Es Dhammo Sanantano #117

First scene:
Vakkali the Elder was born in a Brahmin family in Shravasti. In his youth, while going on alms-round, he once beheld the beautiful form of the Tathagata and was utterly enchanted. Thinking, 'If I become a monk near him, I will always be able to see him,' he went forth. From the very day of his ordination he did not engage in meditation or contemplation at all; he only kept gazing at the Tathagata’s bodily beauty. Seeing the immaturity of his understanding, the Blessed One said nothing. Then one day—knowing the right hour, and sensing a slight ripening in Vakkali’s awareness—the Blessed One said: Vakkali! What benefit is there in looking at this impure body? Vakkali, he who sees the Dhamma sees me.
Yet Vakkali did not come to his senses. He would not leave the Master’s side. Not even when the Master asked him to. His infatuation would not loosen.
Then the Master thought: This monk will not awaken without a blow. Only if he is shaken to the core might he understand. So, one day during a great festival, before thousands of monks, he dealt a very hard blow. He said: Move away, Vakkali! Move away, Vakkali! Get away from in front of me! And saying so, he had Vakkali removed from before him.
Naturally Vakkali was deeply disturbed; he was badly wounded. But the meaning he gave to it was again mistaken. He thought: The Blessed One is angry with me. Of what use is my life now? And when I cannot even sit before him and behold his form, it is better to die. Thinking thus, he climbed Griddhakuta—the Vulture Peak—to leap and end his life. In the last moment—just as he was about to jump—in the dark night a hand came to his shoulder from behind. He turned and saw. The Blessed One stood before him. In the dark night his aura was incomparable. That day he did not see only the Master’s body, he saw the Master. That day he saw the Dhamma standing alive before him. A new love arose in him—a love that does not bind, but liberates.
It was then, in this unprecedented moment, that the Blessed One spoke these verses to Vakkali:

Chhind’ sotaṃ parakkamma kāme panuda brāhmaṇa.
Saṅkhārānaṃ khayaṃ ñatvā akataññūsi brāhmaṇa.

'O Brahmin, with courage cut the stream of thirst, and cast away desires. O Brahmin, knowing the ending of formations, you will realize the Unmade—Nirvana.'

Yadā dvayesu dhammesu pāragu hoti brāhmaṇo.
Athassa sabbe saṃyogā atthaṃ gacchanti jānatō.

'When a Brahmin becomes adept in the two Dhammas—Samatha and Vipassana—then for that knower all fetters fall away.'

Yassa pāraṃ apāraṃ vā pārāpāraṃ na vijjati.
Vītaddaraṃ visaṅkhaggaṃ tamahaṃ brūmi brāhmaṇaṃ.

'He for whom there is no near shore, no far shore, and no both-shores, who is beyond fear and without clinging—I call him a Brahmin.'

Jhāyiṃ virajam āsīnaṃ katakiccaṃ anāsavaṃ.
Uttamatthaṃ anuppattaṃ tamahaṃ brūmi brāhmaṇaṃ.

'One who meditates, stainless, seated in stillness; who has done what was to be done, whose effluents are exhausted; who has attained the supreme meaning—I call him a Brahmin.'

