Es Dhammo Sanantano #15

I am walking, I keep walking, yet I have no awareness of it.
Am I the one in the journey, or is my destination itself in the journey?

If life were fulfilled merely by moving, all would have reached the goal. For all do move. Not only move, they run. They spend their whole life in that race, yet only one here and there ever arrives—among millions, across centuries.
What is this movement that does not deliver? What kind of living is this, from which the flavor of life never comes? What kind of way of being is this? As good as not being. Call it wandering, not walking. When there is no arriving, calling it walking is not right. The road is the one that brings you to the goal. Mere movement is not a path; a path is known by arrival.
Only those arrive who walk awake. Those who add the quality of awakening to their walking—their wandering ceases. And the great wonder is: those who add awakening to walking, they do not even need to walk—and they arrive. Because awakening itself is the destination.
So you can live in two ways. One is the life of walking—just to go on walking. Only tiredness comes to the hands. Only the dust of the road comes to the hands. In the end, man falls—face down, into the grave. Call that the destination, then it is another matter!
There is another way of walking—mindfully, awakened. It is not so much a question of the feet as it is of the eyes. Not so much a question of power as of peace. However far you walk drunk, however far you walk asleep—you will not arrive.
This walking is like the oil-press bull. The bull’s eyes are blindfolded; it goes on walking. It moves in circles along the same track. Consider your life a little—are you too going in circles? What you did yesterday, you do today. What you do today, you will do tomorrow. Somewhere, break this circle. Somewhere, step out of this enclosure.
This repetition is not life. It is only the slow name of dying. Life is new each moment. Death is repetition. Take this as a definition. If you keep repeating what you have been doing before, you are not alive. You are only pretending to live. Only hollow gestures, not life. You are staging a drama of living. Life is not so cheap. Every morning you rise, and the same begins again. Every evening you sleep, and the same ends again.
Break this circumference somewhere. And there is only one method to break it, as the Buddhas have said—open your eyes. The oil-press bull can walk the same circle because its eyes have been closed. It cannot see. Your eyes too are closed.
I am walking, I keep walking, yet I have no awareness of it.
Am I the one in the journey, or is my destination itself in the journey?

Not even this much is known, whether this very life is the destination, or whether this life leads somewhere. Is mere being enough, or does this being open a door to a vast being? Am I sufficient, or only a beginning? Am I the end, or the start? Am I the seed, or the tree? If what you are were sufficient, you would be blissful. For wherever sufficiency happens, there contentment and fulfillment arise. Wherever you are enough, there satisfaction arrives.
You are not enough—your restlessness proclaims it. The sadness in your eyes declares it. The sorrowful hum of your very life-breath keeps singing—you are not enough. Something is missing. Something is being missed. Something ought to be that is not. You feel its empty space. That alone is the anguish of life. And if you remain as you are and keep repeating this, then that empty space will never be filled. Your house will remain empty. The one you await will never come. It is necessary to look with awakening.
The real question is not—where are you going? The real question is not even—by which path are you going? The real question is—who is it that is going? The one who has known himself—his steps begin to fall rightly. From self-knowing alone are born right steps. The one who has not known himself may carry as many scriptures, as many maps, as many doctrines as he likes, his feet will fall wrongly. He is like a drunkard walking with a map. The drunkard’s feet do not fall rightly at all. What use is a map in a drunkard’s hands?
In your hands scriptures are of no use. With you, even the scriptures will tremble, will wobble. The scriptures cannot steady you; because of you, the scriptures too will wobble. If you become steady, scriptures are not needed. From your steadiness alone scriptures are born; vision is attained; darshan happens. All these utterances of the Buddhas point from every side in one direction: awake! Do not drown in negligence. Let vigilance be the foundation of your life, its cornerstone.
Buddha asks, 'Who will conquer this earth and the world of the gods together with the realm of Yama? Who? Which skillful man will choose the Dharma-path, beautiful like a flower? Who?'
How will you choose—as you are? You too wish to choose. Who does not want to be saved from thorns? Who does not want to embrace flowers? Who does not aspire to joy? Who’s mind does not wish to move away from sorrow? But Buddha asks, who will conquer? Who will attain the flower-strewn Dharma-path?
As you are, you will not be able. You are asleep. You have no inkling who you are. How will you distinguish between flower and thorn? How will you separate the essential from the nonessential? How will you sift the meaningful from the futile? You are asleep. Even if in your dreams you separate the flowers from the thorns, when you wake you will find both gone. Between dream-flowers and dream-thorns there is no difference.
