Es Dhammo Sanantano #113

A wave of feeling is arising. The old mind says: this is only emotional excitement. This is not a real feeling; it is merely a fit of feeling! This is not real feeling. It is only because of listening here; in this atmosphere, seeing so many saffron-robed sannyasins, a longing has arisen. Wait. Go home. Think calmly. Keep patience for a few days. What is the hurry?

What will you do by going home and thinking it over calmly? You will destroy this very wave of feeling that had arisen. In calling it “emotional excitement” you have already begun to destroy it. And the irony is that when this wave subsides, and within you the opposite arises—“No, I should not take sannyas”—then you will not for a single moment wonder whether that might be emotional excitement!

Such is the astonishing mind of man! Then you will not think: perhaps it is because you have returned home, come among householders; now saffron-robed ones are no longer seen; now you do not see people intoxicated in meditation; now that voice is not heard; now that breeze is not here; and here there is the marketplace, the clamor, the house, the hassles of householding, and everyone just like yourself—under this influence the thought “let me not take sannyas” arises; could that not be an emotional surge? You will not think then. You will immediately agree: “Now the real thing has come into my hands!”

It is not the real thing that has come into your hands. That comes from your memories, from your past, from your experience. And what is arising now is not coming from your experience, not from your past. It is coming from your depths. And of your own depths you know nothing.

Now understand. If I say yes, I have truly called you—do you think more thoughts won’t arise? “Who knows, perhaps he only said that to convince me that he has called me! What proof is there that he actually called? Maybe he said it only to console me? Perhaps he wanted to initiate me into sannyas, so he said it?” Thought-waves will keep arising; there is no end to them. That is why nothing is ever resolved through thinking.

The first part of this story is that one day the Blessed One, seeing his resolve...

As yet the Brahmin had no inkling of that resolve. Had he known, he would himself have gone to the Blessed One: “O Lord! The feeling to become a bhikshu has arisen in my heart. The hour has come. The fruit has ripened. Now I want to fall. And I want to be lost in you. As a fruit dissolves into the soil, absorb me into the Self. Accept me; receive me.”

The Brahmin had not come; Buddha went to his door. And so I repeat to you: before the disciple chooses, the Master chooses. Before the disciple knows, the Master knows. How can the disciple choose while groping in the dark! He knows nothing at all. Even if he chooses, he will choose wrongly.

Last night a young man came from Holland to take sannyas. I could see there was resolve—but he himself did not yet know it. He said to me, “I’ll think about it. I’ll consider it.” I told him: if you think and consider, it will go wrong. When has your thinking ever proved right? When has your considering ever proved right? If you come here and still think and consider, then you haven’t really come here at all. Your journey from Holland to here has been in vain. Don’t think or consider here—see.

Seeing is a different thing. Seeing is to go down into depth. Thinking and considering means returning to your past memories. The moment you go to the past, you miss, because your unconscious is here right now. Here is where you have to dive.

The thinker is like someone floating on the surface of the water. The seer is like one who dives into the depths—a pearl-diver. Become a diver.

Buddha used to go on his alms-round. He had no thought of going to that Brahmin’s house. But suddenly he saw that in that Brahmin’s unconscious the resolve had happened. A ray of renunciation had reached him.

One day, seeing his resolve...

Remember: people like Buddha do not think; they see. Thinking is the work of the blind. Those with eyes see. It was visible to Buddha the way it is visible to you that the leaves of a tree are green; that one leaf has turned yellow and is about to fall; that it is day; that it is night; that the sun has risen; that clouds have gathered; that it is raining. In just that way, the states of the conscious realm are visible to Buddha.

The resolve has ripened. This man has come near the moment of renunciation. If left to himself, who knows when he will come to know his own resolve—births may pass. And even if he comes to know, who knows what interpretation he will give, how he will explain it away, how he will lull himself back to sleep and turn over again, lost in dreams.

Buddha cannot leave this supreme moment to the Brahmin. The Brahmin is not reliable. Therefore he himself went and stood at his door. He had gone for alms; going to that door had not been in his mind.

He stood at the door. At that time the Brahmin was inside, eating his meal with his back to the door.

The Brahmin had no idea what was about to happen, what moment had arrived in his life. He was simply eating—just as he must have eaten every day at mealtime—with his back to the door. He didn’t even know Buddha was approaching.

You too do not know when Buddha comes to your door. You too do not know when he knocks at your door.

Jesus’ famous saying is: Ask and it shall be given to you. Seek and you shall find. Knock and the door shall be opened.

But the ordinary man’s condition is exactly the opposite. He says: “Give—and I will not take. Come—and I will turn my back. Knock—and I am not going to open.”

The Brahmin did not even know Buddha was arriving—otherwise would he have been sitting with his back to the door!

So I say, notice these small things. Many of you are sitting with your backs to me! It does not mean you are literally turned away. You may be sitting right in front of me, looking at me. And yet I say to you: even among those who are looking at me, many are sitting with their backs to me. Among those who are listening to me, many have their backs to me. To sit with your back to me means you are protecting yourself. You are not showing a readiness to lose yourself. You are not mustering the courage to dissolve.

The Brahmin was eating with his back to the door. The supreme moment had come; the instant of sannyas was near; Buddha stood at the door. And he was absorbed in a small process—eating!

Understand this too. Eating signifies the ordinary everyday life—eating and drinking, waking and sleeping. Eating and drinking, waking and sleeping, man completes the journey from birth to death. Everything is spent in eating and drinking!

He was eating. He had no idea divinity was standing at the door! He was eating. He was engaged in a little task, a daily chore. Timelessness was at the door—and he had no inkling!

Man is asleep just like this. Many times a Buddha has come on your path too. But you kept your back turned. It is not that you have not met Buddhas. You have. But your back was turned, so the meeting did not happen.

The Brahmin’s wife saw the Blessed One. But in her mind no resolve had arisen. And do you know what concern arose in her? How petty man is! A worry arose: she did not see that the Blessed One stood at the door. “Shall I rise, wash his feet, seat him?” No. One concern seized her—that if my husband sees this shramana Gautama, he will surely give him the food; and then I will have to go through the hassle of cooking again.

How man loses the vast to the trivial! This is your condition as well. Do not be angry with this Brahmani. Forgive her. Because this Brahmani is your symbol.

In petty matters man loses the infinite. What a concern to arise! You will laugh—because you think this is not your situation. You will laugh, “How foolish this Brahmani is!” But this is the common human condition. You too miss because of such petty things—petty matters, for which you are able to muster very grand reasons!

The Brahmani felt one more hassle had come and stood at the door! Now this shramana Gautama is standing with his alms bowl.

