Es Dhammo Sanantano #16

When you ask a question, take a moment to consider its essence. If this had happened! If that had happened! Why waste time on such hypotheticals?

If Mahakashyap hadn’t laughed, would Buddha have given him the flower or not—what difference does it make to you? Even if Mahakashyap hadn’t been there at all, even if it were just a story—what would change for you? Ask something of your own. Ask what can actually serve you. Don’t ask questions that are just itches of the mind, because the nature of itching is: the more you scratch, the more it spreads. Don’t ask merely for the sake of asking. If there is no real question, don’t ask. Sit silently; perhaps among you a Mahakashyap may laugh.

Whether he laughed or not is not what matters. What happens outside has no value for the awakened. The flower would have gone to Mahakashyap anyway. He alone there could understand Buddha’s silence. In every case, the flower would have found its way to him. Even if Buddha had not handed it, it would still have reached him. Drop the worry! Even if he hadn’t laughed and Buddha hadn’t given the flower, I tell you, it would still have gone to him. The flower would have gone by itself. Buddha would not have been needed as a giver.

Try to grasp the event; don’t get lost in the useless chatter of details. The event is simple: Buddha remained silent, and no one else understood that silence. To understand silence, you too must be silent. To understand a language, you must know it. If I speak Hindi, you must know Hindi; if I speak Chinese, you must know Chinese—only then will you understand.

That day Buddha spoke in silence, the language of silence. Only the one who knew the flavor of silence understood. Those who did not know that flavor turned even this silence into merchandise for their thinking. They began wondering: Why is Buddha sitting silent? Poor fellows! When Buddha was silent, had you become silent too, the flower could have come to you as well. But you began to think: Why is Buddha sitting silently? Why is there a flower in his hand? Whoever thought, missed.

You cannot connect to buddhas through thinking. With buddhas, you must learn the art of not-thinking. Mahakashyap remained still. He simply looked with full eyes. He did not think. Who bothers to think when such incomparable beauty dawns! A sun had risen that appears only once in centuries. That day Buddha sat with all the doors of his temple thrown open. The invitation had been given: whoever wishes, come. The Divine stood at the threshold, knocking. And you began thinking—why this, why that? Why is Buddha silent today? Why not before?

The thinkers missed. Mahakashyap was no thinker. He simply beheld Buddha—just as Buddha beheld the flower. That was the very pointer: as I am looking at the flower—merely a witness—so today you too become a witness. Enough talk of philosophy; now become the seer. How long will you go on discussing food? Eat now. Taste it. Buddha had set the platter before you. You kept thinking about food, while Buddha sat with the meal laid out.

As Buddha was looking at the flower, so Mahakashyap looked at Buddha’s flower. Buddha saw one flower; Mahakashyap saw two. He beheld both flowers at once, and the harmony between them, the music, the rhythm. A rare meter began to be felt within him. How could Mahakashyap have held back from laughter?

Why did he laugh? He laughed at the people who were lost in thinking. The temple stands before them and they search for the temple. The sun has risen and with closed eyes they are absorbed in discussing light. He laughed at their foolishness. To say “he laughed” isn’t quite right—the laughter burst forth. He didn’t do anything to laugh; he simply couldn’t contain it. Seeing all that senselessness, laughter exploded. Thousands were present and missing the moment—he laughed at that stupidity.

And he laughed also because Buddha played a masterful game. What cannot be said—he said it too. What cannot be shown—he showed it. What fingers could never point to—he pointed toward. The Upanishads were outdone that day. What could not be spoken, he made into an act—he gave its statement through the totality of his life.

Hence, ever since that day in the Zen tradition, when the master asks a question, the disciple is not to answer in words, but to do something—an act that becomes a statement. Some act in which the disciple is totally absorbed. It isn’t that Mahakashyap laughed; Mahakashyap became laughter. No one was left behind who was laughing; there was no one standing apart. Mahakashyap dispersed over the assembly as a peal of laughter. Zen masters ask like this...

There was a Zen master. He was seated; the disciples sat before him. A pot of water had been placed there. He said, “Listen—without saying anything, tell me what this is. This pot and this water—give me a statement without words. Declare it through an act, as Mahakashyap declared—by bursting into laughter. And when Mahakashyap declared through an act, Buddha responded through an act—by giving the flower. Today I too am eager to give you the flower.”

The disciples looked; there was no flower in his hand. They thought, the matter is even more confusing—at least Buddha held a flower; this man has none. They began thinking about the flower. And they racked their brains: what can be said of the pot of water, and how to state it without words? Just then mealtime was near. The cook—the monk who served in the kitchen—came in. He saw these somber faces, tight with thinking. He asked, “What’s going on?” The master said, “There is a question. One must make a statement about this pot of water—one that reveals its whole mystery. No words may be used. Whoever does it, I am ready to give the same flower Buddha gave.”

But the cook didn’t even look at the master’s hand to see whether a flower was there. The master himself is the flower—what flower is there to look for? He stood up, gave the pot a kick; water rolled out and flowed everywhere. “Get up now,” he said, “enough nonsense—time to eat.” It is said the master touched his feet—he gave him the flower. He had made the statement. Existence is revealed just so—by spilling it wide. What more was there to say? The vessel upturned, and water flowed in all directions.

