Es Dhammo Sanantano #121

The day of the final sutras of the Dhammapada has arrived!
The journey was long, yet so utterly delightful. I would have wished—it went on forever. To rise with Buddha, to sit with Buddha; to sway in Buddha’s breeze, to catch Buddha’s rays; to relive that timeless ancientness once more; to understand again—ponder—contemplate those unparalleled happenings that transpired between Buddha and his disciples; to seat them in the heart once more—the journey was wondrous.
But however wondrous a journey, that which has a beginning must have an end. However much we may desire it, nothing eternal can abide here. Even Buddhas take birth here—and dissolve. What then of others! Even when truth arrives here, it cannot tarry. For a fleeting moment it flashes—and is gone. It is not that light does not descend here—it does. Yet hardly has it descended than the moment of departure is upon it.
Buddha said it rightly—here everything is momentary. Unconditionally—everything is momentary. And the one who knows this momentariness, his return here ceases. We go on groping here only so long as the delusion persists that perhaps the eternal might be found in the ephemeral! Perhaps bliss might be found in pleasure. Perhaps prayer in love. Perhaps Atman in the body. Perhaps Paramatma in matter. Perhaps we might find in time that which is beyond time.
But what is not to be—will not be. What does not happen—cannot happen.
Even when truth comes here, at most it can give a glimpse. The very nature of this world is transience. Here even the eternal cannot plant its feet! This stream flows on and on. Here there is a beginning; a middle; and an end. And it does not take long. The more alive a thing, the sooner it passes. Stones lie around a long time. Flowers blossom at dawn—and by dusk they wilt.
This is why we find it hard to trust in the existence of Buddhas. A momentary descent of light—and then it is lost. Long stretches of darkness—and now and then light appears. Centuries pass—and then light appears. Old memories are forgotten—and then light appears. So we cannot trust.
Here we cannot settle our trust even upon that which happens every day. Things are so dream-like here! How to trust? And what to say of that which happens only once in centuries, which is so rare—how to trust that! It never happened in our experience before, and perhaps will never happen again.
Hence deep down a doubt remains in us about Buddhas. Were there such beings? Could there be such beings? And unless such a trust becomes profound—that such beings have been, can be even now, and will continue to be—until then the birth of Buddhahood within you cannot happen. For if the doubt remains that Buddhas do not exist at all, how will you set out upon the journey toward Buddhahood? No one walks toward that which never is.
Only when it is—when it is certain—when this settles into your very life-breath with such profundity, only then can you step toward the unknown.
Hence the talk of Buddha. Hence I also spoke to you of other Buddhas—only to lend you trust; so that within you a faith may surge—that no, you are not engaged in a futile search; there is Paramatma. You are not walking in the dark—this path is well trodden. Many have walked it before you. And it is not that it used to happen only in the past—it can happen again. For within you is all that was within Buddha. You only need a little trust in Buddha.
And when I say: you need trust in Buddha, I do not mean Gautam Buddha alone. There have been other Buddhas—Christ and Krishna, Mohammed and Mahavira, Lao Tzu and Zarathustra. Whoever awakens—that one is a Buddha. Buddha is the name of the state of awakening. Gautam Buddha is one name. There are many such names.
For all these months we sat in satsang with Gautam Buddha.
The day of the final sutra of the Dhammapada has come—but do not forget this satsang. Preserve it. This is supreme wealth. Your good fortune lies hidden in this wealth. Your future is in this very treasure.
Think again and again upon these gathas. Hum these gathas again and again. Call to remembrance again and again these unparalleled scenes. So that by the blows of repetition sure lines are etched within you. When even a rope goes back and forth upon stone, a mark is made.
This land discovered a unique device—not found anywhere else in the world. That was—patha—recitation. Reading is one thing; recitation quite another. Reading means: a book was read—finished; the matter ended. Recitation means: what was read is read again—and again. For there are indeed such matters in this existence that cannot be understood by anyone in just a single reading! There are matters in this world layered with depths upon depths. The more you dig, the more the possibilities of ambrosia increase. Those we call shastras.
This is the difference between a book and a shastra. A book—one single layer; read once and done. A novel—read and it is useless. A film—seen and the matter is over. Who would want to see that film again! There is nothing left to see. It was surface—and it is exhausted.
We call that a shastra which, the more times it is seen, the more fresh meanings arise; the more you peep in, the more something new is found; the more you go within, the more you return with. You go again and again—and each time you receive more. Why? Because your experience grows; your capacity for contemplation deepens; your capacity for meditation grows.
The words of Buddhas are such that even if you go on digging through births upon births, you still will not arrive at the very end. It will never come. Depth upon depth—depth keeps on deepening.
