Es Dhammo Sanantano #119

Have you ever seen the soul, have you ever felt the soul?
While awake, alive, wrapped in a milky mist—
have you ever felt this mist as you breathe?
Or, when a night is spent in a shikara upon some lake,
and little paddles keep clinking amid the slaps of water—
have you heard the laments of winds sobbing in low sobs?
When, on the fourteenth night, this moon—like a slab of ice—
shines and hosts of shadows run to catch it,
have you ever, leaning against the wall of some church that stands on the shore,
felt your own womb of depth?
The body can burn a hundred times and still be a lump of clay;
if the soul burns once it will become kundan—purest gold.
Have you ever seen the soul, have you ever felt the soul?
Whoever feels the soul—only he is a Brahmin. Whoever recognizes the Antaratman of this existence—only he is a Brahmin. Whoever sees Paramatman in matter—only he is a Brahmin. For whom the gross and the subtle become one—only he is a Brahmin. In whom the division between outside and inside disappears—only he is a Brahmin.
Buddha has defined the Brahmin in many, many sutras. The word Brahmin indicates the supreme state. A subtle exposition is necessary. It has been misinterpreted. Manu’s interpretation is wrong—that one is a Brahmin by birth. Mahavira goes a little higher than Manu—that one is a Brahmin by conduct. Buddha goes even higher—by self-experience. Neither by birth, nor by outward conduct, but by the direct realization of what is hidden within does one become a Brahmin. Only a Buddha is a Brahmin. Whoever awakens in himself—he is the Brahmin.
In Buddha’s language “Brahmin” and “Buddha” are synonymous.
Before we enter the sutras, let us understand their setting.
The first scene:
Many citizens of Shravasti had gathered and were praising countless qualities of the Elder Sariputta. A Brahmin opposed to Buddha was also listening, burning with jealousy and anger. Someone in the crowd said, “Our Aryas are so forbearing that they do not get angry even at those who abuse or beat them.” This was like pouring ghee on the fire of that wrong-view Brahmin. He said, “Surely they have never met someone who knows how to make them angry. Watch—I will provoke him.”
The townsfolk laughed and said, “If you can make him angry, do it.”
At noon, seeing Sariputta on alms-round, that Brahmin came from behind and kicked him on the back.
But the Elder did not even look back. He was awake in meditation, walking while guarding the lamp of awareness, so he went on as he was. On the contrary, inwardly he even felt delighted, because ordinarily, in such a situation, it is natural for the mind to waver. But his mind did not waver, and the flame of meditation grew even more steady. Within him there was nothing for the kicker but gratitude.
This incident gave eyes to the blind Brahmin, as it were. He fell at Sariputta’s feet, took him home and offered food. His eyes were filled with tears of repentance, and those tears were washing away his impurities and making his soul pristine.
In this way, through Sariputta, for the first time a ray of the Buddha fell upon him.
But the monks were not pleased with Sariputta’s conduct. They said to the Blessed One, “Ayushman Sariputta did not do well in going to the house of the Brahmin who struck him and eating there. Now whom will he spare without first beating? He will make it a habit to strike the monks. Now he will roam about beating the monks.”
The Shasta said to the monks, “Monks! A Brahmin who beats is no Brahmin. A householder ‘Brahmin’ may have struck a renunciate Brahmin. And Sariputta has done what befits a Brahmin. And you do not know that Sariputta’s meditative conduct has given eyes to a blind man.”
And then he uttered these gathas:
‘For a Brahmin this is not a small blessing: he withdraws his mind from pleasing objects. Wherever the mind turns away from violence, there and there suffering comes to rest.’
‘Not by matted hair, nor by lineage, nor by birth does one become a Brahmin. In whom there is truth and Dhamma, he is pure, he is the Brahmin.’
‘Foolish one, what will your matted locks do? What will wearing deerskin do? Within you it is filthy with defilements—what are you washing on the outside?’
‘Having cut all fetters, who does not tremble—free from clinging and attachment—him I call a Brahmin.’
The townsfolk of Shravasti—simple, guileless people—had gathered to praise the virtues of Sariputta.
Sariputta—one of Buddha’s chief disciples. Among those who attained buddhahood while Buddha still lived. Sariputta himself had once been a great scholar. The first time he came to Buddha he came to debate. He brought five hundred of his own disciples. But coming to Buddha, the occasion for debate never arose. Defeat came before debate. Seeing Buddha, defeat came.
He must have been very sensitive. There was scholarship, but perhaps not a tight grip by scholarship upon his being. There was learning, yet also the capacity to look beyond it. Therefore, on seeing Buddha, he was transformed. He said to his disciples, “Forget the talk of debate. This man is not one to be argued with. He is not one to be fought. He is one at whose feet we should sit. I accept discipleship to the Buddha. You are my disciples; if you have understood me, bow with me.” He was initiated himself and initiated his five hundred disciples as well.
Buddha had thousands of disciples; among them Sariputta was the most intellectual—but not confined within intellect. And very soon flowers began to bloom in him. Very soon fragrance began to arise in him. One who is so ready to bow! He came to debate and bowed without debate! One who has such a simple gaze, such a natural heart—if soon he attained buddhahood, it is no surprise.
The simple folk of Shravasti were rightly praising Sariputta’s qualities.