That day, in just this way, Mahakashyap upturned his vessel. Laughter spread everywhere. There are thousands of such incidents in the Zen tradition. But remember, one event cannot be repeated. To repeat it would mean it was done by thinking. Therefore every event is unique and final. You cannot replicate it.

If today I come carrying a flower, the one who laughs won’t receive it. If today I sit with a pot of water and ask you, the one who kicks it over won’t receive it. By now it would only be a thought. Now Mahakashyap’s story is known.

There are thousands of events—but each one unique, unrepeatable. Repetition means mind. Say something with your whole being—and say it in a way it has never been said—then the mind has no place to stand. Mind imitates, repeats; it is mechanical. It has no original insight.

A disciple of another Zen master had long been troubled—given a koan he could not solve. Having tried everything, he asked the head disciple, “You have been accepted—give me some key. I’m getting worn out; years have passed. Nothing resolves, no path appears. Whenever we go in, we don’t even get to answer, and the master says, ‘Enough, stop your nonsense.’ We haven’t even spoken! This is too much—how will we ever ‘win’? At least let us speak; then you can say right or wrong. We don’t even speak and we’re already wrong. Now there is no way to be right. The master is angry.”

The head disciple laughed. “He’s not angry. When you go in with thought, your face has a different look. When you go in thoughtless, your face has a different look. Consider: when you are full of thought, your whole face is tense. There are lines in the eyes and furrows on the brow. When you are without thought, all furrows are gone, all tension drops. When you are thoughtless, such peace drizzles around you that even the ignorant would notice—will the master not? That he even lets you reach the doorway is his compassion. As for me, you don’t know—I used to be stopped outside the door. He would say, ‘Go back. Don’t bring idle babble here.’ He hadn’t even seen me yet! But my shadow arrived before me, my atmosphere reached the threshold before I did—as if a fragrance gave him the news.”

The new disciple asked, “Then how did you obtain his grace? How did you receive his prasad?” He said, “I never could. When I truly died—then it came.” “Good man,” said the other, “why didn’t you say so before? We’ll do the same.”

But can anyone do it by imitation? Next day he went in. The moment the master looked his way—before the master could say, “No, stop the babble”—he fell with a thud, shut his eyes, stretched out his arms—as if dead.

The master said, “Excellent! Exactly right. And what of the question?” The disciple—now trapped—opened one eye and said, “The question still isn’t solved.” The master said, “Fool! The dead don’t speak—and the dead don’t open one eye. Get up, away with you! And never ask anyone else for an answer. What is the value of borrowed answers? It must be yours. It must arise from your innermost. You must be present in it. It must be your song, your dance. Be totally absorbed in it. Whether it is life or death makes no difference.”

Mahakashyap laughed that day. To say “he laughed” isn’t quite right—laughter spread on seeing the whole situation. Buddha in front of people, and people remaining blind. The sun out, yet darkness not melting—on seeing that, laughter came. Knowledge pouring down, and people’s pots so slick that the water wouldn’t stick—at this he laughed.

Whether he laughed or not, the flower was his. The laughter or no-laughter is incidental. Buddha would have given the flower in any case. It was not given because of the laughter—note this, else you will go astray. This is exactly the mind’s mistake. You will think: given because he laughed—so if ever we get such a chance, we’ll laugh. That is exactly where you will miss. It was not given because of laughter. What mattered was the silence behind the laughter. Laughter can also have thought behind it—then it is futile. Behind that bubbling laughter was supreme stillness. That laughter was a flower of nirvana. Had he not laughed, Buddha would have gone to him. Because he laughed, Buddha called him forward. Had he not laughed, Buddha would have gone himself and poured it into his begging bowl.

But why do questions like this arise in you? Have your life’s problems been solved that you now worry about Mahakashyap? Has your life attained resolution that you raise such intellectual questions? Don’t waste your time this way; otherwise some Mahakashyap will laugh at you too—at your foolishness. I am present before you; something is possible here. When I am no longer here, you will weep. If you don’t laugh now, you will cry then. Use this presence. Drink it in. Let it soak into your every fiber. Don’t fall into futile dithering.

Debate ran only to the madrasa;
Argument, webs of logic, questions and their proliferations only to the schoolroom.
When the depth of the matter was touched, silence descended.

So don’t turn what I say into debate, or you will miss. Then one day you will regret that you were so close—and missed. It has happened again and again that the thinkers lost and the non-thinkers attained. Not sometimes—always. I speak so that silence may fall in you, and you reach the depth of the matter. Instead, you wring more and more talk out of talk. You don’t touch the depth. I point to the moon; you grab my finger. You start asking about the finger and forget the moon. Don’t let it happen that one day you have to say:

The helmsman-heart’s boat was not free to be undone;
Escaping the storm-waves, it struck upon the shore.

Somehow, saved from the storm, you reached—only to crash upon the bank.

The helmsman-heart’s boat was not free to be undone;
Escaping the storm-waves, it struck upon the shore.

Don’t let it happen that you come to my very shore—and still drown.

Was it a miracle of the journey, or a trick of longing’s eye?
The destination, face to face, slipped from sight.

Don’t let it be that the destination stands before you—and you still miss. Those sitting before Buddha that day missed.

The destination stood before them, yet hid from their eyes.