Recitation ends only when you yourself become a shastra; before that, it does not end. Recitation ends when the depth of the shastra becomes your own depth.
Such were these unparalleled gathas. Before the final gathas, understand this scene.
The first scene:
Elder Revat was the younger brother of the venerable Sariputta. Sariputta is among Buddha’s foremost disciples. Revat was his younger brother. He escaped at the very threshold of marriage. He ran away from the wedding procession itself! The procession was just approaching the pavilion; the priest was ready. Welcoming arrangements in place. Bands playing. From the horse mid-way, Revat alighted—and fled.
Then, reaching the forest, he encountered Buddha’s bhikshus and took ordination from them. He went to Khadiravana for solitude, meditation and silence. There he practiced for seven years with totality—and attained Arhatship.
He had not yet had the darshan of the Blessed One. Revat first thought—let me become worthy, then I will go for the Blessed One’s darshan. Let me have some worthiness first. Let me first open the eyes that can see him. Let me refine the heart that can bear him. Let me prepare the soil so that when the Blessed One scatters his seeds, those seeds are not wasted; that his labor becomes meaningful. Let me become worthy first—then I will go to his darshan.
So Revat did not go to the Blessed One for seven years. Seven years of total practice—pouring all energy into meditation; Revat attained Arhatship. Earlier he had not gone to see the Blessed One thinking—how can I go! And when Arhatship happened, then there remained no need to go. He came to know the Blessed One. He knew without seeing—for blessedness arose within.
So Revat found himself in a great quandary. Before—he did not go. Later he began to weep within—earlier I did not go; I thought I should become a vessel. And now—should I go? The one I was to see has revealed himself within. The master I set out to seek outside—I found within. So Revat remained absorbed in his forest.
Seeing the ripeness of his Arhatship, the Blessed One himself, along with elders like Sariputta, went there. That forest was very fearsome. The paths were rugged and thorny. The roars of wild animals, such as might make chests tremble, were heard even at high noon. But the bhikshus knew nothing of it; nothing. Neither did they notice the ruggedness of the path, nor hear the roars of wild animals; nor see the thorns of the forest. To them there were flowers upon flowers everywhere. To them everywhere the supreme silence of the forest seemed to resound.
Seeing in meditation that the Blessed One was coming, Revat made a beautiful seat for him. In the forest he had no special items. He was a bhikshu. Whatever he could find—stones, bricks—using whatever was available, he prepared a seat. He spread whatever grass and leaves he could gather. He scattered flowers. Seeing in meditation that the Blessed One was coming…
The Blessed One stayed in Khadiravana for a month. Then he returned, bringing Revat along. While returning, the sandals of two bhikshus, a small jar of oil, and a water pot were left behind. When they went back by the path to fetch them, what they saw—none of them could believe. No one could have.
The paths were very rugged. Wild beasts were roaring. The flowers had vanished. The whole forest was filled with thorns. Not only that—the dwelling of Revat—just a short while earlier so charming that it put heaven to shame—was now filled only with thorns. And the supremely beautiful seat on which Revat had seated the Buddha—no beggar would agree to sit upon it! So ugly was it. Not only that—the building which a moment earlier had been dancing with extraordinary aliveness was now sheer ruin. That building was not there at all. It seemed—as if there had, perhaps centuries ago, been someone’s palace—and this was its ruin.
They could not trust what they saw. Standing there, it felt as if we had seen a dream.
Upon returning to Shravasti, the great upasika Visakha asked those two bhikshus—How was the dwelling of the venerable Revat? Don’t ask, upasike! the bhikshus replied, don’t ask. We have never seen so dangerous a place. It was ruin upon ruin! Do not even call it a dwelling. Filled only with thorns. We have seen many forests, but such a terrifying forest—never. A man could lose his way there in daylight and not find a path. In blazing noon such a dense jungle that the sun’s rays could not pierce the trees. Full of fearsome animals! Say only this—that we escaped and returned, upasike! Do not ask. Do not remind us of that sight. And how did that Revat live in such a place! It was thorns upon thorns. Not only that—snakes and scorpions in abundance.
Then Visakha asked other bhikshus as well. They said: The place of the venerable Revat is as beautiful as heaven, as if created by siddhis. A miracle. We have seen many beautiful palaces, but the palace in which Revat dwells could not be available even to the gods of heaven. Such peace! Such profound peace! Such silence! Such an unparalleled musical atmosphere—no, there is no other like it on this earth.
By these opposing opinions Visakha was naturally astonished. She asked the Blessed One: Bhante! Regarding the dwelling of the venerable Revat, your bhikshus who went with you—some call it hell-like, others heaven-like. What is the real matter?
The Blessed One smiled and said: Upasike! As long as Revat dwelt there, it was heaven-like. Wherever Brahmins like Revat abide, that place becomes heaven. But the moment he left, it became like hell. As when a lamp is removed—and darkness falls—so it was. My son Revat has become an Arhat; he has become a Brahmin. He has known Brahman.
And then he spoke these gathas:

Āsā yassa na vijjanti asmiṃ loke paramhi ca.
Nirāsayaṃ visaṃyuttaṃ tamahaṃ brūmi brāhmaṇaṃ.

‘He whose hopes regarding this world and the next have vanished—who is without expectation and unattached—him I call a Brahmin.’

Yassālaya na vijjanti aññāya akathankathī.
Amatogadhaṃ anuppattaṃ tamahaṃ brūmi brāhmaṇaṃ.

‘He in whom there is no abode—no thirst—who, knowing, has become free of doubt, and who, plunging, has reached the deathless state, Nirvana—him I call a Brahmin.’

Yo’dha puññañca pāpañca ubho saṅgaṃ upaccagā.
Asokaṃ virajaṃ suddhaṃ tamahaṃ brūmi brāhmaṇaṃ.

‘He who here has abandoned attachment to both merit and demerit—who is free of sorrow, stainless and pure—him I call a Brahmin.’

Ponder well the scene that precedes the sutras. Meditate upon the scene.
Revat, the elder, was Sariputta’s younger brother. The wedding procession was on its way. He must have been seated upon the horse. But he fled mid-way. What happened?
There are three kinds of people in this world. First, those we may call dull—unintelligent. They do not learn even from experience. Even if the same experience repeats again and again—they do not learn. They keep repeating the same mistakes. They do not even make new mistakes! They keep repeating the old. Nothing new happens in their lives. Their life is like an oil-press bullock—moving round and round in the same rut. Like a cartwheel—spinning, yet going nowhere.
A man was much tormented by his wife. Many times he had told his friends that if this woman of mine were to die, I would not think of marriage again—even in a dream. The wife died—by coincidence. Five-seven days later the man began to look for a new wife. His friends said: Hey! Only a week has passed—and you used to say you would not even dream of marriage again. He said: Let it be. Forget it. That was then. Now all has changed. All women are not alike. She gave suffering—but that does not mean all will give suffering.
He married again—and again suffered. Then he told his friends: You were right. Now I too have the experience that all women are the same. There is no difference. All relationships carry suffering—and this relationship of marriage is great suffering. Never again. If God gives me one more chance—I will never marry.
It is an ancient tale—perhaps God heard. He gave one more chance! The wife died again. Usually, the first wife does not die! Most often it happens that the wife kills the husband—then dies herself.
You have seen—widows are visible. A woman’s bodily longevity is greater than a man’s—by about five years, on average. If a man lives seventy years, a woman will live seventy-five. And by a kind of stupidity when we marry we prefer the man to be three-four-five years older. The boy should be twenty-one, the girl sixteen or eighteen. Five years’ natural difference—and we add another five. The man falls behind by ten years. If the man dies, there is a good possibility his wife will live on for ten years after him.
So the first wife simply does not die! But here the first died. The second died. This story must be of the golden age. In this degenerate age such things hardly happen! Five-seven days after the second woman died, the man again began to search. The friends said: Come now—be sensible. The man smiled and said: Listen. I have understood one thing—that hope always triumphs over experience. Now hope has arisen again—who knows, perhaps the third woman will be different! Who can say!
Hope does not get defeated by experience; it defeats experience—this is the sign of the dull.
The second kind we may call intelligent. They learn from experience. Without experience they do not learn. The intelligent need not repeat; one experience is enough. But at least one experience is necessary. Without experience, even the intelligent cannot learn. But one suffices. Taste the ocean’s water once—and all oceans’ waters are tasted. The matter ends. That taste gives the verdict. He will not repeat the same mistake.
The dull go on doing pre-set mistakes. They learn nothing. Which means—they keep doing the same mistakes because they do not even learn enough to change their mistakes—to make new mistakes; to drop the old; to try something new.
The intelligent commit a mistake once. Not that the intelligent do not err; but when they err, they commit new mistakes. Hence the intelligent are evolutionary. They go on moving forward. Every experience gifts them fresh understanding.
The third kind are the wise, the prajnavan. They are beyond the intelligent. They do not have to pass through experience. Seeing experience from without—they awaken. Seeing the experience of others—they awaken. They need not go into it themselves.
The first is such that he will fall into the fire—once, twice. He will burn every day—and fall again and again. The second—once burnt, becomes alert. The third—seeing others fall and burn—becomes alert. Such a one is called prajnavan.
Revat was prajnavan. He must have seen all around—married and miserable people. Married and miserable are almost synonyms. Married—and you saw someone happy! To keep this fiction intact, stories end at the wedding. They do not go further—because going further is dangerous.
Films too—the band and the shehnai are playing—and it ends. They are married; the film ends. Old tales say—they were married and lived happily ever after. It ends there. To raise the matter beyond that is not without peril.
Who has lived happily after marriage? Before marriage—perhaps people lived happily. When one man was miserable, by becoming two the misery will double, become a thousandfold. Two miserable people meet—how can happiness arise? When two poisons mix—does ambrosia arise?
And remember—the fault is neither the woman’s nor the man’s. The fault is our fundamental delusion—that I am miserable; some woman is miserable; we two will sit together, be together, and both will become happy. We imagine an impossibility. I am miserable; she is miserable. Alone she is miserable; alone I am miserable. These two miserable persons meeting will multiply misery endlessly. It will not be addition; it will be multiplication. Then we will writhe; then be tormented.
Revat must have seen all around. He must have seen his own mother and father. He must have seen neighbors, elders, family people. And then he must also have seen Sariputta—his elder brother—renounce all. He must have seen that a different aura came into Sariputta’s eyes. He must have seen that for the first time Sariputta became blissful. He had not seen such a blissful man.
All this he must have watched silently. These things kept gathering and condensing within. Then when they seated him upon the horse and began to take him toward the fire—and when the band played loudly—the moment of decision must have arrived within. He must have thought—either I think now, or never again will there be any opportunity to think. If something is to be done—let it be done now; otherwise, after a moment, doing it will be filled with entanglements.
He must have seen that when Sariputta left home, how miserable his wife was. Sariputta attained the supreme bliss—but the wife was very miserable. With her husband alive, she became a widow while he lived; if she is not to be miserable—who will be!
