Es Dhammo Sanantano #122

Man prefers to be filled with suffering rather than be a void. He prefers to be filled. He is afraid of emptiness—even if what fills him is pain. If happiness is not found, no matter; pain will do. But there must be something to hold on to, some prop.

If there is not even sorrow, you begin to get lost in the void. The shore of bliss appears far away; the shore of sorrow is near—there you stand. You clutch at what is near, lest you get lost, lest you dissolve into this vastness!

They say: to a drowning man, even a straw is support. Your sorrow is that straw.

There is nothing being saved that is worth saving. You are getting only suffering—but at least you are getting something. Something is always better than nothing. Therefore, even knowingly, man clings to sorrow.

Just imagine the day when no sorrow remains within you, no worry at all—you will panic. You will not be able to bear it. You will become agitated, restless. You will manufacture some sorrow. Quickly you will produce some grief. If the real is not available, you will imagine one. You will not be able to live without sorrow.

Also because without sorrow you do not exist. The “I” lives on sorrow. Where sorrow goes, the “I” goes. The ego feeds on suffering. Suffering flows in the ego as blood; it becomes its flesh, bone, marrow. Where there is no sorrow, there is no you. That too is why you cling to sorrow—because by its support you are.

Have you noticed: you exaggerate your sorrows. You report them far bigger than they are. Why? What pleasure is there in inflating your pain?

There is a certain pleasure: with big sorrow, the ego becomes big. Small ailments befall small people; great ailments befall great people! Petty sorrows—worth a couple of pennies—anyone can endure. You suffer costly sorrows. Your sorrows are huge. You carry a mountain of suffering. You are not crushed by trifling pains; you bear the burden of the world’s anxieties.

You enlarge your sorrows when you tell them; you exaggerate. If someone tries to make your sorrow seem small, you get angry—you never forgive them.

Man is very strange. You narrate your suffering, and if someone listens indifferently or dismissively, you feel hurt: I am telling my pain and you are not listening! What hurts is that your ego is not being acknowledged: I am being crushed under such great suffering and you don’t even have the time?

Through suffering you attract others’ attention. And often this trick settles in the mind—deeply—that attention is attracted by sorrow. We learn it from childhood. Little children learn it! When they want their mother’s or father’s attention, they will lie down on the bed: my head hurts! Women the world over have mastered this art.

I used to be a guest in many homes. I would be amazed to see: the wife was fine, cheerful, talking perfectly well with me. Her husband arrived, and she lay down—she has a headache! This is the way to get the husband’s attention. If the head aches, the husband sits by her side; if it does not, who sits by whom? There are a thousand things to do!

And once you learn this trick—that suffering draws attention—man can do anything. Your rishis and monks who fast and inflict suffering upon themselves are using the same logic that women are using in every home, that children are using in every home.

Someone has fasted for thirty days, and you go for darshan. He has produced suffering; he has drawn your attention. Now you must go! There were a thousand other tasks—the shop, the market—but since the monk has fasted for thirty days, now you have to go. Crowds begin to grow. People lie on thorns—only so that if they lie on thorns, your eyes will fall on them. People are tormenting themselves.

In the name of religion people inflict a thousand kinds of pain on themselves; they make wounds. Until your revered monk has dried up into mere bones, as long as you can see a little flesh on him, you suspect he is still enjoying himself—there is still flesh on the bone. When the flesh is completely gone, when he is nothing but a skeleton, you say: yes, this is the form of a tapasvin! When his face turns yellow and all blood is lost...

Once some people brought a certain monk to me. His condition was bad. Yet the devotees had told me that there was such an aura on his face—as of gold! There wasn’t even brass there; it was just yellowness. I told them: you are mad. You will kill this man. His face has only turned yellow—sallow—and you call it the aura of spirituality! This will happen on the face of any starving man.

Suffering quickly attracts people’s attention.

Have you noticed something? If you are happy, people become annoyed with you. When you are miserable, they are pleased with you. When you are happy, everyone becomes your enemy; a happy man has enemies everywhere. A miserable man has companions everywhere; people start expressing sympathy.

Build a big house—the whole village becomes your enemy. Let your house catch fire—and the whole village weeps for you. Have you seen this fun? Those who weep at your sorrow never celebrated your joy. Their tears are false. They are enjoying themselves. They are saying: well, good—it burned, didn’t it! We knew it would happen; this is the fruit of sin.

When you built the big house, not one of them came to say: we are happy, we are delighted that you have built such a house.

One who was not happy in your happiness—how can he be pained in your sorrow? Yet there is the pleasure of showing sympathy, and there is the pleasure of receiving it. What pleasure does the sympathizer get? He enjoys that today he is in the position to offer sympathy; you are in the position to receive it. Today you have fallen flat, sprawled on the ground; today I have the opportunity to stroke your wounds, to apply balm and bandage. Today I can show you that my condition is better than yours.

When someone wipes your tears, look carefully into his eyes: he is happy. He is happy that at least he has got one chance. Otherwise, all his life others have wiped his own tears; today he is wiping someone else’s! And at least it is good that the tears are not in his eyes; they are in someone else’s. We are wiping them!

When people display sympathy in sorrow, they are enjoying it. That enjoyment is sick; it is not the sign of a healthy mind. And you, too, by becoming miserable to gain sympathy, are in a pathological state.

This earth is full of the sick—full of the mentally sick. It is difficult to find a healthy person here.

First of all: it probably has not yet become clear to you that attachment creates suffering. You must have heard the Buddha say it, or a Mahavira, or a Kabir, or a Mohammed. You have heard that attachment brings suffering. You haven’t understood it yet. You’ve heard it, you haven’t lived it. The idea has lodged in your mind. Because of the idea the question has arisen—but it is not yet your own authentic experience. You have not learned it through the hardships of your own life; you have not tested it on the touchstone of your experience—that attachment brings sorrow. If you truly saw that, how would you still hold on?

No one comes to me saying, “This is a scorpion; it’s stinging my hand. Now how can I drop it?” Would anyone ask that? “It’s a scorpion; it stings; it hurts—but somehow I can’t let it go!” The moment a scorpion stings, you throw it away. You don’t go asking anyone.

Yet you ask, “Attachment causes suffering; then why doesn’t it fall away?”

The reason is plain. Deep within you still know there is pleasure in attachment. These awakened ones around you keep raising a hullabaloo, proclaiming that attachment is suffering. You can’t brush them aside—because they are authentic. You cannot easily deny them, because their lives are infinitely more blissful than yours. Their reasoning is deep; their insight has weight. When they speak, their whole being stands behind their words; their entire flame of life speaks through them.

So you cannot deny them; you lack the capacity, the courage. How would you deny them? Sorrow is written on your face; sorrow fills your breath. Around them, it’s as if bliss is raining. How, and with what face, will you say they are wrong?