He had such qualities indeed. See: he came to debate and, without raising a single question, bowed and accepted discipleship! He was burdened under great learning, a knower of scriptures, and he set the scriptures aside as one wipes dust from a mirror—so easily, so simply, without pretension, without ego, without stiffness. Not only did he bow; he had his five hundred disciples bow too.
Sariputta never again asked Buddha a question. He had come to give answers; he asked none. He became his shadow, dissolved in him.
There were many virtues in Sariputta; he was virtuous. The village folk were right to praise him. But a Brahmin hostile to Buddha was also listening and burning with jealousy and anger. When someone in the crowd said, “Our Aryas are so forbearing they do not get angry even when abused or beaten,” it was ghee to the wrong-view Brahmin’s fire.
Wrong-view means: one who has acquired the habit of seeing upside down. An inverted head! He will take even the straight and see it crooked. He cannot see straight at all. Deep delusion has seated itself in his gaze.
Sariputta is being praised; he is inflamed by that praise.
There are many who cannot bear anyone’s praise. They can hear only condemnation. That is why people mostly condemn—because there are ears only for condemnation. Wherever two or three gather, slander begins!
To praise is itself a quality. Only he can praise who has right vision. The greatest requisite for praise is that one can step aside from oneself and see the other; that one is not pained by another’s greatness; that one’s ego is not hurt; that on seeing another’s majestic image one does not fill with anger—“Who is this who is grander than I? Who more divine than I? Who superior to me?” When this pain arises, that is wrong-view.
Wrong-view cannot tolerate another’s praise because it takes another’s praise as self-condemnation. If the other is great, then I am small—that is its logic. If the other is beautiful, then I am ugly—that is its logic. If the other is virtuous, then what of me!
Wrong-view can listen to slander. Why? Because slander nourishes its ego. “Ah! So he too is characterless! Then we are better!”
Remember, slander has a psychology. Why do people prefer slander? If you tell someone that person A has become a saint, no one will believe it. They will bring twenty-five arguments: “No, not a saint. All deception. All hypocrisy.” But if you say someone has become a thief—no one will dispute it. They will say, “We knew already. He’s a thief. Why inform us! A great thief. You just found out! Your eyes were blind.”
Notice: when you slander someone, no one asks for proof. Praise someone, and a thousand proofs are demanded. Worse, for those things that deserve praise there are no proofs; and for slander, there are many. Slander is about petty realms, and there can be proofs for the petty.
Suppose you slander a man as a thief: four witnesses can be produced who “saw” him steal. But if you say someone has awakened, become enlightened—where will you find witnesses? Who will say, “Yes, I saw him become a Buddha”? It is not something to be seen. Only one who is a Buddha can see a Buddha. No other witness is possible.
See the irony. For the praiseworthy there are no proofs—yet people ask for proofs. For slander there are a thousand proofs—yet no one asks for them; people accept slander without proof. People want slander. Newspapers are filled with it. You read them to see whose seams were ripped today. On a day without slander, you slide the paper aside with boredom: “Nothing of note.” If there is news of murder, theft, elopement, divorce, suicide—you adjust your glasses and lean over the paper so that not a word is missed! The poor newspaper man roams around in search of slander.
Journalists’ vision becomes false because their trade is bad. Their job means: bring what the crowd wants. In the best, find something bad. In the beautiful, find a stain. Leave off the moon; talk of the dark spot on the moon. People are curious about the stain, not the moon. Speak of the moon and no paper will sell.
Thus journalism becomes essentially the art of the taste for slander. How to find something wrong—from anywhere! And when you set out to find it, you will. The world is vast. It has dark nights and bright days; roses and their thorns. One who goes to find slander will say the world is very bad—two dark nights with a little day between. One who goes to find praise will say the world is wondrous—two bright days with only a little night between.
One who seeks slander will count thorns on the rosebush; naturally some thorn will prick the hand; you will be filled with anger. If blood flows, the few blossoms will not even be seen; you will be weighed down by pain and return cursing. One who goes to see the flower will be so filled with it that even the thorns will seem dear. He will see that God made thorns to guard the flowers—they are the sentries of the rose.
It all depends on you—how you see, what you went to see.
This Brahmin was anti-Buddha. He had decided already. He had never gone to Buddha...
It is surprising that opponents never come near. They keep far. To oppose, they must remain far; to come near is risky—the opposition may melt. So the opponent stands with his back turned, far off. He selects from hearsay. Then he distorts his selections, gives them his color, magnifies the distortions, lives in them and thinks he knows facts.
Remember, facts do not exist in this world. “Facts” are a lie. All is interpretation; there are no bare facts.
A great historian, Edmund Burke, was writing a world history. He labored some thirty years, wanting to write a history as none before. Half a lifetime.
One day a murder occurred behind his house. He ran out. A crowd stood there. A corpse lay there. The murderer was caught red-handed. He asked what happened. But as many people, so many stories! Some for the murderer, some for the victim; some blaming this one, some that one.
Burke was astonished. A murder has happened behind my house; the killer is here; the body is still here; blood is fresh on the street; witnesses are present—yet no two eyewitnesses agree.
He returned and burnt the history he had written in thirty years. “I am writing what happened in Buddha’s time, in Alexander’s time, in Krishna’s time? What am I doing! When a murder behind my house, with the killer present and blood not even dry, cannot be decided—how will I decide what happened three or five thousand years ago! All are rumors; all are interpretations.”