Sariputta left home—his son became downcast and orphaned. Sariputta attained the supreme state, but there is a small rub—the children became orphans; the wife is miserable. The old parents are worried; troubled. They must carry the burden of Sariputta’s wife and children.
All this kept thickening. In that moment, the sum totaled within. He must have thought: If I pause even for a moment more, I will be caught in the same net. And I too will end up doing just what Sariputta did. Better to flee.
He must have made some pretext to dismount—let me get down for a bit. And he ran—and ran. He never returned to the horse.
Perhaps the bridegroom is seated upon a horse so that he cannot run away. They hang daggers and such upon him—to persuade him he is very brave. Not a deserter. Look, you are on a horse! You are a king! And look, such a procession—such bands playing! They give him all kinds of delusions.
When a doctor is to operate, he first gives chloroform. These are all chloroforms! For a day he is made a king—the bridegroom-king! And in the pride of one day he remains forgetful and intoxicated. He does not know the consequence of this intoxication!
But Revat must have been very alert—a prajnavan. He got down—and quietly ran. He never looked back. He went to the forest. He met bhikshus on the way—and took ordination from them.
There are many who came to Buddha and yet could not become Arhats. But this man—taking ordination from Buddha’s ordinary bhikshus, bhikshus without name, whose names we do not even know—from whom did he take initiation—no famous elder surely—yet by their ordination he attained Arhatship!
So remember—the real question is your intensity. You can be around Buddha and still miss—if you are not intense. If there is no urgency within; if you do not have the courage to stake your whole life—you will miss even near Buddha. And if you have the courage to stake all, then even by initiation from an ordinary person—you will arrive.
Solitude, silence and meditation—these three Revat embraced. He began to live alone; fell silent; and started bidding farewell to thoughts within. These are the three sutras of Samadhi.
Solitude! Be as if you are alone. Wherever you are—be as if you are alone. No companion, no cohort. Be in the crowd—yet be alone. Be in the family—yet be alone. Keep knowing this within; do not let this sutra slip even for a single moment. Do not allow the delusion even for a moment that you are not alone—that someone is with you. Here no one is with you; nor can anyone be. Here all are alone. Aloneness is absolute. It cannot be changed. It can, for a little while, be forgotten; it cannot be changed.
And all forgettings are kinds of intoxicants. All are forms of inebriation. How you forget does not matter. Someone forgets by drinking alcohol. Someone forgets by running after wealth. Someone forgets by becoming mad for position. How you forget does not matter. But at most, for a while—you can forget. That is all.
And whenever the intoxication wears off, suddenly you will find—you are alone.
A sannyasin is one who knows that I am alone—and does not forget his aloneness. Far from forgetting—he relishes it. He waits—when will a chance come to taste a little of my aloneness; to close my eyes and dive into myself for a little while; to be left alone. That is my destiny. That is my nature. It is with that nature that I must create my identity.
From knowing others—nothing will happen. Create your identity with yourself. What will come of knowing others? If you do not know yourself and you know everyone else, such knowing has no value. At the root you remain ignorant.
So Revat sat in solitude. He kept silence. He stopped speaking.
What indeed is there to speak—until you know? Until you know—what is there to say? Until you know—even speaking is dangerous—for all that you will say will be wrong. All that you will tell people will mislead. You are lost—and you will mislead others.
Speech is meaningful only when something has been known; when something has been experienced. When some matter has become aflame within you—clear and bright. When a lamp has been lit within and you have eyes of your own—then speak. Until then, it is better to remain silent. Do not dump your junk on others. You yourself are buried—have compassion upon others. Do not bury them with your rubbish.
But people are so eager! Left alone, people grow restless. They start seeking someone so they may chatter a bit. By chatter they mean—he throws some trash on me; I throw some trash on him. Neither he knows nor do I. This they call conversation!
This conversation is costly. For the other also hides his ignorance—and says his words as though he knows. You also hide your ignorance—and say your words as though you have known. Both are deceiving each other. And if the other believes you—he will fall into the ditch. You yourself keep falling. Whoever believes you and follows—will fall.
Hence no one takes anyone’s advice. You have seen—the thing most given in this world is advice. And the thing least taken—is also advice.
No one listens to anyone. A son does not listen to his father. A brother—does not listen to his brother. A friend—does not listen to his friend. A disciple—does not listen to his teacher.
In one sense, it is good that people do not listen. If you must fall, at least fall into your own ditch. Why fall into another’s ditch by taking his advice! If you fall into your own, perhaps you will gain some experience. If you fall by your own hand, perhaps there is a chance of getting out. But if you fall by another’s advice, even that chance vanishes.
I want to tell you: whoever has reached hell by walking on his own feet—he can return as well. Whoever has climbed upon others’ shoulders to reach—he is crippled. How will he return? His returning becomes most improbable.
And those who will take you to hell—you will find them in plenty. Seek one—you will find a thousand. But the one who will bring you from hell to heaven—that is very difficult. Where in hell will you find such a person who will take you to heaven! From here to hell, all the coaches are full to the brim. But coaches from hell to this shore—where do they run! There is none to run them.
It is good that no one listens to anyone’s advice.
Revat ran away. He sat in solitude. He fell silent. He did not speak at all.
And when you live alone and remain silent—how long will thoughts continue within? How long? Their very root has been cut. Their base is cut. You have stopped watering them. The same thoughts will resound for some days—echoing, echoing. Slowly you will grow bored; they too will tire.
If something new keeps happening every day, the stream of thoughts keeps flowing; vitality keeps being supplied. Now you sit alone—no speech, no movement. How long will the same thoughts whirl? Slowly they will die. They will fall away—like dry leaves they will drop. New leaves no longer sprout. When the old leaves have fallen once, the mind will become thoughtless. That state is meditation.
There he practiced for seven years with totality.
