Es Dhammo Sanantano #12

The question is not about life; it is about your mind. Life has nowhere to go toward liberation. Life is liberation. Life has not strayed, life has not forgotten. Life is exactly where it should be. You are the one who has strayed, you are the one who has forgotten. Your mind is entangled in logic. And the journey must begin with your mind. The question is not where to go; the real question is where to begin.

Buddha did not speak of the destination. How would you even understand talk of the destination? Only its taste can make it understood. Only by drowning in it will you know it. Buddha spoke of the path. He spoke of the place where you are standing and where your first step can fall. That is why Buddha speaks of intelligence, thought, discipline, and order.

It is not that he does not know that life admits no such order. Life is not a train running on tracks. Life is supreme freedom. Over life there are no rules, no codes. Life is boundless. There is nothing auspicious or inauspicious there. Life is all-accepting. Darkness and light are both received together.

The problem is the human mind. The human mind cannot comprehend contradiction. And what you cannot comprehend, how will you live it? What you cannot understand, you will keep away from.

So Buddha said only what you can understand. He did not utter Truth; he uttered only what you could understand. Then, as your understanding grows, he will say even that which you could not have understood before.

Buddha was once walking through a forest in autumn. The ground was carpeted with dry leaves. Ananda asked him, “Have you told us everything you know? Have you revealed your whole truth to us?” Buddha scooped a handful of dry leaves and said, “Ananda, I have told you only as much as the leaves in my hand, and left unsaid as much as the leaves in this forest.” He said only what you could understand. As your understanding grows, what could not be understood earlier will also be said.

Buddha moved step by step, very gently. He advanced by gauging your capacity. Buddha sought to drop your drop into the ocean.

There have been mystics who have poured the ocean into the drop—but that was not Buddha’s way. He put the drop into the ocean. If the ocean is poured into the drop, the drop panics; it takes a vast heart, great courage, a daring readiness to die. Buddha coaxed you little by little. He drew you close, one step at a time. Therefore Buddha’s vision carries a discipline.

You will not find that kind of discipline in Kabir. Kabir speaks in riddles. Kabir does not worry about you. He speaks from where he himself abides—where the cloudbanks of the Unseen gather and the nectar rains; where showers fall without clouds; where even clouds are absent and yet nectar pours. He speaks beyond reason.

So only a very few can understand Kabir—those willing to risk themselves with him. Kabir said, “Let the one who can burn his house come with us.” Which house? The house of your mind, your ordered intellect, your logic, your understanding. The one who is ready to burn that house—Kabir says, come with us.

Buddha says, there is no need to burn the house. One step at a time, inch by inch, slowly—Buddha lures you on. Therefore he begins right where you are. He said only that much which any rational person could understand. That is why Buddha influenced the whole world as none other did.

If there are Muslims in the world, it is less due to Mohammed’s influence and more due to the compulsion of Muslims. If there are Christians, it is less due to Jesus’ influence and more due to the trading skills of Christians. But if there are Buddhists, it is only because of Buddha. No one was coerced, no temptations were offered. Buddha’s words simply fit. Anyone with even a little understanding found flavor in Buddha.

Consider this: Buddha does not talk about God. For anyone who thinks, talk of God breeds doubt. Buddha doesn’t go there. He does not make it necessary. Buddha does not even talk of the soul—because the thoughtful person says, “I cannot accept that I will survive the body. Who will survive? It’s all the play of the body; here today, gone tomorrow. Has anyone ever returned after dying to say, ‘I survived’? Has there ever been any news?” These are notions to console the mind.

Buddha did not speak of the soul either. He said, let that too be. These are matters for which there is no way to offer proof. You will know only when you know; before that there is no way to make you know. And if you are rational, profoundly reflective, you will not be ready to believe. Buddha says, to speak to you of anything you will deny becomes a hindrance on your path; your very denial will block you. Let that go too.

Buddha says: we assert only that there is suffering in life—will you deny that? That is hard to deny. Anyone who has thought even a little cannot deny it. Only one who has never thought could deny it; but even to deny, one must think. Anyone with even a faint glimmer of intelligence, who has reflected even a little on life, will see it—even the blind can see it—life is suffering. What have you found other than tears? Buddha need not prove it; your life proves it. Your story tells it. Your wet eyes declare it. Your trembling steps confess it.

So Buddha said: there is suffering. This is no spiritual dogma; it is a fact of life. Who has ever denied it? And if there is suffering, nothing is without cause—there must be causes. And Buddha said, do you or do you not want freedom from suffering? If you say you don’t want God, it is understandable. Barring a few crazies, who wants God? Except for a handful of madmen, who worries about the soul? Sane people don’t enter such upheavals; they don’t invite such hassles. Life’s hassles are enough—who will get into soul, God, liberation?

Buddha left all that aside. He never said anything you could reject. In this he exercised great restraint. No one has ever spoken with such restraint. He did not utter a single word to which you could say “no.” He did not give you the convenience of being an atheist.

Understand this well. People have called Buddha an atheist. I tell you: Buddha is the only person on earth who did not allow you the convenience of atheism. Those who told you, “God is,” compelled you to deny. “Where is God?” Those who told you, “There is a soul,” created doubt in you. Buddha said only what you cannot doubt. He bestowed theism—he left you only the option to say “yes,” with no room to say “no.”