Interpretation is everything. How you interpret—that is all.
One of my sannyasins, Umanath, wrote from Nepal: “What will people in the South gain by burning Rama?” When I read it I thought: when Umanath comes, I shall ask: “What did you in the North gain by burning Ravana?” That he does not doubt; he’s from the North. He doubts not that burning Ravana is fine—Ravana must be burned every year! But those who wrote books in praise of Rama gave one interpretation; books could be written in favor of Ravana, and the interpretation would change entirely. The event is the same; the interpretation changes.
I am not saying what is true; I am saying that truth does not lie in “facts”—all is interpretation. It cannot be settled. So many wars—but never settled who attacked first. It cannot be settled, because one side insists the other attacked; the other insists he attacked. Then the victor writes the history. The victor inscribes his side into the books.
When Stalin became dictator of Russia, he changed the whole history. Removed opponents’ pictures and names. Inserted his own pictures where there were none, by photographic trickery. Put his name everywhere; the names of his favorites.
As long as Stalin remained in power, that history prevailed; children studied it. After his death, the tune changed; his opponents erased him.
The same is happening in Delhi now—the time capsule is being dug up. Indira buried a capsule; it was one interpretation. Naturally certain names were missing—Subhas, perhaps only in a footnote; without weight. Patel’s name perhaps missing or marginal. Certainly Morarji’s name was not there.
It has to be taken out. It is being dug out. A new time capsule will be made. In it Indira will be bid farewell. Nehru will shrink small. Vallabhbhai will spread and swell. Morarji will sit in the very center; Jagjivan Ram and Charan Singh will sit too.
But how long will it last? In a few years someone else will come; again the capsule will be uprooted. Thus it has always been. Perhaps in the capsule Morarji has made, a saga of the RSS will be included; perhaps it will state Nathuram Godse was not of the RSS, and the RSS had no hand in Gandhi’s murder. Things will change because Morarji stands on the RSS’s support; the capsule will be written on that strength. History will change.
In Poona there are people who call Nathuram Godse “Mahatma Nathuram Godse”! They celebrate his birth; distribute sweets. If ever the RSS takes the reins of this land, Mahatma Gandhi will be bid farewell; his statues removed from crossroads; Guru Golwalkar and Nathuram Godse—Mahatma Nathuram Godse—will stand there. And you will agree, for you agree with whoever holds power.
Man interprets facts as he wishes.
Whom does Buddha call right-view (samyak-drishti)? Whom wrong-view (mithya-drishti)? Buddha says: one who interprets is of wrong-view. One who does not interpret, who sees without thought, thought-free—he is right-view. If thought is already within you, how will you see what is? Your thought will color the fact, make it as it wants. You will see only what you wanted, what you had decided to see.
Someone wrote a thousand-page book that the number thirteen is bad—collected thousands of proofs from around the world. You too would be convinced.
In America, thirteen is thought bad. Big hotels have no thirteenth floor—no one would stay there. After twelve, come straight to fourteen. Room number thirteen is avoided; the thirteenth date is dreaded.
This man gathered all: how many suicides occur on the thirteenth; how many go mad; how many fall from the thirteenth floor; how many accidents on bus thirteen; all statistics linked to thirteen.
A friend brought him to me. I said, “You do the same for fourteen. As many die on the fourteenth; as many fall; bus fourteen crashes; car fourteen goes off a cliff. If you go after fourteen, you will collect as many statistics. Collecting numbers is no problem.”
Life is vast. If we have decided something, we will select accordingly. If you believe seeing someone’s face in the morning ruins the day, it will “ruin” the day not by the face, but by your belief. You meet that man, you say, “We are done for. Saw that wretch first thing; the day is bad.” Now whatever goes wrong, it will be pinned on him. A thorn pricks your foot—“Saw that wretch.” A cup slips and breaks—“Saw that wretch.” You slip on a banana peel—“Saw that wretch.” And you become more convinced his face is dangerous. You will avoid him; if you see him again you will have more trouble; your conviction strengthens.
This man is anti-Buddha; he never went to Buddha; a wrong-view Brahmin. He has decided Buddha is wrong; then his disciples must be wrong too. Therefore Sariputta must be wrong.
He said, “Stop this nonsense. You say no one can anger him; that is not a quality of his. The truth is no one knows how to make him angry; they do not know which button to push. Leave it to me. I will make him angry.”
See, he is not ready to accept that someone can be beyond anger—at least not a disciple of Buddha. Then only one explanation remains: those who failed to anger Sariputta did not know the trick. He said, “Leave it to me. I will provoke him.”
The townsfolk laughed. Sometimes simple people prove wiser than scholars. They said, “Madness to think you can anger Sariputta. Still, try if you can.”
That Brahmin kicked the Elder from behind while he was on alms-round.
In these little stories, every detail has meaning. Kicks given to Buddhas are usually delivered from behind; face-to-face one lacks courage—those eyes, that face, that grace might stop you; you may hesitate. So the slander of Buddhas is done from behind.
Remember: one who slanders from behind is a coward. He does not trust even his own slander; he does not trust himself.
He kicked Sariputta from behind. But the Elder did not even turn.
