Es Dhammo Sanantano #13

The world may be in an uproar — do not be concerned.
This heart is the dwelling of the spirit of the age; protect it.
If the heart goes dim, know — darkness has descended.
One small flame stands alight amid the storms — guard it.

The world changes, and yet it does not. The world’s troubles keep recurring. There, storms and tempests will always rage. If someone thinks, 'When the world changes, then I will change,' understand that he has vowed never to change. His transformation will never happen. He has decided not to change, and found a convenient excuse.

Many people have collected excuses. They say, the world is not in a right state — even if we wish to be right, how could we be? Such people are blind; for the world has never been 'right', and yet flowers have blossomed in individual lives. Some Buddha has become a light, some Krishna, some Christ has attained fragrance. The world has kept moving — it will go on so. Do not wait for the world to change. Otherwise you will go on waiting, live in darkness, and die in darkness. And the world remains; you are here only for a while, and tomorrow you will be gone.

So keep one thing in remembrance: change yourself. No matter how many storms and tempests there are, within there is a lamp whose flame can be lit. No matter how dark it is outside, there is a temple within that can be illumined.

Do not be troubled by the outer darkness. Pour that same concern and labor into kindling the inner light. And here is the great wonder: when there is light within, when light happens within your eyes, the outer darkness disappears — at least for you it vanishes. You begin to live in another realm. And every person is a trustee of Paramatma. There is something that you must fulfill to truly be called human.

Life is an opportunity — to prove something. To prove that we will not remain mere seeds; we will sprout, unfold, become flowers. To prove that we will not remain possibility; we will become truth. To prove that we will not remain just a desire to become; that 'being' will manifest within us. That manifestation is called Buddhahood.

The world may be in an uproar — do not be concerned.
This heart is the dwelling of the spirit of the age; protect it.

This heart within — which Buddha called chitta, which Mahavira, the Upanishads and the Vedas call Atman — this is the temple of Existence.

...Protect the dwelling of the spirit of the age.
If the heart goes dim, know — darkness has descended.

Do not worry so much about darkness. When has darkness ever blown out a light? However vast the darkness, it cannot extinguish even a small, flickering lamp. It is not from darkness that darkness comes.

If the heart goes dim, know — darkness has descended.
One small flame stands alight amid the storms — guard it.

That inner flame of life, that which is awake within you, your consciousness — whoever guards this has guarded all. Whoever loses this — even if he saves everything else — has saved nothing. You may become an emperor, yet remain a beggar. Guard the inner light, and even if you remain a beggar by the roadside, no one can snatch your sovereignty.

There is only one way to be a sovereign: to attain the inner wealth. There is only one way to be a master: to be joined, to be one with the inner lamp. And that inner lamp longs every moment for you to tend its wick, to fan it. The tending of that wick is called meditation. Those who fixate upon the outer darkness become irreligious. Those who attend to the inner lamp become religious. Walking to temples and mosques avails nothing. Your temple is within. Each person is born carrying his temple. Where are you searching for a temple? It is not in stones. Within you there is a small flame of Paramatma — the lamp of awareness — there it is.

These sutras of Buddha are the very ways to fan the lamp of non-negligence — apramada. Through these sutras there will be no revolution in the world, for the wise never speak of revolution in the world. It has never happened — it never will. The wise speak of the revolution within, which is always possible — it has happened, it happens today, it will happen tomorrow. To strive for the impossible is foolishness; and in striving for the impossible, even the possible is lost. To strive for the possible is the proof of understanding; to strive for the impossible is the life of folly.

Buddha has said: 'In whose chitta there is no raga, and therefore no dvesha; who is free of sin and merit — that awakened one knows no fear.'

Even when you search for God, you do so out of fear. And through fear will you ever find God? Yes — when God is found, fear disappears. God and fear cannot be together. It is like trying to keep darkness and light together. Your prayers too are born of fear; therefore they are futile, not worth two pennies. Even when you bow down in the temple, you bow trembling. This is not the thrill of love; it is the tremor of fear.

There is a great difference between the two. When love descends into the heart, all trembles too — but it is the quiver of delight. How far the rapture of love, how far the panic of fear! Remember: love has its own warmth — and so has fever. Love also gathers a warmth around you — and fever as well. Do not confuse the two. One bows in fear, another bows in love; do not take them to be the same. The frightened one also begins to pray; the one filled with love also prays. But the frightened one’s prayer hides hatred within, for love cannot exist for that which we fear.

Therefore whoever told you, 'Fear God,' laid the foundation for your irreligion. I say to you, if you must fear, fear the whole world — but not Paramatma. Because where fear arises, love and joy cannot arise. Then the well is poisoned. Then you are already toxic. Then your prayer will have smoke, not the flame of love. Your prayer may give off a stench — and incense sticks and perfumes will not be able to hide it. You may cover it with flowers — it will not be covered. Try a thousand devices — all will remain superficial. Reflect a little: when there is fear within, how can prayer arise?