Buddha is supremely skillful. When you understand his skill you will be astonished: the one you called an atheist—there has been no greater theist than he. And none has led as many toward the Divine as Buddha has—and he did so without even talking of God. This is skill at its peak. He did not carry on any discourse about God. He spoke of you—and brought you to God. He took up your life, explained it, untangled you—and in that untying, God appeared. He cut your suffering—and what remained was bliss. He showed you bondage, without raising the topic of liberation.

Why speak of freedom to one who has been in prison for lifetimes—and shame him? One who has been in prison so long has even forgotten the idea of release. He has forgotten his wings. Even if you thrust him into the open sky today, he won’t be able to fly. To fly you need first the trust that you can fly. He will flap and crash.

Have you seen it? Keep a parrot long enough in a cage—one day if it escapes through an open door, it still can’t fly. The wings are the same, but the trust is lost. The courage is lost. It is no longer sure: did I ever fly? Did I really spread my wings and travel far, or was it only a dream? The memory has become hazy, like a rumor. And after so long in prison, one becomes habituated to it. That parrot was only in for a few days—you have been in for lifetimes.

Buddha said: should we talk of liberation and embarrass you? Should we talk of liberation and force you to deny?

Remember, one who has been in prison very long starts saying, “There is no such thing as freedom.” It is self-defense. He is saying, “If freedom exists, then what am I doing here? Why am I lying here impotent? If freedom exists, why am I not free?” Then all responsibility falls on him.

People do not deny God because God is not; nor because they know God is not. They deny God because, if God is, then what are we doing? Then our life has been wasted. People deny liberation because if liberation exists then all we have done is to arrange our chains. Then the worldly “wise” are the greatest fools.

Man has to protect himself. The best defense is to say, “Where is the sky? Where is liberation? We too could fly—but there is no sky!” “We too would attain God—not only Buddhas— we are not weak; we have the strength and would have attained—if only there were something to attain. There is nothing.” In this way you protect yourself. Then you start taking your prison for home.

When you have lived long in a prison, even to call it a prison requires courage. For then how will you keep living in it? If God exists, restlessness will erupt in the world. If liberation exists, your house will bite you; it will become a prison. Your attachments will taste like poison. So it is “proper” to say there is no liberation, no God—these are the babblings of impostors, the chatter of a few crazies, the guesswork of a few tricksters. Thus you protect yourself.

Buddha did not give you that chance. He gave no one the opportunity to be an atheist. Atheists went to Buddha and became theists. For Buddha said: you are suffering. Who will deny this? How will you deny it? It is the truth of your life. And can you find a person who does not want freedom from suffering? They may not want liberation, but everyone wants to be free of pain. There is pain, Buddha said; a thorn is embedded. He said, “I am a physician, not a philosopher. Bring me the thorn and I will remove it.” How will you deny such a man? He is not declaring, “I am a teacher or a guru.” He is saying only, “I am a physician.”

Seeing such a man, people trusted—because there was not a single thorn of suffering in his life. In him shone a supreme peace, a deep rest—every ripple of pain was gone; an incomparable celebration, ever-fresh, ever-new, moment to moment, was palpable around him. He carried a breeze in which two things happened: his very breeze hinted that joy is possible, and he pointed to your pain—“You are suffering. There are causes of suffering. And there is a method to eliminate the causes.”

All of Buddha’s inquiry stands on suffering: there is suffering; there are causes; there are means to end the causes; and there is the possibility of freedom from suffering. He himself is the symbol of that possibility. The health he wishes to bring within you, he stands before you embodying it. You cannot say to him, “Physician, heal thyself first.” The very sight of Buddha makes the question absurd. Nor can you say, “I am not suffering.” With what face will you say it? And what will you gain by saying it? You will only lose.

Therefore, seeing you, Buddha offered order. He knows that the day your suffering ceases, the day the veil of darkness over your eyes falls, the day you awaken—you will see: there is liberation. What can be shown should be shown—and what cannot be conveyed except by showing is dangerous to talk about. People get lost in talk.

How many are “religious” only in talk! They go on talking. God is a topic of discussion— not a dimension of experience, not a fire to transform life, but the ash of doctrines. People get entangled in scriptures, hair-splitting— even this brings a special relish to the ego. Buddha rejected the scriptures. He said, “Search later if you like. For now, get up and cut the suffering in your life.” He said this in Hafiz’s words:
Rise, O worshipers of idols—seeking is necessary.
We will return here if God is not found.
Rise, O temple-goers! You have settled inside temples and mosques—seeking is necessary.
We will return here if God is not found.

Try a little to remove suffering. If it does not end, the suffering is anyway there—you can come back. Step a little outside the prison; do not be afraid—if the open sky is not found, we will return here.

Buddha gave inquiry, not belief. He gave investigation, not faith. He said only this: don’t sit idle. Sitting like this, nothing will happen. Seeking is necessary. You are miserable because you have not explored all of life’s possibilities. You are miserable because you assumed that with birth life is achieved. With birth, only the possibility of life is given, not life itself. After birth, life must be sought. The one who seeks finds. But the one who, after birth, sits thinking, “Life has been given, this is all,” misses.

So Buddha did not say, “I tell you—liberation, freedom, the sky, the Divine—will certainly be found.” He said only:
Rise, O worshipers—seeking is necessary.
Seeking is essential.
We will return here if God is not found.
And what is there to panic about? This house will still be here. If you do not find a sky of no-ideas, you can return to your beliefs. If no glimpse of meditation comes, return to thoughts. If no clue to quiet is found, be restless again. What hinders you? You have been restless long enough—did restlessness bring peace? I’ll give you the hint of a window—just look this way too—seeking is necessary.