Therefore the real question is of your awakening. Only thereafter can decision be right. In sleep, whether you go to a temple or a mosque—it is all useless. Whether you read the Koran or the Veda—it is all in vain. In sleep you may go on listening to the awakened ones—nothing will be solved. You will have to awaken. Only awakened will you truly listen, and only then will you be able to understand. To merely hear is not enough for understanding. If sleep surrounds within, your ears will go on hearing and you will go on believing you are hearing—yet you will not have heard anything. You remain deaf as ever. Blind as ever. No revolution can be born in your life from that.
'Who will conquer this earth and the world of the gods together with the realm of Yama? Which skillful man will choose the Dharma-path, beautiful like a flower?'
'It is the disciple—the learner—who will conquer this earth and the world of the gods together with the realm of Yama. The skillful disciple will choose the Dharma-path, beautiful like a flower.'
The disciple must be understood. Buddha’s emphasis on the disciple is as profound as Nanak’s. That is why Nanak’s whole religion came to be called Sikh Dharma—the religion of the disciple. Sikh means disciple. All religion is the art of learning. You often think you are ready to learn, yet it is rare that I meet someone truly ready to learn. Because even the conditions for learning are not met.
The first condition of learning is to understand that you do not know. If you carry even a slight delusion that you already know, how will you learn? To learn, it is necessary to know that 'I am ignorant.' This is the fundamental condition that invites wisdom. Before you call wisdom, before you open your door to it, you must accept in deep humility: 'I do not know.'
Hence scholars fail to become disciples. And the more the world becomes 'knowledgeable,' the more discipleship is lost. The scholar cannot know.
It appears very paradoxical. Because we think the scholar knows. The scholar alone is the one who cannot know. The ignorant can know; the scholar has no way to know. For the scholar is settled with the belief 'I already know.' He has the Vedas by heart. He remembers the utterances of the Upanishads. He can recite the sagas of the awakened word for word. His memory is full. And he is confident that he knows. He will never know. Because space is needed. You are already full. Emptiness is necessary.
Who is the disciple? The one to whom it has become clear: 'Till now I have known nothing.' You too have glimpses of this at times, but you understand it this way: 'Even if I have not known all, I have known a little.' There the deception slips in.
Let me tell you one thing: either knowing is total, or it is not at all. It does not happen 'little by little.' Either you live, or you die. Either dead, or alive. You cannot be 'a bit alive.' Either you are awake, or asleep. 'A little awake, a little asleep'—such a thing does not exist. If you are awake even a little, you are fully awake. Awakening cannot be fragmented. Wisdom cannot be fragmented.
This is the difference between scholarship and Buddhahood. Scholarship can be divided into parts. You pass the first exam, then the second, then the third—you keep becoming a greater scholar. One scripture known, then the second, then the third—quantity keeps increasing. Scholarship is in quantity. Buddhahood is in quality. Not in quantity, but in the quality of being. Buddhahood is a way of being. It is not a numeric accumulation of information; it is a process of awakening.
Consider it a little. When you wake in the morning, can you say, 'I am only a little awake'? Who could say so? Even to know that 'I am a little awake' requires total awakening. Awakening has no measures. When you fall asleep at night, can you say, 'I am a little asleep'? Who will say so? When you have slept, you have slept. If you are still present enough to say so, you are not asleep—you are awake.
Neither waking can be divided, nor sleep. Neither life can be divided, nor death. Scholarship can be divided. What can be divided—do not mistake it for wisdom. What cannot be divided—what descends only totally, or not at all—that alone understand as wisdom.
People come to me. If I say, first drop the attitude of knowing, they say, 'That is exactly why we have come to you. What little we know has yielded no essence; we want to know more.' But that very notion—that little bit of knowing—will be the obstacle. It will not allow them to become disciples. They will become students—they will not become disciples.
A student is one who knows a little and is curious to know a little more. A student is a questioner—out to collect information. The disciple is not a student; he is a truth-seeker. The disciple has not set out to gather information; he has set out to learn the art of knowing. The disciple’s attention is not on 'what is to be known' but on 'the one who will know.' The student is objective. His gaze is outward. The disciple is subjective. His gaze is inward. He says, 'First let me awaken—then knowing is secondary. Once awake, wherever my gaze falls, wisdom will be born there. Wherever I look, fountains of knowing will be available. But let awakening happen within.'
The student is asleep and goes on collecting. Only the sleeping collect. The awakened do not collect—neither wealth, nor knowledge, nor fame, nor position. The sleeping man collects. The sleeping mind thinks in the language of quantity.
Who will conquer? Buddha gives a strange answer—the disciple will conquer. Not a warrior. And the first condition of being a disciple is this: he has accepted his defeat. He has said, 'Till now, I have not known. I have walked much, not arrived. I have thought much, not understood. I have heard much, not truly listened. I have seen much—illusion continued, for the seer was asleep.' He who has come and laid his head at the feet of the Master and said, 'I know nothing,' who has placed his head along with all his information at the Master’s feet—he alone becomes skillful in learning, successful in learning. The capacity to learn is made available to him. The one who knows that 'I do not know'—that one is the disciple. It is difficult, because the ego says, 'How can I not know! I may not know fully, but I know something. I may not have known all, but I have known much.'
