Es Dhammo Sanantano #17

The heart is at someone’s feet—whether the head bows or not.
Devotion is our very nature—whether there is a God or not.

Buddha gave the world a religion, gave humanity a direction where prayer is greater than Paramatma; where the human heart—filled with worship and adoration—is greater than Paramatma.

The real question is not whether Paramatma is. The real question is whether the human heart is filled with prayer. In prayer alone you will find that for which you search. And how to make prayer the very nature of man!

If there is a God and then you pray, you have not prayed—it became a bribe. If there is a God and you bowed, you did not really bow. If there is a power making you bow, then you did not bow; you were bent by another’s strength. But if there is no God and you bow, then bowing has become your very nature.

Buddha liberated Dharma from God. And when Dharma becomes unrelated to God, Dharma attains its highest peak. Not because God is not, but because if bowing arises without God, then bowing has arisen.

Try to understand this a little.

You go and you bow. But before bowing you ask, “Is there a God?” If there is, you will bow. If you bow before God it is because some profit, some greed, some fear, some future ambition is functioning. You bow because God can grant something. But bowing is not your nature; you bow unwillingly. If God could give you nothing, would you bow? If by bowing God took things away from you, would you bow? If bowing caused you loss, would you bow? Such bowing is self-interest. How can one who bows out of self-interest truly bow? That is a bargain, a business.

You bow like this in the world as well. You bow at the feet of those who hold power. You bow before those who have wealth, position. Then your God is only an extension of power, of wealth and office. That is why people have called God Ishwar. Ishwar means Aishwarya, majesty. You bow before majesty. God has been called the supreme post—Param-Pad—beyond which there is no post. You bow before the post. This is politics, not religion. And behind it there will be greed, there will be fear. Where is prayer?

The heart is at someone’s feet—whether the head bows or not.

And remember, one who bows with a motive will bend the head, not the heart—for the heart knows no arithmetic. The skull will bend, not the heart—for the heart bows without calculation. The heart sometimes bows before those who had no power, no position, no wealth. The heart sometimes bows even before beggars. The head does not bow before beggars; it bows forever before emperors. The heart sometimes bows before flowers—no power, no might. They are here for a moment, then farewell. The heart bows before the weak and the delicate. The head does not bow.

The head is man’s ego; the heart is man’s love.

The heart is at someone’s feet—whether the head bows or not.

Let the heart lie at someone’s feet—that is enough. If the head does not bow, it will do. If it bows, good. If you follow the heart, good. If you become the heart’s shadow, good. If you remain with the heart, good. If the head does not bow, it will do. For bowing has nothing to do with the head. You must bow. Your dwelling is in the heart—where your love is. The head bows from fear; the heart bows from love. Love and fear never meet anywhere.

Therefore, if you bowed before God out of fear, only the head will bow. And if you bowed because a flood of love arose—what will you do with such a flood? It must flow somewhere, it must be poured out somewhere—if your embankments break and your worship begins to flow, if a flood of prayer rises—then your heart bows.

The heart is at someone’s feet—whether the head bows or not.
Devotion is our very nature—whether there is a God or not.

Then who bothers whether God is or not? Devotion is our nature. Then prayer becomes intrinsic. This is very difficult to understand. Love must be one’s nature; do not ask about a beloved. You say, “When there is a beloved, then I shall love.” If there is no love within you, how will you love even when a beloved appears? What is not within you cannot be created by the presence of a beloved. And what is within you—where will you lose it even if there is no beloved?

Understand it this way: One who says, “If there is a God, I will pray,” is not an theist but an atheist. One who says, “There is love, therefore I shall love,” he is the theist. Wherever his eyes fall, a thousand deities will be born. Wherever eyes full of love gaze, temples will be built. Wherever a heart full of love beats, there a new Kaaba will arise, a new Kashi will be born. For where love is, there Paramatma manifests.

Eyes brimming with love can see Paramatma in every particle. And you say, “First let God be, then we will love.” Then your love will be flattery. Your love will not be love, it will be the bowing of the head—not the outpouring of the heart.

The essential question is not of the worthy object of love; the essential question is of a love-filled heart. Buddha placed a wondrous emphasis here. Therefore Buddha did not speak of God—and yet none has ushered so many to the vision of God as he. He left Ishwar outside the discussion and gave godliness to millions. He did not speak of God at all, and yet he brought a flood of divinity into the world. Therefore no man like Buddha has ever appeared in human history. He did not raise the question of God at all, and yet how many hearts he made bow!