Buddha gave you quest, not credulity. Understand this a bit. He gave you doubt about your life—not faith in God. These two are one. If doubt arises about yourself, faith in the Divine comes by itself. If faith in the Divine arises, doubt about yourself comes by itself. If you trust your ego deeply, you will not have faith in the Divine. If you think you are very wise, you cannot trust in any liberation or soul. You have taken your knowledge as the ultimate boundary—no space left for expansion. You cannot admit that there is anything you do not know. One who takes such blind trust in oneself cannot trust God. One who mistakes this so-called life for Life becomes unable, crippled, to go toward the Great Life.

So there are two ways. Except for Buddha, other enlightened ones have kindled faith in God. Buddha kindled doubt about your life. It is the same truth. Someone said, the glass is half full. Someone said, the glass is half empty.

Buddha said, the glass is half empty. Because you live in the empty—you cannot yet understand the full. If it becomes clear that the glass is half empty, you will soon move toward the half-full. To tell you the glass is half full would be wrong, because you live in emptiness. You know negation, you know void; you know nothing of fullness. Therefore Buddha made emptiness his scripture.

He saw you, saw your illness, read your pulse. Hence none can be more effective than Buddha. For the human mind finds no obstacle in understanding him.

Buddha is very straightforward and plain. It is not that life is not complex—it is very complex. But Buddha is very simple.

Understand it thus: if you ask Kabir, or Mahavira, or Krishna, they speak from “there”— so far away that your eyes cannot even see what is near; how will you see that far? So you have only two options: either you deny, which is more honest—hence atheists are more honest than theists—or you do not see, but you accept anyway, because if Mahavira sees it, it must be. You nod along—“Yes, I too see it.”

Therefore those you call theists live in falsehood. The atheist at least admits the truth—“I do not see.” Though he frames it wrong; he says, “God is not.” He should say, “I do not see.” Because your not seeing does not mean it is not. Many things you do not see—and they are. Many things you do not see today—you will see tomorrow. Many things could be seen today—but your eyes are shut.

The atheist may err in expression, but he does not lack honesty. He wants to say, “I do not see,” though he says, “There is no God.” The wording differs; the thrust is right. The theist lives in a lie. He does not see—and he does not say that he does not see. He also does not say, “There is no God.” He accepts what he has not known—on someone else’s say-so. Then the journey stops. What you have not known but have accepted—why would you seek it?

Therefore Buddha said, seeking is necessary. The quest is essential. Whether God is or not—drop that worry. But sitting like this, life is misery, full of despair, unconscious. Wake up. And Buddha took millions and millions to the Divine.

Thus I say, in this century Buddha’s language is utterly contemporary. Because this century is very honest—never before has there been such honesty. You may be surprised, even shocked—“This century and honest? Everywhere we see dishonesty!” Still I say, there has never been a more honest century. Man will now accept only what he knows.

You can no longer say, “Believe it because we say so. We are elders, great experiencers; we did not gray our hair in the sun—believe us.” No one will accept that anymore. People now say, “Cash only, no credit. We will accept only what we know.” Fine—you may have known. But your knowing is yours, not ours. We will grope in the dark gladly, but we will not accept a light we have not seen.

Therefore I say, this is a very honest age. Being honest, it is atheistic, irreligious. Old ages were dishonest. People bowed before temples without any experience. Their bowing was formal. The head bowed, not the heart. And the heart bowing is the real thing. They believed in God and bowed—but how can you bow before what you do not know? It becomes drill—the body bows; how will you bow? They will even extract conceit from bowing. They return home more egoistic—“I pray daily, I turn my rosary.”

You know the rosary-turners. Nowhere will you find such egos. Their ego is very religious. Their ego wears the shawl of God’s name. It looks pure, sanctified—but it is ego nonetheless. And the purer a poison looks, the more dangerous it becomes.

No. This century has clarified: we will accept only what we know. It is the century of science. Facts are accepted, not dogmas. And even facts are not accepted blindly. They are probed from all sides; when there remains no way to falsify, only then are they accepted.

Thus it happens that someone like Bertrand Russell, an atheist, cannot give reverence to Jesus—though born in a Christian home, with all Christian conditioning. Russell wrote a book, Why I Am Not a Christian—he raised strong doubts about Jesus.

Doubts can be raised—because in Jesus’ vision there is no logic. Jesus is a poet, a master of parables, paradoxical. His words are riddles. Yes, a seeker who enters deep will unlock the last secret of those riddles—but that requires a great quest; lives are spent in that. One who looks straight at the riddle will deny.

Russell denied Jesus. But Russell said, “I am an atheist, yet I cannot deny Buddha.” How will you deny Buddha? That is exactly what I am saying. Russell too carries toward Buddha a reverence like that of a devotee. This man left no room to deny. He did not say a single thing that fails the touchstone of reason.

Buddha is a scientific seer. If you understand him so, he can be immensely effective for you. Though note, as you go deeper, as you fall under Buddha’s gentle coaxing, you will find that the previous footholds of reason are no longer there. But by then who cares? Your own experience begins. Who asks for proof then? We demand proof only when we lack experience. When your own experience flowers…

I offer you logic only to persuade you to come stand at my window—just that. Then the open sky is visible to you yourself. Then you don’t ask me for proof that the sky exists. There is no question of proof—neither you ask, nor I give.