That is why Buddha did not speak of God. For now prayer has not arisen — what is the point of speaking of God? Your eyes are not yet open — why speak of light? You are not yet able to walk — you crawl on your knees — why speak of dancing now? First prayer arises — then God. And prayer arises only when there is abhaya — fearlessness.

Here one more subtle point must be understood. Do not mistake abhaya for being 'fearless' in the ordinary sense. These are fine distinctions — fundamental ones. There is a vast difference between nirbhaya — the show of fearlessness — and abhaya. The dictionary gives the same meaning; the dictionary of life does not. 'Fearless' in the worldly sense means: within, he is afraid; outwardly he has managed a posture. Within he quakes; outside he does not tremble. He has practiced not trembling. He does not allow the tremor to reach the surface. Those you call brave are as cowardly as the cowards. The coward sits down, frightened; the brave man is frightened but does not sit — he goes on. The coward admits his fear; the brave man keeps denying his fear — but he is afraid all the same. Abhaya is utterly different. There is neither fear there, nor the stance of fearlessness. When fear itself is gone, who will be fearless? Abhaya means: where both fear and fearlessness have disappeared — the matter itself is no more.

Buddha and Mahavira both have called this the first step toward godliness — Bhagavatta. Who attains abhaya? In what chitta does fearlessness arrive? In the chitta where there is no raga — and therefore there is no dvesha. Naturally so, for dvesha arises from raga.

Have you observed? You cannot make someone directly your enemy. First you must make him your friend. How will you make someone your enemy all at once? Enmity is not born direct; it comes behind friendship. Hatred is not born direct; it follows attachment. Aversion is not born direct; what you call love — it is the shadow of that. If you wish to make someone your enemy, first you must make him your friend. If you wish to hate someone, first you must be attached. If you wish to push someone away, first you must pull him close. Such a strange world! Upside down.

You want to be free of hatred; but whoever becomes attached cannot be free of hate. Once you have accepted a person, where will his shadow go? It too will enter your house. You cannot say to the guest, 'Leave your shadow outside; we invited only you.' The shadow will remain with him. Dvesha is the shadow of raga. Vairagya too is the shadow of raga.

That is why I say to you: the true renunciate is not a man of mere renunciation. The true renunciate is one who is free of raga. Mahavira and Buddha gave him a new name: vitaraga. Three words: raga, vairagya, vitaragata. Raga means: relating to another with the hope that relationship will bring happiness. Raga is the dream of happiness — the desire that another will give me joy. Dvesha is the experience that another brings me sorrow. Friendship is the longing to make someone 'mine'. Enmity is the realization that he did not prove mine — he proved the other. Friendship is a dream; enmity is the breaking of the dream. Raga is groping in the dark for a door; when a wall is found instead of the door, dvesha arises. The door is not in the darkness; it will not be found by groping. The door is in awakening.

So Buddha says: in whose chitta there is no raga. Meaning: one who has dropped the notion that happiness can come from another. One who has awakened and understood that happiness cannot come from anyone. There is only one illusion — call it the world — that happiness can come from the other: from wife or husband, father, brother, son, friend, wealth, house, position.. When this expectation arises, naturally, you do not wish to lose the one you think will give you happiness; you wish to protect them. They must not go far; someone else must not claim them. The wife fears the husband may look toward another woman. The husband fears the wife may become interested elsewhere, because there lies the hope of happiness — someone else might take it.

But has happiness ever come from another? Has anyone ever declared that it did? Hopes.. and hopes.. and hopes — yet never fulfilled. Who assured you that happiness can come from the other? And when the other comes to you, remember: he has come in search of his happiness. You go to him in search of yours. He has no concern for your happiness, nor you for his. How will happiness happen when neither intends it? The wife is with you not to give you happiness; you are with the wife not to give her happiness.

The Upanishads say: Who loves the wife for the wife’s sake? No one. One loves for one’s own sake. Who loves the husband for the husband’s sake? One loves for one’s own sake. The craving for happiness is for oneself. Therefore, even if it seems that by giving the other sorrow you might get happiness, you will be willing — and this is what happens. We think happiness will come from the other, yet we give the other sorrow, and the other gives us sorrow.

Whoever sees this truth becomes a sannyasin. What is the meaning of sannyas? He who has seen that happiness will not come from the other — he turns his direction. He begins to seek home within. He searches within: since there is no happiness outside, let me search inside — perhaps what is not outside, is within.

And whoever has peeped within has never returned empty-handed. Their being overflowed. They were so filled that they not only found for themselves — they squandered, they shared. Such a treasure was found that the more they gave, the more it grew. Kabir has said: pour out with both hands. When bliss is found, pour out with both hands — for the more you pour, the more it grows. As you draw water from a well, springs bring new water. The old goes, the new arrives.

He who found bliss discovered this secret too: share. If you hoard, only the old will be hoarded; the new cannot come. Scatter, so that you go on becoming new each day. The small well is not small — it is linked to the infinite ocean. Within there are channels from the ocean. Empty here — and there it goes on filling.