Let us understand the first scene.
Vakkali was born in a Brahmin family.
No one becomes a Brahmin by being born to a Brahmin family. All are born Shudra. One has to become a Brahmin.
What is the definition of a Shudra? A Shudra is one to whom nothing appears beyond the body; who lives in the body, lives for the body; who understands nothing other than the body; whose eyes get entangled in the earth and cannot see the sky; who is bound by form and cannot see the formless dwelling within form. Such a blind one is called a Shudra.
Everyone is born blind. Everyone is born a Shudra. To become a Brahmin requires courage. Brahminhood is an attainment. Brahminhood is a quality to be cultivated. No one becomes a Brahmin for free. If it happens by birth, it is free. If by birth, then it is by accident. If by birth, then what is your attainment in it?
Nor does 'Brahmin' mean one who knows the scriptures—because even a Shudra can learn scripture. Out of fear that the Shudra might learn scripture and then what distinction would remain between Brahmin and Shudra, for centuries Shudras were forbidden to study scripture. Otherwise how would you maintain the difference? There is no real difference. The only so-called difference is that the Brahmin knows the Veda, the Shudra does not. Hence Hindus did not allow the Shudra to read the Veda—else what prestige would remain for the Brahmin? If the Shudra studies, he becomes a Brahmin!
If knowing scripture is the only definition of being a Brahmin, then whoever knows scripture is a Brahmin. Would you then call Dr. Ambedkar a Brahmin or not? If knowing scripture is the definition, then Dr. Ambedkar is a better Brahmin than the Brahmins. That is why when the constitution of this country was being framed, Brahmins were not called—but Ambedkar was invited. Ambedkar was a knower of law, of scripture. He had an extraordinary grasp and understanding of Indian culture. Many great Brahmins existed; yet instead of calling them, a Shudra was entrusted with drafting the Indian constitution—what does this indicate?
If the Shudra gets a chance to study and learns the scriptures, then who is Shudra and who is Brahmin? To prevent that, Brahmins did not allow Shudras to know scripture.
Nor were women allowed to know—because then there would be no reason left for the male’s arrogance. And when you do not allow them to know at all…
Now this is quite amusing. What kind of injustice is this! When the Shudra cannot study—when you will not let him study—he will remain ignorant; and then you declare that Shudras are ignorant! Brahmins are wise, Shudras are ignorant! And this ignorance of the Shudra has been designed and orchestrated by you.
There is no Shudra, no Brahmin—mere reading settles nothing. If there is a distinction, it will be settled by an inner revolution.
Whom does Buddha call a Brahmin? Buddha calls him a Brahmin who has known Brahman. But how will you know Brahman by birth? To know Brahman, one has to stake one’s entire life. With courage it is known. Brahman is an attainment, through tireless effort… Perhaps a single lifetime may not suffice. Through effort across many lives—accomplishing Samatha, attaining Samadhi—the inner eyes open; the vision of Brahman is had—only then do you become a Brahmin.
This account says: Vakkali the Elder was born in a Brahmin family in Shravasti. But he must have been a Shudra. He got stuck on form, on the body. Even in becoming interested in Buddha, it was because of his bodily beauty! He looked only at the outer glow! Coming to Buddha, he still did not behold Buddhahood. Even there, he saw only the body.
We can only see what capacity to see we have within. Have you seen a cobbler sitting by the road? He does not look at your face; he looks at your shoes. All day he looks at people’s shoes. Slowly the cobbler becomes so adept at looking at shoes that by seeing a shoe he gathers all sorts of information about you. If the shoes are in bad condition, he knows your pockets are empty. If the shoes are in bad condition, he knows your condition is shabby—like your shoes. If there is shine and polish on the shoe, he knows there will be a glow on your face too. What is the need to look at the face? The shoe is in his hand. He spreads his logic about you from the shoe. He gathers news about you from the shoe.
The tailor looks at the clothes; he does not see the person.
And you should also reflect: what do you see? You too look at the petty. He who looks at the petty is a Shudra. He who puts the petty aside and relates to the Vast hidden within—he alone is a Brahmin.
So with ordinary people, you may look at beauty—this is still acceptable. But coming to a Buddha and still you miss! Where the inner light burns so intensely that the moon and stars are pale; where the sun would blush; where the inner lamp burns so brightly that even a blind man would see—there too, what did Vakkali see? He saw the bodily beauty of Buddha!
He was born in a Brahmin family, but he was a Shudra.
In his youth, Vakkali, while begging, saw the beautiful form of the Tathagata and was utterly infatuated.
This was a kind of sensuality! What difference does it make whether you are infatuated with Buddha’s beauty or someone else’s? Whoever is infatuated with form is sensual.
He recognized only the outer casing. He fell in love with the chest, not with the jewels inside the chest. And however beautiful the body, after all it is bone, flesh, marrow. However beautiful the body, ultimately it will die. In the end it will rot in the grave or burn on the pyre. However beautiful the body, today or tomorrow it will become food for worms. However beautiful the body, it will all become dust. Whoever falls in love with the body has fallen in love with dust. He fell in love with the pot—while nectar was filled within the pot!
Standing beside Buddha, this man did not see the nectar; he saw the pot. The pot was beautiful. There was craftsmanship on the pot. Much labor must have been lavished upon the pot. He became attached to the pot. He hugged the pot to his chest! And he forgot that within the pot is such nectar, that if you drink, you will be fulfilled forever; all hunger will vanish; you will be complete. The supreme meaning was present…
That is the meaning of Shudra. Vakkali was a Shudra, as people generally are.
Take this to heart. Do not think that Vakkali was a Shudra and you are not. We are all born as Shudra. There is no other way to be born. Even the greatest Brahmin—even a Buddha—is born as a Shudra.
A few blessed ones move beyond where they are born. The more unfortunate remain stuck where they are born. Whoever remains stuck at birth, remains deprived of life and of knowing. Very few grow after birth. After birth one should grow. Birth is only the beginning, not the end. Birth is the first step of a journey, not the destination. Birth is merely an opportunity—to live, to know life. Do not sit clutching only this opportunity.
Birth is a blank book. When will you write on it? When will your song spread upon it? When will your pictures be drawn on it?
Birth is like an unhewn stone. When will you lift the chisel? When will you make this stone a statue? When will you infuse life into this stone? Most are born like unhewn stones, and die like unhewn stones. Their statue never shines forth. What was hidden within them remains hidden. The song that was to be sung, goes unsung. The dance that was to happen, does not happen.
He who sings his own song—that one is a Buddha. He who dances his own dance—that one is a Buddha. He who expresses the hidden potential within—gives it voice—hums it—that one is a Buddha. And that one alone is fulfilled, completed. He alone attains fruit and flower.
Most die like seeds. A few sprout and die. A few become trees, but they never bloom or bear fruit and die. When the flower of your life blossoms, when your consciousness becomes a thousand-petaled lotus—only then know that you have become a Brahmin—only then know: you have become a Brahmin.
Understand it thus: all are born as Shudra; then after Shudra the second step is Vaishya. Some become Vaishya. Vaishya means the seed has sprouted; a shoot has appeared.
The Shudra lives entirely in the body. He has no knowledge even of mind; soul is far off; what to say of Paramatma! You think the Shudra is one who carries excreta. Then you are wrong. Shudra is one who lives in excreta. Carrying it—what does that mean? You have understood the reverse.