And you will even thank me: “You did well—first you persuaded me with reason to come to your window. Had you not, I would not have agreed even to approach. I would not have taken a single step. If you had first talked of that sky which was unknown to me, I would not have budged. You did well not to speak of the sky, but of the window; not of the infinite, but of the limit; not of bliss, but of the cessation of suffering; not of faith, which I could not give, but you used my very doubt. You drew out the thorn with a thorn. Well done.”

Thus gratitude arises toward Buddha. Even though he deceived you. Jesus does not deceive you so much; he speaks as it is—just as you will find in the end, Jesus has said at the outset.

Buddha says something else. He speaks seeing you. He says what is not (for him), and yet out of compassion. You will still feel blessed—he deceived you out of grace; otherwise you would never have come to the window.

You will be surprised to hear: the Zen master Linji said it plainly—“No one lied more than Buddha.” Linji worships Buddha daily, offers flowers, sheds tears—and yet says, “No one lied more than Buddha.” Linji once told his disciples, “Burn these scriptures of Buddha—they are sheer lies.” Someone asked, “But you weep for him every morning, you offer flowers; we have seen you rapt for hours before his image. How do we reconcile this?” Linji said, “He lied out of compassion. Because of his lies I reached the place where Truth is seen. Had he spoken only Truth, I would never have arrived.”

The wise use every device to bring you there. Not all those devices are “right.” Imagine you are sitting in your dark room, never having stepped outside. I step out and see—great flowers have bloomed, birds sing their wondrous songs, the sun has risen, the free, open sky pervades, light everywhere—and you sit shivering in cold and dark. But you have never gone out—how do I bring you out? How to give you news of the sun, when your language holds no word for it? How to tell you of flowers, when your language has no term for them? You know no colors—how to make you hear the festival of colors? You have only seen walls; you have taken those walls for life. How to tell you there is a sky with no boundary? You will say, “Enough of tall tales, enough of fancy talk.”

You know the story: a frog from the ocean jumped into a well. The well-frog asked, “Friend, where do you come from?” “From the ocean,” he said. “How big is the ocean?”—for the well-frog had never seen anything bigger than the well. He was born in it, grew up in it, never crossed its walls. They were tall; and there was no reason to believe anything beyond. No frog had ever come from outside to carry news. “Very big,” said the ocean-frog. But what does “very” mean to the well-frog? He leaped half the well and asked, “This big?” “No, much bigger.” He leaped across the whole well. “This big?” Now suspicion arose. “Brother, much bigger.” The well-frog made one last attempt—he ran the full circumference of the well. “This big?” The ocean-frog said, “How shall I tell you? It is very big. With this well there is no measure for it, no way to gauge.” The well-frog said, “Even lies have limits. Go fool someone else. We are not such fools. Who are you trying to make an idiot of? Go your way. Nothing bigger than this well has ever been heard or seen. From my parents, grandparents—never have I heard of anything bigger. They were experienced; I may be new. For generations we have lived in this well.”

If I come to your dark cell and speak of the outside, you will not trust me. That is why atheism arises. Whenever someone returns from the Divine and brings news, he is stumbling from the immensity of the experience— he is so awed and astonished that the legs of language wobble. The experience is so vast, words so small—how can the experience fit into them? He speaks, and the futility of speaking appears. He hesitates. He speaks, and fears—whatever he says will be wrong, not aligned with Truth. Because the language is yours, and the experience is from beyond; the language belongs to walls, the experience to the limitless.

So what should I do upon entering your room? Linji is right—Buddha lied. He did not speak of flowers; he did not speak of birdsong; he did not speak of the murmur of streams; he did not speak of the sun’s radiance and the vast web of rays. Not that he did not know—who knew more than he? He spoke of something else. He spoke of your walls, your darkness, your pain and suffering. He recognized what could bring you out.

The sights outside will not attract you—attraction comes only when there has been some taste. If even a faint taste of sweetness has been had, then you yearn for sweets. But if life has been only salt and bitterness, you have not even dreamed of sweetness—dreams too arise from some trace in life.

So what did Buddha say to you? He said, “Run—this house is on fire.” The house was not on fire. Linji is right—Buddha lied.

But Linji thanks him daily: “Your compassion that you lied—otherwise I would never have run. The house is on fire!” Buddha frightened you. He projected your suffering, dragged your hidden pain into the open. He revealed the darkness you had repressed. He raised your pain so high that you panicked. And when he said, “This house is on fire,” you bolted in fear. You even forgot to deny—“There is nothing outside, where shall we go?” When a house is on fire, who remains in a state to reason? You ran.

In America a psychologist did an experiment. In a cinema hall, when people were absorbed after half an hour of the movie, a man suddenly shouted, “Fire! Fire!” The psychologist had placed him there. A stampede began. The manager shouted, “There is no fire!” but no one would listen. Once fear takes hold… People broke doors, smashed chairs, trampled each other. Children fell and were crushed. Only with great difficulty was control regained. When people got outside, they realized someone had played a prank. But the psychologist was testing the power of words—how easily people are swayed: “Fire!”—and it is enough. You don’t even look to see if there is fire.

Buddha aroused your suffering. He shouted, “Fire!” You ran. In that rush, some of you got outside. Linji is among those who made it out. Now he says, “He lied well! There was no fire, not even smoke. But in that fear we came out. Therefore I lay my head at his feet—had you not shouted, we would not have come out.”

I too keep telling you many kinds of lies. I know—the fortunate among you will someday recognize them. But you will recognize them only when you are out. Then you will not be angry—you will feel blessed.

