Es Dhammo Sanantano #112

The religion of the saints certainly never grows decrepit. And that which does grow decrepit is not the religion of the saints.

Christianity has nothing to do with Christ. Buddhists have nothing to do with Buddha. And what have the Jains to do with Mahavira?

What Mahavira said is as radiant today as ever. But what the listeners heard has become decrepit.

What is said is not what is heard. When Buddha speaks, he speaks from his own state of consciousness. When you listen, you listen from your state of consciousness. Between the two there is a great distance. Buddha stands on the sunlit summit; you are lying in your dark ravines. He speaks from luminous peaks of light; you listen in your deep darkness.

What is born of light becomes something else by the time it reaches the dark mind. Then, out of what you have heard, scriptures are constructed. Out of what you have heard, sects are formed. Do not mistake what you have heard for what the Buddhas have said. That is why the question arises.

“Jainism” does not mean what Mahavira said; for to understand Mahavira, one has to become a Mahavira. You cannot understand from a plane of consciousness lower than the one from which the truth is spoken; your own level must rise first.

Even a small child can hear. It may be that someone is singing the glory of love; a little child can hear it. But how can a child understand love? His sources of passion are not yet awake; they are asleep. You can take a small child to the temples of Khajuraho. He will see the nude sculptures of men and women—he will see them, certainly—but nothing will be stirred within him. He may ask, “What is this?” But you will not be able to make him understand sex or intercourse. Only when he becomes young will he understand. Only when he is mature will he understand.

What is true about sex is equally true about religion. Religion also needs maturity—the maturity of meditation. Only when the juice of meditation ripens do you begin to understand.

Those who heard Mahavira understood in their own way. On the basis of that “way,” Jainism was constructed. That Jainism began to grow decrepit the very day it began to be made. Its death started the day it was born. Yet the Jain thinks, “It is connected with Mahavira.” The Buddhist thinks, “It is connected with Buddha.” The Christian thinks, “It is connected with Jesus.” There is no connection. Not the slightest.

These are rumors—what people have heard. The original is lost—and will be lost. To hear the original requires a different kind of talent, a different kind of wisdom—a mind illumined by meditation, a consciousness bathed in awareness. To understand Buddha, one must be a Buddha. To understand Krishna, one must be a Krishna.

Therefore Buddha is right: the religion of the saints never grows decrepit. And the religion of two saints is not different so that it could decay separately. What Krishna said—the language is different; what Buddha said—the language is different; what Mohammed said—the language is different. Naturally, Mohammed spoke Arabic, Buddha spoke Pali, Krishna spoke Sanskrit. Languages differ. They used different symbols, different indicators, in different times. But what they said...

Understand it this way: many people raised their fingers toward the moon. The fingers are different; the moon is one. If you insist on the fingers, confusion is bound to arise. From that confusion, sects are born—Hindu, Muslim, Jain, Buddhist. If you look at the moon, you will forget the fingers. The fingers should be forgotten. What have fingers to do with the moon! It is enough that they indicated the direction. Now forget the fingers and look at the moon. The moon is one. Fingers come and go; the moon abides forever. Esa dhamma sanantano—this dharma is eternal.

So Buddha says: the religion of the saints never becomes decrepit. And whenever a saint is born, it is revived once again. The same dharma takes form, descends once more.

What else does “avatar” mean? It does not mean that “God” descends from somewhere above. Avatar only means that the eternal dharma takes form again.

In Buddha the same dharma speaks again that danced in Krishna. The same dharma sits silent in Raman. The same dharma takes different forms; it blossoms in different flowers. But dharma is one. Those who have eyes to see will see that one; they will not be deluded by the many.

But the “religions” as we know them—these certainly grow decrepit; they rot. It is their stench that has made the human soul foul. The whole earth is full of stench, because the corpses of three hundred religions are rotting. And out of attachment we will not take those corpses to the cremation ground. “It is the religion of our forefathers—how can we consign it to fire!”

It is like this: your mother dies, and out of attachment you keep her corpse in the house. Respect is all right, but a corpse must be taken to the cremation ground. If you keep it at home, you will be in trouble. The whole house will fill with stench. And if this attachment continues, so many corpses will accumulate that the living will have no place left to live.

Then the father will die, the brother will die, the wife will die. And not only yours—your father’s father too; their corpses will pile up—mounds and mounds. Your own living in the house will become impossible. The dead will kill you.

Such is the condition of the human mind. It rots, it decays, yet we do not throw it away. We have a mad attachment to the past. And those who are madly attached to the past have no future. Their future is darkness. Only one who becomes free of the past begins to have a future. What is gone is gone; let it go—so that what can come may come. Make space. Vacate the throne.

Buddhas have been coming and will continue to come; but if you cling to the old Buddhas, the new Buddhas will not be able to enter your door. Even if they knock, you will not hear the knock.

That is why you are deprived of the eternal dharma. What you can get hold of is trash—and you go on worshipping the trash. What you grasp is a heap of conventions, of superstitions. And over the centuries their form has changed so much that if Buddha returned today, he would not even recognize the Buddhists.

See what happens! For example: Buddha told his monks, “Accept whatever is given into your begging bowl. Do not ask. If someone puts a coarse bread into your bowl, accept it. If someone gives a sweet, accept it. Do not ask. Stand quietly with your bowl; if someone refuses, move on without anger or resentment. And when the bowl is filled, return home. If you receive something tasty, do not even hint with your eyes for more. If you receive something dry and rough, do not make a face. Whatever comes is good fortune. Be grateful. Make do with what you receive.”

One day a monk went begging. A kite was flying with a piece of meat in its beak. The meat slipped from the kite and, by chance, fell into the monk’s bowl. The monk wondered: Buddha has said, “Whatever comes into the bowl must be accepted.” Today meat has fallen into the bowl—what should I do? Accept it or not?

He came and asked Buddha. Buddha thought for a moment. If he said, “No, do not accept the meat; throw it away—I do not want you to become meat-eaters,” then people would begin debating what to accept and what to reject; more complications would arise. And kites do not drop meat every day; this was a coincidence—it may never happen again.

For the sake of a mere coincidence, if I make a rule—“In such a situation, renounce it; if there is doubt, renounce”—then people will find strategies within the rule itself. They will reject the coarse and accept the fine. They will discover loopholes. Man is very legalistic!

So Buddha thought: better to say, “Accept whatever falls into your bowl.” A kite will not drop it again; the question will not arise repeatedly; best not to leave a hole in the rule. Buddha said, “Accept it.” And from this small incident all Buddhists became meat-eaters!

Man is very dishonest. People then devised a trick: “Buddha did not oppose meat-eating. Had he been opposed, he would have told that monk to discard the meat. Buddha accepted meat!”