Yet Buddha had not come to beg. Buddha had come to give! A resolve was being born in the Brahmin’s mind. Buddha had come to midwife it. Buddha had come like a midwife. Something had ripened within him. It needed support. Just as a pregnancy has come to term and the child is about to be born—and we call the midwife.

Socrates said: I am a midwife. All Buddhas are midwives. It is your own birth that has to happen. May your birth happen with the least pain; with the least bloodshed; may you not become an obstacle to your own birthing—that is how your rebirth should happen: simply, easily.

That is why Buddha came. But the woman was thinking: a hassle has arrived. Now I may have to cook again! Such is the distance between man and Buddhas!

Thinking thus, she turned her back to the Blessed One and stood shielding her husband, so that the Brahmin would not see him.

This happens here every day. If a wife becomes eager to come here, the husband stands shielding her, protecting. If the husband becomes eager to come, the wife stands shielding him, trying to prevent. Fortunate are those who, husband and wife, both come here. Otherwise, one will put up obstacles—out of fear that a hassle has come! “What if something happens? What if my wife takes sannyas! What if my husband takes sannyas!” People don’t bring their sons.

Years ago I was a guest of the Scindia family in Gwalior. Vijaya Raje Scindia had invited me. But when I arrived, and she heard things about me, she became afraid.

Having invited me, she still arranged the meeting. Fearfully she listened to me; her son listened too. The next day she came to see me. She said, “Forgive me. I should not hide this from you. My son also wanted to come, but I did not bring him. I am mature, but he might get carried away. He could be swayed by your words. And your words are dangerous. So I did not bring him. I will not let him meet you. And I tell you straight, because I do not want to hide it.”

Now this mother is taking cover behind her son. She does not know what she is protecting him from! And she considers herself mature. Mature—meaning: I am so dull that nothing will affect me. Say whatever you like; I will listen. There is no danger to me. But my son is young; still fresh. And there is rebellion in your words. What if a spark catches him!

Then she said: “Forgive me, because my husband has passed away, and now my son is my only support.” As if by coming into my contact the son would be ruined!

It is astonishing. A wife is not so worried if her husband goes to a tavern. But if he goes to satsang, she is more worried. Because whatever trouble the tavern brings, at least the wife’s hold will remain intact! Even if the husband goes to a brothel once, the wife is not as worried as when he sits among sadhus. Because if he goes there, he will come back. But satsang is dangerous: what if he never returns! What if the bridge of return is destroyed!

All those who are entangled in the nets of our attachments, all whose self-interest lies in those attachments—fear arises in them when you go to a Buddha. For Buddhas have but one teaching: become free of attachment. So those whose interest lies in attachment will create every kind of obstacle. And man is clever at devising tricks.

A friend came to me. He said, “I want to take sannyas, but my wife will not agree. And when I was leaving home, she made me swear three times that I would not take sannyas. I have sworn. So I want to take sannyas—but I won’t, because you say yourself: do not hurt anyone. Why hurt my wife?”

I spoke with him of other matters for a while, so that he might forget sannyas. Then I asked: “What else is your wife against?” He said, “Sir, she is against everything! If I smoke, she is against it. If I go to the cinema, she is against it. If I get absorbed in reading too many books, she is against it.” I asked, “Did you give up smoking?” He said, “It doesn’t stop.” I said, “So you are hurting your wife—and still you go on smoking! And you are ready to give up sannyas, because you do not want to hurt your wife! How many hurts have you not already given her?”

He is prepared to give all other hurts—only in the matter of sannyas he does not want to hurt! It is obvious, isn’t it? Man devises tricks. Man is very clever. And nowhere does he employ as much cleverness as in avoiding Buddhas.

The wife had encircled him. She had taken her place behind her husband, so that even by mistake he might not look back; so that the Gautama standing at the door would not be seen.

By then, however, the inner intuition of the Blessed One’s presence had begun in the Brahmin. The resolve that had arisen within—Buddha had come to support precisely that.

Remember: the feelings appropriate to the one you are near arise swiftly. Wherever you are, buried feelings surface. If lust lies within you and you go to a courtesan’s house—or a courtesan comes to your house—at once you will find lust has arisen. It was there. A courtesan cannot create anything that is not already within you. What will a courtesan do if you go to a Buddha!

But if she comes near you, the lust that lay buried will, seeing the opportunity, surge up. From the depths it will rise to the surface.

That is what happened. Buddha came and stood there. He had not even spoken. Their presence, their very being, their inner resonance began to shake this man’s consciousness. Their vina began to resound within him.

His inner intuition began to awaken. Suddenly he began to remember Buddha. Suddenly the eating stopped. The taste for food was gone. All at once he began to be absorbed in the feeling of Buddha. And as he sank into that feeling, an exquisite fragrance started filling his nostrils—the fragrance that always surrounded Buddha.

Startled, he sank deeper into that fragrance. And as he went deeper into the fragrance, he saw that the house was filling with that tender radiance that fills it in Buddha’s presence.

He was just about to turn and look—what is happening?—when his wife began to laugh. She laughed because this was the limit! “I am standing shielding him, hoping that this Gautama will go somewhere else to beg. But this is the limit—he just stands here! He neither speaks nor moves. He just stands here! It looks like he is not going to leave!”

In that situation she burst into loud laughter. “I am being stubborn that I should not have to cook again; and he is being stubborn that today he will make me cook!”

The inner intuition of Buddha, the filling of the nostrils with their fragrance, the house suffused with their radiance, and then the wife’s laughter—naturally, he turned to look behind. He turned with a start. For a moment he could not believe his eyes.

Who would! Whoever has eyes will still not believe. Yes, the blind will not see at all. The Brahmani did not see. She was utterly blind—within her no suppressed note of the unknown, no longing to seek truth. She was in deep stupor, unconscious.

The Brahmin was not so unconscious. His eyes were on the verge of opening. His brahma-muhurta had come. Morning was near. The doze was breaking—or half-broken. The night had passed; sleep was done; birdsong of the dawn had begun to be heard. Such was the Brahmin’s in-between state.

The Brahmani was still in her midnight—the middle of the night—when even dreams disappear and deep sleep becomes profound. It was new-moon night within her—darkness. But the Brahmin’s morning had come near.

Remember, the morning outside happens for all at the same time. The inner morning happens for each at a different time. The outer night is the same for all. The inner night is different for each.

It may be that the person sitting next to you is near his morning, while you are still at midnight. It may be that your morning is still many births away. And this is why we do not understand one another: because the levels of our understanding are different. One is speaking from the mountain; another is wandering in the valley. One has opened his eyes; another’s eyes have always been closed. It becomes very difficult to understand one another—because we are standing on different rungs of the ladder.

He was startled. He could not believe it. Buddha—standing at his door! They had never come before. Whenever he had to go, he went and gave alms. Five times he had given alms to the bhikshu sangha. He used to go and give.