Purposeless. Buddha has told his disciples: wherever there is no purpose, do not invest even a drop of energy. Someone kicks from behind—what purpose is there? What is the essence of turning back? Why get entangled? He must be mad or foolish or of wrong-view. Not worth even the taste of looking back. To look upon the wrong is also unnecessary. To look upon the futile is not right, for whatever we look upon leaves its imprint upon the eye.
Therefore Buddha says: do not look at the futile; do not listen to it; do not even think of it. The time and energy spent on the futile become a hindrance on the way to the essential.
When you go on a journey to a destination, let all energy flow that way. Do not scatter.
So Sariputta did not look back. The kick landed. And it lands more keenly upon one who is sensitive and aware. Kick a drunk and he may not notice. The next day you say, “We kicked you last night.” He says, “No idea. What night? What you? What me? I had drunk too much.” The drunk is unconscious.
You are running home—someone told you your house is on fire; you run shutting the shop, breathless. Someone kicks you from behind; you may not even register it, for your mind has run ahead; it is there with the flames. You are not here; only the body is here; your soul has spread its wings and flown. You will not remember.
But if a kick lands on one as awake as Sariputta, he will know it fully—without missing a grain. Yet he did not look back. Buddha’s instruction: do not look at the futile.
He was awake in meditation, guarding the lamp of awareness.
Buddha has said: walk always as though you carry in your hands a lamp that would go out if it trembles even a little, and a thousand winds assail it. This kick too is a gust of wind. He gathered the lamp still closer lest this gust extinguish it, lest the flame flicker.
One who delights in guarding the inner lamp finds all the world’s affairs futile. He does not bother that someone kicked him. His concern is different: to guard the inner treasure—lest the kick disturb him; lest anger arise; lest in excitement he do something, for in excitement the lamp slips from the hand. And what is guarded for years can be lost in a moment.
When one climbs mountain heights, the higher one goes, the more carefully one moves; a fall is perilous. On flat ground you may fall—a scratch or two. But on Everest you cannot walk as on Poona’s streets; every breath must be guarded, every footstep firm, for if you fall there you are gone.
Such is the inner state in meditation. On its peaks you must tread with great care.
Sariputta was on those peaks from which a fall can mislead one for many lives. A kick has no value here; it cannot disturb.
You are easily disturbed because you have nothing to lose. That is why you are quick to be agitated; it costs you little. But for Sariputta it is costly—not a scratch, everything could be lost, a treasure of lifetimes slipping just as it reached the hand.
He continued walking as he was, guarding the lamp. Inwardly he rejoiced, because ordinarily the mind would wobble; but it did not. The kick landed—and did not; the blow struck—and did not. A gust came and passed; the flame remained unmoved. He must have been gladdened; the heart-lotus must have opened. “Blessed am I!”
What we call “natural” did not happen. On the day the natural does not occur, the door to the supreme nature opens.
Two states: one—the natural of the body. If struck, you turn, you are angry. The other—of the soul: struck, and you do not turn; angry you are not; as you were, you remain; not a ripple. This is entry into the other nature. The first is the nature of body; the second, of Atman. One descending into the nature of Atman experiences the second.
So he rejoiced. Here the ordinary is reversed—and this is the beginning of buddhahood. He was not saddened; not angry; rather delighted: the mind did not move, the flame grew steadier.
The greater the challenge, the steadier the flame becomes. Miss—and you fall badly; don’t miss—and you steady marvelously. Both are possible. Fall from the peak—you are gone; steady a little more—and the summit is yours.
Within, toward the kicker there was nothing but gratitude. He must have said within, “Blessed Brahmin! You did me good. You provided an opportunity. I did not know the flame could be this still. You brought a gust and tested me. I am indebted.”
This gave eyes to the blind Brahmin. He fell at Sariputta’s feet; prayed, “Come to my home. Receive food.” His eyes were filled with tears of repentance, and those tears washed away his impurities and made his soul pristine.
When the eyes fill with tears, there is no greater purifying method. Let repentance flood—and sins are washed away. If repentance becomes dense, all the rubbish within burns in that dense fire. Jesus called repentance the greatest alchemy. Again and again the Bible says: Repent! Sink into repentance. The deeper you sink, the fresher you emerge. In repentance one bathes; sins are dissolved—not perhaps in the Ganges, but certainly in the waters of repentance.
Thus, through Sariputta, for the first time a ray of the Buddha fell upon him.
Who meets the disciple meets the Buddha. If Buddha is the sun, his disciples are his rays. Through Sariputta it happened; the Brahmin became Buddha’s. If the disciple is such, how must the Master be!
But the monks did not like Sariputta’s behavior. They said to the Blessed One, “Ayushman Sariputta did not do well to eat at the house of the Brahmin who beat him. Now he will spare no one without beating; he will roam beating the monks.”
This is ordinary reasoning. One must go beyond it.
The Master said, “Monks! A Brahmin who beats cannot be a Brahmin. A householder-Brahmin may have struck a renunciate-Brahmin. False Brahmin may have struck a true Brahmin. But one who beats without cause cannot be a Brahmin. And Sariputta has done what befits a Brahmin. Also, you do not know that Sariputta’s meditative conduct has given eyes to a blind man.”
Then he spoke these sutras:
‘For a Brahmin this is no small blessing: he withdraws his mind from dear objects. Wherever the mind turns away from violence, there suffering comes to rest.’
‘Not by matted hair, nor by clan, nor by birth is one a Brahmin. In whom dwell truth and Dhamma—that one is pure, that one is a Brahmin.’