Thus Buddhists across the world became meat-eaters. That the disciples of the greatest practitioner of nonviolence would become meat-eaters seems inconceivable. But man finds his contrivances.

Buddha said: “Let no one kill an animal for food.” He had no idea how clever man is. The line came to mean: if the animal dies by itself, you may eat it! Do not kill for food. So monks began to eat animals that had died naturally—“because Buddha said, ‘do not kill for food’; but if it dies by itself...”

Now in China, Japan, Thailand—where Buddhists are many—you will see signs in hotels: “Here no meat of slaughtered animals is sold; only meat of animals that died naturally.”

How many animals die by themselves? The monk or the Buddhist does not bother. He says, “What can I do? The sign clearly says they sell only naturally dead animals.”

So many animals do not die naturally each day that every hotel in every town could sell meat. Yet in Buddhist countries all meat is sold with such labels. Why then are there slaughterhouses? Millions of animals are killed daily. The Buddhist says, “That is their sin. If the shopkeeper deceives, what can we do? Just as here signs say ‘Pure ghee sold here.’ What can we do if the seller adulterates? We have trusted him!”

Man is so clever—supremely skilled at destroying himself. Make one rule and he will extract ten loopholes from it. The more rules you make, the more tangled things become; they do not get solved.

In this way the religions that are constructed have no relationship with the original sources of dharma. Absolutely none.

Buddha had said: “Do not make any image of me.” And of all the images in the world, Buddha’s are the most numerous. If you ask Buddhists, “How did this happen? Buddha kept saying, ‘Do not make my image,’ yet...?” they reply, “The one who taught us such a great principle—that no image should be made of him—in his memory we have made images. We must remember the one who came to say such a great thing!”

In Urdu and Arabic, the word for idol is but—derived from Buddha. So many images of Buddha were made that the word Buddha became synonymous with idol in those languages. They saw only Buddha’s idol; thus “Buddha” and “idol” became one in meaning; hence but.

This has happened again and again, always—and is happening even today. Looking at man, it seems unlikely it will ever be otherwise. Things go astray when they come into man’s darkness. Speaking to man is like speaking to madmen: you will say one thing; they will take another meaning; the result will be something else. Buddha gave an example for this.

One day a disciple asked, “You say you speak one thing and we understand another—give an example.” Buddha said, “All right, I will give one today.”

Every night after his discourse, Buddha would say, as a rule: “Now go; complete the last task of the night, and then rest.”

The monks knew the “last task.” It meant the final meditation. Before sleep, do the final meditation so its resonance slips into sleep; so that slowly the six to eight hours of sleep are transformed into meditation.

This is a great psychological truth: your last thought as you fall asleep continues to flow through your sleep; it bears fruit. That is why all religions have given practices like remembrance of God, prayer, meditation before sleep. They are deeply psychological.

In the final moment as you are just falling into sleep—the curtain is dropping upon you—you are half aware, half unaware—if even then you are praying or meditating, slowly that meditation will enter your sleep.

Sleep is your deepest inner state. Patanjali says in the Yoga Sutras that sushupti (deep sleep) and samadhi are alike; the only difference is: sushupti is unconscious; samadhi is conscious. Otherwise the depth is the same. When the lamp of meditation is lit within deep sleep, it becomes samadhi—the same rest, the same depth.

So before falling asleep—Buddha would say—meditate. To repeat “meditate” every day became unnecessary; it became symbolic when he said: “Monks, now go; complete the last task and sleep.”

That night in the assembly there was a thief, and there was a prostitute. When Buddha said, “Monks, now go; complete the last task of the night and sleep,” the thief thought, “Right! Buddha knows I am here. He is telling me, ‘Go, do your nightly theft; it is late!’” The prostitute was startled: “This is too much! In such a crowd he recognized me, and told me also, ‘Go now, do your nightly work!’”

Next morning Buddha explained: “Last night there was a thief; he got up and went straight to steal. And there was a prostitute; she went and opened her shop.

The monks went to meditate. The thief went to steal. The prostitutes opened their shops. And I had spoken only one sentence: ‘Now go; complete the last task of the night and sleep.’ Such differences arise!”

As many listeners, so many meanings. On those meanings, religions—meaning sects—are built. These religions grow decrepit; they rot; they stink. The earth is filled with their stench.

Hindus fight Muslims; Christians fight Hindus; Jains fight Buddhists—conflict everywhere. Where can there be conflict in dharma?

Dharma is not two; dharma is one. When Buddha says “Esa dhamma sanantano,” he is not calling any particular “religion” eternal; he is saying: dharma itself is eternal.

All the religions that stand in the name of dharma are only expressions—and those expressions have become distorted, diseased. Time’s current has spoiled them; layers of dust have settled.

Therefore, one who truly seeks dharma should search for a living Buddha, not for scriptures. Seek a true master, not a book. If somewhere you can find a living stream where dharma is descending now—where the Ganga is coming down now—if somewhere you can find a Bhagirath through whom the Ganga descends now—only then can you hope to receive a little of that water which will quench your thirst forever.

You search in books—futile. You search in the past—futile. You are searching in cremation grounds, in graves. There you will find bones—rotted. They have nothing to do with the living. Yet this is what is happening.

In Lanka there is a temple where Buddha’s tooth is worshipped. Scientists investigated and said: “This is not Buddha’s tooth. Leaving Buddha aside, it is not even a human tooth. It belongs to some animal.” But the Buddhists will not accept it. They themselves can see that such a large tooth cannot be human; of this shape a human tooth does not exist. Scientists have tested and identified from which animal it is. Yet the worship continues.

They say, “It has continued since ancient times; how can we stop? Were our forefathers fools? We have worshipped it for twenty-five centuries! No one knew; and now you have found out for the first time! The worship will continue.”

Bones are worshipped. Ashes are worshipped. Corpses are worshipped. And the living is despised. Man is very strange.

When Buddha is alive, stones are thrown. When he is dead, worship begins. When Christ was alive, he was crucified. Now that he is dead—how many churches! Millions of churches! How much “discussion”! More books are written on Jesus than on anyone else. No one else has as many priests and pundits behind him. No one else has so many temples. Half the earth is Christian!

And this man was crucified. When he was being crucified, people threw stones; they hurled rotten peels; they insulted him; they laughed. When he hung on the cross tormented by thirst and asked for water, someone dipped a rag in a filthy puddle, tied it to a stick, and held it up to Jesus: “Suck this.”

This was the behavior toward the living Jesus. He had to carry his own cross to Golgotha. He fell on the way—the cross was heavy, large. His knees broke; he was bleeding. And from behind came the lashes: “Get up and carry your cross!”

Such was the treatment of the living Jesus—and now worship! Now that very cross is installed in every church. Hymns are sung!

And I tell you: if Jesus were to return, he would be crucified again. Man is the same. He has gone nowhere.

