One. The Blessed One said: Bring Dhammarama here.
When Dhammarama came, he asked: Bhikkhu! What has happened to you? Is it true you do not speak with the other bhikkhus?
Bhante! It is true, said Dhammarama.
Bhikkhu! Why are you doing this?
Then Dhammarama told all his thought. He said: You are going. There are four months left. If, while you are here, I do not get freed—then there is no hope for me. If, in your presence, my lamp cannot be lit, I do not think it will ever be lit. Where will I find such a Buddha again? I will have to wander for births. Therefore, I do not want to waste even a speck of energy on anything else. I do not want to shed even a single tear. I do not want to utter even a single word. Whatever I have—these four months—I will stake it all. If it can happen this time—let it happen. Having come so close, if I miss, O Lord—then how long will it take? Where will I find again? When will there be a meeting with some Buddha again?
The unawakened—there is a crowd of them. If you seek one, a thousand appear. But where will I find Buddhas? Thousands of lives will pass. And perhaps—I will be lost. If I cannot reach while you are here, then alone I will be completely lost. Thinking this, I have gathered all energy within.
Now I have only three tasks: solitude—solitude means forgetting others; silence—no connection by speech or thought with others; and meditation—dissolving the waves of thought within.
These are the three means to Samadhi. They are the ways of living. To live as if you have nothing to say; nothing to speak. And within—what is there to think? All rubbish. Why turn it over and over!
Whoever is filled with these three moods—solitude, silence and meditation—in his life, one day, Samadhi flowers. One day everything becomes shunya.
Remember: in solitude, the other is erased. In silence, words are erased. In meditation, thoughts are erased. And in Samadhi, the self is erased; the zero remains.
He told the whole matter to the Buddha. Hearing him, the Buddha praised him and said: Bhikkhus! The others too, who have love for me, should become like Dhammarama. Those who worship me with garlands, perfumes and such do not worship me. They deceive themselves. Rather, those who live according to Dhamma—they alone worship me. There is no essence in shedding tears. And those who do so have not understood me. How many times have I told you: here, everything is anicca—unstable. What is born must die. What has happened will pass. Do not make attachment with this unstable. And you have made attachment to me! Those who are attached to me have not understood me. Do not weep. Nothing will be gained by weeping. You have wept enough. You have wept for births upon births. Now stop. Do not sleep either. Leave weeping; leave sleeping. Now—wake.
Then he spoke this gatha:
Dhammarāmo dhammarato dhammaṃ anuvicintayaṃ,
Dhammaṃ anussaraṃ bhikkhu saddhammā na parihāyati.
The bhikkhu who delights in Dhamma, who is devoted to Dhamma, who reflects on Dhamma and follows Dhamma—he does not fall away from the Saddhamma—the true Dhamma.
Let the first scene be absorbed well in the heart.
One day the Buddha announced: for four months more my boat will remain at this shore. Then the time of my going has come. For four months more I will abide in this body. Then this bird will fly. For four months more you will see me with your fleshly eyes. Afterwards, only those will see me whose inner eye has opened. For four months more, I will call you. If you hear—good. After four months, my call will be lost. Yes, those who hear my call in these four months—they will go on hearing it forever. For four months more—use me, if you will. Take this medicine, if you will. Four months more—then the hour of my going has come.
It is entirely natural that the bhikkhus wept. When there is one like the Buddha, and attachment does not arise—that would be unnatural. When there is one like the Buddha, and love does not happen—that is impossible. With one like the Buddha—not to speak of ordinary bhikkhus—even those who had attained arahantship, who had themselves become Buddhas—a line of attachment still remains. The thought of losing such a dear one breaks the heart.
An almost identical event is in the life of Jesus. The night he took the last supper with his disciples, he said: This is the last night. Tomorrow morning I will go. The hour has come. The cross awaits.
They wept. The disciples wept. Jesus said: Do not weep.
See the difference between the words of Buddha and of Jesus!
Jesus said: Do not weep. Do not weep for me. If you must weep, weep for yourselves. If you must weep—for yourselves. Do not weep for me. What will come of weeping for me!
Jesus is saying: Now look toward yourselves; turn within. The hour of my going has come. I kept calling you to turn within. Even now you are weeping for me! Do not weep for me. What is to happen will happen—it has already happened. Do not waste more time. I am with you a little while—wake up. Weep for yourselves. Weep for the time wasted—so many lives wasted. Do not waste this night.
And Jesus said: Now let us go up the hill and pray. They went. He said: Stay awake. But the disciples doze! Jesus prays for an hour, then rises and sees—they are all nodding off!
The last night has come! Tomorrow they will be parted from this man. For births, they may or may not meet again. When will such a grand, divine form come again before the eyes—who knows! When will such an auspicious moment happen! Yet they cannot stay awake. Sleep is deep. Even on the last night they sleep.