You cannot deny them; you have to bow your head and concede, “You must be right. We are miserable, and you are joyous.” But deep inside, your innermost mind keeps whispering, “Let it be; don’t get into these things. The world holds great delights. Maybe I haven’t got them yet; I’ll get them tomorrow. Up to today I haven’t—who can say I won’t tomorrow? Dig a little deeper; perhaps you’ll hit water. Try a little harder; don’t tire too quickly. Delhi isn’t far—just a bit more. You’ve come this far; go a little further. So much of life has been gambled away; stake a little more and see. And if nothing works—well, there’s always religion in the end.” You always reserve religion for the end. You say, “If nothing else, ultimately we’ll remember God. But while life lasts, let’s at least make the effort. So many people are running—surely they can’t all be running in the wrong direction!”

Now consider another thing. When you are in the presence of the awakened, their eyes, their very presence, their gestures, the prasad of their lives, their music—everything is testimony that they are right and you are wrong.

But how many such beings are there? You meet them only rarely. And even when you meet them, how many can truly see and recognize them? Even hearing them, how many can truly hear? Where are the eyes to see them? Where are the ears to listen? Where are the hearts to feel them? Meeting them is rare, and rarer still is recognizing them.

Those you meet day in and day out—from morning to evening—are the millions upon millions who are just as miserable as you are. They are all rushing into the world; running after craving; lost in attachment and greed. Their sheer numbers become evidence for you: “When so many are heading toward this world—when everyone is going to Delhi—how can it be wrong? Can such multitudes be mistaken? So many cannot be wrong.”

Can the majority be wrong? And perhaps one odd person is ever right! That doesn’t sit well.

Among them are very clever people; educated, intelligent, respectable. All kinds—poor and rich—are rushing along. When such a vast crowd is going, the voices within you begin to rustle, “Try once more. Where all are going, there must be something there. Otherwise, why would crowds keep going in that direction for endless ages? By now they would have stopped.”

So the voice of the awakened in you becomes faint again; the voice of the crowd grows heavy. And the crowd’s voice becomes weighty because deep within you are aligned with the crowd, for you are a part of it; you are the crowd.

With the awakened you agree only in certain fleeting moments—rarely, with great difficulty. For an instant your strings fall into tune; a faint note from their vina resounds in your ear. But this vast drumhouse of the marketplace, this terrible uproar—it hammers at you twenty-four hours a day.

Your father is filled with attachment; your mother is filled with attachment; your brothers and sisters, your teachers, your priests—all are filled with attachment. Everyone is intent on getting hold of something, and holding on to whatever is obtained; and hunting for what has not yet been obtained.

What does moh (attachment) mean? It means “mine-ness,” possessiveness: whatever has come to me should not slip away. What does lobh (greed) mean? It means: what I do not yet have, I should get. Attachment means: what I have should remain with me. These two are like the two wings of the same bird—the bird called trishna, vasana, kamana: craving, lust, desire.

Desire flies on these two wings: “What is, I must hold—may it not slip. What is not, must come within my grasp.” With one hand I clutch what I have; with the other I keep reaching for what I don’t.

Attachment is the shadow of greed. For if you want to get what you don’t have, then you must certainly hold fast to what you do have. Suppose you have five hundred thousand and you want fifty million. If you want fifty million, these five hundred thousand must not be lost, for only with their help can fifty million be reached.

If they are lost, your expansion toward fifty million cannot happen. Wealth attracts wealth; position attracts position. Growth can happen in what you already have. But if that keeps diminishing, the hope of obtaining what you don’t have dwindles.

So plant your feet firmly on what is; and keep stretching your hands toward what is not. Between these two, a person is torn apart. These are the two wings of desire; and by them desire flies you into hell. Desire flies; you decline. You are ruined.

But this has to become your own experience. Don’t bother about what I say. Probe your own experience. Whenever you have tried to grasp, suffering has arrived.

Why does grasping bring suffering? Because everything in this world is momentary. Nothing can be held. Yet you want to hold. You move against nature—and you lose. In losing there is pain. It’s as if someone swims against the current of a river. Perhaps he manages a few strokes—but how long can he keep it up? He will tire; he will break. How long can he swim against the current? The current flows one way; he goes the other. In no time, the immense force of the river will shred his strength. He will tire; he will be defeated. And when he tires, is beaten, his feet give way and he is swept downstream, then melancholy envelops him: “I lost; I was defeated. I couldn’t get what I wanted; I couldn’t achieve what I sought.” Then deep remorse fills the mind. Suicidal feelings arise; sorrow deepens.

The one who knows flows with the river’s current. He never loses—why would there be sorrow? He does not take the river as an enemy; he befriends it.

How does Buddhahood arise? Buddhahood comes by befriending your nature. As it is, as it happens—do not desire its opposite; otherwise there will be suffering.

Knowing, we still desire the opposite! You think: “Since I am young, may I remain forever young.” What are you saying? Lift your eyes and look a little. If that were possible, would not everyone have remained young? If it were possible, who would ever have become old—knowingly, willingly, with deliberation?

Every young person wants to stop right there—“Let me not grow old.” But everyone will have to become old. The current keeps flowing. Life changes like bubbles on water. Nothing stands still here. When the first steps of old age approach, you will suffer—“I’m defeated.” There is no defeat or anything: the very craving for victory gives birth to the idea of defeat. This illusion arises because you wanted to remain young, and nature allows nothing to stand still. Nature is flow. You wanted something against nature—impossible, never has been, never will be.

In the desire for the impossible lies suffering. Then when you get old, still you won’t understand—you won’t want to die! Earlier you clutched at youth; now you clutch at old age. You have learned nothing!

See it: childhood came and went; youth came and went; old age will go; life will go—death will come. And when life goes, death will also go. Don’t be afraid. Everything flows. Here neither life stops, nor death.

One who accepts this flow with simplicity, who does not struggle against it by a hair’s breadth, who says, “Whatever happens, I consent; however it is, I consent. If wealth comes, I consent to wealth; if poverty arrives, I consent to poverty. If palaces are given, I will live in palaces; if they are lost, I will not weep for them; I will not keep looking back. Whatever is, as it is, I will not wish otherwise within”—how then can there be suffering? Suffering becomes impossible.

Today you meet a woman; you fall in love; you marry. Now you think: “May this woman not be lost. A day before, she was not my wife. May she not be lost! May this love not end! May this relationship not fall apart!”

Whatever is made will unmake. Everything that becomes is becoming in order to disperse. Nothing here is eternal. Only false and dead things seem to be “eternal” here. A paper flower can last longer; a real flower cannot.

For fear that love might be lost, people stopped loving and started marrying. Marriage is a paper flower, a plastic flower. Love is a rose: it blooms in the morning and by evening it will wilt. Nothing guaranteed.