The goal had come before them; but if the one who must arrive is not ready, what can the goal do? Even if it comes to your doorstep, you will miss. For the issue is not the goal—it is you.

Do not get entangled in useless talk. And never ask, “If it had been otherwise, what would have happened?” Don’t you see the futility of asking, “If Ravana had not abducted Sita, what would have become of the Ramayana?” Who can answer that? And what would such an answer mean?

What has happened has happened. It could not have been otherwise. Don’t drag out more pointless threads from it, or you will go on thinking. Each moment wasted in thought is terribly costly—for in that very moment, everything could have been attained.

The ignorant create sects. The wise also create sects. But the ignorant person’s sect becomes a prison, and the wise person’s sect becomes a path to liberation. Sampradaya means a path—something by which one can arrive.

The wise arrive by the path; they also create paths. The ignorant get entangled in the path and never arrive. The path becomes a burden, sits on the chest like a stone. The wise use the path; the ignorant are bound by it. There is nothing wrong with a sect—if it leads you.

The word sampradaya is precious: that by which one reaches is a sampradaya. But it has become soiled—and not because of the sect itself. If someone hoists a boat onto his head and carries it, what fault is it of the boat? Will you become an enemy of boats because people carry them on their heads? Fools will carry something or other anyway. If not a boat, then something else. If there were no temples and mosques to fight over, they would find some other excuse to fight. They will always find a reason. Those who are not going anywhere start arguing about the road. Those who intend to go make use of the road. And the one who has used the road becomes free of the road. Having used a boat, no one then carries it on his head! The boat is left behind, the roads are left behind; you go on moving ahead.

There is no intrinsic fault in a sect. If there is a fault, it is in you. You can even turn medicine into poison—such artists you are! And those who know can turn poison into medicine. In time, even poison can serve to save life. Your medicine, too, can become lethal. The real question is you.

After Buddha’s departure, the Dharma split into branches and sub-branches. It had to. When a tree becomes big, it cannot remain only trunk upon trunk; it will branch out. If it were only trunk, it would look like a great stump. Under what tree will anyone find shade if it is all trunk? Even a date palm would be better—some little shade must fall somewhere.

The splendid, living tree is the one from which thousands of branches and sub-branches spring. Those branches proclaim the tree’s greatness: that in this one tree there was the capacity to become a thousand trees. There is no harm in it. The more branches, the more beautiful—because that many birds can roost and build nests; that many travellers can find rest; that much vaster and deeper the shade; a refuge for those scorched by the sun.

What is the meaning of a tree that remains a stump? It means the tree is barren; it has no capacity to spread. Life means the capacity to expand. All that is alive expands; only death contracts. Death shrinks; life unfolds. Life is expansion—from one to two, from two to many. The Divine was alone, and then became many, because the Divine is alive. If it were dead, it could not have become many. Do not abuse the world; if you understand me, you will see that the world is the Divine’s branches and sub-branches. You too are one of those branches. It is so alive it never exhausts itself; it goes on overflowing.

Since ancient times in India the tree has been a symbol of life. Buddha’s tree had immense capacity, great strength, vast potential. How could such a tree cling to a single trunk? As it grew, branches and sub-branches emerged. But in the vision of the wise there was no contradiction among them. They were all connected to the same tree and alive from the same root. The life of them all came from one source. Buddha was the source. The wise saw no opposition here; they only saw that Buddha contained vast potential.

It is a bit astonishing: in all of humankind no other person gave birth to as many possibilities as Buddha did.

On Mahavira’s tree there were only two branches—Digambara and Shvetambara. That’s all. And even between them there isn’t much distance; the differences are trifles. One worships Mahavira adorned, another worships him naked. Within adornment too, Mahavira remains naked; and within nakedness there is his great adornment. There is no great gap. His nakedness itself is ornament—what else is there to decorate? To decorate him further is like sticking legs onto a snake: the snake walked perfectly well without legs; don’t spoil it by pasting on more. To paint a peacock with extra colors—he was colorful enough; please don’t ruin his colors with your kindness.

In Mahavira’s nakedness there is exquisite adornment. Has such beautiful nakedness ever appeared? But then it is your whim. Your mind does not rest—not because there is some lack in Mahavira, but because your mind won’t accept anything without doing something. You want to do. What can you do? In the presence of someone like Mahavira you become utterly helpless. So you dress him in fine clothes, put beautiful ornaments on him—that is your relief. It has nothing to do with Mahavira. Beneath all your garments he stands in his nakedness—naked still. Such are the small distances.

Digambaras say he never married. Shvetambaras say he did. What difference does it make? Digambaras say he had no child—if he was not married, how could he? Shvetambaras say he had a daughter. But what difference does it make? What difference does it make to Mahavira whether he married or not? These are useless details. What has this to do with his being? If he married, fine; if not, fine. Let whoever wishes fashion whatever story pleases them. But there has been no great branching.

Even Jesus—two branches and that’s all: Protestant and Catholic. No great expansion.

Buddha is unique, incomparable. Hundreds of branches arose. And each branch was so vast that sub-branches grew from it. It is said that the number of philosophical paths Buddha alone opened, no one else in humanity has. Buddha by himself became the source of all types of philosophies. There is no philosophical tradition in the world that does not have its counterpart within Buddhism.