And remember, with Buddha there was no question of the head bowing—for there was no cause for fear, no God, no reason to be afraid, no greed to get something from God. Bowing was out of sheer joy, out of celebration. Bowing out of one’s own “aaho-bhav,” out of grace.

When a tree is laden with fruit it bows. Not because those who pluck the fruit are approaching—it bows from an inner cause. It does not bend because fruit-eaters are near; it bends under its own unparalleled inner weight. A devotee does not bow because of God; he bows under the burden of his own heart. The fruits have ripened; the branches begin to bend.

Devotion is our very nature—whether there is a God or not.

Buddha’s emphasis is on prayer, not on God. And by cutting God out, by not bringing him in between, Buddha’s Dharma becomes very scientific. Then only the matter of pure inner revolution remains. These are sutras of inner revolution. Try to understand.

“Do not attend to the faults of others; do not see the deeds and misdeeds of others; only observe your own deeds and misdeeds.”

One whose gaze is on God will have his gaze on the other. One who has seen God outside will also see the devil outside. Understand this a little; it is subtle. If you have seen God outside, where will you see the devil? You will see him outside as well. Your outward-looking habit will see everything outside. Then your gaze will remain stuck on others’ conduct.

Hence the so-called religious are always thinking about the deeds and misdeeds of others. They remain absorbed in criticism of others—who has done wrong, who has done right; who went to the temple, who did not. The other remains dominant in their thinking. Therefore those whom you call religious worry about the whole world except themselves—who is sinning, who is doing virtue; who will go to hell, who will go to heaven.

Buddha says: Be concerned only with yourself. You are responsible only for yourself and for none else. If existence asks you, it will ask only of you. You have been given the opportunity of life—what did you earn in that opportunity, what did you lose? The moments of life that were given to you—did you throw them away empty, or did you fill them with the nectar of life? The steps you placed upon the path—did they fall toward the goal or away from it? Nothing else can be asked; you are responsible for no one else. Your own responsibility is enough.

“Do not attend to the faults of others.”

And remember, one who attends to the faults of others becomes blind to his own. You can give your attention either to your own faults or to the faults of others; both cannot go together. For the one whose eyes are trained to see the faults of others falls into the shadow of his own eyes. When you attend to the other, you forget yourself. You fall into shadow.

And understand one more thing: when you look at others’ faults, the mind has a longing to magnify them. Nothing gives more titillation than to feel that others are more sinful than you, worse than you, darker than you. It greatly satisfies the ego to feel: “I am perfectly fine; others are wrong.” If, without becoming truly good, you want to enjoy the taste of being good, then count others’ faults. And when you count others’ faults, naturally you will count them enlarged. You become a device through which everything of the other appears magnified.

And one who magnifies others’ faults sees his own either diminished or not at all. If you commit a mistake, you say, “I was helpless.” When the same mistake is committed by another, you say, “Sin!” If you were hungry and you stole, you say, “What else could I do? The hunger was great!” But if another steals from hunger, you call it theft—you do not even remember hunger.

For what you do, you discover arguments; for what the other does, you never try to find any argument. Slowly, others’ faults begin to appear mountainous, and yours by comparison begin to seem small. A fateful moment comes when others’ faults begin to touch the sky—skyscraping—while your faults disappear. Without becoming good you begin to savor being good. This is the unfortunate state of the so-called religious.

One who sees the sins of others, counts his own virtues. If you steal a thousand rupees, you forget; if you give a donation of one coin, you remember. Even a single coin’s charity appears huge, and a thousand-rupee theft appears small. Perhaps by stealing a thousand you want to settle accounts by donating one.

Think a little—what tricks the religious have invented! They commit sins, then go bathe in the Ganga. What can bathing in the Ganga have to do with the erasure of sin? There can be no connection, not even remotely. What is Ganga’s fault if you sinned? And if the Ganga keeps on washing everyone’s sins, then even in hell there will be no place for the Ganga—so many sins would be accumulated! And if it were that easy—commit sins, take a dip, and they are washed away—then where remains the harm in sinning? Only the labor of going to the Ganga and coming back. Those who live on its banks—what to say of them!