What is alive is alive precisely because it flows. In flow is life. A stone lies by the rose: it was there in the morning; it will be there in the evening; it will be there tomorrow and the day after; centuries pass and it remains. And the rose blooms in the morning and wilts by evening.

Fearing that the rose will wilt, you began to worship stone. Man is astonishing: he offers flowers to stone idols! If you put stones on the idols of flowers, that would make more sense.

But stone appears steady, stable. The real Buddha lived one day and one day he was gone. But the counterfeit Buddha—the stone statue—you can cling to forever.

Out of fear of suffering, gradually man breaks off relationship with the living and connects with the dead. Even that brings suffering, because where is the possibility of joy with the dead?

There is only one way to joy—fluidity, tathata (suchness).

You asked: “What is attachment?”

Attachment is the tendency to stop, to make things stand still. Where nothing stands still, the insistence that everything should be fixed—such a state of mind, such delusion. From this, suffering will arise. You yourself are producing it. Then you ask, “How to get free of this suffering?” It doesn’t leave.

It doesn’t leave because if you drop it, you are suddenly empty. Then what are you? You are a tale of sorrow—a heap of griefs. Sorrow upon sorrow is piled up. If you drop them all, you are left with emptiness.

Emptiness frightens. “Well then, if nothing else, at least I have a headache! If nothing else, at least I have some trouble; I am filled with some trouble. There is some tangle, some busyness.” That is why one does not drop sorrow.

The questioner thinks: “When there is sorrow, why doesn’t it go?” Precisely because—that’s all you have. What do you have besides this wealth of sorrow? If you drop this, what remains?

One day, sit down and take stock. On a sheet of paper write down all the sorrows in your life. Don’t be stingy. List them all. Then ask yourself: if all this were gone, what would remain with me?

You will be terrified—because besides this, nothing remains. These worries, these depressions, these anxieties, these memories, these desires, these cravings, these dreams—what else do you have? This hurry-scurry, this daily struggle—what else do you have?

You know how hard it is for people to get through a holiday! The day just won’t pass. One has to invent tricks for new sorrows: “Let’s go on a picnic—pick up some fresh trouble.” The day won’t pass. You cannot sit idle. If you sit idle, you feel empty. You miss the office! What a joke: six days in the office you think, “When will I get a holiday?” And the day the holiday comes, you think, “When will Monday come and the office open? Let’s go back.”

On Sundays in Western countries the most accidents happen—because on Sunday everyone is let loose, like wild animals set free. They don’t know what to do! Everyone has a car; each takes theirs out! You’ve seen pictures of Western beaches—people crowded together; no room to stand! There was more space at home than that.

Off they go—miles and miles of cars bumper to bumper. Four or six hours driving there; four or six driving back. And there the very crowd awaited you that you left home to escape; all of them reached there too. Everyone has to go! One must escape the crowd! And the whole crowd gathers there! Even home would have been more comfortable. If you had stayed home, there would have been peace today—since the whole town had left.

But who will stay home! Emptiness—there is panic in it. Restlessness arises: one must do something.

Have you ever spent one empty day? From six in the morning to six in the evening, doing nothing. Just lying around. Not reading the newspaper. Not turning on the radio. Not quarreling with your wife. Not gossiping with neighbors. Have you ever had a day when you did nothing at all? You won’t remember such a day.

Why is it that you have never known so much as this much rest?

Emptiness frightens. There is fear: “If I go within into the emptiness and find nothing there—then what?”

Mulla Nasruddin was traveling by train. The ticket inspector came. Mulla keeps many pockets—shirt, coat, long coat—everything with several pockets stuffed with things. He turns one pocket, then another—turns them all inside out. But there is one pocket of his coat he won’t touch. He has looked in all the others—no ticket.

Finally the inspector said, “Sir, you aren’t looking in this coat pocket.” Mulla said, “I can’t look in that one. If it isn’t there either, then what? Then I’m finished! That is my one hope—that perhaps it is in there. Don’t even mention that pocket.” And he went on rummaging in the other pockets.

You keep rummaging outside because you are afraid that if you search inside and find nothing there—then what? Then what will happen? Then you’re done for! So man runs outside; dashes about frantically.

Attachment means: outwards, outwards, outwards. Busyness means: outwards.

If you become unbusy, empty, if a pause happens, you will have to go within. There is nowhere else left to go. Your energy, which was entangled outside, once it is freed—where will it go? It will return home. Like a bird that flies and flies and, tired, returns to its nest. In the same way, if you find no entanglement outside, where will you go? You will return to your nest. And then arises the fear: “If there is only silence there, if no one is found there, if nothing happens there…!”

We hear God resides there. Surely He must. We accept that He must—but we have not seen. If it turns out there isn’t—then? We hear that showers of supreme bliss fall there. We hear—but we have never seen.

Because if you see and it isn’t so—then life becomes utterly hopeless. Outside there is nothing; and now inside there is nothing. Then what reason is left to live? Then nothing remains but the thought of suicide.

From this panic, man keeps himself entangled. Old attachments break, new attachments are made. Old hassles end, new hassles are created. Before the old can even finish, he sows the seeds of the new—lest a moment arrive when he is left empty. The old mess is over; the new hasn’t begun—now what would he do?

And it will surprise you to know: the one who knows this inner emptiness is the one who knows joy. All else is nothing but sorrow. The one who consents to be empty is the one who becomes fulfilled. All others remain empty forever.

This will seem upside-down to you: the one who agrees to be empty gets filled; the one who refuses to be empty remains empty forever.

Jesus has said: Blessed are those who lose; for those who lost, found. And those who saved, lost everything.

That is why you do not drop your sorrow. At least there is something in your fist—even if it is sorrow. The fist is clenched; the delusion remains.

The entire message of the Buddha is this. All the Buddhas say: open your fist. The worldly say the opposite: “A clenched fist is worth a fortune; open it, and it’s worth dust!” And the Buddhas say: “Open your fist. The clenched fist is dust; opened, it is a treasure!” Open the fist. Open everything. And once, look through, through and through. Keep nothing closed. Do not keep any pocket untouched out of fear. Look into everything. Settle the account. See it whole. In that very seeing—in that very, very seeing—your life is transformed.

One who has witnessed the inner emptiness has witnessed the fullness. For shunya (emptiness) and purna (fullness) are two faces of the same coin. What appears empty from one side is fullness from the other.

It appears empty because you are clutching the world. You know only one kind of fullness—the worldly kind. That is not there inside, so you mistake it for emptiness. When you drop the worldly fullness and look within, you discover something else: it is not empty. It only seemed empty because of your worldly grasping. Because the world is not there, it seemed empty. There, there is the Divine.

I was once a guest at a very rich man’s house. Rich—as the rich often are—with no sense of beauty. Whatever new appeared in the world—he traveled the world and bought it. Whatever he found anywhere, he brought it. His house was a junkyard. The room they put me in required careful stepping—so many things were crammed in there. Everything was in it!