A great scholar once came to Buddha—Sariputra. He was very learned. He had the Vedas by heart. He himself had five thousand disciples—not disciples really, call them students. But he believed they were disciples, because he believed, 'I am a knower.'
When he came to Buddha, he raised many questions. Buddha said, 'These questions are of scholarship. These questions arise out of scriptures. They are not arising from within you, Sariputra! These questions are not yours, they are borrowed. You have read books. From the books, questions arose. Had you not read those books, these questions would not have arisen. Had you read other books, other questions would have arisen. These questions do not come from inside your life; they have not arisen from your innermost. They are not existential—they are intellectual.'
Had Sariputra been merely a scholar, he would have left annoyed. He lowered his eyes. He reflected. He looked to see how much truth there was in what Buddha said—and found it true. He placed his head at Buddha’s feet. He said, 'I take back my questions. You are right—these questions are not mine. Till now I have been considering them mine. And when the question itself is not one’s own, how will the answer ever be one’s own? When the question has not arisen from the innermost, how will the answer reach the innermost?'
There is one kind of curiosity that is like intellectual itch, mere inquisitiveness. Asked in passing. No life at stake. And there is another curiosity which we have called mumuksha—where life itself is at stake. This is not the sort of question one asks casually in passing. On its answer the entire mode of life will depend. On its answer will depend whether I live or die. On its answer will depend whether life is worth living or futile. Where everything is at stake.
Sariputra said, 'Now I will ask only when a question arises from my innermost. Free me from the scriptures, Bhagwan!' Buddha said, 'You have understood—you are freed. Scriptures are not holding you; you were holding them. You have understood; you have let go.' Buddha accepted Sariputra as a disciple.
They say Sariputra never asked again, for years. And one day Buddha asked Sariputra, 'You do not ask. When you came, you had many questions. Those questions were taken away from you. You had said: when my own question arises, then I will ask. You have not asked.' Sariputra said, 'It is a wonder. Borrowed questions were many. Answers too were many—yet the answer never happened. Because the question was not mine. No cry of life there, no thirst. Like pouring water down the throat of a man who is not thirsty. Nausea may happen, not quenching. When I dropped them, a great amazement happened: the question did not arise—and the answer arrived.'
Whoever even begins to descend within—his questions begin to dissolve. Standing at the very center from where questions arise—the answers arise from there. Every existential question carries its answer within itself. The question is the seed. From that seed sprouts the shoot, and the answers manifest. What you take to be your life’s problem appears as a problem because even that problem you have borrowed. Someone else told you. And believing someone else, you proceeded. Someone convinced you that you are very thirsty—search for water.
People come to me and say, 'We want to search for God.' I look at them—'For what?' What harm has God done to you? Is this search necessary? Is it certain that you must search? Are you ready to stake your life on it?' They say, 'No, nothing like that. If it can be found—! We are not even sure it exists.' I ask them, 'Are you sure you have set out to search?' They say, 'Even that is not very clear—it is hazy.' Why are you searching for God? You heard the word. The word got lodged in the mind. Some others too are searching, so you also set out.
No, truth is not found like that. Only by being a disciple does the search happen. First it is essential to drop borrowed knowledge. The moment you drop borrowed knowledge, such peace and purity descend—virginity arrives, all the filth falls away.
'Who will conquer? Who will choose the Dharma-path, beautiful like a flower?'
'The disciple will conquer this earth and the world of the gods together with the realm of Yama.'
He will even conquer death. But the art of conquering is this—to drop the delusion of knowing. The moment scholarship is dropped, life begins to open its colors. Scholarship is like stones tied to the eyelids; because of them the lids cannot open—they have become heavy. The moment scholarship falls away, you become like a small child again.
Disciple means—your childhood has returned. As a small child looks at the world—without information. A small child looks at a rose; you also look. When you look, a word forms inside—'rose.' Or a word arises—'Yes, beautiful.' Or a comparison comes—'I saw flowers before; this is as beautiful, or more, or less.' And the matter ends. A little chatter of words happens inside, and in that noise the living flower is lost.