The same that day—when the Buddha said: after four months will be my Parinirvana. The bhikkhus could not restrain their tears. They wept, loudly.
In one sense—natural. But above nature one must go—to find the essential nature.
In this world there are two kinds of nature: that of prakriti—matter, and that of Paramatma—consciousness. Two levels—one of matter, one of consciousness. What is natural for matter—beyond that, the nature of consciousness manifests.
It is entirely natural, human. They loved the Buddha so much; in his love they left the world—home and hearth; wife and children. In love for the Buddha, they staked all. And the Buddha is leaving! Tears are entirely natural. But above this there is another nature. If the tears stop and awakening happens, then there will never again be separation from the Buddha.
Separation from the Buddha happens only as long as we are bound to body. The day we know—I am consciousness—on that day, what separation from the Buddha! Then Buddhahood itself abides within you. Then this bond is unbreakable.
The disciple must one day come to the state where he becomes like the guru. The day the disciple becomes the guru, that day he has arrived.
Naturally, the bhikkhus wept. Even the arahants felt a surge of Dhamma. Those who had arrived—they too felt a tremor. It had never occurred to them that the Buddha would go. All goes. All flows away. That the Buddha would go—they had not thought. They had assumed the Buddha would remain forever.
For a moment, even those trembled whose Samadhi was steady.
Understand: In the world, those who tremble—are very natural people, ordinary. In the world, those whose trembling is finished—are arahants. The world causes them no tremor. But still, one tremor can happen—the loss of the guru. Beyond this too one must go.
Let no attachment remain. Not only the attachment to the unwholesome should go—the attachment to the wholesome should also go. Sin should fall—but merit should fall too. The world must be left; and one day, even the longing for nirvana and moksha must fall—then is supreme freedom—Parinirvana.
At that time the sthavira Dhammarama thought thus: I am not yet without attachment, and the day of the Buddha’s going draws near. I have wasted many days; much time is gone. I have not even a moment to waste now. And the Master will enter Parinirvana! Therefore, while the Master lives, I must attain arahantship. Now I will save nothing. Now I will plunge wholly. I will not waste time in any other resolutions and alternatives. I will not let even a small ray of energy go outward; I will collect it all.
He went into solitude with resolve and began deep practice.
In the Buddha tradition, sankalpa—resolve—means: Now I will either become a Buddha, or death may come. Between the two there is no third. Life is spent. I choose either death, or Buddhahood. I am ready to die; in living I have no more juice. Resolve means: now that which I have chosen to attain—I will attain, or I will die. Death will be accepted, but life will not be accepted without Buddhahood. That is the meaning of resolve.
With such resolve, Dhammarama went into solitude, kept silence, meditated. When bhikkhus asked him anything, he did not answer. The bhikkhus were disturbed—this too is natural. First disturbance—Dhammarama’s eyes did not shed tears. From the day the Buddha said—only four months more—Dhammarama became something else altogether. A stone statue. He did not move. He left all interest in all matters.
There must have been gossip. Where ten thousand bhikkhus gather, there will be gossip. Praise and blame. Who is wrong, who is right; who is doing what! What else will bhikkhus do! All kinds of disputes—who is superior, who is inferior; above, below. All kinds of politics. What else will bhikkhus do!
Therefore Dhammarama is unique. Many must have begun to think: The Buddha is about to go—perhaps I will seize the Sangha. I will become the master. The Buddha will go. People must have begun to place their pawns.
Who after the Buddha? Who will sit on the Buddha’s seat? Who will be Master? Politics must have begun. Intrigues. Means to raise oneself and push others down. Bhikkhus must have begun to gather votes—if more gather round me, if more votes I have, then tomorrow the seat will be mine.
The Buddha is about to go. One cannot stop the one who goes. They must have wept—and then engaged themselves in these disturbances too.
But Dhammarama took the right direction. The news of the Buddha’s going became such a deadly blow to his heart—it was as if a dagger had been thrust into his chest. Now life cannot be. Now, while the Buddha lives, I must attain Buddhahood. Now this chance must not be lost. Now, twenty-four hours, sleeping or waking, one tone resounded in him—only one note.
So—solitude, silence and meditation—are the means to Samadhi. These are the three steps.
Know yourself to be alone. You came alone; you will go alone; you are alone. Togetherness is all false. Togetherness is a play; a convention. Who is whose? Not wife, not husband; not brother, not sister; not friend—who is whose? Alone you came; alone you will go; alone you are. To deepen this feeling is called solitude.
I am alone; I am alone—let this sink into every breath. I am alone—let it settle in the heartbeat. I am alone—let it sink so deep that it is never forgotten, not for a moment. This is freedom from the world.
It is not that you leave your wife. Know—you are alone. Let the wife be there. Let the children be there. Let the house be there. But I am alone. In a full house you become alone. In a full crowd you become alone. The whole world goes on—and I am alone—this is the mood of solitude.