‘O dull-witted one, what will your matted locks do? What will your deerskin do? Within you is a dense jungle—why polish the outside?’
‘Having cut all fetters, who does not tremble; having gone beyond clinging, released—him I call a Brahmin.’
Shravasti’s guileless folk praised Sariputta’s virtues.
Sariputta—one of Buddha’s chief disciples—attained buddhahood while Buddha lived. He had been a great scholar. He came first to debate, bringing five hundred disciples. But before debate, defeat. Seeing Buddha, he surrendered.
He must have been deeply sensitive. He had erudition but not a rigid hold by it. He had the ability to look past it. So, on seeing Buddha, he was transformed. He told his disciples: “Forget the debate. This is no man to be debated with. This is one whose feet we should sit at. I accept discipleship. If you understand me, bow with me.” He was initiated, and so were his five hundred disciples.
Buddha had thousands of disciples; Sariputta was the most intellectual—yet not limited by intellect. Soon the flowers bloomed in him; soon fragrance arose. One so ready to bow—came to argue and bowed without argument! With such a simple gaze, such naturalness—if he soon attained buddhahood, it is no wonder.
The simple folk praised his virtues. But a Brahmin hostile to Buddha burned with envy. When someone said, “Our Aryas are so forbearing that they do not get angry even with those who attack or beat,” it poured ghee upon his fire.
“Mithya-drishti”—wrong-view—means habitually seeing upside down. Praising Sariputta inflames him.
Many cannot bear anyone’s praise; they hear only slander. Thus most people slander; because ears are only for slander. Wherever a few gather, slander starts!
To praise is a quality—requiring right vision, the capacity to step aside from oneself, to see the other’s greatness without the ego being hurt. One who, on seeing another’s grandeur and divinity, does not boil—“Who is greater than I?” When this pain arises—that is wrong-view.
Wrong-view cannot tolerate praise because another’s praise feels like one’s own condemnation. If the other is great, I am small; if the other is beautiful, I am ugly; if the other is virtuous, what of me!
Wrong-view can listen to slander because it feeds the ego. “So he too is low! Then we are at least better!”
Notice: praise demands proofs; slander needs none. For the praiseworthy there are no proofs, for it concerns the subtle; for slander there are proofs because it concerns the petty.
If you praise someone as enlightened—who will witness? Only a Buddha. If you slander someone as a thief—witnesses abound.
Thus people prefer slander; newspapers thrive on it; without it, you set the paper aside.
Journalism becomes the art of slander’s taste.
This Brahmin was anti-Buddha; he had decided. He had not gone to Buddha. Opponents do not come near; they remain far—otherwise the opposition may melt. They choose hearsay, distort it, paint it, magnify it, and think they know facts. But facts are not; all is interpretation. Burke burned his history after seeing how even a fresh murder could not yield a single agreed story.
Interpretation is everything. Umanath writes about the South burning Rama; I ask what the North gained burning Ravana. Rama’s champions wrote one interpretation; others could write for Ravana.
It cannot be decided who attacked in any war; the victor writes the books. Stalin rewrote history; so do rulers. Time capsules are buried and dug up. Statues are erected and removed. People agree with whoever holds power.
Buddha calls wrong-view one who interprets; right-view one who sees without thought.
Someone collected a thousand pages of “proof” that thirteen is bad. I said, “Collect for fourteen—you will find as much.” Life is vast; selection follows belief. Believe that seeing someone’s face spoils your day, and the day will supply “proofs.”
This man, anti-Buddha, decided Buddha is wrong; his disciple must be wrong; Sariputta must be wrong. “No one knows how to anger him; I shall.”
The townsfolk laughed: simple people are wiser than pundits. “Try,” they said.
He kicked from behind—slander and attack upon Buddhas are from behind. Face-to-face there is no courage. Sariputta did not turn—Buddha’s instruction: do not expend energy where there is no purpose. Looking back is purposeless; looking upon the wrong leaves an imprint on the eye. Do not see the futile, nor hear it, nor think it.
He guarded the inner lamp. Buddha says: walk as though carrying a lamp against a thousand winds. The kick is a gust—guard the flame. Once the taste of guarding the flame comes, all else is futile. Guard the inner treasure—lest anger or excitement make the lamp slip; what is gathered over years can be lost in a moment. On Everest you cannot walk as on the streets—one misstep, and you are gone. So on the summits of meditation—walk carefully.
Sariputta was on those summits. A kick has no value. You are easily disturbed because you have little to lose; for Sariputta, everything to lose. He rejoiced that the mind did not move; the flame grew steadier. Gratitude arose for the kicker—“Blessed Brahmin!”—and the blind gained eyes.
He fell at Sariputta’s feet, invited him home, tears of repentance washing him clean. Repentance is the greatest alchemy; Jesus repeats: Repent! Bathe in repentance; sins dissolve there—not necessarily in the Ganges, but certainly in repentance.
Through Sariputta, a ray of Buddha fell upon him.
Who meets the disciple meets the Buddha. If the disciple is such, how must the Master be!
The monks, however, complained. The Master said: a beating Brahmin is no Brahmin; a householder “Brahmin” may have beaten a renunciate Brahmin. Sariputta did what befits a Brahmin; and his meditative conduct gave eyes to a blind man.