If you grasp the full history of Buddhism, then you can set aside the histories of all other religions without loss—because whatever has happened anywhere in the world, whatever idea was born anywhere, that idea was born in Buddha as well. Buddha alone is a vast tree.

This is a matter of beauty—of wonder and celebration—not a cause for worry. It only shows that Buddha had immense potential. The wise made use of that potential. There was no quarrel in it. Branches going in utterly opposite directions—one to the east, one to the west—are nonetheless joined to the same trunk. Where is the opposition? And both draw their life from the same source. One Buddha went on spreading into all. There was no hindrance in this.

But the ignorant create hindrance. The ignorant man’s trouble is that he forgets that all oppositions are simply branches going in different directions, born of one source.

I have heard: A master had two disciples. It was a hot afternoon. The master was resting while the two served him. The master turned over—and the two had divided him for service: one had taken the left leg, the other the right. When he turned, the left leg fell upon the right. Naturally, a mess ensued.

The master is one. The disciples were two; they had divided India–Pakistan between them. When the left fell on the right, the one in charge of the right leg said, “Move your left leg off my leg! There’s a limit to what I can tolerate. Enough—move it!” The other said, “Let me see who dares move my leg! Heads will roll, but my leg will remain where it is placed. This is not an ordinary leg—it is Angad’s foot!” A big quarrel broke out; both picked up sticks.

Hearing the commotion, the master awoke and saw the scene. The sticks were about to fly—at the master! The one with the right leg was ready to break the left; the one with the left leg was ready to break the right. The master said, “Wait a moment—you will end up killing me. Both these legs are mine. How did you make this division?”

The ignorant divide and then forget. They forget that what they have divided are the two legs of the same person, or the branches of the same tree. The ignorant created the mischief. The ignorant fought, opposed one another, refuted one another, tried to annihilate one another. When a sect falls into ignorant hands, danger begins.

The wise create sects, because religion naturally gives birth to branches and sub-branches. The more living a religion is, the more branches it will have. It is not sects that need to be erased from the world, but the ignorant. The day sects are wiped out, the world will become drab. Then the master will be without legs; he will have to be pushed about on a cart like legless beggars. Then the tree will be without branches; no birds will roost, no travellers will take shade. And a tree without leaves and branches only means the roots have dried up. There is no life there; life has abandoned it and flown.

You ask, “While Buddha was alive, his sangha remained united.”

No. For the wise, it is still united. And I tell you, for the ignorant it was not united even when Buddha was alive. Even then the ignorant were making their preparations; factions had already begun while Buddha lived. Ignorance does not suddenly appear upon the master’s death. The ignorant man was ignorant before too; he does not suddenly become ignorant. And if one is ignorant, what difference does it make whether Buddha is alive? Ignorance has to be dropped—what can Buddha do?

Buddha said: I can show the path, but you must walk it. I can explain, but you must understand. If you insist on not understanding, if you show not the slightest readiness to understand, then even if Buddha bangs his head a thousand times, there will be no result.

No—except for Buddhahood, everything is a river-boat happenstance. Because Buddhahood is your nature, not a happenstance. It is not that you have to become a Buddha. You are a Buddha. All that is needed is to recognize it. It is not that you have to acquire Buddhahood. You never lost it. It is re-cognition, a remembering. You simply have to wake up and see what is already there.

Buddhahood is not a happenstance. Buddhahood does not depend on any circumstances. Nor does it depend on your spiritual practices—remember that. Don’t think that by doing a lot of meditation you will become a Buddha. By much meditation and austerity it may become easier for you to awaken to Buddhahood, but not to be a Buddha—you were that already. Even when you were in deep stupor, snoring away, you were still a Buddha. Wandering through wombs—countless wombs—living like insects and worms, lost in lust, anger, greed by the thousand—you were still a Buddha. All that was a dream you were seeing. But behind the dreams your source was ever pure. It never became impure; impurity is not its nature.

Everything else in life is a river-boat happenstance. You fell in love with a woman and got married—that is a river-boat happenstance. Someone made money and someone did not—that too is a river-boat happenstance. One gained fame, another fell into infamy—river-boat happenstance. It depends on a thousand circumstances. It is not your nature. It depends on the outer, not the inner.

Only one thing is not a river-boat happenstance: your being. Your pure being. Buddhahood stands outside the world; everything else is the world. The day you awaken, that day you are suddenly outside the world—there is transcendence.

Think of it like this: you are seeing a dream. In the dream someone appears poor, someone rich. Someone appears a saint, someone a sinner. Someone sees himself committing a thousand sins, someone sees himself performing a thousand virtues. All that is river-boat happenstance. All that is a dream. But the one who is dreaming, the one who is seeing—the seer—is not a river-boat happenstance. Whether you dream of being a saint or a sinner, the dream differs; the one who sees does not. The seer is the same—whether saint or sinner, thief or not, sin or virtue—the one who is seeing within is one. To know that seer is Buddhahood. To recognize oneself is Buddhahood. Everything else is other. Everything else arises and dissolves by happenstance. Hence the foolish worry about the rest. Why worry about that which depends on happenstance?