I said to him, “I will have to stay here seven days. If you would be kind, please remove all these things from here.” He said, “But the room will become empty!” I told him, “The room will not become empty. The room will become a room. Right now it is not a room at all. Right now you even have to walk through it carefully to get out—what kind of room is this? There is no space in it. There is no place to live. The meaning of a room is space—to live in. Without emptiness, how will you live?”

It is in emptiness that one lives. That is why the whole existence lives in space. Because akasha means shunya—space, openness. It gives room. Earth, moon, stars, sun, people, trees—it gives them all room. Space is not nothingness. Space is fullness—but of another kind.

Anyway, I was his guest. He did not really agree, but I had to stay seven days, and I did not agree to live in that junkyard. So, reluctantly, he had to remove it all. Unwillingly he took things out. Again and again he asked, “May I leave at least this much?” I said, “Take this too.” “Leave the radio?” “Leave the television?” I said, “Take it all. Just leave me. And you also—don’t come and go here too much.”

He took it all away, unwillingly. He felt very sad. He must have been thinking, “What an ignorant fellow has come into my house! Perhaps he had added more things in preparation for my coming.” He had made arrangements.

When everything was removed and nothing remained, he came in, looked around, very sad, and said, “I told you it would be utterly empty!” There were almost tears in his eyes: “Everything is empty.”

I told him, “Don’t worry. I enjoy living in emptiness. There is a certain relish in emptiness. Now this space has appeared. Now this room is full—full of room-ness. Full of space. Full of sky. But it is a different kind of fullness. Filling with furniture is one kind of filling; filling with sky is another.”

Exactly this happens within you. You have filled yourself with trash. You won’t let go because you are afraid of becoming empty. Only when you let go will you recognize that as you empty out, the sky that descends within you—that is your reality. Call it nirvana, call it God—give it whatever name you wish.

Then you have come to the wrong place.
“I want to make you mine.”
Here the whole effort is that you stop making anything “mine.” To make something yours is attachment—an expansion of “mine-ness.” I cannot in any way cooperate with you in inflating your “me.”

Haven’t you suffered enough from “your own”? Now drop it. Relate with me in a way where there is no mine-and-yours; otherwise that relationship too will be worldly. Where “mine” enters, the world enters.

Can you not relate without raising the banner of mine-and-yours? Can this connection be free of that crowd? You there, I here—must the clamor of mine-and-yours fill the space between? Can it not happen in silence?

Become a zero—rather than spreading the “mine”—then you will be connected with me. I am a zero; become a zero, and you will be connected with me. I have dropped the feeling of “mine”; drop it in yourself and you will be connected. There is only one way to be connected with me: become as I am, and you will be connected.

Now you say, “I want to make you mine.”
How many doors have you knocked on! How many did you try to make your own! From everywhere you returned bruised; everywhere insulted; still you haven’t come to your senses? Again the same old tune?

People change the subject but keep singing the same song! They change the instrument but play the same note. Sometimes they say: my money. Sometimes: my house. Then they start saying: my guru, my God, my liberation, my scripture! What difference does it make whether you say my scripture or my shop—it's all the same. Where there is “mine,” there is a shop. And that is why fights happen even at temples—because where there is “mine,” there is quarrel, there is trouble.

I went to a village. There was a single Jain temple. Just a few houses in that village. Some Shvetambara families, some Digambara families—and just one temple. A police lock on the door! I asked: What’s the matter? They said: a quarrel between Shvetambaras and Digambaras. One temple only. For many days both had been worshipping there. All was going fine. They had divided the time: till noon one would worship, after twelve the temple would belong to the other.

Sometimes there would be a snag: twelve strikes—the time is up—and some Shvetambara is still carrying on with his worship! Some people are mischief-makers! They have nothing to do with worship. If you truly want to worship, what need to come here? It can happen anywhere. Mischief-makers. They see it’s past twelve, but they create a disturbance—drag the worship on. It’s twelve-thirty. The Digambaras arrive with sticks: Move aside!

Their Lord Mahavira stands there, poor fellow, watching all this! Sticks start flying: “After twelve the temple is mine.” Those who came with sticks have no purpose with worship—because if you came to worship, why bring sticks?

There aren’t any major differences between Shvetambara and Digambara. But “mine” creates the snag. Both are disciples of the same Mahavira; both worship the same One. Yet even here they’ve worked out little calculations. Tiny calculations!

And Mahavira doesn’t offer much scope for such calculations—he stands naked! What difference can you make? You can’t even add a loincloth! So they concocted a small distinction: the Digambaras worship Mahavira with eyes closed; the Shvetambaras worship him with eyes open.

Now it’s a stone idol—eyes cannot open and close. So the Shvetambaras paste a fake open eye on top—open eyes! Inside they remain closed; the idol is sculpted with closed eyes, but on top they stick open ones and do their worship, because they worship God with open eyes!

The Digambaras come and quickly remove the eyes! This has nothing to do with Mahavira.

You’ve heard the story: A master had two disciples. In the blazing afternoon heat both were pressing his feet—one the left, one the right. They had divided the service—half and half!

The master said: Brothers, don’t quarrel. Serve. Divide it.

The master dozed off. In his sleep he turned over, and the left foot fell upon the right. The one who had been allotted the right foot said to the other, “Move your foot off. This is beyond my tolerance. Move it.”

The other said, “Who are you to move my foot? It will stay right here.”

Both brought sticks. Hearing the noise, the master awoke. He said, “Wait a moment.”

They were about to beat the master, since it was the foot! The one whose foot had been encroached upon wanted the other foot moved away. He had brought a stick: if it won’t move otherwise, I’ll move it with a stick.

The master said, “Hold on! The feet are mine. Both feet are mine.”

But division brings the hassle of mine-and-yours.

In life you have made “mine” so many times, and each time it has collapsed. At least here, don’t make “mine.” Don’t even bring “mine” here.

“I want to make you mine.”
Understand the difference. If there were understanding within you, you would want to become mine, not make me yours! You would say, “I am ready; make me yours.” You would say, “I am ready to surrender. I am ready to drop myself. Absorb me into yourself.”

But you say, “I want to make you mine.”
You want to take me into your fist! No—I grant no such facility. I am in no one’s fist.

That is why many people have gone away angry with me—because I don’t fit into their fist. They wanted me to stay in their grip: to do as they say, to speak as they say, to sit and stand as they say. These are all ways of extending the fist.

Strange people! If I stayed in someone’s house, they would imagine that since I was their guest they could even instruct me: “You’re speaking today—be sure to say this.” If I was going to say it, that settled it—now I would not. Done.

And if they drove me back afterward, on the way they would say, “It would have been better if you hadn’t said that. Many people must have been shocked. Don’t say that again!”