Man worships the dead. Why? Because the dead do not create revolution; you remain safe. A living Jesus will transform your life. If you befriend a living Jesus, if you fall in love with him, change will happen. A dead Jesus does not change you; you change him. How will he change you?

Therefore man clings to the past out of attachment. It is because of this attachment that there is so much rot, so much filth—so much atrocity in the name of religion. So much bloodshed, war, violence in the name of religion.

More people have been killed in the name of religion than in any other name. And religion talks of love! It talks of prayer. Yet the result is murder.

Even so, Buddha is right: the religion of the saints does not grow decrepit. That which grows decrepit is not the religion of the saints.

Everything depends on you. If you want to stop, you will stop. If you want to walk, then no power in this world can halt your feet. Everything depends on you. It is you who stop; it is you who go on. No one else makes you walk, no one else stops you.

Understand your responsibility. This was Buddha’s last utterance: Appa deepo bhava—be a light unto yourself. Drop your hopes for supports. It is by leaning on supports that you have wandered till now. Stand on your own feet.

If there is darkness—so be it. Seek the path. The path is hard; it has byways that lead astray. Then have the courage to wander, to err. For the one who errs is the one who learns. The one who wanders is the one who one day comes home. The one who is afraid to wander never arrives home.

There is no need for fear. This whole existence is precisely so that you may search; wander; fall and rise—and one day arrive. All this is necessary for arriving.

Do not sit fretting: what if a storm comes; what if my lamp goes out; what if I get lost in the dark; what if this happens; what if clouds gather? Sitting there, frightened like that, you will miss. It is the one who does not move who misses. Keep this sutra in mind.

The one who moves—he reaches one day or another. However much he may go astray, still he arrives. Because every wandering brings some awareness. Every mistake yields some learning. A mistake made once need not be made again—if you bring a little intelligence to it. New mistakes will come. Little by little, mistakes will diminish. A day will come when none are left to be made—on that very day you will arrive.

“May my steps not falter.
Today, on a desolate path,
utterly alone I walk.”

No one at all is walking alone. The Divine is walking with you. To say “with” is not even right—He is seated within you. Alone you could not even walk. Alone you have no being. Alone you could not even breathe; your heart would not beat. By His support it beats; He is the one beating it. He is the heartbeat. He is the one who breathes; He is the breath. Call Him whatever you like—God, the Self, or anything—He is present within you.

The very source of this universe is present within you. Leave the notion of “being alone”—it will only frighten you.

It happened: Muhammad was fleeing; enemies were after him. One companion was with him. They sat in a cave. The sound of horses’ hooves was nearing. The companion was greatly frightened. At last he said, “Hazrat! You look so calm. I am very afraid. My hands and feet are trembling. The hoofbeats are coming closer. The enemy is near. There is not much time. Death is near us. You sit at ease! We are two; they are thousands. Why are you so unconcerned?”

Muhammad laughed and said, “We are three, not two.” The man looked around the cave to see if someone else was hiding. Muhammad said, “Don’t look here and there. Close your eyes; look within. We are three. And the third is the All-powerful. Don’t worry. Be at ease. If it is His will, we shall die—and to die by His will is great joy. If it is His will, we shall be saved—and to live by His will is joy. By our own will, even living holds no joy. By His will, even dying is joy. Therefore I am at ease. Whatever He does will be right. Whatever happens will be right. My trust does not waver. You were wrong to say we are two. We are three. And we two were not, once—and one day we will not be again. The third was before us, is with us, and will be after us. Only He is. Our being is like the waves upon the ocean.”

But the companion could not believe. He said, “These are words of philosophy, of theology. You may be right, but the danger here is to our lives.”

And what Muhammad had said is exactly what happened. The hoofbeats grew louder and louder; then a moment came—there was a pause—and then they receded. The enemy came some distance along that path and then, thinking, “No, they did not come this way,” turned off onto another path.

Muhammad said, “You see! If it is His will, we live. To live by our own will is only struggle. To live by His will is great relish. And when I say His will, I mean your innermost will. He is not far, not other.”

So drop even the thought: “May my steps not falter. Today, on a desolate path, utterly alone I walk.” Absolutely alone—no one is. The marvel is that only when you become utterly alone do you discover—Ah! I am not alone. The day you know: no wife is mine, no husband is mine, no brother, no friend—no one is mine—that very day you suddenly find there is a supreme companion, silently standing within. In the crowd you were lost; that is why He stood silent. You turned back from the crowd into yourself—and there was the meeting. You were searching for companions outside; therefore the companion within remained unknown.

“The goal is far—who knows
when I shall find the shore?”

This too is wrong. The goal is utterly near. So near that it doesn’t appear. People are skillful at seeing what is far; they are unskillful at seeing what is near. Distant moon and stars are seen.

Mulla Nasruddin was in court. A murder had taken place in his neighborhood. He was asked, “Did you see this murder?” He said, “Yes, I saw it.” “How far were you?” “About a furlong.” The magistrate said, “At night, in the dark, from a furlong away you saw the murder—who killed whom? How far can you see?” Mulla replied, “That I don’t know. You tell me—moon and stars are visible to me, even in the dark night!”

Moon and stars are visible in the dark night. Mulla is saying, “I see very distant things—what is a mere furlong!”

Seeing the distant is one thing; seeing the near is very hard. Because you are far from yourself, the distant is visible. What is close to you—where?

And God is near—this too is not right, because “near” still implies a distance. God is your innermost core. Not merely near—He is you. That is why He is so hard to see. There is no separate seer there who could see Him from apart.

Therefore those who know have said: God never appears as an object. Objects are distant. God is experienced when you become the seer. God is met by the seer—as seer; never as seen. God is experienced; He is not “seen.”

Those who say, “We have had a vision of God,” speak wrongly. A vision can be of the other; how can there be a vision of oneself? Even the phrase “self-vision” is wrong. There is self-experience, not vision. Vision means there are two—the seer and the seen. And there there is only One: no seer, no seen. There is a quiver, a state of being—what Buddha calls samvega. A trembling of awareness. You know—without knowing. You recognize—without recognition. Nothing stands before you.

In truth, when nothing at all stands before you—when all objects vanish, all content dissolves from the mind; when you stand in the vast void, with nothing to see—then the energy of seeing returns to itself. Finding no place outside to rest, it comes home to itself.

You have read the Christian story: when the flood came and the whole earth began to drown, Noah—the old Noah—built an ark and, taking some people and some animals, set out for safety. Days passed. For forty days there was a terrible rain. All was submerged; only Noah’s ark floated. Even the food he had brought began to run out. Forty days had passed. It was necessary to scout.

Each day he released doves from the ark. The doves would fly about for a while and then come back to the ark—nowhere to perch, so they returned to themselves, to the ark. This was the device to know whether land was near.