A small child too looks at a rose. He does not yet know that this is a rose, or lotus, or jasmine, or juhi. He does not know the names. Knowledge has not yet blessed him. Teachers have not spoiled him. He is still fortunate—the poison of education has not fallen upon him. He simply looks. Comparisons do not arise. For even to compare, names must be learned. In the past he has seen flowers, but he cannot call them flowers. It was a waking experience of colors. He cannot even call them 'colors.' He has no words. He looks directly at the flower—no wall stands in between, no web of words forms, no comparison arises. From heart to heart there is a meeting with the flower. A oneness is created. He dissolves into the flower; the flower dissolves into him. The small child takes a dip into the flower’s very being. The flower scatters its total beauty about him. Pours out its fragrance. The experience a small child has near a rose—you may long for it your whole life and will not have it until you become a child again.
Jesus has said: Only those are worthy of my Father’s kingdom who are like little children—simple like little children.
This is the meaning of disciple—one who is ready to learn again. Who says, 'What I learned till now—I found worthless. Now I stand again at the door with the begging bowl of my heart to be filled. Not with junk this time. Not with information. I have come to ask for awareness.'
The student comes to ask for knowledge; the disciple comes to ask for awareness. The student says, 'I need more information.' The disciple says, 'What will I do with information, when the knower is not yet present? The knower is needed.'
'The skillful disciple will choose the Dharma-path, beautiful like a flower.'
And one who has begun to taste even a little of life—within whom a ray of awareness has arisen, the lamp of awareness has been lit—he will begin to see where the thorns are, where the flowers are.
People advise you: Do not do evil. They advise you: Do not sin. They advise you: Do not be unjust, do not be dishonest, do not lie. I do not advise you that. I advise you: light the lamp. Otherwise, who will recognize what is unjust and what is just? Who will know where the thorns are, where the flowers are? You are not yet present. How will you know which is the path and which is the diversion? If you go on following others, you will be like the blind leading the blind. Neither do they know, nor do those in front of them know. A procession of blind men. A queue of the knowers of Veda and shastra. And the blind hold one another and keep going.
What do you call morality? What do you call Dharma? How do you know? What touchstone do you have? How do you tell gold from brass? Both appear yellow. Yes, others say 'This is gold'—so you agree. How long will you keep agreeing with others? It is precisely by believing others that this has become your fate—this misfortune.
Dharma says: do not believe others; awaken within that by which knowing begins, and then there is no need to believe. Light the lamp, so that you yourself begin to see—where is wrong, where is right.
I have heard: two youths came to a fakir. One of them was very miserable—greatly restless. The other did not seem particularly disturbed, he appeared to have come along with his friend. The first said, 'We are very troubled. We have committed terrible sins—show us a way for liberation and repentance.' The fakir said to the first, 'Speak about your sin.' He said, 'I have not done many sins, but one very heinous crime I have done; its weight lies upon my chest like a boulder. Have mercy—somehow remove this burden. I am repenting; a mistake happened. But what can I do now—what has happened has happened.' He began to weep, tears fell from his eyes.
The fakir said to the second, 'And your sin?' The second smiled and said, 'Nothing special. I have not done any great sins. Only small ones, countless—no account of them—and I am not even weighed down by them. My friend was coming, so I came along. If he can be freed of his big ones, then give your blessing that I too be freed of my little ones.'
The fakir said, 'Do this: both of you go outside.' To the first youth he said, 'From the place of your sin, bring a stone of equal weight.' And to the second, 'You too—since you have done many small sins—bring pebbles and small stones equal to their number.' The first returned carrying a large boulder—drenched in sweat, panting. The second came back with his pouch filled—with small pebbles he had gathered.
When they came in, the fakir said, 'Now do one thing. Put that big stone back where you picked it up from.' He said to the second, 'And you—put each small stone back exactly where you picked it up.'
He said, 'That’s a nuisance. The one who did the big sin will manage to put his back—but where shall I put mine? Now it is hard even to remember from where I picked which pebble. I gathered hundreds.'
The fakir said, 'If a sin is big, but there is pain for it, then there is a way of repentance. If a sin is small and there is no pain, there is no way of repentance. And your situation with the stones is exactly your situation with your sins. One whose lamp is lit—he does not do big or small. Those whose lamps are not yet lit—they may fear doing big ones, but they go on doing little ones for fun. For the small ones—there is not even a trace of awareness.'
You spoke a little lie to someone. Many times you lie in such a way that you do not even notice that you lied. Many times you never remember it again in your life. But all that keeps accumulating. Small stones together can become more burdensome than great boulders.
The real question is not of small and big. And those who have seen awake say that sin is not large or small. Sin is sin—how can it be small or big? A man stole two coins—is that a small sin? And a man stole two hundred thousand—is that a big sin?
Think a little. Theft is theft. Two coins are as much theft as two hundred thousand. Being a thief is equal—no more in two hundred thousand, no less in two coins. The state of being a thief is enough. The difference does not matter. The distinction of two coins and two hundred thousand is in the marketplace; in Dharma there cannot be a distinction between the theft of two coins and two hundred thousand. Theft is theft. But this will be seen only by one whose inner lamp is burning. Then sin is sin—no big, no small. Merit is merit—no small, no big.