Buddha spoke your language. To awaken you, he had to. He did not speak his own language to you. Yes—had there been an enlightened one present, Buddha would have spoken his own tongue to him.

One morning he came with a flower. Such a thing had never happened before. He had never brought anything. He sat down to speak; the crowd waited, eager to listen. He went on looking at the flower. Slowly the crowd became restless—they had come to hear, and that day he was showing. Those who come to hear are not ready to see.

It’s a strange thing—if you have come to hear about a diamond, and I bring an actual diamond and sit silently, you will still grow restless. You came to trust your ears; I call upon your eyes—and your eyes are closed. Speak of the diamond—you will hear. Show the diamond—and you will not see.

Buddha sat with the flower. That day he gave the supreme sermon— as never before. That day he placed his buddhahood out in the open. But it needed eyes to see; only ears had come. Blind in the eyes, skilled in the ears.

All your scriptures entered through ears. Truth enters through eyes. Truth is direct— not something heard, not a remembered tradition. Truth is vision.

Buddha sat. People grew uneasy. With buddhahood right before them, they grew uneasy! They must have been blind. Hour after hour passed. People began to think of going home—“What is this?” No one could even say anything. What could they say? “What are you doing? Why are you sitting? Say something. Speak so we can hear. Words are within our reach.” No one saw what he was showing.

Buddha gazed at the flower. Absolute emptiness. Not a flicker of thought within. Present, yet not present. Here, and not here. Not a particle of thought. The state of supreme meditation. Samadhi embodied. And in the hand a blooming flower. The symbol was complete: when such samadhi embodies, such a flower of life blooms. What more is there to say? What remains to be said? But the eyes were blind.

Think of it—if today I did not speak and simply came with a flower and sat—you would look around uneasily. You would glance at the organizer: “What’s going on—has he lost his mind?” You would prepare to leave. You would look at one another—“What now?”

When such a wave of restlessness spread—before such peace, people grew disturbed; before such silence, they became agitated—then one disciple of Buddha, Mahakashyapa… No one had even heard his name before. The eyes of the seeing do not align with the blind. His name was first heard that day. Seeing people so restless, he burst into laughter. In that hush, his laughter startled people even more: “So there are two madmen here—not only this Buddha, who seems to have gone off—this one too is mad! Is this a time to laugh? What has happened to Buddha? And why does this Mahakashyapa laugh?”

Buddha raised his eyes, gestured to Mahakashyapa, and offered him the flower. He said to the crowd, “What I could give you through words, I have given. What cannot be given through words, I give to Mahakashyapa. Only he has understood. You were hearers; he is a seer.”

This is the birth-story of Zen. “Zen” comes from “dhyana,” meditation. In China it became “Chan,” in Japan “Zen,” but originally it is “Dhyana.” That day Buddha gave dhyana. Zen masters say: transmission outside the scriptures. It was not given through texts, not through words. He gave it directly to Mahakashyapa—like handing over a burning ember without ash. Mahakashyapa remained silent. In silence the message was delivered. As Buddha had said—what I have spoken is like the handful of leaves; what remains to be said is like all the leaves in the forest.

But I tell you— that day, in that flower, the whole forest was given. That day nothing was withheld. That day Buddha poured himself out. That day Mahakashyapa’s vessel was filled. Since then, in Zen there is this way: the master appoints as his heir only the one ready to receive in silence. One who insists on words hears, yes, and practices, yes—but the master searches for an heir who will receive in emptiness and silence, as Buddha gave the flower to Mahakashyapa—in emptiness, in silence.

So it is not that what Buddha said is all. That is only the beginning—the alphabet. Use it and move beyond. It is like how we teach children to read: “ga for Ganesh”—and now, because the state is secular, “ga for donkey.” If you write “Ganesh,” Muslims may be offended; if you write “Jina,” Jains may be offended. The donkey is secular—everyone’s! But neither is “ga” for Ganesh, nor “ga” for donkey. “Ga” is for “ga.” We teach children like this; but if you forever remember it literally—whenever “ga” appears you must say “ga for Ganesh”—you won’t be able to read at all. What was a device becomes an obstacle.

What was said is like that—“ga for Ganesh.” It is for first graders. But Buddha spoke to first graders—because that’s where you stand. He did not speak of the far end of the university. When you reach there, it will be seen. And when you do reach, there is no need to say anything—you will be capable of seeing.

The beginning is emptiness; the end is seeing. The beginning is doubt; the end is trust. How to transform doubt into trust, atheism into theism, “no” into “yes”—this is Buddha’s alchemy; this is Buddha-dharma. Esa dhammo sanantano.

The desire for moksha, for Buddhahood, is itself an obstacle to Buddhahood. Yet I also told you: until moksha is realized, don’t sit back satisfied. Keep longing, keep aspiring until then. Naturally this seems a paradox. What I am saying is: until desirelessness is attained, go on desiring desirelessness. It appears paradoxical because I am trying to bridge two levels—the place where you are, and the place where you ought to be. Hence the paradox.

Imagine a child has just been born, and we have to bring him the news of death. Although the one who is born has already begun to die, to explain death to a newborn is very difficult. Death will sound contradictory: “I have just been born—what talk is this of dying?” How do you link birth with death? It will seem a contradiction to the child, yet it isn’t. With birth, the journey toward death begins. Whoever is born has begun to die.

The sooner death can be understood, the better—so that birth is not wasted. If, along with birth, an understanding of death arises, then between birth and death Buddhahood becomes available. One awakens from both birth and death. Where what is born is destined to die, there cannot be true life in between—only its appearance. If what is born must perish, what trust can there be in this life? Then we seek another kind of life—one in which there is neither birth nor death.