And when I am alone, what need is there to speak! With whom will I speak? What will I speak? A silence begins to descend by itself.
And when you begin to be silent—what is there to think within? Man thinks because he must speak. Speaking happens only when you think there are others. These are all linked. They are all a chain.
Man thinks because he must speak. He speaks because he must connect with others. When we are not connected with others—and cannot be—why speak? Why think?
These three complete—solitude, silence and meditation—and the state that remains is Samadhi. Then you have become sam. Shunya has appeared.
Dhammarama set himself upon the search for this shunya. The bhikkhus complained to the Buddha. Their egos were hurt. He does not even answer our Jayaram-ji! He has become arrogant!
As you are—so you see. This is the great difficulty. The egotists see ego in everyone. The thief sees thieves in everyone.
Now this man has taken the right path—so to those going the wrong way, he appears an obstacle.
They complained to the Blessed One. The Buddha called Dhammarama. Asked: What has happened to you? Is it true you do not speak to the bhikkhus?
Bhante! It is true, he said.
Why are you doing this?
Dhammarama described his whole state of mind. The Buddha heard, thanked him, and said: You are doing right. You alone are doing what ought to be done. The other bhikkhus too, who love me, should become like Dhammarama. For to love Buddhas is not like ordinary love. This love has its own style. Its own posture. Its own gesture.
To love the worldly—there is one way. To love Buddhas—another. To love the worldly, bring the offerings of the world—diamonds and jewels; ornaments; sarees; fine clothes. To love the worldly, bring worldly gifts. To love Buddhas—bring the gift of Buddhahood. Nothing else will work. To love Buddhas—become a Buddha one day. One day, come to their feet and place your head, so they can see your shunya—so they can say: Good; you are blessed. You have arrived. One day, offer your shunya at their feet.
Thus the Buddha said: Those who worship me with garlands and perfumes do not worship me; they pretend to worship.
Cheap worship—garlands, perfumes, flowers. They do not offer themselves. They offer rubbish and think the work is done!
He alone worships who lives according to Dhamma. The one who lives by what I have said—whether he ever comes to my feet or not. The one who has understood my word and taken it—that one alone worships me.
There is no essence in shedding tears. Do not weep. Do not waste time. And if you do this—you have not understood me. All my life I have explained: here everything is momentary. Nothing here is eternal. Do not bind attachment to anything. Not even to me. At least—not to me at all.
Do not weep; do not sleep—wake.
Then he spoke this gatha.
Dhammarama—the name itself is beloved. And the gatha begins:
Dhammarāmo dhammarato dhammaṃ anuvicintayaṃ…
He who delights in Dhamma—Dhammarama. He who is devoted to Dhamma—Dhammarama. He who reflects on Dhamma—Dhammarama. He who follows Dhamma—Dhammarama. And such a Dhammarama alone will attain the Saddhamma—he will not miss; he will not fall away.
I go—do not worry about that. I will go. I came—I will go. Dhamma remains forever. Become Dhammarama. Do not attach yourselves to me—attach yourselves to Dhamma. If you attach to me, you will weep and repent—for I will go. If you attach to Dhamma, it never goes. Only Dhamma is eternal.
Dhamma does not mean Buddhist religion or Hindu religion. Dhamma means—the eternal law that runs this nature. In the Buddha’s words, Dhamma has the same meaning as Bhagavan—God—in the Gita; as Paramatma. In Lao Tzu, Tao has the same meaning that Dhamma has in the Buddha’s words.
And the Buddha’s words appeal to modern science—for the Buddha does not speak of a person; he speaks of law. Dhamma means law. Science must admit that some law permeates, otherwise how would nature move? How do sun and stars move? There is no mover—but behind the process of motion there is law. Just as the law of gravity draws things down, so too there is some law.
A Great Law pervades the whole universe. The Buddha called it Dhamma.
Dhammarāmo dhammarato dhammaṃ anuvicintayaṃ.
Dwell in Dhamma. Think only Dhamma. Eat Dhamma. Drink Dhamma. Breathe Dhamma. Become Dhamma-suffused. Become Dhammarama.
Dhammaṃ anussaraṃ bhikkhu saddhammā na parihāyati.
Then whether I remain or not—you will never fall. I am but a gesture of that Dhamma. I am but an expression of that Dhamma. The expression will vanish, but that of which it is expression—remains forever.
The Buddha is saying: The Buddha is a wave of Dhamma. Dhamma is an ocean; the Buddha is a wave. Waves arise and pass; the ocean remains.
This is what Dhammarama has done, bhikkhus. So do you too. Let your life become thus—solitude, silence, meditation—so that one day the flower of Samadhi may bloom.
Esa dhammo sanantano—This is the eternal Dhamma.
Enough for today.