The one who cleans latrines, who carries away dead animals—you call him Shudra? He is bringing cleanliness. You call him Shudra? You are the Shudra. You produced the excreta. This poor fellow carries it away and cleans—and you call him Shudra? He has a great compassion upon you. Touch his feet. Offer him gratitude.
Just think: if, in this town, Shudras decide for seven days not to clean, then you will know what the Shudra was doing. Your beautiful houses will fill with terrible stench! Then you will know who the Shudra is!
Shudra is the one who lives in excreta—whose life has not gone beyond excreta—who knows nothing beyond the body. He eats; he excretes; eats again. That is his life. He knows nothing beyond the senses. Such a man is a Shudra. The one who cleans excreta is not a Shudra. The one who takes excreta to be life is a Shudra.
A little above this, if one rises, a sprout breaks forth; he becomes a Vaishya. The Vaishya has a little more understanding than the Shudra. In the mind, certain stirrings begin to arise: position, prestige, wealth, respect, honor. A Vaishya is not confined to food and sex alone. The Vaishya engages in the business of life. Something more valuable is sought.
But the Vaishya too has only sprouted. He who dies as a Vaishya has not gone very far from the Shudra.
Then comes Kshatriya. Kshatriya means warrior—one of resolve. He does not simply live life as he was born into it; he wages a battle to refine it. He lifts a sword. He cuts away what is false. He erases what is futile. He sets out in search of the essential. He enters the struggle. For him, life is a challenge—not a business.
For the Shudra, life is consumption of the petty. For the Vaishya, to rise a little above the petty; but the direction is business, not battle. To snatch a little. To steal. To cheat.
The Kshatriya’s dimension is that of struggle and challenge. Even if all must be lost—stake everything. The Kshatriya is a gambler, not a businessman. The Kshatriya becomes a tree. Only when one wrestles does one become a tree.
These trees rise only through struggle. There is a great saga of struggle before them. When a tree begins to become, how much struggle stands before it! Stones lie beneath the earth which the roots must break through. The soil is hard; roads must be made; water-sources sought. And he is not searching alone; many trees are searching. Before others reach the water-source, this tree must send its roots there—else others will claim it. Then it must rise towards the sky. And it is not alone; there are already trees rising into the sky. If it does not rise, it will not receive the sun’s light, the pure airs. There is struggle. There is resolve.
Through resolve and struggle one rises. But resolve has a limit. How far can you fight with your own hands? Our hands are very small.
The Kshatriya trusts himself; thus he goes farther than the Vaishya. But self-reliance has a limit. How much strength is yours? One day resolve will tire. The Kshatriya will fall—like a great tree falls in a storm. He had been fighting the winds till now, but how will he fight the cyclones? Gentle breezes came, he managed. Today a terrifying hurricane dances. Now it will not do. Struggle has a limit. One fights as long as one can; then one falls and breaks. And when great trees fall, they never rise again. They cannot rise. There is no way to rise again. Beyond this is Brahmin.
Brahmin means surrender. Kshatriya means resolve. The Kshatriya fights—strives to win—but one day he will lose, because the individual’s limit will be reached. What comparison can the individual have with the Whole! He will go as far as his personal energy can go; then he will stop.
From there begins the Brahmin. Having spent all his power, then he sees there is One greater than me. Why should I fight? Why not take his support! Why should I struggle with the river? Why not flow with the river? Surrender begins. The Brahmin’s state is the state of surrender. He forges his relationship with the Divine.
When someone binds himself to a Master, the beginning of becoming a Brahmin has occurred. This person has seen that he did all that was possible by his own hand; now he requires the grace of the Vast. Now he needs the support of God. Now he becomes aware of his helplessness. In this condition the person begins to become a Brahmin.
And when surrender becomes total, when in every way one dissolves oneself into the Infinite—the boundaries disappear—like a drop falling into the ocean; when one falls into the Vast and in that very falling tastes the Vast—then the Brahmin is complete. Then flowers and fruits come. Then fragrance spreads. Then one is fulfilled in resolve, fulfilled in act. Then one has reached where one had to reach. Destiny is attained. Only then is there contentment. Before that there is no contentment.
Vakkali the Elder was born in a Brahmin family in Shravasti. In his youth he beheld the beautiful form of the Tathagata and was utterly enchanted. Thinking that if he became a monk near him, he would always be able to see him—he even took ordination.
Sometimes one does the right thing for the wrong reason. And sometimes one does the wrong thing for the right reason! Remember this sutra: a right act done out of a wrong longing becomes wrong; and a wrong act done out of a right longing becomes right. Ultimately it is your longing that is decisive.
You saw the story the day before yesterday! Nangalkul, driven by a thoroughly wrong longing, went daily to look at his plough hung upon the tree. What could be in a plough? Nothing. But while looking at the plough, he attained knowledge!
Here the matter is exactly opposite! Here someone comes to Buddha and still misses. He will miss, because even the relation he has forged with Buddha sprang from a Shudra’s state of mind.
This man neither listened to Buddha’s words nor saw the glory within Buddha. He saw only the outermost aspect—the body. This is Shudra.
If he had seen Buddha’s mind, he would be Vaishya. If he had seen Buddha’s soul, he would be Kshatriya. If he had seen the Divine within Buddha, he would be Brahmin. These are names of visions: Shudra, Brahmin.
The Shudra hardly looks at all; he gropes—like a blind man.
You have heard of Helen Keller? She was blind and deaf. Her only way to know someone was to run her hands over his face. When she met Pandit Jawaharlal Nehru for the first time, she touched his face with her hands and was very pleased. She said: I am happy. Your face is very beautiful!
Jawaharlal could not believe that a blind woman, by feeling a face, could understand beauty. He said, I cannot believe it. She said: Your face is just like the statues I felt in Greece—statues of marble… When I ran my hand over them, I felt exactly as I feel touching your face.
Jawaharlal had a lovely face—like statues of marble. But a blind person cannot see; he can only grope.
Helen Keller could only experience the shape of the face by touch. Most people grope through life just like that—like the blind!
Vakkali came like this. He was not blind—at least outwardly. His eyes were open. But he got stuck in form. What the eyes showed, he got lost in that. He came to the right person, but a wrong longing spoiled everything.
He thought: I should become a monk. Now see the motive for being a monk! He wants to renounce, but why? Because then I will always remain near him. I will always be able to see his form.
He did become a monk. But from the very day of sannyas, he neither meditated nor contemplated.
Buddha would tell people two things—just as I tell you—devotion and meditation. Those who could meditate, he set to meditation; those who could not, he set to feeling—Bhavana—devotion.
Buddha did not employ the word 'bhakti,' because he did not accept some God sitting in the sky to be worshiped. Then what of devotion… He discovered a new process—the very form of devotion, but without God. Devotion freed of God is Bhavana.
The gaze laid at the feet of God is also devotion—but there, there is an address. You have prayed. You said: O Krishna! Or you called upon Rama. You looked towards the sky. There is a concept, a form, in your mind. And the feeling you expressed has an address. The letter you wrote carries Rama’s address. That is Bhakti.
Buddha said: Just bow down. There is no one before whom to bow. Bowing is enough. Bow without address. Not before Rama, not before Krishna—no question of anyone; just bow. Go into solitude and bow. And learn the art of bowing.