But as long as you follow others—as long as you take information to be life—and let scholarship guide your life, you will go on wandering like this.
A disciple is one who has begun the preparation to awaken himself. A disciple is one for whom scholarship has become futile, and who has now set out to seek Buddhahood. And the moment this revolution happens in your life—the possibility of discipleship grows—great differences begin. Then you listen in an altogether different way. Then you rise in an altogether different way. Then you think in an altogether different way. Then all the processes of life have one center: how to awaken? How to break this sleep? How to dissolve this repetitive prison so that I may come out? Then your entire endeavor becomes dedicated in one direction.
The disciple’s life is a dedicated life. In his life there is one longing alone—through all doors he strives for the one attainment, knocking: How may I awaken? And in the life of one in whom such a longing arises—who can stop him from awakening? No power can prevent him. He will awaken. Even if today the desire to awaken seems very faint, drop by drop—like water that breaks a rock—this drop-by-drop longing breaks the stupor of slumber. However ancient and strong the stupor may be—no matter.
'Know this body to be like foam; recognize its nature as a mirage; cut the flower-snare of Mara; slipping past the gaze of Yama, move on.'
Where you sit—have you attained anything there? Then what are you waiting for? Where you sit—nothing at all has been experienced—then what road are you waiting for?
'No promise, no certainty, no hope—
And yet I had to wait for you.'
No one has promised to meet you there, nor do you have any certainty anyone will come, nor any hope—because sitting there all your life you have become tired—disheartened—yet you go on waiting. How many times you have been angry, how many times greedy, how many times attached, how many times passionate—did you gain anything? Did any knot of treasure gather? You sit with your fist clenched—has any wealth collected within that fist?
'No promise, no certainty, no hope—
And yet I had to wait for you.'
What obstinacy—this insistence to go on waiting! For whom are you waiting? Through this road no one ever passes. The road you sit upon—it is no one’s pathway.
Buddha says: 'Recognize the nature of this life as a mirage.'
The thirsty in a desert see water. It is a mirage. There is no water there. It appears by the imagination of thirst. If thirst is intense, you project where nothing is.
You have experienced this too. Whatever within you is most intense and painful—whatever you seek—begins to appear. You sit inside the house waiting for someone—some loved one is coming, a friend is coming, a beloved or a lover is coming—even a leaf rustles and it feels like footfalls. Then you get up to see. The postman comes to the door—you take him to be the beloved. With a heaving chest and joy you open the door. No one comes—neither a leaf rustles, nor a postman, nor does anyone pass at the door—and still you begin to imagine: perhaps I heard a sound; perhaps someone knocked; perhaps a footfall on the stairs. You run—and there is no one.
'No promise, no certainty, no hope—'
And yet you keep imagining. Mirage means—to see where it is not. And one who sees where it is not will be deprived of seeing where it is. So the mirage becomes an obstacle to seeing life’s ultimate truth. You keep running toward where it is not—and you never look back toward where it is.
That which you seek is hidden within you. That which you set out to gain—you never lost it. You had brought it with you. Paramatma sends no one poor. He fashions no one as anything other than an emperor. Then becoming a beggar is your own skill. Your art. Your whim. Paramatma gives you so much freedom that if you want even to be a beggar, he does not interfere.
'Know this body to be like foam.'
Buddha is saying this to the disciple, not to the student. The Buddhas never meet the student—only the disciple. Those who are truly ardent—whose life has become a flame, a search—who are ready to sacrifice all. Those to whom nothing appears in life worth stopping for. Those who are ready to go toward the unknown. Those who, abandoning knowledge, have accepted unknowing—only they are freed of the known and enter the unknown. To them Buddha says—
'Know this body to be like foam.'
On the edge of the ocean you have seen foam collect. How beautiful it looks! From afar it appears very attractive. When sun rays pass through, rainbows spread in the foam. Come near—it is bubbles of water. That whiteness, that moonlike sheen, that flood like jasmine—none of it remains. Hold foam in your fist—its bubbles vanish.
Man’s life is just like this. Like foam. From afar—very beautiful; come close—everything disappears. Stay distant—the rainbows remain; come close—nothing remains in your hands.
'We hear the gardener has draped the garden in a shroud of flowers.'
From afar, flowers seem to be there; go near—they become a shroud. What you call life—from afar it seems life; go near—it becomes death.
'We hear the gardener has draped the garden in a shroud of flowers.'
Wherever you see flowers around, go a little close with awareness—you will find a thorn hidden in every flower. Every flower pricks. Yes, if you keep watching from afar, the delusion remains. Coming near, delusions break. Distant drums sound sweet. From afar everything seems beautiful.