You are not only Atman; you are also Paramatma. You are not only a small well; you are the ocean too. The ocean is peeking through the small well. The well is a window through which the ocean looks. You are a window through which Paramatma looks. Once you come to your senses, once it is realized that my bliss is in me, raga ends.

'In whose chitta there is no raga...'

Meaning: one who knows that bliss is within. Therefore, naturally, there is no dvesha either. For when no happiness comes from the other, what complaint remains that sorrow came from the other? The matter itself becomes futile. Only when the idea of happiness exists does the idea of sorrow take form. The more you expect from someone, the more sorrow you receive from them.

People ask me: why are husband and wife so miserable because of each other? I tell them: because it is the relationship of greatest expectations. The more the expectation, the greater the measure of sorrow — because that is the measure of failure. A stranger passes you on the road — he causes you no sorrow. There is no reason; he is a stranger. You never had any expectation. And if a stranger smiles at you, it feels good.

But even if your wife smiles at you, or your husband smiles, it does not feel good. It seems some trick is afoot. The wife is smiling! It must mean she saw a sari in the market? Or some jewelry caught her eye? Or some new trouble? Smiles are not cheap — no one smiles for free. Where there is relationship, people smile with motive. If the husband comes home unusually cheerful, brings flowers, sweets, the wife becomes suspicious: surely something.. some black in the lentils. Must have looked too closely at some woman — now he is doing penance. Otherwise he never brings sweets home!

The more the expectation, the more the sorrow. The larger the house of cards you build, the greater the pain — for it will fall. So much effort, so much energy, so many rainbows of desire — all dashed on the ground, and the pain is equal to that size. Strangers do not give sorrow. The unfamiliar does not give sorrow. Expectation is necessary.

But if you drop expectation altogether, who can give you sorrow? Think deeply on this; reflect, meditate. If you drop expectation — no demand remains — because you have awakened to the fact that nothing is to be gotten from anyone — then suddenly you will find sorrow has been dismissed from your life. No one gives sorrow then.

Do not ask for happiness — and no one gives you sorrow. And then a wondrous thing happens: you do not ask for happiness, no one gives you sorrow; no happiness comes from outside, no sorrow comes. For the first time you begin to delight in yourself. Because now there is no need to keep watch outside. From where nothing is to be gotten — where there was never a mine, only a mirage — you close your eyes.

That is why the eyes of Buddhas are closed. Those closed eyes of Buddha, or Mahavira, are a message: there is nothing worth seeing outside now. When there is nothing to be gained, what is worth seeing? We used to look because we wanted to get. When the fascination with getting has broken, the eyes close. It is not right to say 'they close'; rather, they close by themselves. The eyelids drop of themselves. Why unnecessarily strain the eyes? Why hold them open and be troubled? And when the eyelids fall upon the outer sight, the inner sight arises.

'In whose chitta there is no raga, and therefore no dvesha; who is free of sin and merit — that awakened one knows no fear.'

Sin and merit — they too are tied to the outside, just as happiness and sorrow are. Understand this — subtler, more intricate. Many will explain to you that happiness and sorrow do not come from outside, they exist only in your idea. But those same people, who say happiness will not come from outside, and therefore sorrow also does not, still tell you: do merit, avoid sin. Perhaps they too have not understood. For if they had, they would see: this second pair is also tied to the outside; it is the second face of the same coin.

The first face: another can give me happiness. What comes is sorrow. So I bind raga, and harvest dvesha. I sow seeds of attachment, and reap a crop of aversion. I desire attachment — what comes into my hand is hatred. I thrash like a fish tossed out of the ocean onto the shore.

Then what are sin and merit? The second face. Merit means: I can give happiness to another. Sin means: I can give sorrow to another. Then you will understand: 'Another can give me happiness' and 'I can give another happiness' are two sides of one coin. 'Another gives me sorrow' and 'I can give another sorrow' are also the two aspects of the same belief.

Therefore in this sutra Buddha has said a majestic thing: in whose chitta there is neither raga nor dvesha; who is free of sin and merit. For when it is understood that no one can give me happiness, who will continue the illusion that I can give happiness to another? Then what merit? And who will continue the illusion that I caused someone pain — that I did sin? That illusion also goes. With the going of pleasure and pain, of raga and dvesha, sin and merit also go. Sin and merit are subtle forms of happiness and sorrow.

Thus the gurus tell you: he who does merit will go to heaven — heaven meaning happiness; he who sins will go to hell — hell meaning sorrow. If the result of merit is heaven, and of sin is hell, one thing is clear: sin and merit are tied to happiness and sorrow. When happiness and sorrow are gone, sin and merit are gone.

Remember, there are two kinds of frightened people in the world. Those you call irreligious — they are afraid that someone else may give them sorrow. And those you call religious — they are afraid that they may cause sorrow to someone else. Those you call irreligious fear that they might miss taking happiness from another. Those you call religious fear that they might miss giving happiness to another. Your religious and irreligious are not different — they stand on the same plane, back to back perhaps, but on the same ground. No difference in the level. None of your religious is higher than the irreligious — not in some other world.