Now, understand the question. If I tell you, “Do not desire,” you will not even begin the journey—there will be no birth. If I do not tell you that even desire must finally be dropped, you will never arrive. The desire for moksha is the first step of the journey to moksha; the renunciation of that very desire is the last step. I must tell you both.

There are two kinds of people in the world. One kind says, “If desire itself creates an obstacle, why desire moksha at all? We’re fine as we are.” Do not think they have renounced worldly desires; they have merely not desired moksha. They have deceived themselves. Worldly desires will continue, because worldly desires fall away only when someone desires moksha. When a person stakes everything on moksha—puts the whole heart on the line—worldly desires drop. The energy that was bound up in them is released and turns toward liberation. But the one who keeps desiring moksha also goes astray, because ultimately that desire too becomes an obstacle. One day it too must be dropped.

Think of it this way: at night we light a lamp. The wick and the oil—the lamp begins to burn. First the wick burns the oil. When the oil is finished, the wick consumes itself. By morning neither oil remains nor wick. Then know that morning has come—dawn has broken.

So first use worldly desires as the oil, and the desire for moksha as the wick. Burn every worldly desire in lighting the wick of liberation. Use the oil; use the fuel. Gather up all worldly desires and dedicate them to a single desire for moksha. Throw everything into it. But remember: the day all the oil is exhausted, the wick must also burn away—otherwise there will be no morning. Do not let the wick become an obstacle.

So there are the worldly people, who never desire moksha. And then there are the religious sitting in temples and mosques, who have dropped worldly desires and seized upon the desire for God—and now cannot let that desire go. Think of it like this: some never set foot on the steps—so the ascent never begins; and some cling to the steps and refuse to leave them. The one who stayed below did not reach the top; the one who sat on the steps also did not arrive. I tell you: take the steps—and let them go.

I have heard: a pilgrims’ train was going to Haridwar. The train stood at Amritsar. Some people were trying to drag a man into the carriage, but he kept saying, “Tell me—will I have to get down?” They said, “You will. When we reach Haridwar, you’ll have to get down.” The man—very logical—said, “If I have to get down, why get in? That’s contradictory: climb in, then get out. What’s the point? I won’t get in.” The train was about to leave, the whistle had blown, there was a scramble.

At last his companions grabbed him—he kept shouting, “If I have to get down, why get in?”—but they had no time to argue and pushed him aboard.

The same fuss arose at Haridwar. He said he wouldn’t get down: “Once I’ve got in, I’ve got in—I cannot get down.” The man was logical: “I cannot do a contradictory thing.” Perhaps he was a professor of logic at some university!

When I say to you, “Leave worldly desire”—that is at the Amritsar station; then I say, “Leave even the train you have boarded”—that is at Haridwar. The house of God has come, the gateway is here; now leave the train. You laugh at that man. But if you search within, you will find the same man hiding there.

He alone has plundered the bliss of waiting for you
who went beyond the very limit of waiting.

Paradox!

He alone has plundered the bliss of waiting for you
who went beyond the very limit of waiting.

The savor of waiting is fulfilled only when even waiting is no more. Remembrance is complete only when remembrance itself no longer comes.

This will be a little difficult to grasp. As long as remembrance “comes,” it means it has not yet become complete; there must still be lapses—that is why it keeps coming. When someone’s remembrance is total, where is the space left for remembering? Where could you forget? How could remembrance arise? Remembrance arises only so long as forgetting continues. When forgetting itself has dissolved, what remembrance remains? With the end of forgetting, remembrance too is lost.

The limit of waiting—now the boundary has been crossed. The true joy of remembrance is only when even remembrance does not arise. Now you have become one with the beloved. There is no distance left, not even enough to remember. Who is to remember, and of whom? Who is to call, and who is to be called? The lover and the beloved have become one. How can one remember oneself?

He alone has plundered the bliss of waiting for you
who went beyond the very limit of waiting.

And the whole language of religion is paradoxical—and it must be. Religion is the beginning of the journey and also its end. It is birth and it is death—and it is beyond both. So don’t get entangled too quickly in paradoxes; don’t try to solve them—try to understand them. Then you will see: both are needed. The very ladder that lifts you up can also hold you back. If you see too many paradoxes, you will get into difficulty, because you will do one thing and then get stuck when it is time to do the other.

If you say—if you hear—“God is found by remembering him,” and you keep on remembering, and never go beyond the limit of waiting, then God will never be found. Go on chanting “Rama, Rama”—it will be parrot-rote. It will stay in the throat; it will not reach the heart. For once something has reached the heart, do you have to remember it? It happens by itself; you do not do it. Even to say “it happens by itself” is not quite right, because where is the gap between two remembrances? Continuity remains unbroken. That is going beyond the limit of waiting.

And when such a moment dawns—when you cross the boundary of paradox and transcend it—it is not only that you attain supreme bliss; the whole existence celebrates with you. With you, existence itself goes beyond another limit. One more boundary has been crossed.

When a person gains victory over the nafs,
who can know the song that nature sings?

Who can know the song that nature sings—when all of nature sings, when the whole of existence joins your celebration!

For you are not separate, isolated. Existence has staked something in you; you are existence’s wager. God has placed a great bet on you and holds great hope. The day you are attained, it is not only you who dance—God dances too. If only you dance, what dance is that? God rejoices as well; the whole existence rejoices. One more victory has been won; one more stage of the triumphal journey is complete.