On the last day the doves did not return. Noah said, “Enough—do not fear now. Land is near. The doves have found a place to sit; they did not return. They have found some tree to alight upon. Land is close. Be at ease. We shall arrive.”

Then, in the direction the doves had gone, the ark moved, and soon the shore was found.

Your consciousness keeps wandering so long as it finds places to perch—some thought, some image, some desire, some craving. When all thoughts, all cravings, all desires are dissolved, and the dove of consciousness flies and flies and finds nowhere to sit—no place at all—then it returns to itself. In that returning to itself lies the experience.

And God is not far, nor is the goal far. The goal is already attained. Wake up. The moment you awaken, you know that what was never lost you were searching for in vain; what was present within, you were seeking outside—and that is why it became difficult.

First thing: I am not anyone’s replica. A replica would be a copy, a carbon copy. No one is anyone’s replica; nor is anyone meant to be.

Do you think Nanak was a replica of Buddha? Or that Buddha was a replica of Krishna? Or that Kabir was a replica of Mahavira? Then you have not understood at all.

Had you gone to Kabir, you would have faced the same obstacle you’ve met here. You would have said, “Ah! We thought Kabir would be Mahavira’s image! But he is sitting wearing clothes! Not only wearing, he is weaving cloth! A weaver! And Mahavira stood naked. Forget weaving—he didn’t even wear clothes. He didn’t even touch cloth. How can Kabir be Mahavira’s replica?”

And every day Kabir goes to the market to sell his woven cloth. Kabir has a wife! Kabir has a son! Kabir has a family. And Buddha left everything behind.

Kabir never left weaving. Buddha renounced a kingdom. Kabir had little to renounce, yet he did not renounce at all. So you cannot call Kabir a replica of Buddha.

Nor can you call Buddha a replica of Krishna. And I know Bhagwandas Arya would have gone there as well. Such people have always been there. They would have gone to Buddha and said, “Ah! So you are not Krishna’s image! Where is the peacock feather? Where is the flute? Where are the milkmaids? Why is there no rasa here? All I see are shaven-headed sannyasins sitting! When will the rasa happen?”

This has been going on forever. Followers of Buddha would go to Mahavira and say, “You are naked! But Buddha wore clothes!” And Mahavira’s followers would go to Buddha and say, “You wear clothes! Mahavira renounced everything. His renunciation is great. He stands naked!”

This stupidity is very ancient. You are searching for replicas! In this world the divine never makes two persons the same. You have seen: when you take thumbprints, no two thumbs have the same print. To talk of two souls being alike is simply wrong.

I am as I am. Buddha was as Buddha was. Kabir as Kabir.

You have come here with wrong notions. Your skull is stuffed with junk. And you are weighing me with that junk! You have arrived already prepared with ideas of what a person should be—like Nanak, or like Buddha, or like Kabir—like whom! Then you will miss. Then you will feel shocked.

You’ll be shocked even that I sit on a chair. Even your shocks are so petty! You’ll be shocked that I live in this beautiful house, in this garden! You’ve always been shocked—because your shocks come from your beliefs.

The Jains have consigned Krishna to hell—you know that! Many Jains were shocked: What sort of man is this! He even went to war! Jain Tirthankaras have declared war a great sin, and this man went to war. How could they not be shocked? Not only did he go to war; Arjuna actually wanted to become a sannyasin. Arjuna was a perfect Jain at heart. He said: “I do not want to fight. To kill my own people, to murder, to shed so much blood—no; I will go to the forest. I will renounce. I will leave everything. What is there in all this?”

And this good man, Krishna, corrupted him! What else is the Gita? In the Jains’ view, an attempt to corrupt Arjuna: to persuade him, “No, this is your duty. This is the will of God; the divine wish. Let it happen. Do not come in between. Who are you to renounce? Who are you to kill? You are not at all. The one who kills has already killed those to be killed. You are merely an instrument.”

So the Jains are very annoyed. They have put Krishna in the seventh hell. Not even the sixth—the seventh! And not for a few days. As long as this creation lasts—this kalpa—till then! Only when another creation arises will he be released from there. He has committed a heinous crime!

I have a Jain friend, a follower of Gandhi; he is obsessed with synthesis. He told me he was writing a book of synthesis: that Mahavira and Buddha say exactly the same thing. I said, “When the book is finished, send it to me.”

When it was printed, he sent it. I was startled to see the title: “Bhagwan Mahavira and Mahatma Buddha.”

I wrote to him and asked, “Why call one Bhagwan and the other Mahatma?” He said, “There is at least that much difference. Mahavira is Bhagwan. Buddha is a Mahatma, a great soul; but the final state has not yet come—because he wears clothes.”

The clothes are the obstacle! Because of the clothes, the poor fellow has to remain a Mahatma. Until he is naked, he cannot be Bhagwan!

Therefore the Jains cannot accept Rama as Bhagwan either. And if he carries a bow, then certainly not.

And one who has seen Jesus, who believes in Jesus, when he sees Krishna playing the flute, is deeply shocked. He says, “What kind of God is this! God is Jesus—who hung himself on the cross for the suffering of the world. And this gentleman is playing the flute! And the world is in such misery. Is this any time to play the flute! And he is arranging rasa in Vrindavan! And the world is rotting in suffering, sinking into great sin. One should be like Jesus—who had himself crucified so that the world could be liberated.”

Now this is your notion, whatever you latch onto. If you set out to measure everything by that notion, then everything else will be wrong. Your own notion has arranged for you to be shocked. If you think you are shocked because of me, you are mistaken.

A shock because of me can also happen; that shock would be a blessing in your life. It would create a revolution. But this is not that shock. The shock that has struck you is born of your own belief. You came with a fixed idea: “It should be like this.” And it is not like that.

It may be that this gentleman faced twenty-five difficulties. He must have suffered. This is not to his liking.

Do not insist that what is not to your liking must be wrong. As of now you do not even know what is right! If you knew what is right, what need would there be to come here! Now that you have come, come with an open mind; come impartial. Leave your worn-out beliefs outside and come in.

Yesterday another gentleman asked: “Why are we not allowed to meet you when we want to? Why have you been made a prisoner? Are you imprisoned by your own choice, or has someone imprisoned you? People could meet Kabir whenever they wished! And Nanak would sit under a tree! Why can’t one meet you?”

Keep this in mind: No one has imprisoned me. But yes, I live in my own way, and I do not like any interference in that. I am not imprisoned; there is a restriction on your interference. You do not see your interference.

For years I too lived that way. I got tired. People would come in the middle of the night! At two in the morning they would knock: “We want darshan!” People would walk into the room at midnight and say: “We want to press your feet!” I would tell them: “Let me sleep.” They would say, “No; we will serve you.” Food I do not wish to eat, I would have to eat—“because we have prepared it with such love!” I do not want it. “But please consider our feelings!”