Have you noticed? In the day things do not appear as beautiful as they do in moonlight. Moonlight spreads an enchantment, for it gives a haze. Eyes are already not clear; there is already blindness; moonlight fills the eyes with smoke. What appears ordinary in the day shows as beautiful at night. The more haze in your eyes, the more the foam of life appears precious—like diamonds and jewels.
'Come, let me tell you the secret of this world’s enchantment—
Whatever there is, is held in the fist of thought.'
The farther you stay, the more you do not touch things—you touch only your ideas. The nearer you come, the reality of life appears—the ideas begin to break. And whoever has seen the reality of life—he has been startled. He was frightened. For there he found death hidden in life’s house; thorns hidden in flowers. Behind beautiful dreams—nothing but stones. It was foam of water; it was the stream seen in the desert. From afar very captivating; coming near—not there at all.
And everyone experiences this, yet still—what are you waiting for? No one has promised, you have no trust that someone will come, there is no hope—yet perhaps you think: What else shall we do? If we do not wait—what else is there to do?
The awakened ones call you: you sit on the wrong road, and the one you await never passes there. There are other roads. There are other waiting-rooms. If you must wait, move a little inward. The farther you have gone outside, the more foam and bubbles you have found. Come a little inward, and you will find reality begins to reveal itself. The more you come inward, the more the truth; the more you go outward, the more the untruth. The day you stand exactly at your center, that day Truth unveils its full kingdom. That day all veils, all curtains are lifted.
'Know this body to be like foam; recognize its nature as a mirage; cut the flower-snare of Mara.'
Buddha says: desire has spread a vast net of flowers.
'Cut the flower-snare of Mara.'
'We hear the gardener has draped the garden in a shroud of flowers.'
The flower-snare of Mara. Behind those flowers there is nothing. A sham fence. Behind—nothing. All the beauty is in the veil. Empty veil—no face within. But unless you lift the veil and discover the emptiness inside, you will not awaken. Many times you have lifted veils. In one veil you found no one, yet you do not understand. Then you begin to lift another veil. One handful of foam proved foam—then the mind says, 'How can all be foam?' One veil turned futile—'We will seek in another.' For births upon births this lifting of veils has continued. In no veil has anyone ever found anyone. All veils were empty.
Have you ever found anyone in anyone? In the husband—did you find anything? In the wife—did you find anything? In a friend—did you find anything? In kin—did you find anything? Or was it only a veil? No one is found there; yet the mind’s hope says—'If not here, then somewhere else it will be.' This spring did not yield water—then far away another spring appears. When will you awaken to the truth that these springs you imagine—there is none! Except you, all is the un-real. Except you, all is maya.
'Evade the gaze of Yama and move on.'
If you truly wish to attain life, then wherever there is death—understand, there is no life. Wherever there is change—there is nothing eternal. Wherever there is the momentary—there is no Sanatana. Wherever things change—do not waste time. Seek that which never changes. The art of finding the un-changing—that is called religion. Esa dhammo sanantano—this is the eternal Dhamma.
'One who gathers the flowers of the senses—whose mind is fascinated—death carries him away like a rising flood carries away a sleeping village.'
As in a sleeping village, suddenly the river swells and people are swept away in their sleep—so death carries away the man fascinated by the flowers of the senses. You go on dreaming—and the flood arrives. The whole of lust is nothing but dream-seeing.
'These worshipers of pleasure slept on—and even when they awoke, what kind of awakening was it?
They remembered the sun’s rising and forgot the setting of the day.'
Some never awaken at all—sleep through life. And those who think they awaken—their awakening is as if inside a dream.
'They remembered the sun’s rising and forgot the setting of the day.'
People remember their birthdays. Who mentions the day of death? People fix their gaze on life. Death! Even to speak of death seems indecent. Ask someone, 'When will you die?'—he becomes angry. 'Will you die or not?'—then he will never meet you again; he will take you as an enemy. You asked nothing wrong. You asked only what must happen. But people do not even want to talk about death. Even the mention scares. Yet death is there. You cannot deny the fact. If somehow you accept the fact—perhaps the capacity to awaken from this so-called life will arise.
Whoever accepts death will see—death does not 'come' someday. We are dying every day. It is happening now. It is happening this very moment. Not something that will occur after seventy years. It happens every day and is complete in seventy years. With birth begins the series of death; it completes with dying. A long process. Death is not an event—it is a process. It spreads over the whole of life. Like ripples spread over a lake—death spreads over life. If you hide, cover, avoid death—you will not see life’s truth. What you call life—its truth is death.
'They remembered the sun’s rising and forgot the setting of the day.'