Buddha had never come; this was the first time. How to believe it! And even if one believes—how to believe!

Many times he must have thought; he must have cherished the hope in his breath that someday Buddha would come to his home. He must have thought of inviting them. Then he must have feared whether the invitation of a poor Brahmin would be accepted or not. In shyness he probably did not invite. Or, “Why trouble him! Why take him there! What is the need! When it is time for me to go, I can go; why make him wander!” Thinking thus, he must have held back—out of love, out of shyness. And today Buddha, suddenly, uninvited, is standing at the door.

When the need is there, the true Master is always available. There is no need to call him. When your receptivity is full, when you are near that place where his hand is needed—he will certainly be present. He must be.

The Brahmin looked with a start. He could not believe his eyes. And from his mouth burst, “What is this! Blessed One!”

Amazed, wonderstruck, he must have narrowed his eyes to see. He must have thought: am I not dreaming? He must have thought: I have always thought, again and again, “May the Blessed One come, come, come!” Perhaps because of that constant thinking, my own imagination has taken form before me!

Then he touched the feet of the Blessed One and paid homage. He gave the remaining food and asked this question: “O Gautama! Why do you call your disciples bhikshu?”

At that time there were two kinds of sannyasins in India. The Jain renunciate was called a muni; the Hindu renunciate, a swami. Buddha, for the first time, gave the renunciate the name bhikshu. He gave sannyas a new gesture and a new dimension.

Now things look inverted. The Hindu renunciate is called swami—master. And Buddha said—bhikshu—beggar! He reversed it. The Jain muni stands in the middle—neither master nor beggar; silent—hence muni. Therefore Hindus have not been as upset with the Jains as they were with the Buddhists. Buddha turned everything upside down.

The Jains were forgiven; thus they could settle in India. But the Buddhists could not. The Buddhists were eliminated, uprooted—killed, cut down, boiled in cauldrons. Because Buddha reversed the entire process! This is not just a matter of a word; this is Buddha’s inner vision—he gave birth, against the Hindu viewpoint, to a fundamentally different current of feeling.

The word swami is lovely; there is nothing wrong with it. But it carries a danger. Every word carries some danger. The danger in swami is that the renunciate may become egotistic. The word is lovely. It means one’s own master. And one’s own mastery is needed.

The worldly person is the one who is not his own master. He has a thousand masters. A thousand desires are his masters. Wealth is his master; status is his master. He has many masters. He is a slave.

A sannyasin is one who has dismissed all other masters and become his own master. Now his senses no longer control him; they no longer possess him. Now the senses do not drive him; he directs the senses. Now the mind does not rule him; he takes the mind along behind him. The mind has become his shadow. He has declared his self-sovereignty.

The word is very lovely, meaningful—but there is a danger. The danger is that ego may arise, pride may come. And once ego is born, a barrier to meeting the divine is erected. Then the world returns by the back door—more subtle than before. Earlier there was the pride of wealth, the pride of position; now there will be the pride of sannyas.

Therefore Buddha changed the word, took it to an altogether different plane: he said—bhikshu. But remember: bhikshu does not mean beggar. In the dictionary it does. But Buddha meant by bhikshu: one who is empty in every way; who has become a vessel for grace; who has nothing of his own within; who is only a void. One who, having left everything else, has even left the sense of “I,” has left the soul, has left atta; who lives in anatta—no-self; who has become only emptiness. Such a one is a bhikshu. Not a beggar—because a beggar is still filled with hope: that he will get; that he will acquire; that somehow he will find; that by begging he will accumulate. The race to accumulate is still on.

A beggar is desireful of wealth. He is not wealthy, but he is greedy for wealth. He does not have money, but his thirst for money is as great as that of the rich—perhaps greater. For the rich has had some experience of wealth; if he has a little intelligence, he will have understood that nothing is gained by gaining wealth. But the beggar does not even have that. His craving for wealth is profound. He runs after wealth.

Bhikshu means: one who has no craving. Not only has he left desires and senses, he has left even the inner controller who exercises mastery over the senses—the ego. He has dropped outer ownership; he has dropped the inner “master” too. The one within who could become a master—he has dropped him as well.

Buddha says: within you are only emptiness. And only when you are emptiness, do you truly exist. That is the state of the bhikshu.

The Brahmin asked rightly. He was a Brahmin; he would have been familiar with the word swami. “What has happened to Buddha that he calls his renunciates bhikshu?”

So he asked: “O Gautama! Why do you call your disciples bhikshu?”

And this question—perhaps he thought it was philosophical. But Buddha knows it is not philosophical; it is existential. That is why Buddha came. Within him the wave to become a bhikshu is rising. He himself does not know why he is asking.

You too do not know why you ask a question. It circles in your mind and you ask; but you do not know its roots—where it comes from, why it comes.
If you can come to know why you asked your question, then in ninety cases out of a hundred the question will be resolved—by the very seeing of why I asked it. Almost resolved. If you go down into your question and catch hold of its roots, you will find the very life of the question gone. The answer has come near. There is no longer any need to ask anyone.
This Brahmin has no idea why he is asking about the word bhikkhu! If you were to ask him, “Why do you ask this?” he would say, “I have often wondered: sannyasins have always been called swami; why does the Buddha say bhikkhu? I am asking just out of curiosity.”

But the Buddha knows it is not curiosity. If it were mere curiosity, Buddha would not come. The Buddha comes only when titillation has subsided, curiosity has gone, and a true thirst for liberation has arisen. When someone has actually come to that edge where he needs a push—where he cannot jump on his own, because ahead lies the vast void, and to gather courage for that vast emptiness is hard.

“O Gautam! Why do you call your disciples bhikkhus? And then, how does one become a bhikkhu? What is its inner process?”

This question arose in his mind; it reached his conscious surface—because of the presence of the Blessed One. Perhaps if the Blessed One had not stood at his door that day, this question would have waited for years—or he might not have asked it this life at all. Perhaps never.

At the right hour, the presence of the Blessed One; a wave necessarily rose within him—and the presence of the Blessed One, the vast wave of the Blessed One lifted his small ripple and carried it to his consciousness.

This push, this support—this is the meaning of the true Master. To give acceleration to what is slow within you. To give so much heat to what is lukewarm within you that it becomes capable of turning into steam. To rouse and awaken what lies asleep within. To seize what is groping in your inner darkness and bring it into the light.

This happens by presence alone; it happens by the sheer presence of one like the Buddha. You go to a Buddha and begin to ask questions you had never even thought of before. You go to a Buddha and you are filled with moods wholly unfamiliar. You go to a Buddha and you become acquainted with inner gestures you did not even know could exist within you.

In that sweet moment of the Buddha’s unannounced presence...