Then these sutras:
‘For a Brahmin it is no small blessing to remove his mind from what is dear. Wherever the mind withdraws from violence, there suffering subsides.’
Understand: when does violence arise in the mind? Only when something dear is snatched from you; only when someone stands between you and what you love.
If Sariputta had deep attachment to the body, that kick would have succeeded. The Brahmin would have “won.” If there were body-attachment, it would have been impossible not to look back, impossible for the lamp to remain lit; impossible for Sariputta not to be disturbed. But there was no attachment to the body; no identification.
You get angry only when the dear is snatched or destroyed.
Buddha had a disciple, Purna Kashyapa. He attained enlightenment. Buddha said, “Purna! You have attained; now go and share. Go far and wide.”
Purna agreed. “Where shall I go?”
“There is a dry region in Bihar where no monk has gone,” he said. “Allow me to go there; should they be deprived of you?”
Buddha said, “Listen, Purna! None go there because the people are wicked. If you go, you will be abused, slandered.”
Purna said, “All the more they need you. I will go.”
Buddha said, “Answer a few questions. If they abuse you, what will happen to you?”
Purna said, “Why ask? You know. Still, I say: I will feel they are very kind—they only abuse and do not beat; they could have beaten.”
“And if they beat?”
“I will feel they are kind—they beat but do not kill; they could have killed.”
“And if they kill—at the final breath?”
“I will feel they are kind—they freed me from a life in which some mistake might still occur.”
‘Not by matted hair, clan, or birth does one become a Brahmin; in whom truth and Dhamma abide, he is pure, he is a Brahmin.’
Buddha uses two words—truth and Dhamma. Why two? Dhamma is everyone’s intrinsic nature—the innermost nature. Dhamma is in all. One who knows it—truth is in him.
All are Brahmins—in seed. When the seed sprouts and becomes a tree—truth. To know one’s nature face to face—that is the realization of truth. From such realization purity arises; that purity is Brahminhood.
‘O dull-witted one, what will your matted locks do? What will deerskin do? Inside you is full of defilement; why wash the outside?’
People keep washing the outside. It is not that washing outside is bad; better than not washing at all. But to end with only the outside is not good. Much must be washed within. In the Ganges you clean the outer; the inner will be cleansed only in the Ganges of meditation. What is the inner dirt? Thought is the inner dirt. The root of the filth within is thought. The more the thoughts, the more the mind is smeared. When thoughts thin and silence descends—that silence is inner cleansing. One who has washed himself within—that one is a Brahmin.
‘Having cut all bonds, becoming fearless, and free from clinging—that one I call a Brahmin.’
We have made life into bonds—wife, husband—these are contrivances. You say, “But we took seven rounds before the fire!” Take seventy—how will rounds bind? These are devices—fire, priest, crowd, horse, band—tricks to instill in your mind that you are now husband and wife. But they are arrangements.
Only one who cuts all such arrangements becomes fearless. Otherwise “my wife—what if she leaves? My husband—what if he abandons me? My son—what if he goes astray? My body—what if death comes? What if I grow old?” A thousand anxieties and fears.
Here nothing is mine. One who severs all my-ness discovers another thing: “I am not.” The “I” is a knot woven from many threads of “mine.” Pull out each thread and the rope thins. Remove the last thread, and the rope is no more. Then there is no fear—dead before death. This state Buddha calls anatta—no-self; to know “I am not”—this shunya is nirvana.
Buddha says: one who has thus attained nirvana—free of clinging, fearless—I call him a Brahmin.
No one has given the Brahmin such a lovely definition as Buddha—not even the Brahmins themselves. Their scriptures give petty definitions: born in a Brahmin household! By being born there—what will happen? To be a Brahmin is not so easy. It is a deep attainment—polishing, purifying, austerity, sadhana. Brahminhood is fruition; it is not free by birth.
The second scene:
In Rajgir, a Brahmini named Dhananjati, from the time she attained sotapatti-phala (stream-entry), would, at any pretext, keep saying: Namo tassa bhagavato arahato sammasambuddhassa.
This is Buddha’s prayer, his adoration, his worshipful remembrance: “Homage to the Blessed One, the Arahant, the Fully, Perfectly Enlightened One”—Namo tassa bhagavato arahato sammasambuddhassa.
At any pretext she would not miss it—sneeze, cough, slip and fall—she would at once say: Namo tassa bhagavato arahato sammasambuddhassa.
One day there was a feast at her home. In the rush of work her foot slipped. She was a Brahmini; the feast was filled with Brahmins—whole family present: husband, his brothers, relatives. Regaining balance, she at once chanted: Namo tassa bhagavato arahato sammasambuddhassa.
Hearing this, her husband’s brother Bharadvaja scolded her harshly: “Perish, wretch! Where it doesn’t belong, there you praise that shaven-headed shramana!” And he added, “Today I will debate with your shramana Gautama and finish him for good; I will defeat him and return.”
The Brahmini laughed and said, “Namo tassa bhagavato arahato sammasambuddhassa. Homage to the Blessed One, to the Arahant, to the Fully Enlightened. Go, Brahmin, debate—though who is capable of debating the Blessed One! Still, go. Some good will come.”