I landed in Delhi—about fifteen years ago—the plane arrived at eleven at night. The gentleman who came to receive me—where we had to go was about a hundred miles away, January’s cold wave—brought an open jeep! I asked: “Could you not get a closed car? Bring a bullock cart if you must, but at least bring something closed!”

He said, “How can that be! The jeep is new; we want you to inaugurate it.” Seeing no other way, I had to travel in an open jeep from eleven at night till four in the morning. From that day I caught a chill that has not left me to this day. They got their jeep inaugurated; their sentiment was fulfilled.

I got tired of such stupidities. There is no bondage on me. Who is going to put a bondage on me! This arrangement is mine. I have no trust in such foolishness. And I do not want you to be free to come to see me whenever you like. There will be a check on your freedom; there is no check on my freedom. To preserve my freedom, I have had to put a check on your freedom.

Otherwise, I sit down to eat; fifty people are sitting around! The discourse is on! People get up and start feeding me! Start stuffing my mouth by force.

When I went to Rajasthan once... It was mango season that year. They brought a whole basket of mangoes—their devotion! And some fifty men! Each wanted to press a mango to my mouth. They drenched all my clothes in mango juice; and I could not take even a single sip—because it was gone! It became prasad; it went from one hand to another; someone else took it. Those fifty who had come with the basket did not stop until they had made me taste the entire basket, made my whole body unfit unless I bathed, and the flies began buzzing. They kept up their service regardless. None of this mattered to them.

Because of your stupidities, such measures have to be taken.

You think I am in bondage! Why should I be in bondage? Yes, only this much: you no longer have the freedom to create whatever disturbance you wish here.

People come and ask: “Why is there a guard posted at the door?” By your grace! So, on your account. As long as your “compassion” continues, the guard will remain. Only when awareness dawns in you can the guard be removed. The guard is not upon me; the guard is upon you.

I am free. But the choices of my freedom are mine. I want to eat what I want to eat. When I want to sit silently, I sit silently. When I want to sleep, I sleep. I don’t like any kind of interference.

It bothers you. It makes you restless. Then look elsewhere—where you won’t be bothered, where you won’t be restless. If you want to be with me, you will have to accept my terms. I am not with you; you are with me.

I am not going to walk behind you. If you wish to walk behind me, do so. But your desire is that I should walk behind you. That must be the desire of this man, Bhagwandas Arya: that I should fit his notions!

It’s not my fault that your notions are wrong! Why should I conform to your beliefs? I want neither prestige nor your respect. Just allow me to be myself. I am no one’s copy, no one’s image.

What have I to do with Buddha, with Kabir, with Nanak! They lived in their own way; whatever felt right to them, they did. I live in the way that feels right to me. There lies our similarity. Beyond that, there is no other similarity.

Mahavira felt it right to remain naked—he remained naked. Buddha felt it right to leave home and go to the forest—he went to the forest. Kabir felt it right to weave cloth—he kept weaving. Mohammed felt it right to take up the sword and fight—he fought. And Jesus felt it right to go to the cross—he went to the cross. Whatever feels right to me, that I do. There our similarity ends—no more than that.

I have read a Zen story. A monk was observing his master’s death anniversary. The master had passed away. People asked, “We never even knew he was your master! You never told anyone. And today you are keeping his death anniversary!”

The monk said, “That is precisely why I am keeping it. Many times in my life I went to him and asked, ‘Make me your disciple.’ He said, ‘Why do you need to become a disciple? Remain yourself.’ I pleaded many times; he refused me many times. And therefore I am indebted to him. Otherwise I would have become a copy. By his grace I became an independent person. He never imposed anything upon me.”

It’s a great irony: I impose nothing on you. The reverse happens—you arrive here eager to impose on me! You think, “This is how it should be,” as if you know what is right. You don’t know at all. One who knows what is right will accept the diversity of existence, because diversity is truth.

If people become copies of one another, life will become utterly boring. One Krishna is enough. Unique. But if there are thousands of Krishnas, all the juice is gone. All the beauty is gone. One Buddha is wondrous. That is why God never creates two persons alike. Was there ever again a Buddha? Again a Krishna? Again a Kabir? Again a Nanak?

God never repeats. God’s artistry is to create the unprecedented, the incomparable—always bringing forth the new.

But you move with the past. You carry your ledger with you. Of course you felt hurt, because it seemed I am not a copy of anyone. I am not. Forgive me. If you were hurt, pardon me for that.

And then you went outside and saw: “Amid the crowd I was taken aback seeing a foreign young couple bound in an enchanting bond of love. And I wondered: can this also be called religion?”

Who is asking you? Did the young couple ask you whether this is religion or not? Have you taken a contract to determine other people’s religion? Who are you? Some kind of policeman? What concern is it of yours?

The young couple has their own freedom. Why do you want to interfere? Those two people have their own private flow of life. It felt right to them; they are bound in love. What is bothering you? Certainly, deep down, you too want to be bound in a love-embrace and cannot be. There is some repression within you.

That’s why you say: “in an enchanting bond of love...”

Your mind was charmed by that bond—you call it enchanting. Your mind must have wavered. You must have lingered there, watching for a while. You must have tasted the relish of it. Perhaps you dreamed of it at night. Again and again you thought, “What is this?”

But you don’t have the courage to do it. So at least you can condemn! “This is not religion; this is irreligion.” Then tell me—what of the gopis dancing with Krishna? Bhagwandas Arya, think about that. Was that irreligion? Then wherever there is love, there is irreligion!

In my view, wherever there is love, there is religion. And if you ask me, I would say: whenever a young woman is in deep love, she becomes Radha. Whenever a young man is in deep love, he becomes Krishna. Deep love gives birth to Radha and Krishna. On this earth there is nothing more religious than love. Love is a ray of the divine.

But yours is a repressed, stifled mind—as is common in this country. And your word “Arya” itself reveals you are filled with a thousand maladies. You have suppressed sex, not understood it. You have not lived. From there these notions arise.

What concern is it of yours! The young couple did not ask you anything. Nor did they ask, “We were in an embrace and a gentleman stood there with very enchanting eyes, watching us! Is it religion to go and stand between two people when they are loving and stare at them?”

But this must be your old habit—to peep through keyholes into people’s bathrooms. Some people do only this! They go looking for worms in the gutters!

What is your purpose? Why have you come here? And this tendency to interfere so much in another person’s life is violent. Therefore, here there is no interference.

Now this is truly strange. If on the road someone is beating someone, people don’t ask anything. If someone is murdered, no questions are asked. But if two people are bound in love, suddenly there is a problem.