Now this cannot be called Bhakti—though the result will be the same. What difference does it make whether you bowed taking Rama’s name or Krishna’s? By which name you bow—what difference! Names were just devices for bowing. Buddha removed the devices.
Buddha said: Devices bring entanglement; devices breed quarrel. The one who bows to Rama begins to fight the one who bows to Krishna. Bowing is forgotten; they start breaking each other’s heads! You just bow!
He did not call this Bhakti; therefore he called it Bhavana. He gave it the exact word: Brahma-bhavana. God is not outside; God is within you. Cultivate Bhavana and it will manifest within. With the chisel of feeling, refine the statue within. Do not take flowers to any other temple.
But Vakkali neither meditated nor cultivated feeling. He had not come to meditate or to feel. His eye was on something else entirely. His vision was elsewhere.
Here the Sufi Dance happens. Anita stays very troubled, who leads the Sufi dance. Her trouble is that most Indians who come to the Sufi dance have their eyes on the women. She is very troubled. Not all, but most. They come for that. They have nothing to do with Sufi dance. But in Sufi dance women are dancing, and there will be a chance to touch their hands—their eye is on that! Because their eye is there, the glory of the Sufi dance is lost. And if even one or two such men are there, they create hindrance.
Her trouble kept increasing. Till yesterday I kept trying somehow to manage. But it kept increasing. So, out of compulsion, it had to be decided that Indians will not be allowed to participate in the Sufi dance. I know that some will be deprived without reason. But I see no other way.
Someone can even come to meditate for a wrong reason.
In the Indian mind sex is deeply suppressed—horribly suppressed. Centuries of burden lie upon them. One thing has been suppressed so much that it has penetrated their every vein; it has entered their blood. They cannot think of anything else. Although they believe themselves religious—their religiosity carries this irreligion within. They think they are religious—but the moment they see a woman, great distortions arise within. They keep suppressing those distortions—because suppression has been taught to them.
But one never becomes free of suppressed distortions. Freedom comes from understanding—not from suppression. Suppression only hides the wounds. Pus begins to form in them. Such pus has accumulated in the Indian mind. And it keeps increasing, because your sadhus and saints do the work of increasing that very pus.
Freedom from sexuality is needed—surely needed. But it does not come by suppression.
Now how will this Vakkali meditate? How will he feel? He had come infatuated with Buddha’s form. He even accepted the monk’s robe. He left the world. He is mad after his form.
The Tathagata could see this—he must have seen it from the first day—when he became a monk—that there is great sensuality inside him. He is a Shudra.
But a Buddha has great compassion.
He thought: Not right to tell him yet. Let me wait a while. Either he may understand by himself. Perhaps while looking again and again, something of the inner may begin to show. Perhaps while looking again and again, what I say may begin to be heard. Perhaps, seeing so many people engaged in concentration and meditation, so many in feeling—their waves may have some effect! Satsang has its impact. You become like those with whom you keep company. Perhaps something may happen. Let a little maturity come.
So he saw he only looks at me—and in his eyes there is no search of me. His eyes get stuck on the skin. He is a cobbler. Even then, he remained silent. Seeing his immaturity, he said nothing.
Then one day—knowing the right moment…
One should speak only when the right moment arrives. A Buddha speaks only when the right hour comes. For the blow should be given only when the iron is hot. And words should be spoken only when they can enter. One should knock only when there is a little possibility the door might open. One should call only when someone’s sleep is about to break. One who is lost in a deep stupor will not hear the call.
So the Buddha waited for the right moment. When this man’s Shudra-ness is a little less; when a slight current of Brahmin-feeling stirs within him.
Remember: No one is a Shudra for twenty-four hours; no one a Brahmin for twenty-four hours. The greatest Brahmin sometimes becomes the smallest Shudra. And sometimes the most petty Shudra is stirred by waves of becoming a Brahmin. Life is a flow.
You have seen this flow within yourself too: sometimes you are Brahmin, sometimes Shudra; sometimes Kshatriya, sometimes Vaishya. These states keep changing. They are seasons. Now clouds gather—it is one thing. Now the sun shines—it is another. Now someone comes and criticizes you—your state becomes something. Someone comes and praises you—your state becomes something else. You were walking on the road; you found a purse—your state changed. A thorn pricked your foot—your state changed. Someone abused you; someone insulted you; someone began laughing seeing you—your state changed.
Your mind is like the touch-sensitive plant—changing at the slightest touch. When it does not change, you have become a Buddha. When it does not change, you are sthitaprajna. When it does not change, steady wisdom arises. When it does not change, Buddhahood manifests.
But the mind keeps changing. It is a chameleon—changing colors! Therefore do not think that if someone is a Shudra, he is so for twenty-four hours.
For this reason, the religions of the world have discovered some times when prayer should be done. For example, precisely in the dawn—the Brahma-muhurta. Why is it called Brahma-muhurta? Because at that hour the arising of a Brahmin-mood is more likely.
Why? You slept all night. You rested. For at least eight hours you forgot the world. The web of the world broke for eight hours. In the morning when the eyes open, after deep rest, after repose, for a short while a Brahmin is born within you. In that moment there is compassion within you, there is kindness, love, joy, enthusiasm. Life awakens again. You are fresh again. The breezes flow again. The sun rises again. Birds sing again. Flowers bloom again. A flower blooms within you. Breezes flow within you. The inner sun rises. The inner bird begins to sing.
Morning comes and the whole world is filled with delight. After the night’s rest this delight is natural. How will you be deprived of it!
Therefore religions have continually said—wake early. He who lies till eight, nine, ten—he has missed his moment of being Brahma, of being Brahmin. The moment he gets up he will be a Shudra.
You have seen—one who lies till ten—when he gets up you can see the Shudra on his face! He who rises with the sun, who rises with nature—you will find a wave within him, a freshness. In his eyes you will find a peace. It may not last long—because life is hard. Soon turmoil will begin. He will open the shop; customers will come. He will go to the office; the wife will get up; the children will be there. All disturbances will begin. But before they begin, all religions have said—pray.
Prayer means: this moment that has come, this little window that has opened—ride it, benefit from it. Offer this moment at the feet of God. If you engage this moment in the call to the Divine, in prayer, there is a great possibility that this moment will last a little longer. If otherwise it would have remained for a short while, now perhaps it will last a little more. It may even be that, if you pray rightly, its color will spread over the whole day.
Then religions have said: At the last hour of the night, when you are tired and fed up with the day’s commotion—pray again. What is the meaning of that? It seems contradictory. Morning is understandable—everything is fresh. But why at night, when everything is stale?
There is a reason for that too. Having seen the world through the day, a mood of dispassion arises by itself. It feels—all is futile. He who does not feel this after seeing a day is stone-deaf. All is futile. There is no essence. Use even this mood. Ride it too. Make it your horse. And slip into sleep while praying to the Lord. There is benefit in that too. For if you slip into sleep while praying, the shadow of the Divine will spread over your sleep.
Thus these two moments of life have been accepted by all religions. Offer these two moments to the Divine.