And because it was unannounced, the moment was all the sweeter. Had the Brahmin invited him, it would not have been so sweet—because it would not have been so shocking. Had he invited him, it would not have hurt so piercingly, would not have left him so dumbstruck. “What is this!” Such a Brahmin could not have asked. He would know, “I called him, so he came.” By that very knowledge he would be deprived; he would not be innocent.

Because the Buddha came unannounced, he caught the Brahmin in a wholly innocent state—unawares.

Remember, the Divine always comes unannounced. It never comes when you call. Never by your calling. When you have no idea at all—when you are sitting silent, empty, calling for nothing; neither calling the world, nor calling the Divine; when there is no cry within you, no desire, no longing; when no dream is rippling within—and suddenly! You do not even hear the sound of his feet, and he stands before you!

God always comes unannounced. In the unannounced coming lies your transformation. Whenever God comes, he startles you. He leaves you wonder-struck. You cannot comprehend what happened, how it happened! You arrive at the unknowable—because God is a mystery. Mysteries cannot be summoned; no invitation can be issued.

In that sweet instant there arose within him the longing for renunciation.

The Brahmin too saw that something was quivering up within, some storm entering within. Something was welling up inside that had never welled before. A seed had sprouted, a tender shoot was born. And the sprout was growing fast. Suddenly he saw: I want to be a bhikkhu. I want to be a sannyasin.

The resolve that became visible to the Buddha also became visible to the Brahmin. The result of the Buddha’s nearness!

That is why, since ancient times, the company of the saint has been treasured. In the company of the saint nothing happens from the outside. What happens is within. The awakening is your own flame. But where many flames are lit, where the lighting of the flame is spoken of, praised, sung; where lit flames are dancing—you will not be able to remain unlit for long. You will be swept along in that current. In that dancing energy the moment will come when you too begin to dance. Your sleeping flame will flare up within you.

Perhaps the Blessed One went to his door that day precisely so that the flame which was moving faintly, smothered in smoke, might blaze forth.

And perhaps the Brahmini’s effort—to keep the Blessed One from being seen—arose from some fear that had surged up in her unconscious. She thought, “Perhaps the Blessed One will ask for food and I will have to cook again.” That was her explanation. But perhaps the fear that arose in her was not only about food. Can cooking cause so much fear? Likely the fear was: what if today the Blessed One takes my Brahmin away?

Because when a person like the Buddha arrives at someone’s door, there will be revolution; a fire will be lit; the old will burn; the new will be born.

But even the Brahmini herself is not clear why she went to hide the Brahmin and stood behind him. She thinks—poor woman—that she did it to avoid the hassle of cooking again!

Do not assume that the reasons you think for your actions are the real reasons. Your reasons are imagined. You do not know the source.

The Brahmini too became afraid. And remember, in women the unconscious is more active than in men. That is why women often get a glimpse of things before men do—things that are not yet explicit.

You must have experienced it many times; it happens daily—that a woman has a slightly greater capacity to sense beyond thought. In men, intellect has grown; in women, the unconscious is still dense.

So if a woman says to you, “Don’t go today; don’t take this flight,” listen. She says, “Today...” Though she cannot give a reason, cannot explain. She will cry, she will say, “Don’t go by this train today.” And you will ask, “What is the reason? Why not?” She will say, “Even I do not know.” Or she will give some made-up reason: “I went to an astrologer; he said today is inauspicious; the muhurt is not right; go tomorrow; I have work today; the child is ill”—she will find some reason. But if you ask rightly, with sympathy, she will say, “It just happens within me that you should not go today. I myself do not know why.”

Woman still lives more by the heart than by logic. Hence this amusing incident.

Before the Brahmin—on whose account the Buddha had come—could give momentum to his decision, before that, the Brahmini’s unconscious had awakened. Before that, she stood up to save him! She stood to protect before the danger! The danger stands at the door. The coming of the Buddha is dangerous.

Although the Brahmini herself doesn’t know; she thinks only that she should not have to cook again. “Where has this Gautam come and stood!”

Then the Brahmini laughed. On the surface, the story says she laughed because: “How absurd! Here I am, trying to avoid the bother of cooking once more, hiding my husband, holding back the Buddha. And this Gautam! His stubbornness has crossed all limits! He won’t move on. He could go to another door; the village is vast! Why dig his heels in here today?”

The Brahmini thinks she laughed at Gautam’s stubbornness. But perhaps that laughter too came from her unconscious. Perhaps somewhere inside it also became clear to her that for the mere sake of cooking again she would not have stood blocking the door. There was something else. And some glimpse of that “something else” must have flashed—“What if this shramana takes my husband away?” Then she laughed. “Is this even a thing to think! Why would he take him? My husband has never wanted renunciation, never wanted to be a bhikkhu. Though my husband gives alms now and then to this Gautam, still he is a Brahmin. He still worships, performs havan, reads the Vedas, remains engaged in the shastras. There is no chance of corruption. What a worry I fell into!” She would have laughed for this too.

In that moment the Blessed One uttered this gatha; and that gatha became the Brahmin’s sannyas. Then he did not hesitate a moment. He surrendered at the feet of the Buddha. He began to walk behind the Buddha.

And the Brahmini too—who a moment earlier had stood to save her husband from the Buddha—she too was initiated; she too took sannyas. Her love for her husband must not have been only of the body’s plane. If it were only of the body, she would have been angry. It must have been deeper, a little deeper. And if today her husband takes sannyas and goes on the path of initiation, then it is right—she too will go. Unhesitating, fearless—what the husband does, she too will do.

It is startling that the same woman who, a moment earlier, was troubled at the thought of cooking once more, is now ready to become a bhikkhuni with her husband!

Within human beings such contradictions exist. The same woman who can make your life unbearable can also lay down her life for you. The same woman who can pour her life at your feet, in anger can poison you too.

The ways of love are deeply tangled! The ways of love are complex. Love’s arithmetic is not straightforward. The paths of love are not clean highways; they are like footpaths—winding, twisting.

A moment before she hesitated to cook; a moment later she did not hesitate to leave everything and go! The Brahmini did not have love for the Buddha, but she had love for her husband. And that is why I say to you: love—if true—whoever it is for, can become a path to the Divine.

Her love was for her husband; she had nothing to do with the Buddha. Not once did she think of the Buddha as God. She says, “This Gautam! Where has this shramana Gautam come and stood!” But toward her husband, her mind would be what has always been envisioned in this land, about which poems have been written, songs sung. She would have regarded her husband as God. And when her God goes, she too must go. Wherever her God goes, she must go.

Just as women in this country once mounted the husband’s pyre and became sati, so women in this country have also taken sannyas with their husbands. With whom they knew attachment, with that one they also knew detachment. With whom they knew pleasure, with that one they also knew austerity. Once togetherness has happened, then whether joy or sorrow, home or road—togetherness is togetherness. This land has made intimate experiments with togetherness.