Understand a little. You were born in a poor home. You could not receive proper education—some doors of happenstance closed. You were born in a forest, in a tribal society. There you will not become a Shakespeare or a Kalidasa. It’s a matter of happenstance. Born in the East—one happenstance; in the West—another. Many things depend on these happenstances—indeed all things depend on them—except one. Only one is the exception. And this is why religion is the search for that which lies beyond happenstance. Religion is the search for that which does not depend on circumstances. Religion is the search for that which depends on nothing. It is the search for the principle of supreme freedom within you.

Everything else you seek is a matter of happenstance. And tiny happenstances become very important. Someone had smallpox in childhood and the face became scarred. Now his whole life will revolve around this smallpox. He will face obstacles in marriage. A thousand kinds of inferiority will surround him. All this is happenstance.

But whether the face is beautiful or ugly, dark or fair, the seer within is one. Whoever has begun to seek that seer has taken the first steps toward truth.

So remember: whatever appears to be happenstance, don’t waste much time on it, don’t pour much energy into it, don’t depend on it. If it’s there, good; if not, good. Ponder, reflect, meditate on that which is beyond happenstance. That alone is called Buddhahood.

Life was a goblet of tears—
some we drank, and some we spilled.

Life is a cup of tears. What you are drinking are tears. Now and then perhaps a little glimpse of happiness comes in life; but that too depends on happenstance. Therefore you are not its master. When life will smile upon you is not in your hands. The ancients called this fate: it is all a matter of fate. To say fate is simply to say: it is a happenstance; don’t get overly anxious about it. What is called fate depends on a thousand causes. But what you are depends on none.

I was reading the life of a Jewish thinker, Frankl. He was imprisoned in Hitler’s concentration camp. He wrote that there have never been prisons more terrible than Hitler’s camps—suffering, pain, every kind of torment and humiliation, being kicked for the smallest of things. Yet he wrote, “Gradually I came to understand one thing: my freedom was intact.”

As I was reading, I too was startled: how did he find freedom there? Hitler had arranged everything to enslave, to degrade, to make miserable. A small piece of bread once a day—not enough even for one meal—so people would hide it. Frankl was a great psychologist, a renowned thinker. He wrote that great doctors were with me who had never imagined they would ever steal another’s piece of bread; wealthy men were with me who would eat their piece crumb by crumb—one tiny bit in the morning, one at noon—thinking, since hunger will arise many times, better to take it in small portions than to eat it all at once and remain hungry for twenty-four hours. They would hide their bread and keep checking that no one had taken it, a hundred prisoners crammed in one place. At night people would grope in each other’s bedding to steal bread. Such was the degradation Hitler produced. And yet, he wrote, still I came to see that my freedom was inviolate.

How? He wrote: Everything had become dependent on others—but as to what attitude I take toward this dependency, I am the master. What stance I take, how I look at it, whether I accept or reject, whether I fight or not—the seer is free.

And he wrote that whoever experienced this freedom discovered that such a sense of freedom had never arisen outside. Because where there was so much dependency—such a black wall—there the small white line of freedom stood out all the more.

So, he said, there too in the camp there were two kinds of people. There were free ones there—who remained free. There one could truly tell who is free! Hitler could not bend them; he could not break them. He starved them to death, he lashed them, but he could not make them bow. He could kill them, but not bend them. Their freedom was intact.

Who can put you in a prison? But if within you there is no awakening of the seer, you become imprisoned even in your own home.

God is witness: both are enemies of flight—
whether the grief of the cage or the comforts of the nest.

The sorrow of prison binds—that is obvious—but the comforts of the house also bind. The one who is prone to bondage will be bound anywhere. For such a one a prison is not necessary.

Look at your own home. You have long since made it a prison. Are you free in your home? If even there you are not free, if even there you are not master, if even there your seer has not been freed—if you say “my house,” you are a slave. If you say, “I live in this house, and this house does not live in me,” then you are the master.

God is witness: both are enemies of flight—
whether the grief of the cage or the comforts of the nest.

Both take away your capacity to fly—the prison certainly does, but the comforts of the house do too. Security takes it away as well.

So the real issue is neither the house nor the prison. The real issue is you. If even in prison you remain the seer, you are free. And if at home you fail to remain the seer and become the enjoyer, you are bound.

To become the seer is to become a Buddha. Buddhahood asks nothing more than this: awaken, and see that which sees all. Do not get stuck in the objects. Do not get stuck in the seen. Abide in the seer. When your sense of being the seer, the witness, becomes unwavering, Buddhahood is attained. And everyone is born with such Buddhahood.

Therefore I say to you: Buddhahood is your birthright. Take it whenever you wish—it lies asleep within you. Uncover it whenever you like; you have brought that diamond with you. It is not to be bought anywhere, not to be sought anywhere.

Talking to you is almost like talking to a wall. Talking to you is almost like talking to a deaf man. You understand only what you want to understand. However many ways one tries to show you something else, you go on missing. And the amusing thing is that the very principles that could set you free, that could link your life to a new sky—you forge those very principles into your chains.

For example, it is absolutely true that an enlightened one does not make mistakes. But it does not mean that what you call a “mistake” can never happen with an enlightened one. Is an enlightened one a corpse? Only the dead make absolutely no mistakes. By your reckoning, only the dead could qualify as enlightened. That is why it is so difficult to worship a living master, and so easy to worship a dead one—because a dead master can no longer make any mistake.