Ho daur-e-gam ke ahd-e-khushi, donoñ ek hain —
Donoñ guzashtani hain — khizān kya, bahār kya.

Be it the season of grief or the covenant of joy — both are one.
Both are passing — autumn or spring, what of it?

Whether autumn or spring — both are momentary. Here now, gone the next. Both are bubbles upon water. There is nothing to choose between them. For if you choose spring, remember — in choosing spring you have chosen autumn too. If joy is assumed in spring, who will assume sorrow in autumn?

A woman was brought to me. She wept, beat her breast — her husband had died. She pleaded, 'Console me somehow, help me out of this sorrow.' I said to her, you accepted the joy — you took it; now who will live the sorrow? You are speaking clever words. When your husband’s presence brought joy, you never came to me saying, 'Save me from this joy — I am drowning in it.' You never came on that road.

People go toward the temple only in sorrow. And only the one who goes in joy can understand. Going in sorrow you will not understand — sorrow is the shadow, not the root. The root has passed; only the shadow is passing. How can you stop the shadow?

I told that woman, weep it through — live the sorrow as well. For the illusion is not of sorrow; the illusion is of joy. If joy can be had, then sorrow will be had too. Attach yourself to spring, and you will weep in autumn. Rejoice in youth, and you will weep in old age. Be delighted with rank, and when you lose it another will weep for you? If you smiled, the tears too you will have to shed. And the one who knows both are alike — because both are fleeting, like bubbles on water..

Remember: this knowing must happen in joy, not in sorrow. In sorrow people call upon Paramatma loudly — and then think perhaps he does not hear. The fault is not that Paramatma does not hear — the fault is that in sorrow the call cannot arise. When you had a voice in your throat and you could have called, in joy, you did not call; now the throat is choked — now you call! The call does not rise. Sorrow has become inevitable.

Unless one awakens in joy, and lets joy pass, then let the shadow pass as well. In my seeing, only the one who awakens in joy truly awakens. Those who try to awaken in sorrow — everyone does that. Every person wants to be free of sorrow. Can you find someone who does not? Yet no one succeeds; otherwise all would be free. But the one who wants to be free of joy — he attains freedom instantly. But none wants to be free of joy — here lies man’s irony.

You wish to get out through a wall; you do not wish to go out through the door. When the wall arrives before you, you beat your head and say, 'Let me out.' When the door appears, you say, 'What is the hurry? Let the wall come — then we shall exit.'

Remember: the one who became a sannyasin in joy — only he became. Ten tyaktena bhunjeethah. Only those truly renounced who renounced in the midst of enjoyment. If the wife died — you became a sannyasin; bankruptcy came — you became a sannyasin; job did not materialize — you became a sannyasin; election was lost — you became a sannyasin; then your sannyas is the sannyas of the defeated. There is no life in it. People say: 'For the defeated, take God’s name.' For the defeated there can be no name of God.

To remember in victory is very difficult — for victory brings great intoxication. In victory you become so stiff that even if Paramatma himself comes, you say, 'Come later, move on, I have no time now.' And I say to you: Paramatma does come — for in victory the door is before you. But you are blind.

'In whose chitta there is no raga, and therefore no dvesha; who is free of sin and merit — that awakened one knows no fear.'

Why does fear arise? Two reasons. What you desire — it may not be obtained; fear arises. Or what you possess — it may be lost; fear arises. But to the awakened it becomes evident: you have only yourself — and nothing else. And what you are cannot be lost. No thief can take it, no bandit can snatch it. 'Nainam chindanti shastrani' — weapons cannot cleave it. 'Nainam dahati pavakah' — fire cannot burn it. The awakened knows: what I am is eternal, sanatan — it has no death.

The sleeping one trembles. He fears something may be snatched away.

Two days ago a young woman told me: I am always afraid that what I have may be taken away. I asked her: first tell me, what do you have? She said: when you ask this, it becomes difficult — there is nothing really. Then what is there to fear? What is there that will be lost? Wealth? And that which you think is yours and can be lost — can you save it? Tomorrow you will be lying there; breath will not come and go; flies will sit on your face — you will not even be able to wave them away — your wealth will lie right there. Is wealth yours? It was here when you were not; it will be here when you are not. And remember, wealth will not weep that you are lost. The owner is lost — and wealth will cry? Wealth does not even know that you were its owner. Only you believed it.

Your belief is like this: a great elephant walks over a small bridge across a river, and a fly sits upon the elephant’s head. The bridge shakes. The fly says: Look! By our weight the bridge is shaking — by our weight! She tells the elephant, 'Son, by our weight the bridge shakes.' The elephant says, 'I did not even know you were sitting up there.'

It is said that lizards, when invited in their clan, never go; they say, 'If I leave, the palace will fall — I am holding it up.' If the lizard leaves, the palace will fall!