You see it! Murderers are awarded the Mahavir Chakra. Lovers are given no medals at all. Murderers are praised—“commander,” “warrior”! Lovers are never praised. If a film shows scenes of murder, the government places no restrictions. Someone kills, hacks, shoots—no harm; perfectly fine! Violence is fine. But if someone is in an embrace, it is wrong; the film must be banned! To stab someone in the chest is fine, but to kiss someone is not.

Think about it: what a preposterous world this is. Stabbing is fine; no objection. But if someone kisses someone, there is objection.

Then naturally, in such a foolish world, if knifing continues and kissing disappears, what is there to be surprised about?

Love is the first ray of God in this world. I welcome it in all its forms.

I am not saying people should remain forever bound in love. But only the one who enters into it will be able to go beyond it. The one who experiences love will one day find that it does not bring ultimate fulfillment; one has to go above it. Fine—one had to pass through it. Without passing through, there is no experience.

Those who sit in repression never reach God. Their love never becomes prayer. Because love has never been experienced in life—how will you rise beyond it? You can rise only beyond that which you have known, known and found lacking, known and realized it goes only so far and no further—then the possibility of crossing over opens.

This is not a dead ashram. Bhagwandas Arya has certainly seen other ashrams—dead ashrams, lifeless ashrams—where mostly only old men and women go. The young do not even want to go there. He must have seen life-denying ashrams where every act of life is condemned—where life itself is condemned.

Here, life is welcomed; life is honored—because life itself is God. And where life is accepted, the young will come. Only there can they come. This temple belongs to the young. And naturally, where the young come, all the moods and gestures of youth will come. Where men and women are, they will fall in love. They will hold hands; they will embrace. All this is fine. There is no problem in it.

They are not stabbing anyone. Not killing anyone. Not harming anyone. Not stealing from anyone. Two people have decided that they feel good standing close to each other—what of yours is being lost? You cannot tolerate even this? Then surely you are ill. Your mind is distorted. You need psychotherapy.

If you come here clinging to petty notions, you will go back empty-handed. And here nectar is flowing. If you remain filled with your notions—that is your business.

Brother, the idea is very lofty! But when you don’t have the courage even to take sannyas, how will you kill yourself? You won’t be able to muster that much courage. Suicide does take a certain daring; and even sannyas is scaring you!

In sannyas there isn’t any sudden death; only your style of living shifts a bit. And in my sannyas even that change happens so gently, so gradually, you hardly notice when the turn came. Yet you are afraid even of sannyas.

You say, “I’m afraid of society.”
Then in suicide you’ll have many more fears. What will people say after you’re gone? “He killed himself—he was a coward.” And there will be the fear of what happens after: the body dropped—then what? Will I hover as a ghost? Land in hell? Be stuck in cremation grounds? Perch on trees? Who knows! All those fears will grab you.

The idea is lofty—you’ve brought a far-fetched prize! But you won’t be able to do it. And the times are bad; had it been the Golden Age, it might be another matter.

I’ve heard: a man wanted to end his life. He procured something for it, took it, and went to sleep, sure he’d be gone. In the morning he expected to open his eyes in heaven or in hell. Instead he heard his wife’s voice, the milkman knocking at the door, children getting ready for school—the same old ruckus. He was stunned: no heaven, no hell—just the same house! He ran back to the shopkeeper in outrage. The shopkeeper said, “What can I do? Times are bad—there’s adulteration in everything nowadays. Where do you find anything pure?”

So tell me, how will you even manage suicide? You can’t count on anything being “pure” these days! In the Golden Age perhaps such things were possible; now it’s very difficult.

And as for you—your state is such that you can’t even take sannyas...

Another fellow locked himself in to end his life; his wife panicked and brought the neighbors. They broke the door and found him standing on a stool, some rope contraption around him. “What are you doing?” “Committing suicide.” They said, “Not like that!” He replied, “I tried the ‘correct’ way first—but I couldn’t breathe!” Courage is needed—if you do it the ‘right’ way, of course the breath will choke!

Another gentleman went to the railway line with a lunchbox. A cowherd grazing his cattle asked, “What are you doing here, waiting around?” He said, “I’m preparing to end my life.” “And the lunchbox?” “Who can trust Indian trains—what if it’s late? Should I die hungry? So I brought food!”

You won’t manage it. First, find the courage for sannyas. Then the real suicide will happen through sannyas. What you’re contemplating is a fake suicide. Changing the body changes nothing. You’ll be born again; a womb again; the same journey all over again.

Real suicide happens through sannyas—real, because the ego dies; real, because the craving to go on living ends; real, because then there is no more birth. Die in such a way that there is no need to be born again. That is the whole process of religion: a way of dying such that there is no rebirth.

You may think, “Those people bungled—their arrangements failed—we’ll cover every angle.” Mulla Nasruddin once did just that: he arranged multiple fail-safes so if one failed another would kick in. But everything misfired in a comic chain of events, and by evening he returned home saying, “Everything went wrong—had I not known how to swim, I’d have died today.”

Don’t get into such tangles. I’ll tell you the easy way to “suicide”: take sannyas. At least give your way of living a new direction.

You say, “Life seems meaningless.”
It is meaningless—as you have known it. What you’ve called life is meaningless. But there is another life—beyond this one, deeper than this one, different from this one—another dimension of being.

This life is futile; truly futile. That’s what the Buddha saw. But he did not kill himself; he searched for meditation. If this life is futile, there must be another kind of life. Why conclude the tale here?

The “meaning” of this life—earning your bread, running a shop, the same routine day after day. Morning you’re up again, round and round like an ox on the mill; evening you return and fall into bed; morning again. The same quarrels, the same chatter, the same ideologies. Sooner or later anyone with a little intelligence will feel: what is going on? What’s the point? I did this forty years; I’ll do it another twenty-five or thirty; then I’ll die. To what end?

Only fools never have this thought. It is auspicious that you feel life is meaningless. But it is not right to decide on suicide on that basis. First search further. Another way of living may be possible.

I tell you, another way of living exists. I speak from knowing: another way exists. One life heads outward; it is futile. Another turns inward; it is meaningful. Everyone is seeking meaning, but seeks in the wrong direction—so doesn’t find it.

It’s like trying to extract oil from sand and, failing, vowing to kill yourself because there’s no oil in sand. What fault is it of the sand? If you want oil, press sesame; don’t blame the sand. Your mistake is trying to get it from sand.

Or a man tries to walk through a wall, fails, and says, “I’ll kill myself; there’s no door in life.” But there is a door. Your mistake is that you’re head-butting the wall. Only after you’ve explored every dimension and still found no door may you say, “There is no door.”