Burning with anger, ego, and ambition for victory, the Brahmin went to Buddha. He was as if fever itself had come—everything in him ablaze. But upon seeing the Blessed One, a cool rain fell. In his presence, anger was extinguished. Seeing those eyes, the desire was not to win, but to be defeated by this man. His mind was transformed. He asked some questions—not to argue, but out of mumuksha. Receiving the Master’s answers he attained resolution; samadhi happened. He did not return home; he became Buddha’s, lost in him. That very day he took sannyas and that very day attained arhathood.
Such an event is rare—that the same day one renounces and the same day becomes established in Samadhi; the same day attains buddhahood. It is rare indeed.
Then his elder brother—the Brahmini’s husband—when he heard his younger brother had become a monk, too was inflamed with rage. He too, abusing, reviling, speaking rough words, went to Venuvana to the Blessed One; and he too, upon approaching, was extinguished like a burning ember falling into water.
So also with two other brothers.
The monks were astonished at the Master’s “miracle.” They said among themselves, “Avuso! There is great miracle in the Buddha’s qualities. Such wicked, arrogant, and angry men have become calm and taken sannyas, abandoning the Brahmin religion.”
The Blessed One heard and said, “Monks! Do not err. They have not left the Brahmin religion. In truth they were not Brahmins before—now they have become Brahmins.”
Then Buddha spoke these sutras:
‘He who has cut lust, rope, and chain, and has uprooted the stake as well—the awakened one: him I call a Brahmin.’
‘Who, without a corrupted mind, endures abuse, beating, and binding—whose force is the force of forbearance, whose army’s general is patience—him I call a Brahmin.’
Understand the situation in which these sutras were born.
In Rajgir the Brahmini Dhananjati, from the day she attained sotapatti-phala—entry into the stream—kept on remembering the Blessed One at every pretext.
Sotapatti means: one who has entered the stream of the Buddha; joined the current, said, “River, carry me along.”
Often it has happened: where men, puffed up, stand rigid, women leap. The whole family was anti-Buddha; the Brahmini attained sotapatti, went and bowed at the Buddha’s feet—because women live from the heart, not the head. Relationship through feeling is easier than through thought. Thought is proud, egoistic; feeling is always ready to surrender.
So women’s hearts connect with Buddhas sooner than men’s heads. Men live in the head; women throb in the heart. Thus often men remained stiff in ego; women bowed first.
From the day of stream-entry, her remembrance was one, her chant one—walking, sitting, sleeping—Namo tassa bhagavato arahato sammasambuddhassa.
Understand this mantra too. “Homage to the Blessed One, the Arahant, the Fully Enlightened.”
Arahant means: one in whom the inner enemies have died—kama, krodha, lobha, moha—these are the “ari,” enemies; when they are slain, one is an Arahant. How do they die? Through samyak-sambodhi—right awakening.
What is right samadhi? You will ask: is there wrong and right samadhi? There is. Wrong samadhi is a kind of stupor, a kind of swoon. One loses consciousness: such a samadhi is wrong.
You have heard of yogis sitting underground for weeks—what do they do? They make themselves unconscious—arresting the breath and losing awareness. As long as awareness is lost, they can remain underground. This is asamyak—false. You will not see any virtue in such a yogi—he may display the miracle for money. He has learned a technique of auto-hypnosis, plunging himself into deep swoon. One should not call this samadhi—though people do.
Therefore Buddha differentiated: samadhi is that in which awareness increases, not decreases; in which there is full wakefulness, extraordinary luminosity—and in that light truth is known. In stupor no truth can be known; it is like chloroform. By pranayama and breath control one can produce such stupor, even set its duration as one sets an inner clock—like deciding to awaken at five a.m. by inner resolve.
Psychologists say there is a biological clock within—the very clock by which menses recur; the very clock by which a child is born at nine months; by which hunger comes at set times. Use that clock and you can wake without alarms, sleep at proper times, eat at right times. The outer clock has made us forget the inner one. Villagers without watches often know time finely; city dwellers, dependent on watches, are lost without them.
False samadhi involves breath tricks, hypnosis, and use of the inner clock. But it makes no Buddha. Such hatha-yogis are ordinary men. Their lives are no different from yours.
Buddha calls that samadhi “right” which is without forcing—growing from understanding and awareness.
Thus the mantra means: one who has slain inner enemies through right awakening; and such a one is called “Bhagavato”—the Blessed One. These three terms are deeply indicative: Arahant—enemies slain; Sammasambuddha—awakened rightly; Bhagavato—the blessedness that remains.
It is a beautiful mantra; remember it often. The Brahmini missed no chance—sneeze, cough, slip—anything, and the remembrance flowed. That day, in haste, she slipped; regaining herself she chanted.
Her husband’s brother scolded her; the family was against Buddha. This happens here daily—Jaya sits somewhere; her husband has given an ultimatum: “If you remain a sannyasin, my house is closed to you. If you come home, drop this sannyas.” What is harmed in him by her sannyas? But his pride is hurt: “My wife getting ahead of me in meditation? Becoming more peaceful?” The husband’s pride is dreadful: under no condition should the wife be ahead. Thus people do not marry tall women; nor learned. If the man is B.A. he will not marry a Ph.D.—“I will look like a peon!” So women were kept from study; even their height has been kept low by such choices.