Your illusion is that something is yours. Your proprietorship is false. Yes — what is truly yours is yours. That has never been snatched, nor can it be. In fact, the definition of wealth is only this: that which cannot be taken away. What can be snatched is calamity, not wealth. It is not asset — it is liability.

So there are two fears that make a man tremble. Something of mine may be taken. Naturally — you have claimed what is not yours to be yours; hence fear. It will be taken — even Alexander could not prevent it; Napoleon could not; no one can. It will be taken, for it was never yours. You made a false claim. Your claim was false — hence your fear. And what is yours will never be taken. But toward that your gaze is not turned. You clutch what is not yours; and what is yours, you have renounced. This is the meaning of the world: renouncing wealth and enjoying calamity. Declaring 'mine' over what is not mine, and forgetting what is mine.

Whoever remembers himself becomes free of fear. Not 'fearless' — but abhaya. He is free of fear. That which is not yours has made you a beggar. You go on asking, hands spread. However much alms you receive, the mind is never sated. The mind does not know how to be sated.

Buddha says: the mind’s craving is insatiable; desire is insatiable — it never fills.

A beggar stood at an emperor’s gate. The emperor asked, What do you want? The beggar said, I want nothing much — just fill this begging bowl of mine. It was a small bowl. In jest the emperor said, Since the beggar is at my door, and his bowl is to be filled, and it is small — why fill with grains? Fill it with gold coins.

He fell into trouble. The coins were poured — and vanished. The bowl remained empty. But the emperor grew obstinate: Is this beggar here to defeat me? He was a great emperor with overflowing treasuries. He said, Even if the whole empire is spent, I will not be defeated by this beggar! More coins were poured.

But slowly his limbs began to tremble — pour as they might, the coins disappeared. At last he grew frantic.

His ministers said, All will be lost — this is no ordinary bowl; this is some magic. This man is a devil. The beggar said, I am only a man, not a devil. And this bowl is made from the human heart. When does the heart fill? It never fills. There is nothing demonic here — only humanity.

It is said, the emperor stepped down from his throne, touched the beggar’s feet and said, I have understood one thing — neither your bowl fills, nor mine. In your bowl all these coins vanished; in my bowl they vanished too. But you have awakened me. Now there is no need to fill this bowl. Now this bowl itself must be thrown away. What is the point of carrying a bowl that never fills!

But man goes on begging for what is not his — even if it comes with humiliation, with shamelessness, he goes on asking. Beggars are very shameless. You keep saying, Move along — and they stand obstinately. They are great adepts of stubbornness — hatha-yogis. The begging mind is the most stubborn. Shamelessly, it goes on asking.

Pila de oak se, saaqi, jo mujhse nafrat hai —
Pyala gar nahin deta, na de — sharab to de.

Pour it from the cask, O cupbearer, even if you hate me.
If you will not give the goblet, then do not — but give at least the wine.

We shall drink even from the cask.

Pyala gar nahin deta, na de — sharab to de.

He goes on asking. There is no sense of shame. The bowl never fills. How many births you have begged through! When will you awaken? With how much humiliation you have begged! How many pushes and kicks you have received! How many times you were thrown out of the gathering — yet still you stand.

Pila de oak se, saaqi, jo mujhse nafrat hai —
Pyala gar nahin deta, na de — sharab to de.

In the world, man endures such disgrace; shamelessly he continues to ask. And he does not see the one thing there is to see: so much has been asked — yet the bowl remains empty. So much asked — yet it never fills; it is insatiable. The day this becomes visible, that day you throw the bowl away. In that very instant, abhaya arises.

Fearlessness arises in those who have seen this truth: what is truly yours is yours — there is no need to ask for it; you are already its master. And what is not yours — collect as much as you will — you will never be its master. Of that which you are the master, Paramatma has made you the master; of that which you are not the master, he has not made you so. In this arrangement you will not be able to tamper. This arrangement is eternal. Es dhammo sanantano.

And where abhaya has arisen in life, Buddha says, all has arisen. He himself becomes Paramatma. Where fearlessness arises, there prayer arises; there God arises. But Buddha does not speak of that — it is not for speaking. It is for a silent understanding. It is of eye meeting eye. It is to be understood by gesture; to shout it out spoils the taste. It is a matter to be said in silence. So Buddha does not speak of that. He lays the foundation; he sows the seed — and then it sprouts by itself.

'Consider this body as a jar that does not last; make this chitta steady like a city-fort; with the weapon of prajna wage war upon Mara; guard the gains of victory, and do not be attached to them.'

'Consider this body as an impermanent jar.'

The body is only a jar. You are what is filled within the jar; you are not the jar. As water is filled in a pitcher. Or even more fitting: as space is held inside an empty jar. Break the jar — space does not break. The jar shatters; the space remains where it was. The jar breaks, the boundary dissolves; what was bound in a boundary unites with the boundless. Ghata-akasha becomes one with akasha.