Whoever has taken even a few steps inward has found the door. Always. Otherwise Mahavira and Buddha, Krishna and Christ, Mohammed and Zarathustra would all have killed themselves. They did not. They transformed—self-transformation. They changed themselves; a new life began—glorious, divine, magnificent. A new music arose within them; their veena sang, their flowers bloomed, an inner festival arrived.

I know there is sadness in your life. But you are its cause. And if you die as you are now, you will be born again as you are now. Nothing will be gained. You have died many times like this. Perhaps you’ve killed yourself before; perhaps that’s why the idea recurs—an old habit, an addiction. Do it again and it still won’t help.

This time, use life rightly. Great beauty lies hidden in it—but a seeker is needed. There is great wealth here—an inexhaustible, eternal wealth. But you must dig in the right direction.

Sometimes the direction itself is wrong—then it cannot be found. Sometimes the direction is right, but you don’t dig. I’ve heard of what happened in America. When gold was first discovered in Colorado, the whole country rushed there. Gold lay in many places; wherever you dug you found it; whoever went became wealthy.

One man had considerable assets—say a million. He thought, “Why do anything small?” He sold everything and bought an entire mountain, hoping it would be gold upon gold. By coincidence, the mountain was barren. He dug here and there, tired and anxious—no gold, not a single nugget.

Someone told him, “The digging must be deep. There is gold, the surveyors say, but deep down.” He bought heavy machinery, sold off whatever jewelry and property remained, and dug deep into the mountain. In the end he gave up; nothing turned up.

He advertised: “I’ll sell the whole mountain, along with all the equipment.” His friends said, “Who will buy it? Your story is known across America; everyone knows you found nothing and lost everything. Who will be mad enough to throw good money after bad?” He said, “I’m not the only madman in a country this big; there must be at least one more.” And someone did show up, bought the mountain.

You’ll be amazed: with just a bit more digging—no more than a hand’s breadth deeper—the richest lode in the world was struck. It was only a matter of one more spade-depth.

So sometimes the direction is wrong—then you can’t find it; sometimes the direction is right, but you don’t go all the way; sometimes you even go, but at the very end you miss—turning back a hand’s breadth from the treasure.

Don’t be so quick to conclude that life is futile. I tell you—as an eyewitness—life is not futile. Change direction; then pour all your energy into the digging. Never despair; otherwise you may turn back one hand before the treasure. Keep digging and digging—if not today then tomorrow, if not tomorrow then the day after—keep digging; one day the treasure is bound to be found, because it has been hidden in everyone.

Your very being is proof that the treasure is within you. Where there is life, there the Divine abides within. What is needed is digging. Some find it with a little digging because their web of past actions is thin; some need more because they have woven a thicker web.

And I tell you: do not commit suicide—otherwise you will weave one more karmic net, and next life’s digging will be even harder.

If you must “commit suicide,” then at least take the first courageous step—sannyas. Then I will tell you the precise way to the right kind of disappearing—how to vanish, to dissolve, to be lost, to be finished—without any police, no courts, and without transgressing the law of the Divine. I will show you the exact path to fade away.

And this is true: only when you are finished does the Divine appear. In your disappearing is His being.

Who listened to the Buddha? Those who wanted to listen, listened. What was said was not heard.

In Buddha’s dharma there is no place for prayer, because in Buddha’s dharma there is no place for God. To whom would you pray? Buddha says: the divine is not outside. If it were outside, then prayer could be—fold your hands; bow; beg; offer praise; sing hymns of glory.

But the divine is not outside; it is within. And even to call it “God” is not quite right. Why not? Because the very word “God” carries the feeling of a maker, a manager of the world.

In Buddha’s understanding there is neither any manager nor any maker. The world moves of itself. There is dharma—law—there is no God. There is law, not a lawgiver. So to whom will you pray!

And what has prayer come to mean anyway? What are people’s prayers? Flattery.

That so much bribery runs in this country, so much sycophancy runs—its root is the old habit of prayer. It will be very hard to eradicate bribery here, because people have been bribing God! They go on: “All right, Hanumanji—if my enemy dies, I’ll offer a coconut!”

What is this? A bribe. And how cheaply you want to settle it! Buy a rotten coconut—because no one buys a good coconut to offer at Hanuman’s temple.

In pilgrimage towns there are separate shops selling coconuts for offerings—separate shops for rotten coconuts! And such coconuts are sold as have been offered a thousand times and returned. You offer it here, and in the morning the priest sells it back to the shops. Then it is offered again, and again! Even Hanumanji must be tired of those same coconuts.

By offering one coconut you want to win a lawsuit! You want your wife’s illness cured! You want to win an election! Leave aside the common man—your so‑called leaders, their dull‑wittedness knows no bounds! They too fight elections leaning on Hanuman’s temple. An astrologer… Every man in Delhi has his astrologer. Every leader has one. First he asks the astrologer, “Will I win or not?” Then he goes to receive some guru’s blessing. People even come to me for that! “Please bless me.”

A politician came. I asked him first: “For what?” I am afraid of politicians. I fear your intentions may be a bit unsavory! First let it be clear: for what do you want a blessing? He said, “You know everything anyway! I am standing in the election.”

I said, “If I bless you, I will bless you to lose. That will be good for you and good for the country.”

He got very flustered: “What are you saying! Don’t speak such words! Saints should not speak like that.”

I said, “And who else will speak it!”

He said, “Wherever I go, I receive blessings.”

I said, “Those who bless you must be people just like you. You hope to get something from them; they hope to get something from you. They have not blessed only you. They have also blessed the one standing against you. Whoever wins, they are covered.”

You have been bribing God. Your prayer is a kind of bribe and flattery—“I am fallen, and you are the savior of the fallen.” You make yourself small before God out of etiquette; though you know the whole matter is not quite straight. “We—smaller?” But one has to say it. For politeness’ sake you say, “You are great, I am petty.” Though you know who really is “great”!

But when a man is in need, he will even call a donkey his father. So this is God; now that you need Him, you will have to say it. Though out of the corner of your eye you keep watching: if it doesn’t happen, then take the hint—if my wish is not fulfilled, I will never pray again.

Buddha said: there is no God… Buddha wanted to shatter your very notion of bribery. Buddha wanted you to wake up. Transform yourself. Do not look for someone to support you. Who is there to support you! You have installed the very idols you made. You made them; you put them there; you bow before them. The game is going splendidly! Man’s capacity for self‑deception has no limits!

Buddha said: there is no God.
This does not mean there is no divine. It only means that if there is the divine, it is hidden in your consciousness. It is the fragrance of your consciousness. Refine your consciousness and the divine will be revealed. Not by prayer, by meditation.

In prayer there is an other. In meditation there is no other; you descend within yourself. You polish yourself, cleanse yourself, wipe away the dust. Little by little, when thoughts shed off, when desires fall away, then within you that luminous, consciousness‑made being is revealed.