People are such fools they don’t know what they’re saying, or to whom they’re saying it! They have no awareness.

“I want to make you mine,
I want to test my fate.”
Has your fate not shattered yet? For how many births have you been testing it? Your skull has been battered from all sides. Still you want to try your luck! Now drop it.

This “testing fate” is childish. It is also an expansion of the ego. In it too is the urge to show the world: I’ll do something, I’ll become something.

“Just give me a goblet of love.”
Look, one who wants love must learn to give love, not to ask. By asking, love is not obtained. What is obtained by asking is not love at all.

There is only one art to receiving love: give. You missed because you stood as a beggar; you never received till today. Wherever you went, you stood there like a beggar. Love comes to emperors, not to beggars. A beggar gets alms, not love. And alms is never love; it is sympathy. And what is there in sympathy? Pity. What is there in pity? If you ask, what you get will be pity. And pity is a feeble thing. If you give, what you get will be love.

Love is received in the very measure in which it is given. One who pours out his whole heart receives abundantly—abundantly!—it showers from all sides. To gain love you must be a gambler, not a beggar. You must have the courage to stake everything.

And what—are you asking for one goblet! What will one goblet do? It will scarcely touch your lips. When the whole ocean is available, and you ask for a goblet!

But miserliness has become such a habit! Having lost the courage to give, you have lost the courage to receive. One who does not know how to give does not know how to receive, because they are two sides of the same coin. There is no difference between them.

Here do not beg! That is why I deliberately did not choose the beloved Buddhist word bhikshu for my sannyasin. Deliberately—though my affinity with Buddha is deep. I chose the word swami, because I want to make you masters.

I want you to be emperors. Drop the habit of alms. Stop asking. It is by asking that this wretchedness has befallen you. Now don’t ask at all. Whatever comes, be content. Whatever does not, be content. Your contentment should not change—whether it comes or not. And you will find that so much comes, so much comes that you cannot manage it. Your bowl will prove small. You will prove small.

But grasp the art, the mathematics. Giving is the mathematics—give!
Almost no one knows what it means to give love. So many come to me, and most of them complain that they don’t receive love. But no one comes to complain that they cannot give love!

Then I wonder: if no one is receiving love, from whom are they asking it! These are the givers; these are the takers! The husband comes and tells me he doesn’t receive love from his wife. The wife comes and tells me she doesn’t receive love from her husband.

Both are intent on taking. No one is willing to give. How will it happen? How can this bargain be struck? How can it work? Each sits watching the other: “Give.” And no one wants to give. Both have the same demand—how can there be fulfillment? Fulfillment can be only when both give—then both receive.

You receive very little love from this world because you do not give. Otherwise this world is filled with love on all sides. Here, on every flower and every leaf, is the message of love. Here, in every particle and every speck, there is a letter of love.

God is sending you letters in many ways. But because you don’t know the art of giving, you miss in receiving.

“I want to test my fate;
just give me a goblet of love—
I want to forget everything.”
Here I certainly distribute wine. But not wine that makes you forget. It is wine that brings awareness. Intoxicants that bring unconsciousness are available everywhere. What value is there in an intoxicant that induces unconsciousness? For a little while you will forget; then it will return—and return denser. For a little while you will forget, but within it keeps creeping.

A man full of worries drinks. Well, the night passes. In the morning the worries stand right where they were—and bigger. If they had been worked through at night, their lifespan would have been shorter. But another night has passed; now their life has lengthened, they have grown stronger, their roots have spread further. Then you drink again. Spend two, four, ten days like this and worries take deep, firm root within you. It will become harder and harder to resolve them.

Unconsciousness brings no benefit. And you seek unconsciousness even in music. You seek unconsciousness even in a beautiful woman. You seek it in property. You seek it in respect. You seek only unconsciousness.

At least do not come here to seek unconsciousness. Seek awareness here. Wake up here.

Certainly this awakening is such a wondrous alchemy that by it you will awaken and you will be in ecstasy. That is why I call it wine. You will be awake and you will sway.

But if swaying happens in unconsciousness, there is no joy in it. That is the swaying of sleep. Sway awake. Dance full of awareness. Let there be awareness and let there be dance. Let there be awareness and let a stream of nectar flow. Within, let the lamp of awareness burn; without, let there be ecstasy.

I want you to become such sannyasins that within burns a lamp like Buddha’s, and without there is the intoxication of Meera. Become such a union. This union has not been attempted. It has not yet been possible. That is why in the past sannyas has remained incomplete—half and half. The complete sannyasin will be filled with awareness and will be ecstatic too. The lamp of meditation will be lit, and the stream of love will flow.

Become a complete sannyasin. You have been given a unique opportunity—do not miss it. The possibility of missing is always greater. If you do not miss, you will know something, you will become such as was never before possible.

There have been one-sided sannyasins. One-sided sannyas is beautiful—far more beautiful than the world—but pale beside a multidimensional sannyas. A diamond—you see, it has many facets. The more facets, the more the diamond shines. Likewise, the more facets in your sannyas, the more its brilliance, the greater its dignity. The more rays will emanate from you.

And these two facets must be there: within, the lamp of awareness; and along with the lamp of awareness, a wave of ecstasy. Let not the lamp of awareness dry you up, turn you into a desert.

Let flowers bloom in you. And not only that flowers bloom—for if only flowers bloom and within there is unconsciousness, there is no joy. Let the light of the lamp also fall upon the flowers.

If flowers bloom in the dark, there is no joy. And if a lamp burns in a desert, there is no joy. Let the lamp burn in a garden. Let flowers bloom—and be seen in the lamp’s light. Let there be ecstasy, and let that ecstasy be seen in awareness. Let ecstasy not be unconscious. And let awareness not be un-ecstatic.

It is this new sannyas that I am giving birth to. You are participating in a great experiment. You may or may not know your good fortune.

There was a great magician—Houdini. His greatest art was that no matter how tightly you chained him, he would free himself in moments. They would clamp him in chains, lock him into crates, put padlocks on the crates and throw him into the sea—he would still be out within minutes.

They tried him in prisons all over the world; police of every kind set up their arrangements—in England, America, France, Germany. They would put him in a cell, add lock upon lock, chains on his hands and chains on his feet—and not even minutes would pass. In his whole life it never took him more than three minutes to get out of any situation. His art was astonishing.

But in Italy he was defeated—badly defeated. For an hour he could not get out. It took three hours. The thousands who had gathered panicked: Had Houdini died? What happened? No one could believe it. Three minutes was the outer limit—he would be out in seconds. What now?

When Houdini finally emerged after three hours, he was in a bad state—drenched in sweat, the veins on his forehead swollen with anxiety, eyes bloodshot, panting as he came out.