The body is a jar. It is of clay. Made of dust — to dust it will return. Whoever understands, 'I am the body,' falls into illusion. The whole beginning of illusion is this: 'I am the body.' You have taken your garments to be yourself. You have taken your house to be yourself. You are staying here only a while — a halt, not the destination; morning comes and the caravan moves on. Awaken a little and see.

Mamur-e-fana ki kotahiyan to dekho —
Ek maut ka bhi din hai do din ki zindagi mein.

Behold the pettiness of that which is doomed to perish —
In a two-day life, one day is death itself.

Such stinginess! Such narrowness!

Mamur-e-fana ki kotahiyan to dekho —
Ek maut ka bhi din hai do din ki zindagi mein.

Only two days of life — and of those, one day is death. One day of life! And how you strut! How you stiffen! How you forget that death stands at the door! The body is dust — and will fall to dust.

'Consider this body as an impermanent jar.'

Buddha does not say believe — he says know. All his emphasis is upon bodha — knowing. He does not say, 'Because I say so, believe the body is like a jar.' He says, 'Know it yourself. Close your eyes a little and recognize — you are separate from the jar.'

Remember: whatsoever we can see, we are separate from it. That which cannot be made into the seen — that we are. Close your eyes and you can see the body as separate. A hand is broken — you are not broken. You may say, 'I am broken,' but it will feel false; it will be evident to yourself. The hand broke; the foot broke; the eye was lost — you did not go. Hunger arises — it arises in the body, not in you. Though you go on saying 'I am hungry' — hunger is of the body. Thirst is of the body. The stream flows and there is quenching — the body is quenched.

All satisfactions and dissatisfactions belong to the body. All coming and going — of the body. Becoming and perishing — of the body. You neither come nor go. Jars are made and broken — the inner space is eternal. Did any jar ever touch that space? Did dust ever settle upon it? Clouds gather and scatter — does any line remain on the sky? Not upon you either. Your virginity is forever virgin — it never became impure. Turn the eyes inward, away from the outer — awaken to this inner truth.

Buddha says: 'Consider this body as an impermanent jar.'

Do not accept it as a doctrine — 'All right, it is so.' You have heard it often; the saints keep explaining: the body is impermanent, a momentary bubble — you have memorized it by hearing it so much. Memorizing will not do. You must know. For from knowing, freedom comes. Jnana transforms.

'Fix this chitta like a city on rock.' As though a city built upon a mountain’s rock — a citadel upon a rock — unshakable.

The whole art is this: that the mind does not tremble — becomes steadfast. Because until the mind ceases trembling, there is no seeing. How will you see when that by which you see is itself shaking? Imagine you wear a pair of spectacles, and the spectacles are trembling — like a leaf in the wind — how will you see? Vision becomes impossible. The lens must be steady.

If the mind trembles, you will not know truth. Because of the mind’s tremor, truth appears as the world. The One appears as many — because the mind trembles. As on a night there is the full moon in the sky, but the lake below quivers with ripples — then the moon is in a thousand fragments, no reflection forms. Silver spreads over the whole lake, but the moon’s reflection is not formed; it breaks into a thousand pieces. When the lake becomes still — no wave, all silent — the lake becomes a mirror; then the moon becomes one. The many is appearing — it is not — because of the trembling mind.

I have heard: one night Mulla Nasruddin returned home, drunk. Key in hand, he tries to insert it into the lock — it will not go, his hand is shaking. A policeman stands at the door. He watches a long while and says, 'Nasruddin, may I help? Give me the key — I will open it.' Nasruddin says, 'Do not worry about the key — just hold this shaking house steady — the key I will insert myself.'

When everything trembles within a man in drink, he does not feel 'I am trembling'; he feels, 'the house trembles.' Have you drunk? Walked on the road after hemp? One should try once — then you will know the experience of life. The whole world is as if thus. You are walking in intoxication. You are trembling — nothing else is trembling. You have become fragmented; outside what is, is whole. Your mirror is broken — hence many images. What is, is One. Buddha says: let the chitta become still, unshaken — like the flame of a lamp that no wind can stir.

'With the weapon of prajna wage war upon Mara; guard the gains of victory — but be not attached.'

This is very difficult — the most difficult for the seeker — because it holds a paradox. Buddha says: strive — and yet do not cling. One must aspire for truth — and one must also journey to win it. One must protect the gains of victory — otherwise they slip away. It does not come, sitting idle. Great endeavor, great industry, great labor, great sadhana, great tapasya.

'Guard the gains of victory.'

And whatever small victories happen — protect them, do not forget. Otherwise what has been earned is lost.

Therefore meditate continually, until Samadhi is attained. If you lapse even for a day, if even for a day you falter, what was earned begins to be lost. Meditation is like a man riding a bicycle and pedaling; he thinks, the bicycle has started — now why pedal? If he stops pedaling, it will not go far. If there is an ascent, it will fall at once; if there is a descent, it may go a little — but how far? Not far. You must go on pedaling until the destination is reached.