The sun has risen—there is not much delay before it sets. What has risen—has already set. What has risen is on the path of setting. The morning sun is engaged in becoming the evening sun. Evening is not far if morning has come. When morning has come—how far can evening be! What you call full youth is only half the day being complete—the arrival of half-evening. Youth is half death. But who remembers? The one who can remember—that one is a disciple.
'Not death alone is man’s enemy—
Life too will take away your life.'
Not death alone—do not take death as your enemy. What you call life—that too is death; that too will take your life.
'One who gathers the flowers, whose mind is fascinated—death carries him away like a rising flood carries away a sleeping village.'
'In the craving for the world you squandered life itself—
You erred, O heedless one; life itself was the world.'
In the craving for the world you squandered life—you took the effort to possess the world as life itself. That was not life. You erred, O asleep one—life itself was the world.
Understand this a little. What you call the world—the spread outside you—do not mistake that for life. If you remain engaged in accumulating that outer world, you will lose real life. Later you will regret. Time will pass and you will weep. Then perhaps nothing can be done. Now something can be done. At the moment of death, perhaps, a majority of people begin to understand—
'In craving for the world you squandered life.'
At death the thought begins to come—
'You erred, O heedless one; life itself was the world.'
But then time is not left. Dying, you begin to see that the palaces you built, the money you amassed, the empire you spread—
'You erred, O heedless one; life itself was the world.'
Had you known the inner life, you would have gained the world. In trying to gain the outer world, you lost the inner life. Between outer and inner there is the same difference as between truth and dream. Outside is the web of dream; within is the abode of the witness. Do not attend to what is seen—attend to the one who sees. Do not attend to what is enjoyed—attend to the one who enjoys. Do not worry about the eye—worry about the one behind the eye who sees. Do not worry about the ear—worry about the one behind the ear who hears. Worry not about birth or about death—worry about the one who comes in birth and goes in death. Who is before birth and after death. Even if this is remembered at the moment of dying—what will you do then? Those who remember earlier—only they can do something.
'On hiccups the raga of life is finishing—
With jerks the strings are being snapped.'
At the moment of death it will seem so—that what you took as life—
'On hiccups the raga of life is finishing—'
All those dreams, all those songs, all that music—turning into hiccups. Only hiccups remain in the hand.
'On hiccups the raga of life is finishing—
With jerks the strings are being snapped.'
Before all turns into hiccups, and before your instrument is torn apart—sing the inner song. Before death snatches the body—know that which death cannot snatch. Before the outer world is lost—plant your feet in the inner world. Otherwise you are like a sleeping village—the flood of the swollen river will carry you away asleep.
'As the bee, harming neither the color nor the fragrance of the flower, takes its nectar and moves on—so should the muni go for alms in the village.'
It is a parable for the village of life. Buddha says: just as the bee, without harming the color or fragrance of the flower, takes its nectar and moves on—so should you be in this life. Take the essence life can give. But only the awakened can take the essence. The rest are like those bees that get so absorbed in taking the nectar that they forget to fly. At dusk when the lotus closes its petals, those bees become trapped within. Even a lotus becomes a prison for them.
As the bee takes the nectar without harming color or fragrance—so, without harming life—that is the sutra of ahimsa. The sutra of non-violence is only this: you have the right to take the essence, but not to harm anyone. You can enjoy even by plucking the flower. But is that enjoyment? The bee comes to the flower silently, hums a song, charms the flower, takes the nectar, and flies away. It does not pluck, does not destroy. Free like the bee, free like the bumblebee—Buddha says: live in the village of life, but do not become bound. Do not become closed. Our condition is the exact opposite. Buddha says: live in the world, but do not belong to the world. Buddha says: live in the world, but let the world not live in you. Our condition is the reverse of this:
'Even after death the heart is in a hundred kinds of grief—
We are not in the world, but a whole world is in us.'
Even if we die, the sorrows do not die. In the grave you will still be—
'We are not in the world, but a whole world is in us.'
Even then you will dream. You will dream of the same world from which you never gained anything. Your eyes will still be lost in that darkness where no ray of light ever came.
This is one way—the worldly man’s. He may die, yet the world does not leave his inside. And there is the way of the sannyasin—he lives, and yet the world is not in him.
This is true for the vast city of life; and this is what Buddha told his bhikkhus too: going from village to village for alms—go quietly. Ask the way a bee asks of flowers—and move on. Take what is given. Offer thanks where it is given. Receive with grace. If not given—do not be sad. For where is the condition that it must be given? If given—blessed! If not—contentment! And for one who is content in not-getting—it is given. Our situation is such that even when we get—we are not content. Hence even having, we do not have. We remain poor.
Much can be gained from life. Even from dreams one can learn. Even mirages become a foundation for Buddhahood. From delusion the art of awakening becomes available.
'As the bee, harming neither the color nor the fragrance of the flower, takes its nectar and moves on—so should the muni go for alms in the village.'