They asked, What happened? Why so long? He said, I was tricked. There was no lock on the door. And the poor fellow kept trying to open it—how to open, from where to open? If there’s a lock, you open it! A joke did the work.

Had there been a lock, he’d have opened it—he had the art of opening locks. There was no lock he could not open. But there was no lock. The door was merely stuck. There wasn’t even a bolt. Even a bolt he would have opened. No bolt, no lock—nothing on the inside.

He got frantic. He must have searched everywhere. No way presented itself. For the first time he failed. Three hours later, people asked, Then how did you get out? He said: When I was utterly exhausted and collapsed, my weight pushed the door and it swung open. I had already decided my reputation had drowned today.

You ask:
“Some tool, some trick—
who knows what is stuck where,
who knows what is jammed where.
This night that just won’t end,
this day that—ugh—won’t open at all.
Some tool, some trick!”

There is no tool and no trick. The door is not locked. You are getting worn out trying to open it! Stop trying to open it.

You have taken life as a problem—so you go on missing. Life is not a problem to be solved. Nor is it a question for which you must find an answer somewhere. Life is a mystery to be lived.

Understand the difference between problem and mystery. A problem is something that has a solution. A mystery is that which has no solution at all, that which has no final answer. With a mystery, you go on inquiring—and in inquiring, you yourself are lost, yet the inquiry continues. The search is endless.

That is why we call the divine infinite—without boundary, where no limit ever arrives. That is why we call the divine unknowable; even by knowing and knowing, you will not come to an end of it.

Hence the scholar is defeated and the simple-hearted know. The scholar and the simple-hearted are in the same position Houdini was. First he was a scholar—for three hours he remained a scholar, and the door did not open. He kept thinking, There must be a lock. If there had been a lock, his scholarship would have worked. But since there was no lock, what was scholarship to do?

There is no problem in life—what is scholarship to do? If there were a problem, scholarship could solve it. What can intellect do? Intellect is impotent here. What can logic do? Logic has no purchase. If it were a problem, logic could manage. But life is a mystery.

When Houdini fell down in defeat, in that very jolt the door opened. What could not be opened by opening, opened by itself. It had never been closed.

That is why Jesus said: Only those who are innocent like children will enter the kingdom of my Father.

Why will those who are childlike attain? Because only children know how to live a mystery.

Have you watched little children? The world around them is bewitching. Everything attracts them. A butterfly flits by and they start running after it. You say, Where are you running, you little fool! Because you see nothing in a butterfly. You are blind—your eyes have gathered dust. Time has spoiled your vision. School, teachers, parents, conditioning have dulled your eyes. They have murdered your sense of wonder. And when wonder dies within a person, the soul has died.

You have lost the capacity to be astonished. Yet there is every reason to be astonished. The very existence of a butterfly is almost impossible. It shouldn’t be—and yet it is! So beautiful, so many-colored—off it flies. The child is amazed, enchanted—he runs. You pull his hand: Where are you going?

A child is captivated by a flower blooming in the grass, becomes juicy with delight. On the seashore he gathers pebbles—multicolored pebbles. You say, What are you doing? Why carry this nonsense? Even so, the child hides them and fills his pockets. At night his mother has to pull pebbles out of his bed.

In these pebbles the child still sees what later you will not see even in diamonds. The child has deep eyes.

Here everything is mysterious. In the smallest pebble the divine abides. Every pebble is a diamond—and must be, for every pebble bears His signature. Every leaf is a Veda. Every flower an Upanishad. In every bird’s song is a verse of the Qur’an—so it must be, for it is He who speaks, He who blooms, He who flies. Only He is.

A child is thrilled by the smallest thing. A parrot flies past, and the child is thrilled.

The day you become like a child again… You will have to become a child again. You will have to dust yourself off. Time, society, conditioning have imposed distortions upon your mind—distortions, that is, “knowledge,” erudition. They have given you the delusion that “I know.” That delusion must go.

Neither is there any tool, nor any trick, because there is no lock here to break. No tool is needed. There is no lock at all; every door is open. Only your eyes are closed. And for opening your eyes there are no screwdrivers, hammers, or saws.

I have heard: A doctor came to see a patient. A woman was ill—pregnant. Nine months had completed. The husband was very anxious, standing outside behind the curtain. The doctor went in. Then he peeped out of the window and asked, Do you have a hammer? The husband was shaken—A hammer? My wife is pregnant; what do you need a hammer for? But he thought, The doctor must need it, and handed him a hammer.

A little later the doctor said, A screwdriver? Now he thought, This man will kill her! Is he a doctor or a mechanic—what is going on? Still, he gave him a screwdriver. A little later: A saw. Then the husband said, This is too much! What is happening? What about my wife? The doctor said, Forget your wife. I can’t even get my bag open yet! And you’re worrying about your wife.

You are asking for tools. But around God there are no doors. God is open, manifest. You have made yourself blind. You have put a curtain on your eyes. Your eyes are shut. And to open the eyes, no screwdriver, hammer, or saw is needed. Open them whenever you wish—it is your choice.

And even “opening” requires no effort. Open now, and you are free now. Now the kingdom of flowers and leaves changes before your eyes. Now the winds start bringing a different message. Now the dancing sunrays become the dance of the divine. And these people sitting around you—within them the same One is hidden. Within you the same One is hidden. Where are you going to search? The seeker himself hides the Sought.

No method, no ritual. Understanding is needed—only understanding. And by understanding I do not mean the cleverness of the “understanding ones.” The worldly-wise are great fools. I mean the understanding of the so-called fools—the innocent.

Socrates said: When I used to know, I knew nothing. And since knowing has dropped, what remains to be known? All is known.

Lao Tzu said: Whoever says, “I know,” know that he does not know. How will the knower say, “I know”? For what is there to know? Only mystery. How can mystery be known?

When mystery is “known,” what is known is that there is nothing to know. What else could be known? A sense of wonder surrounds you, a hush of awe. You begin to run again after existence as a child runs after a butterfly. You begin again to pick shells on the shore—the shore of life’s ocean. And then a rain of joy begins to fall upon your life, day and night.

That too will obstruct. Desire as such obstructs. It makes no difference what the desire is for; the content does not matter. Whether you want wealth or you want meditation, the nature of wanting is the same—and wanting hinders.
Whether you want status or you want the Divine, the delusion of wanting is one.

What does wanting mean? Understand this. Wanting means: as I am, I am not all right. Something else should be. A little more money, a little more status, a little more meditation, a little more truth, a little more God. But a little more is needed. As I am, I am not satisfied. Wanting means discontent. Then what difference does it make what the wanting is for? The discontent will remain.

You go and throw a pebble into a still lake—a pebble, an ordinary pebble—and ripples arise. Do you think if you throw the Kohinoor diamond, no ripples will arise? Throw the Kohinoor—what difference does it make to the water? Whether you throw a pebble or the Kohinoor, to the water there is no distinction. The Kohinoor is a stone, and a stone is the Kohinoor. Still the ripples will arise. And when ripples arise, the reflection of the moon that was forming is distorted.