What meaning have you taken from “enlightened one”? As I told you earlier: Buddha was once walking along a path. A fly landed on his shoulder. He was talking with Ananda; he brushed it away. The fly flew off; then he paused. He lifted his hand again and, very gently, went through the motion of brushing the fly away. Ananda asked, “What are you doing now? The fly is already gone.” Buddha said, “Now I am brushing it away as it should have been brushed away. I was engaged in talking with you; without awareness I brushed it away. It could have been hurt; my hand might have come down too hard—by chance it didn’t—then it would have been violence. I would not have done it knowingly, yet it could have happened.” Immediately, the very next day, the question arose: “Enlightened ones never err, so how did the Enlightened One brush away a fly while talking with Ananda?”

You are crazy. That an enlightened one does not err is proved precisely by his brushing the fly away a second time. If he were a fool like you, he would have kept quiet. If he too had believed the theory that an enlightened one cannot make a mistake—“How can I correct it? What will Ananda say: ‘You are enlightened and you made a mistake?’”

An enlightened one does not make mistakes; but if something happens, he immediately acknowledges it—even without anyone telling him. Greater than “he does not err” is this: he accepts an error at once. You, on the other hand, make mistakes and then find it painful, difficult to admit them. You hide them, you cover them up. You try that no one should find out.

This matter of the fly would never have been known to anyone in the world, would it? Who was sitting there with a microscope? Even Ananda wouldn’t have known—had Buddha not raised his hand again, Ananda would not have noticed. But that is not the point.

Buddha said only this: if awareness is engaged on one side—as he was speaking to Ananda, all his attention was there—an enlightened one does whatever he does with total attention. So while he was speaking, all his attention was there. He is not split like you—half the skull looking left, half looking right. He would have turned wholly toward Ananda.

You see a mistake; I see the one-pointedness of his attention. He spoke with Ananda with such absorption that as if the whole world had dissolved. The whole world had vanished; what to speak of a fly! In such a moment, the body, mechanically, brushed the fly away. To say “Buddha brushed the fly away by mistake” is also wrong—because Buddha was not present there. Buddha was present in the conversation with Ananda. The body brushed it away.

The body does many things mechanically. At night you are asleep; a mosquito comes, the hand waves it off. You don’t even need to wake up for that. You’re sitting; someone tosses a pebble toward your eye—you do not have to decide to close the eye; it closes by itself. It is automatic, and it is good that it is automatic. Otherwise the pebble would hit and you would still be thinking whether to close the eye or not. Nature has not left that to you. Something as delicate as the eye cannot be left in your hands. Nature has arranged that as soon as anything approaches, the eye closes on its own. You do not blink the eye; the eye blinks.

Have you ever noticed how many things the body silently goes on doing? You eat food; the body digests it—you do not digest it. You don’t even have to remember that the body is digesting; it goes on by itself.

In that moment when the fly was first brushed away, to say “Buddha brushed it away” is itself incorrect. It is said only as a manner of speaking. What happened was this: Buddha was wholly present in the dialogue with Ananda; a fly came; the body brushed it off. Buddha corrected the body. When he brushed the fly away the second time, he gave the body a lesson: “This is how it should have been done. Even if I am ‘not at home,’ it should not go wrong. Even if I am not present, you must brush away a fly in a manner befitting an enlightened one.” He made a small adjustment in the body.

And yet, immediately, the next day the question arises: “The enlightened one made a mistake!” You are so eager to spot others’ mistakes that you won’t miss the chance even with an enlightened one. Someone asked me one day: sometimes while speaking I make a slip of the tongue. “An enlightened one cannot make mistakes. So obviously either I am not enlightened, or enlightened ones do make mistakes.” That is why I say, speaking to you is almost like playing a flute before a buffalo.

When I am speaking to you, I am with you with such depth that I cannot pay attention to the brain. The speaking and word-making is being done by the brain’s mechanism—just as Buddha’s hand brushed away the fly, so my brain goes on speaking to you; I am with you. The mechanism can make slips. The mechanism’s slips are not my slips. And one who has recognized me would not raise such questions. Such questions arise in your mind because you have come to me but the wish to bow down is not there. Any excuse will do for you to take your surrender back—“Ah! This man made a mistake in a word! He meant to say something, and said something else; then had to correct it.” You are looking for a way—any way—to save your surrender.

The truth is that I am doing a very difficult thing. To be totally with you—then I cannot speak. Or if I speak, then there can be no meeting of my presence with yours; then I can speak, but the words will be hollow. Then there would be no verbal slips. A pundit never slips with words; Buddhas do. The pundit is skilled in words, because he keeps polishing the machine.

Words are makeshift tools. What I have to convey, please grasp through these makeshift words. Don’t sit there thinking, “A grammatical mistake happened. How can an enlightened one make a mistake?” I don’t even know grammar. That I manage this much is itself a miracle! Silence I know; language I do not. Somehow I am getting by.

Certainly I must have got absorbed in looking at you when those names were written. And it’s quite possible, Shyamdev Bharti! Shyamdev Saraswati! that you are two men, not one—split, fractured. In the mirror two faces must have appeared. You could have looked at it that way too. But if you look that way, you would have to change your life! Instead, you instantly saw, “Ah! the enlightened man has made a mistake. What trouble we’ve landed in! Let’s find some other enlightened man who, if he writes Shyamdev Saraswati, writes only Shyamdev Saraswati.”