Meditate every day. Whatever has been earned through meditation — protect it.

'Guard the gains of victory.'

Whatever comes into your hand — keep it safe. If a little cleansing of chitta happens, do not think, 'Now what more cleaning?' It will become soiled again. Until the state of perfection — of Samadhi — arrives, the labor must go on.

Yes — when Samadhi blossoms, there is no question of labor. Once Samadhi is attained, you have reached the place where nothing can stain you. The destination is reached. Then to pedal the bicycle is foolish — you will overshoot. There comes a moment when you must dismount, stop, where the journey halts. But before that moment — the labor must continue. And whatever small victory comes — guard it; preserve the wealth.

'With the weapon of prajna wage war.'

Only one weapon is there in man’s hands — the weapon of awareness, of prajna. With that alone can one fight Mara — desire, mind. No other weapon will do. If you fight by force, you will be defeated. If you repress, you will break. If you try to hide desire, it will not hide. Today or tomorrow it will erupt — there will be an explosion; you will go mad — not liberated. There is one way only: whatever you must encounter, encounter with awareness. Make awareness your sole weapon. If anger is there, do not suppress anger — watch it. If lust is there, bring your attention to lust. Filled with wakefulness, watch what this urge of lust is.

You will be amazed: all these urges exist only in sleep — in negligence. As when a lamp is lit, darkness vanishes, so with the coming of awareness these urges disappear. Mara, devil, lust — whatever name you give — it is only the name of your unconsciousness.

'Aho! This paltry body will soon be bereft of consciousness and lie useless like a log upon the earth.'

Buddha says: when you see with awakening, a supreme joy will be known. Within there will be an exclamation:

'Aho! This paltry body will soon be bereft of consciousness and lie useless like a log upon the earth.'

This body is not you. And the day you see your body lying there like a useless log — on that day you have gone beyond the body. Transcendence happens. The body is death; the body is disease; the body is an upadhi — a limitation. He who is free of the body becomes nirupadhika — without limitation.

What does it mean to be free of the body? It means this recognition becomes deep, dense — a line that cannot be erased; a knowing that cannot be suppressed. In waking and in sleep, this experience remains: you are in the body, but not the body.

'As much harm as an enemy does to an enemy, or a hater to a hater, more harm than that is done by a misdirected chitta.'

Fear not the enemy, says Buddha — what can he do to you? Fear your chitta. The enemy does not do as much harm — cannot — as your chitta, wandering in the wrong direction, does to you. Buddha has said: your chitta moving in the right direction is the friend; your chitta moving in the wrong direction is the enemy. Be cautious of your own chitta. Use your chitta well — samyak use it — then no one can harm you. If anyone can harm you, it is only because your chitta was already moving awry; otherwise none can harm you. The harm of a rightly directed chitta is impossible. So the real question is to attain that inner stronghold.

'As much harm as an enemy does to an enemy, or a hater to a hater, more harm than that is done by a misdirected chitta.'

What is the wrong path? Wandering in all directions without seeing oneself. Searching everywhere without searching within. Peeking into every place except your own. Not coming home, but begging at every door — this is the wrong path. And so you have kept going!

Chalta hoon thodi door har ek rahrav ke saath —
Pehchanta nahin hoon abhi rahbar ko main.

I walk a little while with every passerby —
I have not yet recognized the guide.

This chitta of yours goes along with anyone. Whoever appears on the way — you go with them. Some woman appears, some man appears, some post, some wealth, some fame — you set out. You walk a little; then, finding your hands empty, you go along with another. With strangers on the road, you join them. You have not yet recognized your guide.

Chalta hoon thodi door har ek rahrav ke saath —

Whoever meets you — you go along. No awareness of your own way.

Pehchanta nahin hoon abhi rahbar ko main.

I have not yet recognized the guide — who is to be followed. Buddha has said: your awareness — hoash — that is your guru. Sometimes the eyes entice — you go after form. Sometimes the ears entice — you go after music. Sometimes the tongue entices — you go after taste.

Chalta hoon thodi door har ek rahrav ke saath —

But the hands never fill; the being is never sated. Thinking 'this is not it', you go with another. But one thing does not occur:

Pehchanta nahin hoon abhi rahbar ko main.

Who is it to follow? Awareness, wakefulness, meditation — follow that, only then will you arrive. Whoever holds the hand of awareness returns home — arrives at the source. Ganga returns to Gangotri.

'As much good as mother, father or other kin cannot do, more good than that is done by a chitta set on the right path.'

There is no other friend, no other companion. None else is worthy of your company. One companion alone is to be sought — the company of your own bodha. Then even if you live in a desert, you are not alone. Right now you live amid throngs — and you are utterly alone. Crowds surround you, there is great noise — yet you are completely alone. Who is there with you? When death comes, who will go with you? People will carry you to the cremation ground; beyond that, none can go. Then you will have to say, with or without heart:

Shukriya, ai qabr tak pahunchane wale, shukriya —
Ab akele hi chale jayenge is manzil se hum.