In the West, women are taking revenge—with high heels, to stand tall. In a hundred or two hundred years, men and women will be of equal height. In everything the woman must be smaller. Now what trouble does Jaya’s husband have? She drinks no liquor; plays no gambling; she meditates and sometimes dances in devotion; she has a Meera-like quality—her dance troubles him; her song troubles him; her joy is a thorn to him. “Either sannyas or out of the house!” He throws her out. Then he will say I ruined his family! There are children, the wife left—his own doing. Do not think people only abused me—they abused Buddha, Krishna, Mahavira.
So with that Brahmini’s family—hiding that their woman has joined Buddha’s way; but before guests, she slipped and chanted. The secret was out. The younger brother flared up: “Perish, wretch! Praising that shaven shramana!” He said, “Today I will debate Gautama and defeat him.”
The Brahmini laughed: “Good! Go. Even as an enemy, go—at least you will go. Perhaps some ray, some fragrance will touch you. When iron is red-hot, a blow reshapes it; cold iron cannot be changed. Bharadvaja went hot—boiling at a hundred degrees. The Brahmini must have laughed and said, ‘Namo tassa...’ Blessed are you, Lord! You made me slip and the mantra came out; now my brother-in-law is going into your orbit!”
Burning with wrath, he went—as fever itself. Seeing Buddha—cool rain. The desire to win changed into the desire to be defeated. To desire defeat is the meaning of love. Whom you wish to be defeated by—you love. Love’s art is to win by losing; it begins in surrender and ends in victory. Seeing this serene man, this grace—he was stunned—mind wanted to bow, to place his head at those feet.
He asked questions—not to argue, but from longing to be free; receiving the answers, resolution arose; samadhi happened. He did not return home; he became Buddha’s. The same day he was ordained and the same day he attained arhathood. Such heat transforms quickly.
Do not be indifferent. Blessed if you can love; if not, then at least hate—but do not be indifferent. Nietzsche wrote, “God is dead.” Proof? No one is for or against; all are indifferent. No one even debates the existence of God. If you debate, people say, “He may be; leave it. Let us have tea. The news is on the radio—don’t disturb.” Indifference severs relation. Good were the days of theists and atheists—heated debate—God was alive, meaning related to us. An atheist can become a theist; but the indifferent man—God is dead for him. In such a life there can be no contact with a Buddha.
Jesus was crucified; today he would be ignored—and indifference is a bigger crucifixion. Buddha was abused—good; abuse means you are agitated—relationship begins. Enmity can turn to friendship.
The news reached home; the husband flared—“Enough! My wife earlier; now my brother too!” He went abusing, to Venuvana, and he too was extinguished like a coal in water—so also two other brothers. The monks marveled: “What a miracle!” The Master said, “Do not err. They did not leave the Brahmin religion; earlier they were not Brahmins—now they are.”
Still this land did not understand. It thought Buddha destroyed Hinduism. Buddha was the greatest Hindu this earth has known—none before or after. But the Hindus were unknowing, missed. No one glorified Brahminhood as Buddha did. Yet the mistake is common: Jews crucified the greatest Jew—Jesus. Hindus expelled Buddha. Man—when will he become wise? The richest treasures at home are often rejected.
A prophet is not honored in his own village, said Jesus. The prophet loses nothing; those who would have gained most remain deprived.
‘He who has cut anger, the rope of greed, the chain of delusion, and has uprooted the stake of desire—that awakened one I call a Brahmin.’
Naddha signifies anger, the chain delusion, the rope greed, and the stake desire. The root of all is the stake—kama, desire. When someone obstructs your desire, anger arises; when it begins to succeed, greed arises; when it succeeds, delusion arises. You want a woman; a rival appears—anger flares, jealousy burns. If you win, greed wants her forever—doors shut, a cage made. From the source of pleasure, delusion grows—you cannot be without her. And at the root is desire.
Buddha says: one who has broken the chain of delusion, snapped the rope of greed, cut the knot of anger, and uprooted the stake of desire—him I call a Brahmin. Where kama is absent, Rama manifests. The same energy, freed of objects, becomes Rama. The diamond buried in dirt is kama; cleansed, cut by a jeweler, with facets given—it is Rama. Kama and Rama are two poles of one energy; the highest flowering of kama is Rama; the lowest fall of Rama is kama.
‘Who, with an untainted heart, endures abuse, assault, and bondage—whose general is the strength of forbearance—him I call a Brahmin.’
Such a one I call Buddha, such a one I call Brahmin—who has cut all bonds of life, who has attained supreme freedom, whose energy knows no limits, to whom wings have grown.
Namo tassa bhagavato arahato sammasambuddhassa—he who has become Bhagavan, who has become Arahant, who has attained Samyak-Sambodhi—he is the Brahmin.
Therefore Buddha said: “Monks, do not fall into the delusion that they abandoned the Brahmin religion; earlier they were not Brahmins; now, for the first time, they have become Brahmins; for the first time they have known Brahman; for the first time they have tasted buddhahood. I have made them Brahmins.”
If only the Hindus had understood! If only this land had understood! Then the dearest son of this land would not have been exiled. The incomparable treasure that arose here would not have gone to others. Thousands in China, Japan, Thailand, Burma, Korea, and Lanka have attained buddhahood on Buddha’s path; they could have attained here. But a delusion took hold that Buddha was anti-Brahmin.
Buddha was against the so-called Brahmins, the so-called Vedas and Upanishads—not against the real Veda, the real Upanishads, the real Brahmin. How could anyone be against the real!
Enough for today.