There was a Zen fakir, Linchi. He would give names to his disciples and then forget. He’d give someone a name, and when he called him the next day he would call him by some other name. People would say, “What is this? We have heard that an enlightened person never has such lapses of memory.” Linchi would say, “But the one to whom I gave the name yesterday—where is he now? You’ve come back as someone else. Had you come as the one you were yesterday, I would have recognized him. Since you have come changed, what can I do now?”

Another fakir was Bokuju. Every morning he would get up and call out, “Bokuju!” and then himself would answer, “Yes, sir! Yes, I’m here.” His disciples asked, “What is this?” He said, “At night, in sleep, one forgets who it was that went to sleep! In the morning, if you don’t remember—if two, four, ten days pass like that—you may forget even your name. Because I am not any name.”

Change this tendency of the mind a little. If there is any mistake of mine, I will bear it—why are you worried? My sins, my mistakes will lead me astray. You correct your own mistakes. You take care of your own awareness. And don’t ask such futile questions.

It is only a difference of words between understanding and samadhi. What Krishnamurti calls understanding, Patanjali calls samadhi. I see exactly where your difficulty is: you think you are intelligent. So you wonder, can samadhi flower from understanding alone? If that were so, samadhi would already have happened—since you are intelligent!
Don’t be offended: you are not intelligent, and samadhi has not yet happened to you. Understanding simply becomes samadhi. Understanding and samadhi are two names for the same happening.

Krishnamurti has a small difficulty in using old words: old words have become burdened with old meanings. So he uses new words. But whatever new word you choose, it changes nothing. You can call a rose “rose” or start calling it “jasmine”—the flower will not change. You can go on changing names; the rose remains a rose. Man has made countless images of God; the images differ, God is one.

What does Krishnamurti mean by understanding? If you grasp his definition, you will find it is the same as what Patanjali calls samadhi. What is Krishnamurti’s definition? He says understanding means awareness, total wakefulness. He says understanding means the turmoil of thoughts becoming quiet—the arising of a pristine vision. Seeing in such a way that you certainly see, but there is no smoke of thinking over your eyes. When the lamp of your consciousness burns without smoke, that is understanding.

Patanjali says the same—nirvichara, nirvikalpa: no thought, no choice, no alternatives in the mind; that very state is samadhi. Samadhi means samadhan—resolution. Where all thinking has ceased, all questions have dropped: in that state of resolution you become a mirror. In that mirror, what is—“that which is,” Krishnamurti’s phrase for the divine—reveals itself. Krishnamurti says: that which is. Patanjali would say: truth. Meera would say: Krishna. Buddha would say: nirvana. These are their own words. What is will be seen the very moment all your assumptions fall. As long as you look through assumptions, you will only see what your assumption allows you to see. Someone puts on colored glasses and the world appears in that color. Every assumption has a color. Understanding is uncolored, assumption-free. Understanding means: what is is seen as it is.

So don’t get entangled in this web of words. Take what resonates with you. If “understanding” appeals, fine. But I think the snag you feel with “understanding” is because you think, “We are already intelligent. Samadhi is what we have to attain. Perhaps we are seeking samadhi precisely because we’re intelligent—would fools set out to attain samadhi?” I tell you, the fool is the one who has concluded he is intelligent. All fools believe themselves intelligent; you are not the exception.

Intelligent is the one who has recognized his own unintelligence. And the one who has recognized his unintelligence gradually has two courses open to him:
- Either he goes on enlarging the thread of pure understanding itself—doing every act with wakefulness: get up with awareness, sit with awareness, walk with awareness; whatever he does, he installs awareness behind it.
- Or, if that is not possible, then at least take out an hour or two from the twenty-four, and spend those hours in the moments of samadhi—in meditation.

If you spend even an hour in meditation, gradually you will find its influence spreading over the twenty-four hours. It is impossible to be healthy for one hour and sick for the remaining twenty-three; even one hour of health sends ripples across the day. So the ancient seers said: perhaps today you cannot manage all twenty-four hours—nor is it fair to expect that. Take out an hour. It’s not that they didn’t know what an hour could do; but a beginning will be made. Once something comes into your hands, slowly the whole truth can be grasped.

Krishnamurti says there is no need to meditate separately. He is right. Those who said “do it separately” also know there is no real need to separate it. But they do not expect that you can be aware for twenty-four hours yet.

Krishnamurti trusted you a little too much; Patanjali doesn’t trust you that much. Therefore Patanjali managed to take some of you to samadhi; Krishnamurti perhaps almost no one. He trusted you too much. You were crawling on your knees; Krishnamurti assumed you could run.

Krishnamurti said what he had to say from his own standpoint; he did not take care of you. Patanjali speaks with your welfare in view—lifting you one step at a time. Patanjali has placed stairs; Krishnamurti speaks of a leap. You cannot gather the courage even to climb steps—what leap will you take!

And it often happens that those who cannot muster the courage to climb steps become very enthusiastic about Krishnamurti. Because there, no steps—just a leap! They never consider: we cannot even climb steps—how will we leap? But “leap” gives a convenient excuse: “What will steps do anyway?” Thus they find a pretext. They avoid the steps, and who is actually going to leap?