And not only these two. Many times during the day your season changes. If you observe, you will understand when your season changes. And if you observe rightly, astonishing results can come. You can even find a personal rhythm for your life.
Keep a diary for three months. Every day, Monday through Sunday, keep writing—when does a Brahmin-moment happen within; when a Shudra-moment; when a Kshatriya-moment; when a Vaishya-moment. For three months, keep noting. Do not cheat; whom will you cheat? Yourself. Do not force anything—do not write 'Brahmin-moment' just to show. If it does not happen, do not write. When it happens, then write.
If you write the entire account for three months, you will be astonished. You will find that the changes within you are almost fixed. If you felt joyful on a Monday morning, you will be astonished to see that every Monday it happens.
There is a wheel within you, like a potter’s wheel turning. If every Saturday is a day when anger is born within you, when a shadow of anger is there; you always create some trouble; you get into quarrels; you hit someone—then you will be amazed after three months that nearly every Saturday it happens—more or less. And once the chart of your life lies before you, it is very helpful. Then you can hang on your door: 'Monday—beware of me!' 'Tuesday—welcome!' And then you can live accordingly.
If Monday is your bad day… And unknowingly you have such experiences. People even know that a certain day is their bad day—though they are not clear what the matter is, why. No need to go to an astrologer. What does the astrologer know? He does not even know about himself; how will he know about you!
Once, in Jaipur, an astrologer was brought to me. His fee for reading a hand was one thousand rupees. He said, My fee is one thousand rupees. I said, Look without worry. He read the hand. He was very pleased—he would get a thousand rupees. When he had finished, he said, My fee? I said, I had already decided not to give it. You did not even know that? You should read your hand before you leave your home! You looked at me and could not understand even that this man will not give a thousand rupees. And I was repeating it loudly within myself so that you might hear it—if there is even a little astrology in you. While you were holding my hand, I kept repeating: I will not give a thousand rupees, will not give. I did not cheat you. But what kind of astrologer are you!
He was in a miserable state! What could he say!
An astrologer does not know about himself. I have even heard of two astrologers in a village. They would leave their homes in the morning to go to the bazaar to ply their trade. On the way, they would examine each other's hand: Brother, how will business go today?
He does not know about himself. How will he know about you then!
No—astrology will not reveal it. Observe your own life. Then you will know. And once you know that Monday or Saturday or Sunday is your bad day—some accident happens—then take that day off. That should be your day of holiday.
Sunday should not be everyone’s holiday. If the world were arranged scientifically, a person should be given a holiday on his bad day, so that he does not have contact with people—so that he remains in his room under a sheet, silent; does not step out; keeps the door closed. If anger arises, let him punch the pillow; but do not go out. And on his good day, let him make contact, meet people, open—blossom!
And you can catch such changes within you. They revolve like a wheel. They do not differ much. It remains so throughout life. Like a woman’s menstruation that recurs every twenty-eight days—like that, there is a cycle within you as well.
And you will be surprised—men too have a monthly rhythm; every twenty-eight days. Only, women’s blood goes out of the body, hence it is visible. In men the blood does not go out, but they undergo a similar inner turbulence for four or five days—a subtle turbulence.
You have seen—when menstruating, women become more irritable, depressed, peevish. Exactly so, men have a monthly rhythm. For four days they too become very irritable and very depressed and very troublesome. But they do not even know it.
In this country we gave women a complete holiday for four days—not because they become impure; you have understood that wrongly. How would they become impure? If blood is inside, are they pure then? If it flows out, they are becoming pure—how would they be impure? And if blood is impure, then the whole body is impure. What additional impurity can there be!
No—the reason was psychological. For four days, when a woman is menstruating, she is depressed, dejected, negative. If she cooks, her negativity will infuse poison into the food.
Psychologists say—do not eat food cooked in anger. Because currents flow every moment from the hands. Electricity flows from the hands. That is why even a dry crust made by one who loves you deeply is extraordinary.
However good the food in a hotel, something is missing. It is a bit off. The food is like a corpse; it has no soul. A corpse may be beautiful, with lipstick and powder and all kinds of perfumes sprinkled upon it; but a corpse is a corpse. You might get nourishment for the body, but the nourishment for the soul will be missing.
And just as there is body and soul within you, there is a body and a soul in food. Soul enters through love.
So when a woman is disturbed, depressed, negative—then it is not appropriate for her to cook. Then poison will flow from her hands. It is better she remains alone in a room—rest completely for four days. For those four days, let her be as if dead—let her have no connection with the world.
This was a very psychological process. But since we gave even this a wrong spin… We do it because we do not understand words. When a woman is menstruating, the old scriptures say: she has become a Shudra. But to say she has become a Shudra only means that negativity has set in. 'Do not touch her, she is a Shudra.' But men also become Shudra in the same way. Since scriptures were written by men, the men’s four days are not written.
But now scientific discoveries have clarified that men too have four such Shudra days. And you can discover your four days too. You will be amazed—every month, exactly in a cycle, those four days come. Their dates are fixed. On those four days you always do wrong things. Quarrels happen. Fights happen. On those four days you blunder. If you drive, you will have accidents. On those four days things slip from your hand, fall, break. On those four days words come out of you that you did not intend—and then you repent. On those four days you are not yourself. On those four days your Shudra has totally taken over you.
And just as there are four days of Shudra, there are four days of Brahmin—because man swings between extremes. From one extreme to the other—like the pendulum of a clock.
So the Buddha waited for a little ripening. Seeing a moment of maturity, the Blessed One said: Vakkali! What benefit is there in looking at this impure body? Vakkali, he who sees the Dhamma sees me.
So meditate—and see the Dhamma. 'Dhamma' means your nature. When you can see your own nature, then you have seen me. Only then know that you have seen me. If I am anything, I am Dhamma. If I am anything, I am meditation. If I am anything, I am Samadhi. Be Samadhi-absorbed and you will be linked to me. Do not waste time gazing at my skin with your skin-eyes. These eyes will fall to dust tomorrow; this body will fall to dust tomorrow. Before this body falls to dust, see the light that has been kindled within it. But you will see it only when you become skilled at seeing Dhamma. Otherwise, you will not. So enter meditation; descend into Samadhi.
Still Vakkali did not come to his senses.
Does sense arise so easily? If it arises, what is left? Perhaps Vakkali heard—perhaps he did not! When Buddha was speaking, he may have been looking at his gestures, his hand, his mudra, his face. Perhaps he did not hear. When you are fixated on one thing, nothing else is visible.
Or he said: Buddha says such things every day! I have heard this many times. This comes in his discourses daily. What is special in this! He must have remained absorbed in his own state. He did not come to his senses.
He would not leave the Master’s side. Not even when the Master asked.