Desire falls into you like a stone. Whether the desire is for gold or for heaven—no difference. Whether the desire is of this world or of the other—no difference.

Desire drops into your consciousness like a stone, and the consciousness quivers. Because of that quivering, truth is lost. If you wish for truth, do not turn truth into a desire. The one who becomes free of desire attains truth.

This may seem a little difficult. But if you understand patiently, it is very simple. Desire creates tension. In a tension-filled mind, the image of the Divine does not form. Because of desire, waves arise; because of the waves, the whole vibration begins. In a trembling mind, the image of the Divine does not form.

Understand it rightly: the trembling mind itself is the world.

But craving is the world. There are not two kinds of craving—worldly and otherworldly.
The pundits and priests have taught you very wrong things. They have taught: drop worldly craving and cultivate craving for the hereafter. But the knowers said something else. The Buddhas said something else. They said: drop craving, because craving is the world. And where there is no craving, there is the beyond. Where there is craving, this very world will go on recurring. Do not be deceived. The mind is very cunning.
The mind says, “But this is a good desire.” There is no such thing as a good desire. Desire as such is bad. The mind will say, “This is a religious desire! This is a spiritual desire. This should be pursued.” “We don’t want wealth; we want meditation.”
But the trouble lies in the very wanting. If you want, it means you are tense. If you want, you are unquiet. If you want, you are not here, not in this moment; you have gone into the future. Money will come tomorrow, and meditation too will come tomorrow. So you go into tomorrow. Today is missed. Position tomorrow—and the otherworld also tomorrow.
And what is, is right now and right here, this very moment. Understand. Wake up.
If in this very moment there is no desire in you—not even the desire to understand me—you are sitting quietly; there is no desire. The mind is wave-less. What remains to be attained? What lack is there in that wave-less mind?
That very wave-less mind is aptakam—one whose desires are fulfilled. That very wave-less mind is the Brahmin. That is what I call a Brahmin: a wave-less, unmoving mind.
If even the desire for Brahman remains, you are not a Brahmin. If you are Brahman, then you are a Brahmin. And what delay is there in being Brahman? You are Brahman. But your wanting has exhausted you. What you are seeking is present within you. But because of the search you have become so agitated...
Remember Houdini’s story again. The door was open; it was only jammed. But he went on looking for the lock. There was no lock. He got into trouble. It took three hours. If only he had opened the door at once—had just considered it. He must not have considered it. How could he? All his life he had only opened locks. And when people shut him in, they shut him in with locks. They shut him in precisely so the locks could be opened.
But those Italians outwitted him. They badly defeated Houdini. They played a deep joke.
Naturally, had you been in Houdini’s place, you too would have gone on searching for the lock. And for one who has to get out in three minutes—what restlessness! Naturally, he must have been drenched in sweat. Three minutes—and an hour passed! He must have looked at his watch again and again. An hour passed. Reputation gone! A lifetime’s earnings gone! What will people say? “Houdini is finished! Defeated—defeated by policemen! Today a lock was put on you! A lifetime’s prestige—turning to dust!”
As time passed, his restlessness must have grown; panic must have increased; blood pressure must have risen; the heartbeat must have quickened; he must have been sweating profusely. And the more he sweated, the higher the blood pressure, the greater the panic, the more frantically he must have searched for the lock. And the more he searched for a lock, the more intelligence was lost; awareness was lost.
How could the thought even arise that perhaps the door was open! The door is open. But because of wanting it does not open. Drop wanting.
And when I say, drop wanting, I say it unconditionally. I am not saying, drop worldly wanting.
Let me repeat: wanting is the world. There is no wanting of the world and wanting of God. Where there is wanting, there is the world. If you want God, you are still worldly.
That is why I say: your rishis and sages sitting in temples and caves are all worldly—worldly just like you; there is not the slightest difference. They are desiring heaven. And what are they desiring in heaven? The same apsaras you desire here. You look at film actresses—you are a little modern; they are a little ancient. They think of Urvashi and the like—those old-time versions of film actresses! They think: there we shall get it.
You think: let’s go to the market here and have two clay cups of liquor. And they think they will drink there, in paradise, where rivers of wine are flowing. What is there to drink here! There it is free; there are no prohibitions. There the real wine is found—not some country hooch. There is no swadeshi hassle there. Rivers of imported liquor are flowing—bathe in them, wash in them, take a dip. Drink, and make others drink.
Or there are wish-fulfilling trees there: sit beneath them and whatever you desire is fulfilled instantly—instantly: want it, and it is done.
Do you think those who desire heaven are spiritual? Or do you think those who desire liberation are spiritual? Even in liberation, what are you desiring? That peace be obtained, bliss be attained, release from sorrow, no more pain.
But this is exactly what a worldly man is desiring. He too earns money so that there be no suffering. He wants to build a big house for a little comfort. There is no fundamental difference between your desire and his. If there is a difference, it is only of magnitude, not of quality.
You may tell him, “Your desire is for the transient; our desire is for the eternal.” But that only means you are even more worldly than he is. His desire is for the transient; it is small. Your desire is immense—monstrous—for the eternal! You are not satisfied with the fleeting. Your greed is enormous. You are terribly worldly!
Then whom do I call spiritual? One who has no desire; who lives without desire; who says, “We will live here, we will live now.” For whom the present is the wish-fulfilling tree. For whom, as it is, is heaven. Where he is, there is moksha. Such a person is spiritual. One who has no demand for otherwise-ness. Whatever tomorrow brings, it brings. What is now, he lives it. What is now, he enjoys with great delight, with great gratitude.

One who has become a question for all answers—only he can be the answer to all questions. The saint was right.
Now, if you meet him, please tell him on my behalf—that one who has become a question for all answers is the one who can be the answer to all questions.

The world is neither pouring water on your hopes nor sprinkling gold on them. The world doesn’t even know your hopes. Only you know them.

And when it seems to you that the world has poured water on your hope, just understand this much: you must have tried to do something against nature. The world has done nothing; you yourself must have gone against the flow.

Now you fall from a tree and say that gravity broke your leg! What has gravity to do with it! Gravity doesn’t even know your leg. Your leg is not so important that gravity would make a special arrangement to break it. You slipped and fell yourself!

Your hopes are personal. And it is precisely because they are personal that water gets poured on them. Think in the language of the whole. Think with the totality, not against it. Flow with the current; don’t fight it. Then never will water be poured on any of your hopes.

And if you understand rightly, what follows? It means that when you flow with the whole, how will you have separate hopes at all! The destiny of the whole is your destiny. What need is there to hope separately? A wise person doesn’t take on private hassles.