And practice is possible only when one is total. If you hold back even a little, you will miss. Even at ninety-nine degrees water does not turn to vapor. Only at one hundred. And only when you boil at a full hundred degrees will you be transformed. If you save even a single degree—you will not be transformed.
For transformation, therefore, you need the capacity and courage to stake everything. People are shopkeepers. To attain the supreme truth, a gambler is needed—who stakes all. The shopkeeper counts his pennies and places his stakes—calculating the profit. If there is no profit—what will be the loss? Let me put up a little first; let me see. If there is profit, I will put up a little more. Then, if there is more profit, I will put up more.
The gambler puts up everything at once—either this shore or the other. And whoever has put up everything in meditation—he is only on the other shore; there remains no way to remain on this shore. In his very staking of all, he has crossed over. In that very totality—he is across. There is nothing else left.
Seven years of total practice—Revat attained Arhatship. He came to know his ultimate nature, the blessedness hidden within. He recognized himself. He stood facing himself. He became thrilled. He became blissful. He became free.
He had not yet had the Blessed One’s darshan. Before, he thought: Let me become a worthy vessel—then I will go. And now—now it seemed pointless to go see the Blessed One’s body. Now I have seen the Blessed One’s innermost.
That is precisely what Buddha says: He who knows Dharma—knows me. Whoever has seen Dharma—has seen me. He who goes on seeing only me, and remains deprived of the Dharma within me—he has not seen me at all. He was blind. For I am not the body.
Only when you look beyond the body does your connection with Buddhas happen; the communion is of the soul—not of the body.
So earlier he had thought—rightly so; Revat is very wise—that first let me become worthy. Let me become such that the Blessed One’s eye may fall upon me. Let my hands become worthy to touch his feet. Let there be something with me to offer. What point is there in going empty-handed! Let me go taking the wealth of meditation. Let me have the means of placing something at his feet. Let me earn—and go.
It was rightly thought. Ah—if there were more such people in the world, the face of the world would change. Usually the unworthy also reach the Buddhas—and reaching, they think that all is done. Then they begin to blame the Buddhas: We have been with you so many days—nothing has happened yet. Then they begin to doubt the Buddhas—if after so many days nothing has happened, it seems these Buddhas are not genuine. As if everything depends only upon the Buddhas!
Will you also do something! It is to happen within you—and within you there is nothing at all.
Jesus has a famous saying: To him who has—more shall be given. From him who has not—even that which he has will be taken away.
A unique saying: To him who has—more shall be given.
So Revat thought: Let me take something. Let me have something—then I will go. It was a very right thought. But then he got into a quandary. When the happening happened, he was startled. He thought: Now what shall I go for! Now I see the Blessed One here itself. Now the distances of time and space have fallen. Now I have known that neither am I body, nor is he body. Now I have reached where he is. Where is there to go! What coming-and-going now!
So he did not go anywhere. He remained seated. And then this unparalleled event happened.
Seeing the ripeness of his Arhatship, the Blessed One himself, with elders like Sariputta, went there.
This is truth. The day you are ready, the Blessed One himself comes to you. There is no need for you to go anywhere. The day your preparation is complete—Paramatma descends. This is the meaning of this story.
You need go nowhere—neither to Mecca nor to Kaba; neither to Kashi nor Kailash. Nowhere. Neither to Jerusalem nor Girnar. Nowhere.
And where will you go! Where will you seek him? When he is not seen here, how will he be seen upon Kailash? A blind man is blind here; he will be blind upon Kailash. When he is not found here, how will he be found in Kashi? It is you who must find. Your vision must be refined. Your eyes must be open. Your heart must be in bloom—like a flower. If it does not bloom here—how will it bloom in Kaba?
Do you think those who live in Kaba have attained Paramatma! Do you think those who live in Kashi have attained Paramatma!
That which can happen here—will happen anywhere. And that which can happen anywhere—can happen here. The real question is within you.
There is an ancient saying: When the disciple is ready, the master appears. When you are ready—Paramatma quietly arrives; you may not even know when.
Seeing the ripeness of his Arhatship, the Blessed One himself, with elders like Sariputta, went there. The forest was very fearsome. The paths were rugged and thorny. The roars of wild animals—enough to cause a chest to quake—were heard even at high noon. But the bhikshus came to know nothing of it.
Those who have the Blessed One’s company—such things do not register for them. They walked with Buddha. In Buddha’s shadow. In Buddha’s light. In a certain aura of Buddha they moved. They were safe. It was as if this jungle did not exist at all. The paths were not rugged at all.
When the eyes are upon Buddha—where is the ruggedness of the path! There were thorns on the way. But when your eyes are fixed upon a flower like Buddha—who will notice small thorns! The jungle’s wild sounds must have echoed—no jungle beast will fall silent upon seeing bhikshus. But one whose heart is absorbed in listening to Buddha—listening to the music of his footsteps; one who is absorbed—one-pointed here—all else is lost.
You have seen—when you become one-pointed, clouds may thunder in the sky—you do not hear. A train passes—a plane flies—you do not hear. When the mind is quiet, when it is attuned in one direction, all other directions fall away on their own.
These bhikshus were lovers of Buddha. Buddha must have taken a few chosen ones; Sariputta, perhaps Mahakashyapa, Maudgalyayana, Ananda—such chosen ones. He took a few to show them Revat—Look at Revat. He is alone. He never even met me. From afar he has been offering flowers of reverence. He never saw me—and yet arrived!
Revat, seeing in meditation that the Blessed One was coming…
When the intellect becomes quiet and the turmoil of thoughts subsides—the eye of meditation opens. For the eye of meditation there is no obstacle. The eye of meditation can see all.
Seeing the Blessed One’s coming, he made a beautiful seat.
The Lord is coming! How many desires had he held to go to him—and longings—and dreams! For whose sake he worked tirelessly for seven years—to become worthy to go. And today he himself comes. Understand his ecstasy. Understand his waiting. His joy! Today heaven is to descend!
He must have forgotten completely what he was doing. These stones, these bricks—and whatever he gathered from the forest—to make a seat! He would not have cared.
Love is such a magic—that if it touches stone, it becomes gold. And if you build a seat with golden bricks half-heartedly—it turns to dust. The real question is love. Buddha sees love.