Such things happen here too. One of my sannyasins—Kusum. When she first came, she put her head at my feet and said she surrendered everything. 'Now you are the helmsman of my life. Whatever you say, I will do. And I want to live here. I do not want to go anywhere.' I said: Look, I tell you—go back home for now. Your parents will be sad, troubled. Meditate for a while. She said: I am not going. I said: You say, whatever I say you will do. I am saying—go! She said: Whatever you say, I will do. But I am not going! She did not go. Thorough Hatha-yogini.
Vakkali must have been like that—like Kusum. Sometimes Buddha must have wanted to send him somewhere—go! to another village—do some work and return. He said: Whatever you say, I will do. But I cannot go anywhere. I will remain only here. Not even for a day can I stay without seeing you. To break his attachment, Buddha would say—go. But he was obstinate.
The mind is very stubborn. It does not listen—even to those by listening to whom a revolution could happen.
He would not go even when the Master said so. His infatuation would not break. 'How will I live a day without seeing him!' And what did he see? Facial features. What was worth seeing he did not see.
Then the Master thought: He will not obey otherwise. A hard blow must be given.
Remember: if a Buddha-like one strikes, it is only out of compassion. He would feel pity—poor fellow, even near me he is missing! So near the lake—and thirsty!
Then, during a festival, when many monks were gathered—before thousands—he certainly dealt a harsh blow. He said: Move away, Vakkali! He must have been sitting right in front. He must have been engrossed in his own thing—drinking his own 'juice'—though that juice is like sipping from drains.
What else can there be in the body! Even in Buddha’s body, there is nothing else. In anyone’s body there is nothing. Body is the same—ignorant or awakened. The difference is within; it is the difference between wakefulness and sleep.
Move away, Vakkali! Move away! Get away from in front of me. And not only did he say it—he had him removed.
Vakkali, naturally, was deeply hurt. But the ignorant interpret even compassionate acts in their own way. He thought: Fine. Buddha is angry with me. Then what is the point of living! Better to die.
Even then he did not understand what the Buddha desired. Had he moved away from the front, having heard the Buddha—had he gone to a distant hill, sat with eyes closed, thinking: The Buddha is displeased because I am not meditating; the Buddha is displeased because I am not descending into Samadhi. Out of his great compassion he has had me removed so that I may go and enter Samadhi—then he would have understood rightly. But he made the wrong interpretation.
You too keep making such wrong interpretations. I say something; you interpret it as you please. You think—this must be the meaning. A disciple should not put in his own meaning. He should not be hasty in making meaning. Sit in silence. Let the word that was spoken sink within. Do not be in a hurry to make meaning. If you make meaning, it will turn to unmeaning.
What did he understand? That the Buddha is saying—you are of no use; worthless. You are unfit; without capacity. Go die. There is no sense in your living. Great insult—he must have thought. To be scolded so before thousands of monks, I, a Brahmin’s son! 'Move away, Vakkali!' Not only scolded, removed—such a heavy insult! He should have said it in private.
Though in private he had said it many times—and he did not listen. He thought: What use is living now? For him there was only one meaning in life—to gaze upon the Buddha’s body.
When I cannot sit before him, better to die. Thinking so, he climbed Vulture Peak to leap and kill himself. In the last moment—just as he was about to jump—in the dark night a hand touched his shoulder from behind.
The Buddha’s hand exists precisely for this—that when you are in darkness, when you become so dejected and weary of life that you are ready to annihilate yourself, then the Buddha’s hand should come upon your shoulder.
The very meaning of Master is: he seeks you out. When you are in need, his hand should reach you. If it does not, then he is not a Master. However far you may be, it makes no difference. Even a thousand miles away—it makes no difference. When your real need arises, the Master’s hand will reach you—must reach you. That is the covenant between disciple and Master. That is the knot. That is the engagement.
A hand came to his shoulder from behind. He turned and saw—the Blessed One stood before him. But it was not the body. It was not the same form of the Blessed One he had always seen. Today something novel had happened. In this moment of death…
Often it happens. When a man is just about to die—when, to die, he has taken the final step—one more instant and it will be over—then the mind stops by itself; becomes arrested. In such moments the mind has no facility to move. For the mind to move, future is needed.
Understand this. When a man is about to die, the future is gone. The matter is finished. Where is there room for the mind to run? The mind needs space. Ahead, a wall has come—death.
That is why an old man keeps looking back. Ahead there is only a wall—no room to think. The young think: Tomorrow I will build a big house; bring a beautiful woman; this will happen, that will happen. He thinks of the future—the mind runs ahead.
One day the old man sees: there is nothing ahead; there is death. What is there to think ahead? To save himself from death, he turns his back to death and thinks backwards. He says: What times those were! Rama-rajya! Golden age! It has passed. What a corrupt age now! Milk cost such and such. Ghee cost such and such! He begins to think of the conditions fifty, sixty, eighty years ago. What lovely days! What fine people!
These same people. These same days. Outside, the world changes very little. It is what it is. But the old man colors his past. All old men do.
But if someone goes to commit suicide, then he cannot think back either. Now thinking ends. The last moment has come. He goes to erase himself by his own hand. Now there is no way to think; no way to dream.
So the mind must have been absent. And in that dark night, a hand on the shoulder. He must have been startled—who here? He turned. A luminous form. That which Buddha had been telling him again and again—see that which I truly am—that day, in the moment of death, was standing before him.
It was not the earthly body of Buddha. The Buddhist texts say it wrongly—that Buddha himself flew through the air and stood there. No—it was Buddha’s inner body. It was Buddha’s inner being—the Buddhahood—that stood there. If the skin-body had stood there, I can say with certainty—Vakkali would have missed again.
That day he saw the Master not as he always used to see him—but as the Master wanted him to see. That day he saw not the Master’s body, but the Master. That day he found the Dhamma standing alive before him. Great compassion pouring; that grace, that cool shower; that cloud of nectar! A new love arose in him—a love that does not bind, but frees.
Love is of two kinds. When love is Shudra-like, petty—it binds. Petty love binds, because it makes you petty. As you love, what you love, and the manner in which you love—so you become.
Love is a great alchemy—do it with understanding. If you must love, love the Vast. If you must love, love the sky. If you must love, love the Infinite. Because what you love, you will become. If you love the petty, you will become petty. Remember: love transforms. Love is the only alchemy.
A new love arose today. Until now the love he knew was of the body—of a Shudra mind. Today a Brahmin was born. Today Vakkali became a Brahmin. He had been born in a Brahmin family—not then. Today, being born into the Buddha’s family, he became a Brahmin. Today he was born into the Buddha’s lineage. Today a new birth happened—dvija.
That is why a Brahmin is called dvija—twice-born. But all Brahmins are not dvija. All dvija are surely Brahmins. Whether they be Jesus or Mohammed—all dvija are Brahmins.
Commonly people think all Brahmins are dvija—wrong. Call the dvija a Brahmin. Dvija means—who is born again. One birth is from parents; the second is from the Master.
Today Vakkali became dvija—a Brahmin. Today he was born into the Buddha’s lineage. A new love arose. He saw the Vast standing before him. In that Vast he must have become empty—merged. Those rays washed him—cleaned him—purified him. He became new. A new man was born upon whom there is not even the shadow, not even the dust of the old. He has no relation with the old. It is unrelated to the old.
In such a moment the Blessed One uttered these sutras:

'O Brahmin, with courage cut the stream of thirst, and cast away desires. O Brahmin, knowing the ending of formations, you will realize the Unmade—Nirvana.'

Buddha said: As I am, so can you be. Now, in one stroke, cut desires. Do not desire again. Do not become a Shudra again. Recognize this moment; seize it. Let this moment become your life. Let this moment become the essence of your entire life. Let the wheel of your life revolve around this center.
'O Brahmin…'
Do you hear the difference? Only a little earlier, a few hours before, he had said, 'Vakkali, move away!' He had him removed. Before this, Buddha never addressed him as Brahmin. 'Vakkali.' Today, for the first time, he said: 'O Brahmin!'
Chhind’ sotaṃ parakkamma kāme panuda brāhmaṇa.
Recognize this moment. Seize this moment. Cut desires; uproot craving; let the formations fall away. Now let this emptiness that has descended into you for a moment become your destiny, become your nature—then you will know the Akrit.
Akrit means Nirvana—the Unmade. Akrit—what does not happen by doing. Akrit—what never comes by doing, but by dropping all doing. What happens in surrender—not by resolve.
'When a Brahmin becomes adept in the two Dhammas…'
Which two? One is Samatha, the other is Vipassana.
'…then for that knower all bonds—fetters—come to an end.'
It is necessary to understand these two words.
Buddha spoke of two kinds of Samadhi—Samatha Samadhi and Vipassana Samadhi. Samatha Samadhi means worldly Samadhi; Vipassana Samadhi means otherworldly Samadhi. Samatha means the Samadhi attained by resolve—by yoga, method, discipline, effort. Vipassana means effortless Samadhi—not by effort, not by resolve, not by yoga or method—but by seeing; by simple understanding. The meaning of Vipassana is insight—inner seeing.
Understand the difference. You have heard that anger is bad. So you stop your anger. Now you do not get angry. A kind of peace will appear on your face—but only on the face. Inside, anger will still be hidden. Because you suppressed it after hearing. But if it dawns in your understanding that anger is futile—not because the scripture says so, not because Buddha says so, not because I say so—you have known from living experience, again and again, that anger is vain. This realization has gone so deep that because of it anger becomes impossible—no suppression required, no discipline imposed, no technique used. Then the second state happens—then there is peace within and peace without.
In Samatha, outwardly everything is set; inwardly something is missing. Vipassana is complete Samadhi—inside and outside become the same; one-taste.
For example, a man masters yogic postures. With years of practice, like exercise, asana will be mastered. He sits like a stone statue. He does not move. An ant climbs—he takes no notice. A mosquito bites—no concern. He sits and sits for hours. But inside, the mind is running.
Practice has hardened him. If, daily, you allow the mosquito to bite—bite—bite—slowly your skin will lose sensitivity. The ant will climb and bite—you will not know. The skin becomes tough through practice.
Outwardly you have become a statue—but within? Within there is a bazaar.
There is another kind of asana—that is the real asana. Your mind has become still. Because the mind is still, the body does not tremble. Your mind is quiet; therefore the body has no need to shake. Then you sit in peace—this is a different matter altogether.
Therefore Buddha called the first worldly; the second otherworldly. By the first you will not reach Brahmin. By the first, you will reach up to Kshatriya—resolve; struggling; fighting; endeavor. By the second, you become a Brahmin—by grace.
Hence Buddha said: He who knows the two—Samatha and Vipassana—arrives.
First, one goes by Samatha; then, upon the failure of Samatha, Vipassana is born.
It happened so with Buddha. For six years he practiced—Samatha. Then, in the last night, what happened was Vipassana.
'He for whom there is no near shore, no far shore, nor both—who is fearless and unattached—I call him a Brahmin.'
Whom do I call a Brahmin? Him who has gone beyond three things. The near shore (pāra) means the gross; what is seen by eyes, ears, nose; what has boundaries—the near shore. The far shore (apāra) means the boundless; the subtle—not gross. Not known by the senses of form, taste, smell, but known by the mind.
You saw a flower. The senses can only report: it is red, large, fragrant. When you say 'beautiful'—no sense organ exists to say that. 'Beautiful' is said by the mind. No sense can tell you that the flower is beautiful. How would it tell? The senses merely report. The senses are like a camera. The camera cannot say 'beautiful' or 'ugly.' It only records what is. The rose is in front; the senses report. The eyes say 'red'; the nose says 'fragrant.' But 'beautiful'—when you say beautiful—that is the far shore.
So rasa, rupa, gandha—beauty—these are subtle experiences of the mind. Sense-experiences are near shore; mind-experiences—mind stands between the senses and the soul—are far shore. And then there is the beyond both shores (pārāpāra)—beyond near and far—there is the experience of the soul.
And he who goes beyond these three… What is the experience of soul? The experience of 'I'—atta. Therefore Buddha said: not soul—anatta. Let even the 'I' go. Senses gone; mind gone; let the 'I' go. Beyond near; beyond far; beyond both—then what remains is the void, where even the sense of 'I' is not. He who knows that, I call him a Brahmin.
And he who knows that becomes, by nature, fearless. What fear can there be—nothing remains that can be snatched. He has left everything himself. Now only the void remains that none can take; for which there is no way to be stolen. Now only that remains which cannot die. Thus fearlessness. He attains the Abhaya.
And he becomes unattached. He needs no company. The need for company is from fear. Understand this.
Therefore Buddha said: without fear and without attachment.
Why do you seek company? Because alone you feel afraid. The wife fears being alone. The husband fears being alone. Alone, fear arises. Alone, the memory of death appears; anxiety happens. With someone else, the mind stays occupied.
Have you seen—walking alone in a lane at night, you begin to whistle! If there is nothing else to do—whistle! Sing a film song. Or if you are of religious type—chant 'Rama, Rama,' or the Hanuman Chalisa! It is all the same. There is no difference.
But why? The sound of the whistle is your own voice. But hearing it you feel as if something is going on—as if something is there. Though with the whistle no ghosts will flee. There are no ghosts to flee. But the sound makes you feel—okay, something is happening; we are doing something! You begin to sing loudly. Hearing your own voice it feels as if someone else is present. You forget.
Man is forgetting himself. That is why he seeks company.
Buddha said: He alone is the Brahmin who needs no company—who is unattached; who is fearless.
'He who meditates, stainless, seated still; who has done what was to be done; whose outflows are exhausted; who has attained the supreme meaning—I call him a Brahmin.'
He who is sinking into meditation—meditation means no-thought. He who is becoming stainless. No-thought brings stainlessness. Thought is cunning.
You have seen—the more educated a man becomes, the more cunning, deceptive, hypocritical he becomes. The more thoughts increase, the more dishonest he becomes. An educated man not being dishonest is difficult.
We think the opposite. We say, what is happening? People come from universities and there is nothing in them except dishonesty and craftiness.
But universities teach exactly that. The education you have developed is the education of craft. There is no education of no-thought. No university gives the capacity for meditation, for purity, for simplicity. It teaches trickery. Mathematics, logic—how to rob more from others—how to get wealth without doing anything—that is taught.
You teach this and then the teachers themselves are troubled—when their students begin to cheat them, pick their pockets—they say, what is this? No reverence for the teacher!
But what are you teaching them? Have you ever taught reverence? You taught logic, doubt—and when they apply logic to you, doubt upon you, tricks upon you—where should they practice? This is homework! Later in the world they will do the real work. They are preparing.
The sickness in the universities—strikes, gheraos—the education is responsible, not the students. Your education is for this. Your education teaches violence and trickery. And when a man becomes tricky and violent, he wants to practice—naturally. Where will he practice? In the university itself. Your universities teach politics. Where should one practice? There, he learns to contest elections—the student union election—and you will see it is like the parliament—he is practicing. He is learning to swim in shallow water. Tomorrow he will go to parliament.
And in parliament the same happens—on a larger scale. The same stupidity, the same trickery, the same hooliganism. No difference.
The reason behind it—without meditation there is no purity.
Buddha said: Meditative, stainless, seated still…
When purity arises within, the body’s useless movements fall away by themselves. A kind of stillness comes to the body. A kind of peace.
Fulfilled… And naturally, when the flowers of meditation blossom, you know—you have received what was to be received; attained what was to be attained; the only thing worth attaining is attained. There is nothing more to attain. The last treasure is received—fulfilled.
Without outflows… Whoever attains meditation—useless things cannot enter him. Meditation becomes his protector. One who has attained meditation—anger will not come. Greed will not come. Delusion will not come.
Why? The lamp in his house is lit. And when the lamp is lit, darkness does not enter. And the guard within is awake. When the guard is awake, thieves do not come.
Without outflows—enemies cannot enter within.
And who has attained the supreme meaning… There are two meanings in the world—one of the body, one of the soul. The meaning of the soul is the supreme meaning—paramartha. He who has attained the last meaning—I call him a Brahmin.