It is not a question of the world. Nor is it a question of renouncing the world. For what is not yours—how will you renounce it? Only this much is to be known—we are not more than guests here. When you are a guest in someone’s house, on leaving you do not say, 'Now I renounce the whole house for you. I sacrifice it.' The guest owns nothing there. However long you got to stay—thank you! Nothing is yours—what will you renounce?
Therefore he alone is a renunciate who has known—nothing is mine. Not he who 'leaves.' For the one who 'left' still believes: 'It was mine, I left it.' It must be yours to be able to leave it. If nothing is yours—what leaving?
So I say—do not fall into the delusion of renouncing. It is a part of the delusion of possessing. Simply understand the delusion of possessing. Nothing is ours. A moment ago you were not, now you are, soon you will not be again. A moment’s dream. The eye blinked—you saw a dream. The eye opened—the dream was gone. Do not let this world become a house within. Live in the world, but let the world not live in you. Pass through water, but let your feet not get wet. Live—but like the bee—such that no harm comes to anyone.
'As the bee, harming neither the color nor the fragrance of the flower, takes its nectar and moves on.'
What is the nectar? Which nectar does Buddha speak of? Let me make it clear, lest you misunderstand. About which nectar is Buddha speaking? About which bee? He is not speaking of what you call pleasures. Buddha knows only one nectar of this life—Buddhahood. It is to learn the art of awakening from this life and moving on. That alone is the nectar. For one who knows that—the doors of the great nectar open.
So from every flower of life, from every event of life—birth or death—from every process of life, keep seeking and choosing one nectar alone: let every situation become a cause to awaken you, a device. Let home and house, market and shop—let nothing become an excuse to put you to sleep—let it become a device to awaken you. Then you have taken the nectar. If before dying you have known that you are a son of the immortal—then you have taken the nectar. If before death you have known Life—the real Life, the Great Life—then you have taken the nectar. Then you did not wander in vain. Then you did not eat merely dust. Then you did not only walk the road—you arrived. You arrived.
Then, then suddenly you will be astonished, amazed—that what you were searching for was within you. The kingdom of God is another name for the kingdom of your heart. Moksha is the name of the freedom hidden within you. And what is freedom? Live in the world, but let the world not be in you. That Nirvana is but the extinguishing of your ego-lamp. When the flickering lamp of ego is snuffed—do not think darkness comes. With the snuffing of that flicker—the light of great suns becomes available to you.
Rabindranath has written that when he was composing Gitanjali, he lived on a barge on the Padma river. At night, lost in a tune—some song was descending, descending—he kept writing the lines by the light of a flickering candle. Around midnight he blew out the candle—and was amazed. It was a full-moon night—he had forgotten. Though what he was writing was a song of the full moon. As the candle went out, moonlight entered that small room of the barge from all sides—through every pore. That little lamp-light had been keeping the moonlight out.
Have you noticed? If a lamp burns in the room, the moon does not enter. Blow it out—and the moon pours in like a flood, entering from every side.
Rabindranath danced that night. He wrote in his diary: Today an unparalleled experience happened. Perhaps it is the same—that as long as the lamp of ego burns within, the moon of Paramatma cannot enter.
This is what Buddha has said—blow out the lamp of ego. The blowing out of the lamp is called Nirvana. As you are extinguished here—on the other side, from all sides, Paramatma, Truth—whatever name you give—enters within.
So there is one way of living—the way you live. There is another—the way of the Buddhas. The choice is in your hands. You can live like a Buddha—no one is stopping you except yourself. Or you can live like destitute beggars—as you are living—no one forces you to live so. Somehow in unconsciousness and unawareness you have chosen such a lifestyle. No one other than you is responsible. In a single jerk you can break it—because all this is your own play. All these houses you have built around you—in which you yourself are imprisoned.
I was a guest in a house. In front, a building was being constructed, and a small boy was playing among the sand and bricks. I sat watching outside—he slowly, slowly placed bricks around himself, and then higher. Then he panicked when bricks reached his neck—for he was imprisoned. He cried, 'Save me!'
I watched him and felt—this is man’s state. You place bricks around yourself in the name of life. Then one day you find you are sunk to the neck. Then you cry, 'Save me!'
You yourself placed the bricks—no need to cry. As you placed them, so remove them. You put them—you can lift them. The prison was built by you—no one else locked you in. In play you built it. In play man is trapped. Entangled in chains.
I am walking, I keep walking, yet I have no awareness of it.
Am I the one in the journey, or is my destination itself in the journey?
Now do not walk like this. Now let walking happen with awareness. Now walk with watchfulness. Now walk with seeing. The more you awaken, the more you will find the goal near. The day you awaken totally, you will find—the goal was always within.
Enough for today.