Buddha said: “He who has not the slightest clinging in the five aggregates of name-and-form—and who does not sorrow when they are not—he is called a bhikkhu.”

A very simple definition, clean as mathematics: “He in whom there is not the slightest clinging to name-and-form...”

Name-and-form means the mental and the physical. A human is a bundle of two states—mind and body. The subtle bundle is mind; its name is nama—because the deepest feeling of your subtle mind is ego—I. And the gross bundle is body; its name is rupa—form. Man keeps oscillating between these two—nama-rupa.

Those whom we call great men are, in this sense, small indeed. Those whom the common public calls great leaders, mahātmas, are ordinarily bound only by these two. And the one who becomes free of these two—that alone is a bhikkhu.

The day before yesterday I read a statement by Jayaprakash Narayan. Thanking his friends in Bombay—thanking the people—he said: “I shall be forever obliged to the people, because it is my country’s people who spread my name and fame to the far corners of the world.”

Even a thoughtful person like Jayaprakash Narayan remains bound to name and fame! What are you thanking for? That people have spread my name and fame to the far corners of the world. What will come of it?

Politics is rarely a battle of principles. Principles are only covers. The real battle is of egos. The deep fight is of personalities.

This fight between Congress and Janata is no fight of principles. It is a fight of personalities. Who will be prestigious! Who will sit on the seat! And that is why in politics, enemies are enemies—and friends too are enemies. Because those who stand near the seat are also waiting to push. If Jagjivan Ram gets a chance, will he not push Morarji? If Charan Singh gets a chance, will he not push? If they don’t push, the dagger will stab their own chest!

Those who stand close are also ready to push. They are watching for a moment of weakness—then give a shove! In politics, enemies are enemies—and friends too are enemies.

Jayaprakash Narayan seated Morarji on the chair. But a few days ago in Bhopal someone asked Morarji, “We have heard that Jayaprakash Narayan has now reached the stature of Mahatma Gandhi! What do you say?” Morarji immediately said: “No, no one can ever reach the stature of Mahatma Gandhi. He was a unique man. And besides, Jayaprakash Narayan has made no such claim.”

Look at it subtly. Brush off the dust and look. Inside you will find glowing embers.

First, whether Mahatma Gandhi was unique or not is beside the point. Gandhi’s uniqueness is being evoked only so that Jayaprakash may not be placed in that place. In truth, Morarji would like to be Gandhi—where does Jayaprakash come in between!

If you look at things straight, you will never understand.

Morarji is Mahatma Gandhi! All of Gandhi’s rigidities are in him. And one rigidity more—drinking his own urine. He is a bigger Mahatma than Gandhi! And then he says Jayaprakash Narayan has made no such claim.

Now see the fun: If Jayaprakash makes no claim, then, having made no claim, how can he be! And if tomorrow he does claim, then therefore he cannot be Gandhi—because since when did claimants become Gandhis!

See, logic is a strange thing! “He did not claim!” As if to be Gandhi one must first make a claim and then get a verdict from some court—“Yes, he has become Gandhi!” If he did not claim, how can we accept! And if he claims, Morarji will say, “Since when are claimants Gandhis? Gandhi was so humble! Humility! And this claimant!”

But the real issue is something else. The real issue is that Morarji will not want anyone to be more prestigious than himself. He does not want anyone’s fame above his. And what concern has anyone with Gandhi now!

I have heard that before Gandhi’s assassination, Morarji had come to know. He was informed. He did nothing. It is said Vallabhbhai Patel too had been informed; he too did nothing.

Before Gandhi’s death, Patel addressed two RSS meetings, criticizing Gandhi and praising the RSS. And the words Gandhi spoke to Patel an hour before his death are worth remembering.

Gandhi said to Patel—an hour before he died—“Sardar! As I knew you, you are not that man now. You have changed. You are no longer the person I knew. On reaching the seat you have become something else.”

Then Gandhi was killed. And so many days have passed since his assassination; not once before this did Morarji say that the RSS had no hand in it. But now that he is on the seat, he has begun to say there was no hand of RSS. “Godse was not even a member of the RSS when he committed the murder.”

It could be that Godse was not a member at the time—just so that if any trouble arose, responsibility might not come upon the RSS. It only shows that there was a desire to save the RSS: the organization should not be maligned. “Even if I am caught, no blame should fall on the organization.”

But the amusing thing! Devotees of Gandhi lay flowers on his samadhi—and here they are now promoting the RSS! Because it is the RSS that has given them prestige, seated them.

In this world all the chase is for position, fame, name. No one cares for anything else. Everyone cares only to prove somehow that “I am great.” And whoever wants to prove he is great suffers from an inferiority complex—nothing else.

Buddha said: “He from whom attachment to name-and-form has gone; who has neither longing for fame nor desire for position; who has no clinging to either subtle or gross—such a one, free of possessiveness, alone is a bhi—”
khu.

“And when position and prestige, name-and-form—all are lost, he does not grieve...”

Because it is easy to say, when you are in position, that you do not care for it. People in power often say such things: “What have we to do with office! What is there in it!”

Those who reach high seats display humility. You must have seen: men in small posts cause more trouble; higher up, they cause less. Because now prestige is already there; now they also enjoy saying, “We are free even of prestige. We have nothing to do with fame.”

You have seen: the constable causes the most nuisance; the inspector a little less; the commissioner less still. The higher the post, the fewer the petty hassles.

I have heard: a blind beggar is sitting by the road at night, playing his ektara. His disciple sits by him, learning. Both are beggars.

A king and his companions, lost from hunting, come through the village. No one else is there; only the blind man under a bush, playing. The king comes and says, “Surdas-ji! Which way goes the road to such-and-such village?” Then the vizier comes and says, “Blind man! Which way goes the road?” The blind man tells both. Behind them a soldier comes; he gives the blind man a slap—“Hey old man! Which way?” He tells him too.

When the three have gone, the blind man says to his disciple, “The first was the emperor; the second the vizier; the third a soldier.” The disciple asks, “But how did you know? You are blind!” He says, “What of blindness! The one who said ‘Surdas-ji’ must be in a high place. He has no need to show himself—he is prestigious already. The one behind him said ‘Blind man!’—he still has to establish himself. And the one behind him must be the worst off; he even slapped me. Asking the way, and he slaps! He must be a mere soldier.”

When a man reaches high posts, he also enjoys saying, “What is there in the post!”

Therefore Buddha says: First, have no clinging. And what will be the proof? When these things are lost, there should be no sorrow. Only then will the real be known. If there was no clinging, there can be no sorrow. If there was clinging, only then can there be sorrow.