The more I have looked into you, the more I find you are very skilled at deceiving yourselves. That is the sum of your cleverness. Krishnamurti reposed too much trust in you. You are not worthy of it. Therefore Krishnamurti shouted his whole life, and could really help almost no one. Because he starts from a place where you are not. And many who gathered around him were those who do not want to do anything—they got a pretext. They said, “Can anything happen by doing? This is a matter of awareness—what will doing accomplish?” They escaped doing; and as for awareness—who is going to practice that?

Such things come to me every day. If I tell someone, “Do a silent meditation,” a few days later he returns and says, “Sitting silently does nothing. What will happen by closing the eyes?” If I tell him, “Leave that—do an active meditation,” a few days later he returns and says, “What will come of dancing, jumping, leaping? Meditation should be quiet!” The same man forgets. When I say “active,” he longs for “silent,” because then, under the cover of “silent,” he can avoid the active. When I say “silent,” he longs for “active,” and under the cover of “active,” he avoids the silent. Are you intent on escaping? Then as you wish. Do you want to change, or to escape?

Krishnamurti’s words are precious, but they fell into the hands of the dishonest—and the dishonest felt great relief. No worship, no prayer, no meditation—only understanding. And understanding—well, you have that already, don’t you? Then their complaint becomes: “We already understand; we don’t have to worship, pray, or meditate—yet samadhi isn’t coming!” You don’t even have understanding.

I tell you: Krishnamurti’s understanding is more difficult than Patanjali’s samadhi. Because Patanjali has broken the long path into small steps.

Buddha was passing through a forest and lost the way. You might say, “Can an enlightened one lose the way?” If an enlightened one could never lose the way, he would be a corpse. They lost the way and could not reach where they intended; it was getting late. Ananda asked a passerby, “How far is the village?” The man said, “Just two kos.” They walked; two kos were done, but no sign of the village. They asked another passerby. He said, “Just two kos.” Ananda said, “What kind of people are these? How big is their kos? We have covered two already. The first man must have deceived us—or he didn’t know and answered just for the pleasure of answering. When one gets a chance to play the guru, who misses it? Even if you don’t know how far it is, you say it anyway; at least by saying it you appear to know.”
Buddha kept smiling. Two more kos passed; still no village. Ananda said, “These people of this village seem to be liars.” They asked another man. He said, “Just two kos.” Then Ananda lost his temper: “This is too much! Everyone says ‘two kos’! How much is two kos supposed to be?”
Buddha said, “Don’t be angry. The people of this village are very compassionate. They have made you walk four kos already. If the first man had said ‘ten kos’ or ‘eight kos,’ we might have sat down in exhaustion, ‘How can we go that far now?’ On the assurance of two kos we walked; those two passed. Then on the assurance of two more, we walked again; those passed too. Now believe this one. It seems now it really is two kos. At the start, it must have been six.”
When they finally arrived after those two kos, Ananda apologized to Buddha: “Forgive me. I took them for liars and scoundrels who could not even tell the right way.” Buddha said, “They were compassionate.”

Patanjali is more compassionate. Krishnamurti is stern. Krishnamurti tells you exactly as it is: “A thousand kos.” You sit down: “We’ll see.” Patanjali says, “Just two kos—walk a little, you’ll reach.” Patanjali also knows it is a thousand kos. But you cannot muster the courage to walk a thousand kos in one stretch. It is appropriate to tell you only as much as you can walk. Patanjali speaks not by looking at the destination, but by looking at you: How much strength in your legs? How much courage? How much capacity? “Two kos.” He sees that you can walk two; then he will say “two and a half.” On the assurance of two, you will go another half. Then he will say “two and a half” again. What’s the hurry? Slowly he will get you there.

Patanjali breaks it gently, sequentially. That is why Patanjali’s whole Yoga Sutra is a gradation of steps. Step by step, he took thousands across. Krishnamurti could not.

Nor is Krishnamurti the first to have said such a thing. Thinkers of Krishnamurti’s kind have been before. They said the same—and they too could not take anyone across.

Krishnamurti’s overriding concern is that the truth be told to you. He values the authenticity of truth. He says, “If it is a thousand kos, say a thousand. Why say even one less? Why lie? Can anyone be led to truth by telling a lie?” I tell you: yes—one can. People have been led, and will be led. Be grateful to those who, for your sake, are even willing to employ a lie—who agree to “lie” because of you.

To state the truth as such is not very difficult—provided one does not take care of you. If one cares for you, one must speak from the place where you can be pulled. You are in a deep pit; your darkness admits no light. What is the point of talking to you of light? You must be brought out slowly, gently, from the darkness. One must say something that can harmonize with you today. Tomorrow we will see.

These are two approaches. Whichever fits you, stay with it. Keep one thing in mind: you know neither Patanjali’s samadhi nor Krishnamurti’s understanding yet. They are two names for the same thing. And know this: you are unintelligent and without samadhi. If, knowing this, you begin to move, then you become what Buddha calls a disciple.

And only those conquer life who are capable of learning. And the flower-strewn path of religion becomes available only to those in whose life the source of discipleship has opened.

That’s all for today.