In your clay‑made form, the consciousness‑made is hidden—this is what Buddha said.

It will not happen through prayer, it will happen through meditation.

But, as I said earlier, who listens to Buddha! People began to pray to Buddha himself! They built temples to Buddha. And they said, “All right, if there is no God, so be it. You are God. We will bow at your feet. We will pray to you!”

Buddha declared there is no God so that you may understand that you too are the divine.

Nietzsche has a very famous statement: as long as God is, man cannot be free. Therefore Nietzsche said, “God is dead.”

From this man does not seem to have become free—only deranged. Nietzsche himself died mad.

Buddha also said there is no God, because Buddha too understood that as long as God is, you will not become free. But Buddha did not go mad; he became God himself. How did this revolution happen!

Buddha said: there is no God, because you are God. Whom do you pray to? The one you pray to sits within you. Buddha bestowed glory upon you. He gave man the ultimate dignity.

Buddha’s vision was expressed by Chandidas in a single line: “Above all is the truth of man; there is no truth higher than that.”

Buddha was the greatest liberator of humankind. He granted the utmost freedom.

But man is a slave; man does not really want freedom. If somehow you remove his chains, he puts them back on. If somehow you push him out of the prison, he slips in through another door. Man feels security in bondage!

Therefore Buddha said: let there be no prayer—let there be meditation. But people began to pray to Buddha himself. Temples were raised; statues installed. Prayer went on. People began to pray to Buddha, but they missed Buddha’s very essence.

Each seer has his own process. If you add or subtract even a little, it is spoiled. And we keep adding and subtracting. We insert our minds into it. We insert our desires. We color things; we give them our tint.

In Buddha’s dharma there is no place for prayer, but there is a place for bowing. Keep this in mind. And then it becomes very difficult to understand Buddha, because Buddha has taken such a high flight that understanding him becomes very difficult.

Buddha says: there is no need of prayer, but the feeling of bowing is precious. Do not bow before anyone—just bow. To bow before someone is wrong; to bow is right. Because the one who bows surrenders. The one who bows effaces himself. The one who bows loses the ego.

Now this is very difficult. You think that if there is an image, a God, then one can bow. One needs someone to bow to! Buddha says: you need no one to bow to. Bowing should be pure. For if you bow before someone, you will bow out of some desire. If you bow before someone, there will be a motive in your bowing. That will not be real bowing.

When you bow without any desire—simply bow; savor the bowing itself—there is no demand, and no one to fulfill any demand. You may bow before a tree, or place your head on the earth; you are dissolving, melting, being immersed. The one who bows completely, rises completely. And the one who stands stiff misses.

Remember: mountains stand stiff, and so they remain empty of water. Rain falls on them, yet they remain empty. Lakes are low, they are hollow; they have not raised their heads high—and they fill with water.

The divine is showering every day. The whole existence is filled with consciousness. Only you are not filled with consciousness; everything else is filled. The entire web is of consciousness. Consciousness is raining every moment, but you stand stiff. You stand stiff, therefore you remain empty. Bow.
Someone asked Buddha... Because Buddha had said: Do not bow before anyone. Some logical person must have reached him. He saw that Buddha says, “Do not bow to anyone,” and yet people are bowing to Buddha himself! And people are saying: Buddham sharanam gachchhami. Sangham sharanam gachchhami. Dhammam sharanam gachchhami. I take refuge in the Buddha; I take refuge in the Sangha; I take refuge in the Dhamma.
Some rationalist must have seen what was happening! And Buddha says: Do not bow before anyone. So he asked, “How do you accept this? People are bowing before you!”

Buddha said, “No—no one is bowing before me. People are bowing. For now they are not yet skillful, so they take my support in order to bow. But they are not bowing to me.”

When we teach a small child, we say, “ga for Ganesha.” In old times they said that. Now they say, “ga for gadha (donkey).” You have to link the letter ga to Ganesha or to a donkey; otherwise the child does not grasp ga. Yes, if he sees the image of Ganesha, he understands: Right—ga is for Ganesha.

But it isn’t “ga for Ganesha” for your whole life! If every time ga appears you must read it as “ga for Ganesha,” reading would become impossible. If you had to go on with “ga for Ganesha” and “aa for aam (mango),” how would study ever happen? You wouldn’t be able to read even a single line; so many things would intrude that you’d get lost. The meaning of the sentence would be lost.

Gradually, Ganesha drops away, the donkey drops away. Only the pure ga remains.

So Buddha said: as we explain to a little child with the help of a picture, so too these are still little children. I am only “ga for Ganesha.” Soon they will mature, and then they won’t need me. Then they will bow without any prop from me.

Just as a mother helps a child walk by holding his hand, and when the child begins to walk, she lets go—so does the true master guide. When the person becomes grown, mature, he lets go of the hand.

Now, in Buddha’s words, these three refuges—the Three Jewels—are also to be understood. The first is: Buddham sharanam gachchhami. Buddha is a person. Then the second: Sangham sharanam gachchhami. That goes beyond the individual Buddha; it is the next step. Not only this Buddha—I go to the refuge of the fellowship of all who have been Buddhas. You took a hint from one Buddha, took support from one Buddha, recognized one Buddha, connected with one Buddha—then you moved on.

Like descending to the riverbank: first you step down the stairs; then from the steps you enter the river. Buddham sharanam gachchhami—refuge in the one through whom recognition arose, with whom the relationship of discipleship was formed. Then soon it begins to dawn: this one alone is not Buddha; Krishna is also Buddha; Mahavira is Buddha; Patanjali is Buddha; Lao Tzu is Buddha. Then all the Buddhas begin to be seen. Having recognized one flower, you begin to recognize all flowers. Having drunk from one river, you come to understand the water of all rivers—that it is the same water; everywhere it is Ganga-water. So the second refuge is: Sangham sharanam gachchhami.

And the third refuge becomes vaster still. When you have seen all the Buddhas, all the flowers, then the unstrung thread running through those flowers becomes visible—How did so many become Buddhas? By what cause did they become Buddhas? By Dharma. Then the individual Buddha drops; even the fellowship of Buddhas drops; then: Dhammam sharanam gachchhami—I go to the refuge of the Dharma. And a day will come when even that drops. Then only pure bowing remains—pure surrender.

You descended the steps; the Buddha is like the steps. Then you entered the river; the river is like the Sangha of Buddhas. Then you flowed in the river and reached the ocean; the ocean is like Dharma. Then you dissolved in the ocean and became one. Then bowing became pure. Then the real refuge was found. Then you will offer gratitude—to the Buddhas, to the Dharma, to the Buddha; you will acknowledge the grace. Now bowing has become pure. Now you have come to know that the real secret of my being lies in my non-being. In my emptiness is my fullness.

That’s all for today.