Thank you, O you who brought me to the grave — thank you.
From here we shall go on alone.

Whether you say it gladly or begrudgingly; whether you say it or not — after death you are alone. Reflect a little: those who are of no use in death — were they companions in life? That which cannot be with you even in death — how could it be in life? It was deception, a hallucination. You had distracted the mind, convinced yourself, contrived an illusion. You were afraid of aloneness; in aloneness there was restlessness. You built around yourself a dream. You wove a net of your own imaginings. To forget your aloneness, you assumed there was company. But no one is with anyone. Alone we come; alone we go. And alone we are here — for between two alonenesses, where can togetherness be?

Before birth — alone; after death — alone. On this short stretch between, many travel — do not think they travel with you. All are walking alone. However large the crowd, all walk alone. The one who has known this begins to seek his own company — for that alone will be with him after death. He seeks his own companionship — that will never be lost.

To seek your own company — that is meditation. To seek another’s company — that is thought. Therefore in thought you always remember the other. If you observe your thinking — if you meditate upon your thoughts — you will find: what are you doing in thinking? You are remembering others. From outside they are not with you — so inside you imagine they are.

A youth came to take sannyas with a master. He entered a solitary shrine. The master looked around him and said, Why have you come? The youth said, I have left all and come to your feet — I wish to seek Paramatma. The master said, First leave this crowd you have brought along — leave it outside. The youth looked around — there was no one. Not a sign of a crowd — he stood alone. He said, What are you saying? I am completely alone. Then a doubt arose in him — perhaps I have come to a madman!

The master said, I can see them too. Close your eyes — there is a crowd. He closed his eyes — the wife whom he left sobbing appeared; the friends he took leave of at the village outskirts appeared; the market, the shop, the relations — then he understood, the crowd is with him.

Thoughts are reflections of the outer crowd. Thoughts are an imagining that those not with you are with you. In meditation you are utterly alone — or you are with yourself.

'As much good as mother, father or other kin cannot do, more good than that is done by a chitta set on the right path.'

What is the right path? The turning within. What Patanjali called pratyahara. What Mahavira called pratikraman — the coming back. What Jesus said: Repent — return — for the kingdom of God is at hand. Come back.

This coming back — this returning — is meditation. This returning is the chitta aligned rightly. Do not mistake 'rightly aligned chitta' to mean it is fixed upon good thoughts. Not thinking films, but thinking heaven — heaven too is a film. Good thoughts? Not thinking of the shop, but of the temple — the temple too is a shop. Good thoughts? Not thinking sin, but thinking merit — merit too is sin. Do not mistake 'good thoughts' to mean repeating 'Ram Ram'. Whether you chant 'mara mara' or 'Rama Rama' — it is all the same. It is remembrance of the other — thinking of the other. Whether the thought is of temple or shop, of Ram or Rahim — it makes no difference.

Rightly directed chitta means: returning to oneself. There thoughts fall away. Slowly only you remain — your aloneness remains. Pure. Only you. So pure that even the sense 'I' does not arise — for 'I' is also a thought. Ego does not arise — it too is a thought. When all else falls, that too falls. At the point where you leave 'Thou', there 'I' also drops. Where you leave others, there you drop too. Then what remains is the purest. Until that is attained, life is set in the wrong direction.

Yeh zindagi guzar raha hoon tere baghair —
Jaise koi gunah kiye ja raha hoon main.

I am passing this life without You —
As though I am committing a sin.

Until you come to this point, the whole life is a sin, an error. However much you explain yourself, steady yourself, you will tremble with fear. However much you console yourself, you cannot deceive yourself. Beneath your consolations the abyss will show — of fear, of panic. Death will stand near you. You will not be able to take your living as life. And whatever merit you do, until you have entered your own being —

Yeh zindagi guzar raha hoon tere baghair —

That very 'You' is Paramatma. That is your Being — beyond even 'you'. That is Paramatma — where the jar has fallen away and only the naked sky remains. Ever new, yet eternal. Forever — yet forever fresh.

Yeh zindagi guzar raha hoon tere baghair —
Jaise koi gunah kiye ja raha hoon main.

And until you arrive there, you will go on feeling that some sin is being committed; some mistake is going on; the foot falls wrongly. Try as you may to steady yourself — you will not. There is only one steadiness — little by little slide toward yourself. Reach that inner point beyond which there is nothing — beyond which only the vast sky is.

Buddha has called this purity — shuddhata. Whoever enters this purity attains Nirvana. He attains that for which life is. And until it happens, keep humming within, keep humming —

Yeh zindagi guzar raha hoon tere baghair —
Jaise koi gunah kiye ja raha hoon main.

Remember it till then. Do not forget. Beware that you do not fall asleep at some wayside halt. Beware that you do not forget that life is an opportunity to awaken. This is a school — you must pass through. Do not build a house here and settle down.

Enough for today.