The Blessed One stayed with Revat for a month.
The story says nothing more. Yet it is so significant. It does not say that the Blessed One said something to Revat or Revat said something to the Blessed One. It only says—the Blessed One stayed with Revat for a month.
No—nothing would have been said. There was nothing to say. Revat had arrived where the Blessed One would have spoken to take him. And what would Revat say! His longing had been fulfilled—without asking. The Blessed One had come to his door.
My own vision is—side by side they sat in silence. Nothing was spoken. There was nothing left to say. What can two Arhats say! Two knowers have nothing to say.
Two ignorant ones—ah, they have much to say. Words do not suffice—they will open skulls if need be. Two ignorant people catch each other by the throat.
Two knowers—when they meet—they fall silent. Yes, when one is ignorant and one is a knower—then there may be something to say.
Buddha spoke daily—yes. But of this month—there is no report he spoke. This month must have passed in silence. Those he took were such as had attained Arhatship. Revat too was an Arhat.
It must have been a month of deep silence. A month most dear upon this earth. So many awakened ones sitting together silently! Ambrosia must have poured down there. A dense downpour. A cloudburst of nectar must have happened there. The whole forest must have become blissful. Even the souls of birds and beasts would have grown eager for liberation. The life of trees would have stirred and awakened. Such profound silence must have reigned.
Then he returned, taking Revat along.
And when the Blessed One comes to you, there is but one purpose—to bring you to himself. There can be no other purpose. The guru comes to the disciple—so that the disciple may be brought to the guru. The guru’s ray searches its way to you—seeking.
Taking Revat along, they returned. On the way, two bhikshus left behind their sandals, a little oil gourd, and a water pot. When they returned by the path to fetch them—what they saw they could not believe. The paths were rugged.
This time the Blessed One was not with them. Those same paths—with the Blessed One along—are dear. Those same paths—without him—become rugged.
The world is the same. With the Blessed One—heaven; missing his company—hell. Everything is the same; only the company of the Blessed One makes the difference. You are alone; the Blessed One is not with you—everything will be rugged. Life will be a tale of sorrow—meaningless, filled with melancholy, sick. And with the Blessed One—all is transformed, like magic. You become whole. There remain no thorns anywhere. Flowers bloom on every side. There remains no noise anywhere. Peace begins to shower everywhere.
They could not believe—what has happened! We were just here; we just left; in two moments all has changed! Are these the same paths? Is this the same forest? Are these the same trees? Not only that—the dwelling of Revat, a mere two moments ago so charming that it seemed like heaven—was filled only with thorns—and a ruin. It seemed as if for centuries no one had lived there.
Upon returning to Shravasti, the great upasika Visakha asked: How was the dwelling of the venerable Revat?
Do not ask, upasike! All was filled with thorns—and snakes and scorpions. God forbid we ever have to go to such a place again—even by mistake.
Then Visakha asked other bhikshus as well. They said: The place of the venerable Revat is as beautiful as heaven—as if crafted by siddhis! As if thousands of siddhas had poured all their siddhi into it. A miracle. There is no such beautiful place upon this earth.
Hearing such opposite opinions, Visakha was naturally astonished. She asked the Blessed One: Bhante! Regarding the place of the venerable Revat—among the bhikshus who went with you—some say hell-like; some say heaven-like. What is the matter? What is the real matter? You tell.
The Blessed One said: Upasike! As long as Revat dwelt there—it was heaven-like. Wherever Brahmins like Revat abide—that becomes heaven. But the moment he left—it became hell-like. As when a lamp is removed—and darkness falls—so it was. My son Revat has become an Arhat, a Brahmin. He has known Brahman.
The Dhammapada concludes upon the definition of the Brahmin—who is a Brahmin! What is a Brahmin! The Brahmin is the final state—of knowing Brahman.
‘He in whom there are no hopes regarding this world or the next…’
One who desires nothing here, nothing there. One who desires not at all—who has attained the state of desirelessness.
‘Such a one, without expectation and unattached—I call a Brahmin.’
Revat has become such a Brahmin.
‘He who is without thirst—who, knowing, has become free of doubt, who has plunged into the deathless state, Nirvana—I call a Brahmin.’
Such is my son Revat—he has become a Brahmin.
‘Knowing, he has become free of doubt…’
Understand this. People can escape doubt in two ways. One—by forcibly imposing some belief upon themselves, and thus avoiding doubt. That is a false escape. That doubt will take its revenge—if not today then tomorrow; and take it badly.
You see so many atheists in the world; there are not that many. The world is full of atheists—because those whom you take to be theists—hardly any of them are truly theists. They are all atheists. Within, they are atheistic; upon the surface they carry only the notion of theistic belief. They believe that God exists; they have not known. How will you believe without knowing! Believing without knowing is impotent. It has no life.
Hence Buddha says: He who, knowing, has become free of doubt—who has been liberated from doubt by knowing—who has recognized Paramatma, who has recognized truth; who does not say—I believe that God is—but says—I know—such a person is a Brahmin.
No one becomes a Brahmin by believing in Brahman. By knowing Brahman—one becomes a Brahmin.
‘He who has abandoned attachment to both merit and demerit here—who is beyond sorrow, stainless and pure—him I call a Brahmin.’
And my son Revat is such a Brahmin. Because of this Brahmin there was heaven there. Because of this Brahmin, siddhi showered there. The presence of this Brahmin made that forest into a palace.
And understand this—if there is no joy within you, then even if you live in palaces—you will live in a jungle. And if there is joy within you—wherever you live, there is a palace. A palace will be raised there. A palace will be created there. Wherever you live—howsoever you live—that is the palace.
Take note—people say that one who commits sin will be sent to hell; and one who does virtue will be sent to heaven. This is not right. The truth is different. The one who sins—lives in hell. Not that he will be sent in the future—he lives in hell now—and here. And one who does virtue—lives in heaven now—and here.
Sin and virtue bear fruit every moment. This is no government office where files take so long to move! That you committed a sin in a past birth and now the fruit will be given! Do you think this is some Indian government arrangement! Files move from one table to another—and keep moving; and nothing ever happens.
The fruit is instant. Dharma is cash. There is nothing on credit here.
The second sutra:

Chandaṃ’va vimalaṃ suddhaṃ vippasannamanāvilaṃ.
Nandībhavaparikkhīṇaṃ tamahaṃ brūmi brāhmaṇaṃ.

‘Like the moon—spotless, pure, clear, untainted—he in whom the delight in becoming, the thirst for birth, has been exhausted—him I call a Brahmin.’

Hittvā mānusakaṃ yogaṃ dibbaṃ yogaṃ upaccagā.
Sabbayogavisaṃyuttaṃ tamahaṃ brūmi brāhmaṇaṃ.

‘He who has abandoned human bondages and surpassed even divine bondages—who is free from all fetters—him I call a Brahmin.’

Pubbenivāsaṃ yo vedi saggāpāyañca passati.
Atho jātikkhayaṃ patto abhiññāvosito muni.
Sabbavositavosānaṃ tamahaṃ brūmi brāhmaṇaṃ.

‘He who knows his former abodes—who has seen heaven and the realms of woe—who has reached the end of birth—whose wisdom is perfected—who has done all that is to be done—him I call a Brahmin.’

The background of these sutras—the second scene:
In Rajagriha there was a Brahmin named Chandabh. In a past life he used to apply sandal paste in the chaitya of Lord Kashyapa Buddha; by the merit of which an aura like a lunar disc emanated from his navel. Some hypocritical Brahmins took him from town to town, and plundered people. They said: Whoever touches his body—obtains whatever he wishes.
At one time when the Blessed One was dwelling at Jetavana, those Brahmins brought him to Shravasti. It was evening—and the whole city of Shravasti was going toward Jetavana for the Blessed One’s darshan and to hear the Dharma. Those Brahmins tried to stop people to display Chandabh’s miracle. But no one was willing to stop. Then those Brahmins, too, to see the influence of the Master, took Chandabh to Jetavana.
As soon as he approached the Blessed One, Chandabh’s aura vanished. He was very distressed—and also amazed. He thought the Master must know some mantra that causes the aura to disappear. So he said to the Blessed One: O Gautama! Give me also the mantra for making the aura vanish—and the method to counter that mantra as well. I shall become your servant forever.
The Blessed One said: I can give the mantra only if you become ordained. Hearing the Blessed One’s words, Chandabh accepted ordination—and in a very short time, becoming meditative, attained Arhatship. He forgot all about the mantra. When the great mantra is received—who will remember! When the Brahmins returned to fetch him, he laughed and said: You people go. I am not going anywhere now. My coming-and-going has ended forever.
The Brahmins could not understand what he was saying! Leave aside the Brahmins—even the bhikshus could not understand what he was saying!
The bhikshus went and told the Blessed One: Bhante! This bhikshu Chandabh—he has just come, and he is claiming Arhatship! And he says—I am free of coming and going. Thus he speaks uselessly—utters downright lies. Please warn him.
The Master said: Bhikshus! The thirst of my son has been exhausted. What he says is entirely true. He has attained Brahminhood.
Then he spoke these sutras.
Understand this small tale.
This Chandabh, in some past birth, used to apply sandal paste in the chaitya of Lord Kashyapa Buddha.
Nothing great in the outer act. But he must have applied with great feeling to the statue of Kashyapa Buddha. The real question is bhava—the heart. He must have applied with deep reverence. Since then, a certain aura had arisen in him. Where there is reverence—there is aura. Where there is reverence—there is magic.
By the merit of his joy in applying sandal paste in Kashyapa Buddha’s temple—by the dance of his joy, his worship, his prayer—that became an aura within him; it became luminous within.
Some hypocritical Brahmins took him along from town to town. Because he was a man of miracle—light came out of his navel. Lifting his garment they would show people his navel. Seeing the navel, people were astonished. And they had made a business of it. They would say: Whoever touches his body—attains whatever he desires. And until people gave a lot of money in donation—they would not allow anyone to touch him. Thus they were plundering many.
When the Blessed One was dwelling in Jetavana, they brought him to Shravasti. Jetavana was in Shravasti. It was evening—and the whole city was going toward Jetavana for the Blessed One’s darshan and to hear the Dharma. Those Brahmins tried to stop people to show Chandabh’s miracle. But no one wanted to stop.
Whoever has seen the Blessed One—whoever has seen a Buddha—for him the miracles of the world turn pale. One who has seen light itself—what meaning is there in a little light from someone’s navel! Childish stuff. Such things can excite only children.
No one stopped. The Brahmins were very surprised. This had never happened before. Wherever they went—crowds gathered. They thought—surely an even greater miracle must be happening in the Buddha; only then would people be running like this. To see the Master’s influence—to see who this Buddha is, what his effect is, what his miracle is—they brought Chandabh to the Buddha. Upon coming into the presence of the Blessed One—Chandabh’s aura disappeared.
Of course it would. For the aura he had was like a small lamp in front of the sun. In front of the sun—a lamp’s light is lost. What wonder is there!
Even more—when the sun rises, the stars of the sky disappear. They shine in darkness; in light they are lost. The vast light of the sun steals the light of the stars. The stars do not go anywhere; they remain where they are. But in the day they are not visible. When the sun sets—they appear again.
The aura of Chandabh was a small earthen lamp. The aura of Buddha—the light of a great sun.
But poor Chandabh thought—surely he knows some mantra. He has wiped out my aura. He was distressed and amazed. He said: O Gautama! Give me the mantra for making the aura vanish—and the counter for that mantra as well. Then I shall be your slave forever.
Buddhas never miss an opportunity. If any opportunity arises—by any excuse—to distribute the prasad of sannyas—surely they distribute. Buddha seized the moment. Let this be the device.
He said: I will give you the mantra—though there is no such mantra—but I will give it. First, become a sannyasin.
In the greed for a mantra—that man accepted sannyas.
But Buddha must have seen that the capacity is there in this man—the seed is there. That very man who in Kashyapa Buddha’s temple had applied sandal paste; the thickening of that devotional state is still present today. It longs to be freed. Upon that he showered compassion.
This man outwardly has forgotten everything. Which birth! Where! Who remembers! In this man’s intellect—nothing. Memory holds nothing. He has no recollection. But within—there is a flame.