“...he alone is called a bhikkhu.”

The Brahmin heard. He bowed at the feet and said, “Accept me. Lead me too on this path. I have lived with possessiveness and found nothing but suffering. Now take me beyond possessiveness.”

The word mamatā is sweet and meaningful. It means the sense of “mine.” Mam + tā: mam means “mine,” filling things with a great sense of mine-ness. “This is my house. This my wife. This my shop. This my religion. This my book. This my temple. This my country.” All this is mamatā. When the sense of “mine” is gone...

A house is a house—what have I to do with “my”! The country is the country—what is “mine”! The Quran is the Quran—what is “mine”! A wife is a woman—what is “mine”! Nothing is mine. When all “mine’s” fall away, suddenly you find that one more thing falls away by itself—“I.” To hold up the “I,” props of “mine” are planted all around. The “I” cannot stand without the “mine.” So, the more you can call things “mine,” the more your “I” grows. And when nothing remains to call “mine,” the “I” has nowhere to stand. It collapses instantly.

Drop the “mine,” and the “I” drops by itself. And the dropping of that “I”—that is a bhikkhu. The fall of the “I,” that is to become a zero. That begging bowl in the bhikkhu’s hand—if it is only in his hand, it is useless; it must be in his soul—only then does it have meaning.

Second scene:
Among the leading disciples of the Blessed One, Mahakatyayana’s disciple, the elder Soṇa Kutikanna, returned to Kuraraghara from Jetavana after seeing the Blessed One. One day his mother wished to hear his teaching and, having the town drum sounded, went with everyone to hear his discourse. While she was listening, a large band of thieves broke into her house and began carting away gold, silver, jewels. A maidservant, seeing the thieves enter, went and informed the upāsikā.

The upāsikā laughed and said, “Go, let the thieves take whatever they wish; do not interrupt the discourse.”

The chief of the thieves—who had followed the maid to see the upāsikā’s reaction—was stunned to hear this, dumbfounded. He had expected danger.

She was very wealthy—the wealthiest person in that town. At her signal thousands would have surrounded the thieves; escape would have been difficult. The chief had followed out of fear to see what would happen—what reaction the upāsikā would show.

And the upāsikā said, “Look, go; let the thieves take whatever they wish. Do not interrupt the discourse.”

Naturally, the thieves’ chief was dumbfounded. He had expected danger. But those few words of the upāsikā changed his life. As if a spark had fallen; as if someone had awakened him from sleep; as if a dream had broken; as if for the first time his eyes opened to the sun. He awoke to the truth that there must be something more valuable than gold, silver, jewels. Otherwise, we are carrying off jewels, and this upāsikā says, “Go, let them take what they will; do not disturb the discourse.” Surely she is receiving something that is more precious than gold and jewels. The arithmetic is simple.

He returned and told his companions, “We are hauling trash. Gold is being poured out there! Because the upāsikā said, ‘Go, let them take what they want. Do not interrupt the discourse.’ Nectar is showering there, friends! Let us go. That woman is receiving something we have no inkling of. An inner treasure is raining there. Something is being lavished there while we haul garbage...”

This made sense to them. They then put back what they had stolen, as before, and all went to the assembly to listen to the discourse. There they saw nectar showering. There they saw otherworldly wealth. They plundered it to their heart’s content. They were thieves! They did not hold back in looting. They were not shopkeepers to be timid in plundering. They looted with full hearts; they drank their fill. Perhaps for lifetimes they had been searching for exactly this treasure—that is why they roamed as thieves.

When the assembly ended, they all fell at the upāsikā’s feet and asked forgiveness. The chief of the thieves said to the upāsikā, “You are our guru. Now have your son give us the going forth.” The upāsikā requested her son, and he ordained them. The thieves were ecstatic, and as renunciants they went to live in solitude, kept silence and plunged into meditation. They soon attained the wealth of meditation.

The Blessed One spoke these sutras to these former—and unprecedented—thieves:

Siñca, bhikkhu, imaṁ nāvaṁ, sittā te lahum’esati.
Chetvā rāgañca dosañca, tato nibbānamehisi.

“O bhikkhu, bail out this boat; once bailed, it will become light for you. Cutting off attachment and aversion, thereafter you will attain nirvana.”

Pañca chinde, pañca jahe, pañca c’uttari bhāvaye.
Pañca saṅgātigo bhikkhu oghatiṇṇo’ti vuccati.

“He who cuts five, abandons five, cultivates five, and oversteps five associations—such a bhikkhu is said to have crossed the flood.”

Natthi jhānaṁ apaññassa, paññā natthi ajhāyato.
Yamhi jhānañca paññā ca, sa ve nibbānasantike.

“The unwise know no meditation; and without meditation there is no wisdom. In whom both meditation and wisdom are present—he is near to nirvana.”

First, understand the incident.

Among the Buddha’s foremost disciples, Mahakatyayana’s disciple, Soṇa Kutikanna, went from his village to see the Blessed One in Jetavana. Returning, his mother said, “You are blessed indeed. You are a disciple of Mahakatyayana, the disciple of the Buddha. You are most blessed; you have beheld the Buddha. We are not so blessed. Come—if we cannot have the flower, at least let us have a petal. Share with us what you have brought. Perhaps we cannot have a glimpse of the sun; show us the little light you have brought.” She asked him to repeat what he had heard there.

And another thing: she did not go to listen alone. She had the town drum beaten and announced, “Soṇa Kutikanna has returned from the Buddha, bringing a little of the Buddha’s treasure. He will share it; let all come.”

Such were those days! When supreme wealth is being distributed, it is not to be hoarded alone; one calls everyone with the drum. The wealth of this world cannot be shared that way—if you share it, your portion diminishes. But the wealth of that world—if you try to keep it only for yourself, it will die, become a corpse, rot. You will not receive it at all. The wealth of that world comes only to one who, on receiving, shares; who keeps sharing as he receives. The more he shares, the more it grows.

Worldly wealth diminishes by sharing. The otherworldly wealth grows by sharing. Keep this sutra in mind.

So the drum was sounded. The whole village went to hear. Naturally, the thieves’ opportunity had come. There was no one in the village; all had gone outside to the discourse. The thieves thought, “This is an opportunity not to be missed.” A great gang went to the upāsikā’s house. The exact number is recorded in the Buddhist texts—one thousand and forty. Because the upāsikā was immensely wealthy. She had so much wealth that it would take days to carry it all away.

So a thousand thieves attacked her house. They broke walls on all sides and entered. Only one maid was left at home. Seeing such a large gang, she ran. The thieves began to haul away gold, silver, jewels. The maid went and told the upāsikā.

The maid must have been terrified, sweating. “All is being looted!” But the upāsikā laughed and said, “Go; let the thieves take whatever they wish; do not interrupt the discourse.”