When a person gains victory over the nafs,
who can know the song that nature sings?

That song is very silent—hence, “who can know it!” It is a great silence. It is seen only by those to whom the invisible has begun to be seen. It is heard only by those who can hear even the hush. It is touched only by those who can touch the formless, who have begun to commune with the shapeless.

Who can know the song that nature sings.

Akanksha means the world’s desires. Akanksha means desires—plural. Not one, many. The world means many. When akanksha dissolves and becomes abhipsa—abhipsa means desire, not desires. The single desire is called abhipsa; the many desires are called akanksha. When all the rays of desire gather together and are focused on one truth—on the Divine, or liberation, or on the Self, on nirvana, on kevalya—that is abhipsa. When the net of desires collects into one, abhipsa is born. When rays gather, fire is born. Rays are many; fire is one.

Up to here, it is understandable: a man wants wealth, position, wife, son, brother; he wants life, a long life. All these wants—these many wants—gather together, and the man wants only the Divine—this much we can still understand. One who has had many desires can at least imagine that all desires have merged, all small streams and rivulets have fallen into a single Ganga, and the Ganga has begun to flow toward the ocean. But when, after desire, even abhipsa is lost—what remains then? The streams and rivulets are lost in the Ganga; then when the Ganga is lost in the ocean, what remains? The ocean remains. The Ganga does not remain.

Now understand this.

First your desires will drop; you will remain. Then you too will drop; only the Divine will remain. As long as you are wandering in desires, you are all over the place, in pieces, fragmented. When all your desires become abhipsa, you become one; you attain to yoga—yoga meaning you are joined.

The worldly man is in fragments, he is a crowd. A bazaar within. The religious man is not a crowd; he is a solitude. The religious man is collected, integrated, established in yoga. He has contracted all his desires into one. But he still is. Now only the bare fact of being remains as an obstacle. You still are—in abhipsa—and the Divine is. Though you have become one, the Divine is still the second, the other.

Understand this a little.

The worldly man is a crowd, the many. The religious man has become one, collected, integrated, in yoga. But the Divine still remains. So duality remains. The worldly man lives in multiplicity; the religious man lives in duality. The devotee remains, God remains. The seeker remains, Truth remains. The ocean remains, and the Ganga remains. Now the devotee must drown himself too, so that only God remains—so that only the ocean remains. The Ganga must lose herself too. From many to one, and then from one to zero—then who remains? Then the ocean remains, which always was. It was there even before you were. That will remain. Where you had come from, there you will return. What was before your being, that alone will remain after you.

After dying we have arrived, O guide, at the place—
My surmise is, from here it was that we once set out.

The circle becomes complete. Where you were before birth, there you reach after death. Think a little: the Ganga falls into the ocean; it had come from the ocean itself—the ocean’s water climbed upon the sun’s rays, made steps of those rays; then clouds condensed in the sky, then the clouds rained on the Himalayas, rained on the plains, flowed in thousands of streams toward the Ganga—at Gangotri the Ganga flowed, it came from the clouds, and the clouds came from the ocean; then it moved back, and will again be lost in the ocean.

After dying we have arrived, O guide, at the place—
My surmise is, from here it was that we once set out.

That alone will remain which was before you were. Call that truth… You are a wave. The ocean was there even before you. The wave will disappear, go to sleep; the ocean will still be. And remember, the ocean can be without waves; the wave cannot be without the ocean. Sometimes there are waves in the ocean, and sometimes there are none. When there are waves, we call it creation (srishti). When there are no waves, we call it dissolution (pralaya). If we think of all the waves together, then creation and dissolution. If we count one wave at a time, then birth and death. When the wave is not, that is death. When the wave is, that is birth. But when the wave disappears, does it really disappear? This is the deep question. Does the wave truly die? Its form must dissolve—that which was the wave’s shape. But that which was truly in the wave—how can that die? What is, does not die; it remains in the ocean still. It remains greater, becomes vast.

You will remain, but not as you. You will remain, not as a drop. You will remain, not limited. No address will remain, no name-and-form will remain. But whatever is condensed within you this very moment—that will remain, it will remain as the vast. You will disappear, but disappearing is not death. You will disappear; to disappear is to truly be.

No—there has been no mistake in hearing. The mistake is in understanding. Because understanding cannot grasp contradiction. You will hear—however contradictory a thing I say, you will hear it. And you will also grasp that it is contradictory, and you will also know you have heard it; yet you will not understand. Because what you call understanding cannot understand contradiction. That is precisely why you call it a contradiction. I will repeat; the point is very simple. It seems complicated because the intellect cannot catch hold of something utterly simple.

First, there is the bhakta, the lover. He dances. His “unconsciousness”—when I say “unconsciousness” I mean his masti, his divine intoxication—you can even see it from the outside. The cup is overflowing; the wine is spilling. In Meera’s dance, in Chaitanya’s singing, you need not go searching within; his ecstasy is outside. It is in the swell of the river, in the waves. It is in the flowers. Even the blind will understand; even the deaf will hear. It is dancing, it is singing, it is expressed. And this ecstasy is possible only when within there is awareness; otherwise the ecstasy would turn into madness.

What is the difference between a madman and a bhakta? Just this. A madman too sometimes dances, smiles, sings a Gita—but you will recognize it. Look a little into his eyes: there is unconsciousness, but inside there is no lamp of awareness. The devotee is intoxicated, and yet he also holds the lamp of awareness. He dances, but the flame of the inner lamp does not tremble. Outside the dance goes on; inside everything is at rest—unshaken. Hence the difference between a madman and one mad with God.