Yesterday a young man came from Norway. I tried my best that he become a sannyasin—because seeing his heart, I felt he should. But seeing his thoughts, I felt he lacked courage. I explained from every angle that he should take sannyas. Waves rose in him. From time to time he felt—yes. The heart would press; the intellect would be subdued a bit. But then he would startle—and split in two. The head says one thing; the heart says another. The voice of the heart is very small—barely audible. Because we have not listened for ages—how shall we hear! The habit is lost. What goes on in the skull is clear to us. We live there. We have abandoned journeying into the heart.
So, this man wanted a mantra. In the greed for a mantra he became a sannyasin. He did not know that once you give Buddhas your finger—they will soon hold your hand! Once caught—you are caught. To be freed becomes difficult.
Buddha must have told him—now meditate—that is the mantra. Enter Samadhi—that is the mantra. Slowly, step by step, he led him into Samadhi. When he became absorbed in Samadhi—he forgot the mantra. Who would remember! The great mantra has been received. Now he too must have seen clearly that his asking for a mantra was foolishness. The Blessed One had neither erased it nor was there any mantra. In the presence of the greater light—the small light vanished on its own. No one did anything. Buddhas do nothing. Buddhas are not conjurers.
When the Brahmins came to take him—he laughed and said: Go. I am not going now. I have become established where there is no going-and-coming. I have become absorbed in Samadhi.
How to go now! Going happens upon the horses of thought. Going happens upon the cravings of desire. Going happens supported by thirst. All such supports have gone. I have no race left, because I have no desire left. I have nowhere to go, nowhere to arrive—because where I had to arrive—I have arrived. My coming-and-going is finished. The round of birth and death is over. What are you talking about! I will not be returning to this earth either. I have received the great mantra.
The Brahmins were shocked, of course. But the bhikshus too were shocked—which is more telling. Man is such a political animal! He cannot tolerate this. Even religious men, bhikshus, are filled with jealousy. They must have thought—this Chandabh, he came just now; and already he attained! And we have been sitting here so long! We are only ginning cotton. He arrived just now—raw and new—and claims achievement!
They went to the Buddha: Bhante! The bhikshu Chandabh claims Arhatship. He speaks falsehood. Warn him.
But Buddha did not warn Chandabh. He warned those bhikshus: Bhikshus! Beware. You are filled with envy. You do not see what is happening. You are full of ego. The thirst of my son has been exhausted. What he does is entirely true. What he says is entirely true. He has attained Brahminhood.
‘Like the moon—spotless, pure, clear and untainted—and whose thirst for all births has been destroyed—him I call a Brahmin.’
And Chandabh has become a Brahmin, bhikshus. He has become exactly like the moon. Earlier—only the name. Once there was a little light in his navel. Now the light has spread everywhere. Now he has become light itself. Chandabh has become the moon. Look again, bhikshus! No thirst remains in him. There is no demand. His craving has been reduced to ashes. He has become a Brahmin.
‘He who has abandoned human bondages and even divine bondages…’
He has not only dropped bondage to the human—he has dropped bondage to the divine. He came asking for a mantra—now he asks for nothing; not even for moksha.
‘Who is free from all fetters—him I call a Brahmin.’
‘He who knows previous births…’
And now he remembers why that aura was in his navel. He remembers—he had applied sandal paste with joy in the chaitya of the great Buddha, Kashyapa. Even such a small act brought such fruit! He remembers the roads of his past lives. And since he remembers them, his roads ahead have broken.
He has seen—I was wandering in vain. Whoever wanders without—wanders in vain. Birth after birth, the same cravings, the same desires, the same thirsts—and upon their support I ran—and reached nowhere.
Now my son has arrived. Now he has reached where birth and death become still. He has known the whole secret of heaven and hell. His prior births have been exhausted. He will not return again. He has become an anagamin.
‘Whose wisdom is perfected—who has finished all that is to be finished—him I call a Brahmin.’
The definition of Brahmin given by Buddha is the very definition of blessedness. The height Buddha gave to the word Brahmin—no one ever gave. Not even the Brahmins. The Brahmins made the word very petty—tied it to birth. Buddha tied it to self-experience. Buddha tied it to Nirvana.
One who is free; one who is shunya; one who, like a drop lost in the ocean, has become the ocean—him I call a Brahmin—so said Buddha.
I have told you: All are born as shudras. And unfortunately, most die as shudras. Remember—I repeat—all are born as shudras. No one is born as a Brahmin—because Brahminhood has to be attained; no one is born with it. Brahminhood has to be earned. Brahminhood is the fruit of sadhana.
All are born as shudras—because all are born identified with the body. You are shudra—and that is why you are born. Otherwise, why be born at all? Because of shudra-ness birth happens. Because fascination with the body is not gone. So when the old body falls—immediately you seize a new one. Attachment persists, infatuation persists, thirst persists—and you enter a new womb. You are born again.
No one is birthing you. You are born of your own desire. When you die, you panic; you hold the body tight; you scream and shout—save me! give me a little more time! Then you are arranging your next birth.
One who dies unworried—who says: Blessed! this life is over. Blessed—that I am free of this body. Blessed—that I am out of the momentary. One who departs in this rest—he has no more birth.
You sow the seed of birth in your death. As you die—you sow the seed of your new birth. And the kind of craving you carry—that is the seed of the birth you sow. Your craving will take bodily form. Your craving will become pregnant.
Buddha has said: You do not take birth—your craving takes birth. When there is no craving—your birth ends.
All are born as shudras. But there is no need to die as one. One who lives with remembrance—who lives with awareness; who lives in solitude, in silence and meditation—can die as a Brahmin. And the one who dies as a Brahmin—does not return to the world; he dissolves in Brahman.
All these sutras of the Dhammapada are the very sutras of how someone may attain Brahman, how someone may become a Brahmin. Dhammapada means—the path to the Brahmin; the path of Dharma that takes you to Brahminhood.
Do not end it upon hearing. Live it. An inch of living is better than a thousand miles of thinking. A moment of living—the eternal—is better than thinking for thousands of years. A particle of living is more valuable than a Himalayan mass of thought.
Live—awaken and live!
Enough for today.