This land has known a kind of wealth before which all other wealth fades. This land knows of diamonds before which your diamonds are pebbles. This land has known the wealth of meditation. And one who has known meditation—no other wealth remains for him; meditation alone is wealth. This land has known samadhi. One who has known samadhi is an emperor; he has attained the true empire.

You may become an emperor in the world, yet you will remain a beggar. And you may become a beggar in the inner world, yet you will become an emperor. Such is the strange law.

In that moment the upāsikā was intoxicated with the nectar. Her son had returned from the Buddha, carrying a little of the Buddha’s fragrance, a little of his color, a little of his way. What he was saying bore the flavor of the Buddha’s words. She listened absorbed, wholly immersed. She sat with her eyes opened toward another world. She was having a vision of some vast truth. Each word was entering her heart and transforming her. A great alchemical process was happening within. She was turning from body toward soul, from outer toward inner.

She said, “Go; let the thieves take whatever they wish. Do not interrupt the discourse.” Only one who has begun to receive the vast can say such a thing.

And I say to you: do not drop the petty; first seek the vast—once the vast is found, the petty will fall away by itself. I do not tell you to leave home and hearth. I tell you to seek the temple. I do not tell you to abandon wealth. I tell you to discover meditation. The one who finds meditation—wealth has already fallen away. Whether it falls or does not fall is meaningless; it has no value anymore.

Ordinarily you are told the opposite: “First leave the world, then you will find God.” I want to tell you: if you leave the world first, you will become more miserable than you are now. God will not be found. But if you find God, the world will fall away.

Do not fight darkness; light a lamp. By fighting darkness, the lamp will not light. Fight darkness—and you will be defeated, exhausted, harassed. Such is the plight of ninety-nine out of a hundred of your so-called saints—more harassed than you!

You do not see it—that sometimes on an ordinary householder’s face there is a glow of joy, while on the faces of your so-called monks the glow of joy has entirely vanished. A deadness, a deep gloom, as if a desert. Why?

They speak of leaving everything to attain bliss. Where has it been attained? Have you seen a Jaina monk dancing? Joyful? Ecstatic? What has been gained by renouncing?

There is no connection between renouncing and attaining. The truth is reversed: when it is attained, it is renounced. Light the lamp, and the darkness disappears of itself.

Such an event was happening to the upāsikā. She was absorbed. Slowly she was tasting that nectar. And in that very hour came the news that all her wealth was being looted. She said, “Let them take it all. There is nothing to worry about. Do not disrupt this state of mine.”

The thieves’ chief had followed behind to see her reaction. He was stunned to hear her words.

Often it happens that sinners transform faster than your so-called virtuous people. Valmiki and Angulimala! Often criminals have a certain simplicity not found in your prestigious people. The prestigious are clever, cunning, hypocritical. Those you call criminals are not hypocrites, not schemers. If they were, why would they get caught! Those with cunning do not get caught—they are seated in high places, enthroned in Delhi.

Those who get caught are simple folk—that is why they are caught. Small criminals are caught; great criminals become prime ministers and presidents. Small criminals rot in jails; great criminals write history! Napoleon, Alexander, Genghis, Nadir, Stalin, Hitler, Mao—all are killers. But history is written in their names. Their praises are sung.

Small-time criminals rot in prisons; great criminals become makers of history. Your entire history is a history of great criminals—nothing else. True history has not been written. The human mind is not yet in a state to write true history.

If true history could be written, then Buddhas would be there, Mahaviras, Kabir, Nanak, Dadu; Meera, Sahajo; Christ, Zarathustra, Lao Tzu and Chuang Tzu; Rinzai, Naropa, Tilopa; Francis, Eckhart, Teresa; Muhammad, Rabia, Bayazid, Mansur—such people.

But of such people nothing is known—not even a footnote in history. Their names are unknown. On this earth, innumerable saints have been; their names are unknown. And they alone are the true history; they are the true salt of the earth. Because of them there is a little dignity and glory in man.

The chief thief came; he heard this and could not believe it. He had always believed that wealth lies in gold, silver, jewels. But here, some other wealth is being distributed! We are taking all this, and she laughs and says, “Go—let the thieves take it. It is trash. Do not disturb my listening. Do not break my absorption. If I miss even a word, I will repent. Let the whole fortune go—if even one word is heard, it is enough.” The thief froze.

In my view, criminals are always simple, childlike people. He froze and said, “Then why don’t we loot this wealth too? How long will we loot jewels?” “If she cares not for them, there must be some secret. We have been seeking the wrong treasure.”

He ran back. He said to his companions, “I am going to listen; are you coming? Because something is being distributed there. I cannot yet understand what it is. Something subtle must be showering there. I do not yet know clearly, but one thing is certain: something is happening. Because we were carrying all that, and the upāsikā said, ‘Let them take it. Do not disturb my listening.’ There must be some music playing inside her that is not visible from outside; some inner stream flowing that cannot be grasped from outside. I am going; you come too. How long shall we gather this trash! We have not known true wealth until now.”

Perhaps a thief too is in search of true wealth but keeps collecting the false. This is my point: in this world everyone is seeking the real treasure, but some have mistaken the false for the real—and they clutch at that. The day they see it is not the real, that day there will be transformation, revolution, the advent of the new. That day happened in the thieves’ lives.

They quickly put back everything they had taken and ran to the assembly. They listened—for the first time. They had never gone to a discourse. How could they find the time! When people went to hear discourses, they went to steal. So they had never gone. For the first time they heard these nectar-words.

Note well: had they been pundits, experts in scriptures, perhaps nothing would have reached them. Again I say to you: sinners arrive, pundits miss—because sinners can listen. They have no burden of knowledge, no crowd of words, no net of theories.

A sinner knows, “I am ignorant,” therefore he can listen. The pundit thinks, “I am knowledgeable. What can be new here for me? What can anyone tell me? I have read the Vedas and Upanishads; the Gita is by heart. What new can be told?” Therefore the pundit misses.

Blessed were they that they were not pundits, but thieves. They sat and listened, awestruck. There was no prior knowledge to interfere.

There they saw nectar showering; there they saw a supernatural treasure being distributed. They looted it with full hearts. They were thieves! Perhaps they had always tried to loot exactly this. Many times they looted, but never received; so the thieving continued. Today, for the first time, they had a glimpse of treasure.

Then, when the assembly ended, they fell at the upāsikā’s feet. They sought forgiveness, they gave thanks. And the chief said, “You are our guru. Those few words of yours—‘Go, let the thieves take what they will’—your laughter, your clear, desireless state, your saying, ‘Do not disturb my listening’—have changed our lives. You are our guru. Now have your son give us the going forth. We will not ask for sannyas directly; through you we will ask. You are our guru.”