Second scene:
When the Blessed One was residing in Migaramatu’s mansion, one day the Elder Ananda bowed and said: Bhante! Today I am blessed to know that among all lights your light alone is the light. The rest are called lights only in name. In the presence of your light they all appear like darkness. Bhante! Only today have I truly seen you and your miraculous luminosity. And now I can say I am no longer blind.
Hearing this, the Master looked into Ananda’s eyes for a long time—and poured more and more light upon him.
Ananda must have begun to sink into that grace, that light, that peace.
Then he said: Yes, Ananda, it is so. But there is nothing of 'me' in it. I am not—therefore there is light. This is the light of Buddhahood, not mine. This is the radiance of Samadhi, not mine. I disappeared—and only then did this light arise. Upon my ashes this light has arisen.
Then he spoke this sutra to Ananda:

Divā tapati ādicco, rattiṃ ābhāti candimā.
Sannaddho khattiyo tapati, jhāyī tapati brāhmaṇo.
Atha sabbamahorattiṃ Buddho tapati tejasā.

'By day the sun alone burns—by day the sun alone gives light. By night the moon burns—by night the moon gives light. When adorned, the king burns—'
When the king sits upon a throne of gold, clad in costly garments, decked in jewels, wearing a crown of diamonds—then the king appears radiant.
'When meditative, the Brahmin burns.'
And when the first glimmers of meditation begin to come, a light begins to arise from the Brahmin, the meditator.
'But the Buddha burns day and night.'
For no reason—without wick, without oil.
Understand the difference. The sun has a limit—he burns by day. The moon has a limit—he burns by night. And one day the sun will go out. The moon has no light of its own—it is borrowed. He burns by the sun’s light. When the sun goes out, the moon goes out same day. The moon is like a mirror—reflecting the sun’s light. If the sun goes, the moon goes.
The sun has a limit—even if vast. For millions of years he has burned. Scientists say one day he will go out. Because this is not without wick and without oil. Its fuel is being consumed daily—though it has a great stock of fuel. Daily the sun is cooling; heat is diminishing; being spent.
One day the sun will be exhausted. That light is limited. The lamp burning in your house is limited—its limit is its oil. It will burn through the night. The oil will be used up; the wick will burn away. Then the lamp will remain lying there.
So too the sun will burn—for millions of years. But it has a limit. And the moon only reflects.
'When adorned, the king burns.'
A king’s prestige and radiance are not his own; they are borrowed.
You see—a man sits on the throne and the whole world notices him; otherwise, no one would even know of him. Someone becomes a minister—then you notice: Ah! You too exist! He appears everywhere—on front pages; all around there is noise.
Then one day the post is lost. Then he disappears—you cannot find him. Search—you won’t find him.
This prestige is borrowed. This radiance is borrowed. It is not his. It belongs to the position.
If you met the king in common clothes, you would not recognize him. You recognize him only when he binds on his crown and sits on his throne. There is nothing else in the king. He is a man just like you. To establish this, so many jewels are needed.
When Napoleon was defeated and his palaces were searched, people were astonished. The throne he had made had a mechanism in it so that when he sat, the throne would slowly rise by itself! People would be wonderstruck—this throne rising by itself!
He had it contrived to show—'The throne is honored by me, not I by the throne. See, the moment I sit…' Behind, the mechanism worked. As soon as he sat, a man would press buttons. The machine would function. The throne would rise. It was the only throne in the world like that. People thought—miracle!
That is why people have always considered the king an avatar of God—God’s representative on earth. Nothing of the sort. He is not even a representative of men. How will he be a representative of God? He has nothing of his own. All is borrowed. His light is in his sword; in his soldiers; in his wealth; in his jewels. His light is not his own. Politics is borrowed light.
Hence Buddha says: 'When adorned, the king burns.'
When Napoleon was confined on the island of St. Helena, on the first day he went for a morning walk with his doctor. Now he was a prisoner, no longer an emperor—everything lost. A grass-cutter woman was coming along the path with a bundle on her head. Napoleon’s companion—the doctor appointed to attend him—shouted: Hey grass-woman, make way! Hearing him, Napoleon remembered—I am now a prisoner. He caught the doctor’s hand, stepped off the path. The doctor said—why? He replied: That era is gone when I said to mountains—move, I am coming—and the mountains moved. Now even a grass-woman will not move. Better that we move. Those days are gone!
A man as powerful as Napoleon becomes impotent in a moment. The post goes—everything goes. Wealth goes—everything goes.
So Buddha says: The king too shines—but when adorned.
'When meditative, the Brahmin shines.'
Better than the king is the Brahmin. His inner treasure begins to manifest. Meditation dawns. But meditation is such—it may be present, it may be lost. The Brahmin—the meditator—sometimes flashes like lightning. Meditation is such a state—lightning flashes; light is everywhere; then the lightning goes, darkness returns.
Meditation is the glint of Samadhi. And when meditation becomes so deep that it is settled like Samadhi—now it does not come or go, the light is steady—then Buddhahood.
Buddhahood is the culmination of the Brahmin. Meditation is the glimpse; Samadhi is the attainment.
'When meditative, the Brahmin shines. But the Buddha shines night and day by his own radiance.'
And the Buddha…
Atha sabbamahorattiṃ Buddho tapati tejasā.
…for him there is no limit. Not the limit of moon and stars; not the limit of the adorned king; not the limit of the meditative Brahmin. All his limits have ended. He has become light—he is only light. He has disappeared—only light remains.
This should be your direction. This should be your search. Such a light should arise within you that burns day and night; burns in life and in death; burns in the body; and when you are free of the body, still burns. Such a light as the saints have called—without wick and without oil.
Enough for today.