So sometimes the one mad with God will seem to you mad, because outwardly the same kind of event happens in both. And sometimes the madman will seem to you God-intoxicated.

But that only means you did not go within; you saw from outside and returned. Go a few steps inside. Look closely at the madman’s dance and the God-intoxicated one’s dance. The taste is different, the color and style are very different—different flavors. But only if you look a little closely. If you simply pass by on the road, confusion is possible. On the surface both look alike. The madman is only mad—unconscious. The devotee is not just unconscious. He is intoxicated, and there is also awareness. Within the intoxication a lamp of awareness is lit. It is this paradox that is not grasped.

Then there is another paradox—and things seem even more complex.

This was the devotee; now the meditator. This was Meera; now Buddha. In Buddha, outside you will not find even a quiver. He is not the surge of a river; he is a still lake. He does not appear outwardly like the colors of a flower; he is like the flower hidden in the seed. Thousands of colors are pressed within. There are many notes, but as if asleep in the veena, unstruck. So outside there is absolute silence.

In Buddha you will find awareness on the outside; in Meera you will find ecstasy on the outside. With Buddha, you will find supreme awareness outside—no vibration at all. And just as in Meera’s outer intoxication there is inner awareness, so in Buddha’s outer awareness there will be inner intoxication, because both must be together; only then is there perfection. If there is only outer awareness and no inner intoxication, you will find that in the ordinary ascetic-renunciate. For that you need not go to a Buddha. This is the difference between Buddhas and the followers who imitate them, between the Buddha and the hypocrite.

As there is a difference between Meera and the madman, so there is a difference between Buddha and the hypocrite. If you look only on the surface, you will be deceived. Have you seen a crane standing? How Buddha-like it stands! Hence the saying “crane saint” (bagula bhagat). How pious he seems! He stands on one leg. Which yogi can stand like that so long? But his gaze is fixed on the fish.

You will find many such people—there are plenty—because it is easy to become a crane; very easy. But their gaze remains fixed on the fish. A “yogi” may be sitting with eyes closed; it is possible that his gaze is fixed on your pocket. From the outside anyone can manage posture, pranayama, rules, propriety. The question is of the inner. If this stillness is only on the outside, then it is circus.

If this stillness is only outside, and inside the trembling goes on, and inside there is hustle and bustle, and inside thoughts and thinking continue, and the passions are running, and within no ecstasy of finding God is resounding, no humming of a song, no inner dance...

Understand it so: Buddha and Meera are exactly the same. The only difference is that what is outside in Meera is inside in Buddha; and what is inside in Meera is outside in Buddha. One coin is placed face up, one face down. The coins are the same. Only the one who goes within will recognize this. Therefore I say I accept both paths.

If you speak of Meera to Buddha’s followers, they will say, “Why bring up the words of an ignorant woman?” Go tell the Jains, the followers of Mahavira, about Meera; they will say, “Attachment, passion? Even if it is toward Krishna—so what! Delusion? Do enlightened ones dance? That is for worldly people. And do enlightened ones cry like that, remember like that, wait like that? Do enlightened ones say, ‘The bridal bed is prepared; when will you come?’ No—Meera is ignorant.”

The Jains cannot even accept Krishna as enlightened. The flute is an obstruction. A flute does not suit the lips of the enlightened. Try it: go into a Jain temple and place a flute on Mahavira’s lips; they will file a report with the police that you have spoiled their God. That would be a misdeed there! It would be treated as an offense! How did you bring a flute into a Jain temple? And how did you dare place it on Mahavira’s lips?

There is great danger with followers. They become like horses with blinders—able to see only one side. Have you seen horses harnessed to a carriage? That is what followers are like: they see only one way. The vastness of life is lost. That is the meaning of sectarianism.

Religion is multidimensional. A sect is one-dimensional. They saw only Buddha and thought the matter finished. Buddha is magnificent, but there are many ways of being a Buddha. Life has infinite dimensions. Existence does not run out on anyone. In thousands of colors, thousands of flowers, thousands of styles, existence blossoms and dances.

But there are two great fundamental ways: one of meditation, and one of love. Meera arrived by love. One who arrives by love will have his ecstasy dancing on the outside, and within there will be meditation—silence, stillness. If you cut Meera open within, you will find Buddha there. And I tell you, if you investigate Buddha and go within, you will find Meera dancing there. It cannot be otherwise. Because until meditation becomes ecstasy, and ecstasy becomes meditation, everything remains incomplete.

Therefore never think that the way by which you have found is the only way. And never look at another’s way with denial. And never look at another’s way with condemnation—these are the tricks of the ego. Always remember: it can be found by a thousand ways. There are many paths to it. There are many doors to his temple. The door by which you came—good. But there are other doors too. And there are two principal doors—and there must be. Because woman and man are the two fundamental modes of personhood.

Woman means love. Man means meditation. Man attains by being alone. Woman attains by being together with him. Man attains by emptying himself in every way. Woman attains by filling herself with him in every way. But when I say woman and man, I do not mean the physical. There are many men whose hearts are of love; they will attain through love. There are many women who have the capacity for meditation; they will attain through meditation.

But always remember this: what you find on the outside, within you will find its opposite. Because truth is formed only by the union of opposites. Truth is paradoxical. Truth is a paradox.

Enough for today.