That which sustains this vastness—I, so small, will let it sustain me too. The moon and stars do not miss! Such an immense cosmos moves with such ease and such musicality; why should I alone worry! The One who runs all this will also carry me along. And the One who cannot carry me along, how will he carry such immensity!

The name of this state of feeling is religiosity: that I do not make private hopes; I do not make private desires; I learn to be absorbed in this vastness. In this absorption, prayer wells up.

You ask: “The world has very cruelly...”

Who is interested! Very cruelly gravity broke your leg! You yourself must have fallen; you must have fallen in such a way!

Have you seen—sometimes it happens. In a bullock cart a drunkard and a sober man are riding. The cart overturns. The sober one gets hurt; the drunkard does not. What’s the matter?

You see drunkards every day, lying on the road. You try falling that way two or four times! Then you will live in the hospital forever. And the drunkard falls every day! Into the gutter, on the road, in this corner, that corner. And in the morning you see them strolling off happily to the office. Everything is fine. No hitch anywhere.

The drunkard’s way of falling... When a drunkard falls, he doesn’t know he is falling. So he makes no effort to save himself. Because he makes no effort, gravity does not oppose him.

When you fall, at the very moment of falling you brace yourself. You try to save yourself. The more you brace, the more your bones become rigid; they fill with tension. You fall while stiffening, therefore you are injured. Little children fall every day in your house; they don’t suffer any big injuries.

A Western scientist did an experiment. He did it in a university. A child had been born in his home; he was studying the child. He began to be amazed: the child does so much in a day—though from his point of view all of it is “pointless”—runs here, goes there; jumps and hops; climbs a tree; dances; keeps doing something or other; carries dolls from here to there! He does so much—where does so much energy come from in this tiny child?

He tried an experiment. He told the young man who was first in university wrestling: I want to do an experiment, if you’ll cooperate. For one day, from morning till evening, do whatever my child does. Just follow him.

He was the strongest man in the university. In four hours he was flat on his back! He said: This child of yours will kill me. I won’t last till evening.

And the child started having a great time! Today someone is trailing him, so he leapt more, jumped more. He saw that whatever I do, he also does—then the limits of fun were reached! Climbed a tree. Climbed onto the tin roof. Jumped off the tin. Jumped from the tree. Started a thousand kinds of calisthenics. In four hours he had exhausted that wrestler.

He said: Your child will take my life. This experiment cannot last till evening. Forgive me. Four hours is plenty.

Where does so much energy come from in a child? Such tiny life, such energy! The child has not yet begun to fight nature; he is still with nature.

As long as you are with nature, extraordinary energy keeps coming to you. The moment you take yourself to be different from nature, separate—the moment the ego is born—right there the obstruction begins. Your ego has created your wretchedness.

Do not say, “The world has cruelly, very harshly, poured water on my hopes.”

You must have made such hopes that there was no other way—water had to be poured on them. And everyone makes big hopes! No one is a miser in hoping. Ask anyone—ask about his hopes—tell him to open his heart and speak his hopes. He will list such hopes that you will be astonished. How can all of them be fulfilled!

Is there anyone in India who does not want to be Prime Minister? Whether he admits it or not—perhaps out of humility he says, “No, no!”—but inside he will be tickled that you’re asking: What do you think! What a stunning idea! How did you spot it! This is exactly what keeps rising within me! I somehow hold myself together so it doesn’t grab me loudly.

This man will one day finally say that water was poured on all his hopes. How many can be Prime Minister? And if everyone could be Prime Minister, then who would want to be Prime Minister—that too is a question!

If it were up to me, I’d make a law that everyone is Prime Minister. Matter finished! Quarrel finished! But then no one would want to be. Then people would say: Now how do we get free from being Prime Minister! Because it has become ordinary. The thrill of being Prime Minister is that in a country of sixty crores only one person can be. Defeating sixty crores... The thrill is in that very defeating.

Now sixty crores cannot all be Prime Minister. So, leaving one, the rest are going to be unhappy. And they will say, water was poured on our hopes! And don’t think the one who became Prime Minister is going to be happy. The moment he becomes Prime Minister he starts thinking something else: I should conquer the whole world. What will just India do? Let me make Akhand Bharat. At least let me gobble up Pakistan. Let me swallow Bangladesh. Sikkim has gone; now Nepal; now Bhutan. Let me stretch my hands and feet a bit. Water is going to be poured on his hopes too. He will also die unhappy. He too will think: water was poured on all my hopes! I could not conquer the world!

Even a man like Alexander dies unhappy.

And here a few people do live in bliss and depart in bliss. They are people like Buddha. They do not hope at all. They say: Whatever happens is right. Whatever does not happen, perfectly right. How will you break them? How will you pour water on them?

Bear in mind, here everyone is filled with hopes—everyone! Yesterday I was reading a poem:
In the green of the field, crouched senseless, lies hid
the half-dead, crushed corpse of a footpath.
Under brisk feet, groaning with pain,
it raises its face up to the ripening ears on both sides,
then falls silent thinking only this:
Had the passersby not trampled my womb so,
my sons too would by now have become young men,
my daughter too would have been fit for marriage.

Footpath! But I liked this very thing.

In the green of the field, crouched senseless, lies hid
the half-dead, crushed corpse of a footpath—
but even a footpath keeps such hopes! Everyone does.

Under brisk feet, groaning with pain,
it lifts its face toward the young ears on both sides,
then falls silent thinking only this:
Had the travelers not crushed my womb by their ceaseless walking!
my sons too would by now have become young men,
my daughter too would have been fit to wed.

Within everyone there are a thousand-and-one desires, passions; they are not fulfilled. Even if they are fulfilled, nothing is resolved. One is fulfilled, ten are born.

To awaken from this futility is what sannyas is.

And then, when you live without hope—Buddha has said—when you live with nirasha, only then for the first time do you live in bliss.

But understand the meaning of nirasha. Buddha’s nirasha is not the same as yours. Your meaning of despair is: hope has broken. Buddha’s meaning of nirasha is: there is freedom from hope.

In Buddha’s nirasha there is neither hope nor despair. There is freedom from the very mood of hoping. No demand remains now. And when no demand remains, then the Divine manifests within you. When no prayer remains, then the Divine manifests.

Drop this beggarhood; declare yourself an emperor.

Become one with the Vast; move with the Vast. Dance with this Vastness. Participate in the rasa-lila of this Vast. Don’t keep separate, private notions. Don’t walk apart and alone. Live in that in which trees and rivers and mountains and moon and stars live. You too will turn green. Your blush too will bloom as flowers. Your gold too will be revealed.

The glory of your life can certainly be revealed—but drop your self; drop the I-sense.

Therefore Buddha has said: one who becomes available to anatta—who knows “I am not”—that one is the brahmin.

Esa dhammo sanantano.

Enough for today.