The upāsikā requested her son, and he ordained them. The thieves were overjoyed. Such a great transformation—cause enough for joy. As if from a dark abyss one suddenly rises to the sky; as if from ravines of darkness one sits at a peak bathed in the sun; as if, crawling on the ground, one suddenly grows wings and flies.

Their joy knew no bounds. Because even if a man steals a lot, and is skillful, and succeeds, and gathers much wealth—thieving bites within. It stings. The pain, “I am doing wrong,” grows heavy like a stone on the chest.

A thief knows—if a thief does not know, who will—that he is doing wrong. He does it, keeps doing it. The more he does, the more the burden of wrong grows. Today, all that burden fell.

They took sannyas; they were ordained. They rejoiced. They went to solitude, to silence, to meditation. They had seen the world in all ways—by doing wrong, by doing right. Nothing remained to do. Now they began to enter non-doing.

Solitude means non-doing. Silence means non-doing. Meditation means non-doing. Now they began to sink into the peaceful void.

Soon they attained the eternal wealth of meditation. The Buddhist tale says that the Buddha had to fly through the sky to them. I have left that out—why give you cause for doubt unnecessarily? But the story is sweet; I cannot entirely leave it—I must remind you.

The story says the thieves were sitting in the forest. They had not even seen the Buddha. They had taken the upāsikā as guru; through the upāsikā they were ordained by her son Soṇa. They had not seen the Buddha. But their deep meditation—if the Buddha had to go by the sky-path, it is no wonder. What can you do—he had to go.

I am not saying he necessarily went by the sky. What I am saying is: the Buddha had to go. Such depth of meditation—and in such simple folk, such sinners! The Buddha would have been pulled. He had to go.

The tale of coming by the sky only says that the Buddha had to fly—he had to come so fast that walking would have taken too long; such delay could not be afforded. And these thieves—therefore I call them former and unprecedented—were descending into such depth that the Buddha felt if he delayed, it would be a blemish. So he had to go.

He went and spoke these sutras to them:

Siñca, bhikkhu, imaṁ nāvaṁ, sittā te lahum’esati.
“O bhikkhu! Bail out this boat; once bailed, it will become light for you.”

Which boat? This boat of the mind—bail it. Let nothing remain in it. No desire, no craving, no ambition. No seeking, no asking, no prayer. No thoughts, no emotions. Let nothing remain. Bail it out, O bhikkhus. Siñca, bhikkhu! Empty this boat of everything. Make it utterly empty, a zero. It will become light for you.

“Cutting off attachment and aversion, thereafter you will attain nirvana.”

Let this boat be so light that no weight remains—and in that very moment nirvana is available. The other name of the empty mind is nirvana. Where the mind is empty, all is full. Where the mind is full, all is incomplete.

“He who cuts five, O bhikkhus; abandons five, O bhikkhus; cultivates five, O bhikkhus; and oversteps the company of five, O bhikkhus—he alone is called the bhikkhu who has crossed the flood and gone beyond.”

What are these five?

Pañca chinde—cut five.

Five things the Buddha said are to be cut: satkaya-drishti—the view “I am the body”; vichikitsa—doubt, lack of trust; shila-vrata-parāmarsha—advising others on vows and morality while not following oneself; kama-raga and vyapada—being filled with desires, “let me have this, let me become that,” and being forever agitated—never a moment’s pause. These five are to be pierced—cheddya-panchaka.

Then pañca jahe—abandon five—heya-panchaka: rupa-raga—attachment to form; arupa-raga—attachment to the formless; mana—conceit; auddhatya—stubbornness, prideful agitation; and avidya—ignorance, not knowing oneself.

Attachment to form: form is like a bubble rising on water. A flower opens in the morning, by evening it withers. One is handsome and young, suddenly he is old.

Arupa-raga: and do not let it happen that when attachment to form drops, you bind yourself to the ugly; you become attached to the formless, to ugliness. That too is a mistake. There are such people who, leaving attachment to beauty, fall into attachment to anti-beauty. That too must be left.

Mana—ego. Auddhatya—obstinacy. And avidya—not knowing oneself. These five are the heya-panchaka.

Then five are to be cultivated—bhavya-panchaka: shraddha—trust, a simple confidence in existence, in oneself, in life; virya—energy, vigor; do not live dimly—live as if a torch burns at both ends; smriti—mindfulness, doing each thing with remembrance; samadhi—settledness of mind, a state where no problem remains, no question, no seeking of answers; where all waves of thought are stilled, where the mind is no more; and prajna—where samadhi happens, there the lamp of inner wisdom is lit.

These five are to be cultivated.

And then five are to be transcended—ullanghya-panchaka: raga—attachment; dvesha—aversion; moha—delusion; mana—conceit; mithya-drishti—wrong view.

“The unwise know no meditation; and the non-meditative know no wisdom. In whom there are meditation and wisdom—he is near to nirvana.”

These two words are precious—dhyana and prajna.

Understand it like this: you light a lamp. The lighting of the lamp is meditation. The radiance that spreads all around is wisdom. They are conjoined.

Therefore the Buddha says—

Natthi jhānaṁ apaññassa...
“There is no meditation for one without wisdom...”

Have you ever seen a flame without a glow? How can there be a flame without radiance! Where a lamp burns, there will be light. It cannot be that the lamp burns and there is no light. Nor can the reverse be—that there is light and no lamp.

Hence the Buddha says—

Natthi jhānaṁ apaññassa, paññā natthi ajhāyato.
“There is no meditation for one without wisdom; no wisdom for one without meditation.”

Meditation and wisdom are linked like the hen and the egg: without the hen, no egg; without the egg, no hen. So do not ask which comes first. They are together, simultaneous.

“In whom there are meditation and wisdom, he attains nirvana.”

Nirvana means his darkness is dispelled. His life becomes full of light.

To these bhikkhus—who were once thieves—the Buddha spoke these unprecedented words. They were drawing near; the last moment was coming. The boat had to be bailed a little more. A few small things had to be pierced; a few small things left; a few small things transcended; a few small things cultivated. In that last hour, the support of the Master was needed.

The support of the true Master is most needed at two places: at the first moment and at the last. The middle way is not so difficult. The first step is difficult; the final step is difficult. And these two events are about those two.

The first, about the first moment: the Brahmin is sitting to eat. Within him, a resolve is arising; and the Buddha comes—that was the first moment. There, the first push is needed. Once a person starts, he goes on.

And this second event is about the last moment: the thieves, going deeper in meditation, were coming close to samadhi; the final hour was near. They needed the last push, so that they could dissolve into the great void, into nirvana.

Contemplate these sutras. They can bring such a revolution in your life as well.

Enough for today.