You have made pilgrimages. You have created small devices of merit to cover your great sins—to deny them, to forget them. You do a small good deed, donate to a hospital—but donate out of the same theft for which you want atonement—steal a hundred thousand, donate ten rupees; and you want to cover a hundred thousand’s theft with ten rupees’ charity! Whom are you deceiving?

Or, not even that—each morning you sit and mutter the rosary for five or ten minutes, slide the beads and think you are settled. Or you chant “Ram-Ram.” Or you throw a shawl printed with Ram’s name over your shoulders. You think the matter is resolved—as if you did a favor to Ram. Now Ram must understand—you wore the shawl! You have something to say for yourself—you went to the temple, you have kept an account.

Life remains filled with darkness, and no lamp is lit. You only write the word “light” upon dark walls, or hang pictures of lamps. If you are thirsty, the word “water” does not quench. If there is darkness, the word “lamp” does not dispel it.

The spectacle of a picture cannot erase the heart’s pain;
A mirror may hold water, but it cannot give you a drink.

If you only gaze at pictures—
The spectacle of a picture cannot erase the heart’s pain—
then your heart’s pain will not vanish by looking at pictures. Sit with your lover’s photograph—has anyone ever found a lover that way?

A mirror may hold water, but it cannot give you a drink.
In the mirror there is a gleam like water, but your thirst will not be quenched by it. Scriptures can give you words, not truth. Pictures of lamps painted on dark walls can deceive you, not give light.

And one who attends to the faults of others does not attend to his own; he keeps accounts of petty things—what you call virtue—which is a foolish name. They are not virtue; at most they are the ornaments of your sins, the cosmetics of sin—the bindi on sin’s forehead, the bangles on sin’s hands, the anklets on sin’s feet—and you call them virtue. You keep their accounts!

Buddha said: Drop this. Do not attend to the faults of others; it serves you not. Your purpose is only with you. Do not see the deeds and misdeeds of others; only observe your own deeds and misdeeds. Only your own observation.

Understand this word—observation. Observation is Buddha’s process for freedom from life’s darkness. Buddha does not say: Look at your sin and become miserable, repent that “I am a sinner.” Nor does he say: Look at your virtue and become puffed up, go dancing that “I am a great virtuous man.” Buddha says: Observe.

Observation means neutral seeing—without any judgment. Do not say “right,” do not say “wrong,” not “good,” not “sin,” not “virtue.” Do not take any decision. Do not evaluate. Only see. As if one were standing by the roadside and watching the crowd pass—good people pass, bad people pass, it matters not; sadhus pass, non-sadhus pass, it matters not. Or as someone lies for a moment upon the grass and watches clouds moving in the sky—their forms and colors differ, black clouds, white clouds—he keeps no account, just silently watches.

Observation means a scientific gaze, a neutral attitude—keep the focus only on seeing. The emphasis is on seeing, not on judging that what you see is right or wrong. Do not become a judge. Do not begin to weigh with a scale. Remain merely a witness. What the Upanishads call sakshi, Buddha calls observation. Just see—as if you have nothing to gain or lose. A detached stance. Standing at a distance, silently. And a wondrous revolution occurs: the more neutral you become, the more you realize you are separate from your acts—separate from sin and separate from virtue. And this separateness is called freedom, is called Moksha.

One who identifies with sin is in delusion. One who identifies with virtue is also in delusion. He has identified with doing; he has taken himself to be the doer.

The observer arrives at the conclusion: I am only the seer, not the doer. Then both sin and virtue disappear—as if once done in a dream, as if once read in a novel, as if a rumor once heard. They remain unrelated to oneself. This pure separateness is Buddhahood. Sometimes even you will catch a sudden glimpse of this for a moment—and even if lightning flashes for one instant, life is never again the same as before. Observe.

You came by the world’s road—
otherwise the path of the heart was straight.

Thinking and brooding over others, wandering the marketplace, circling the world long and long—you arrived at yourself.

You came by the world’s road—
otherwise the path of the heart was straight.

Otherwise it was merely a matter of bowing the neck a little. Through observation you will reach yourself directly. Yes, if you go on considering the deeds and misdeeds of others, it is a great circumambulation—endless. You will not be able to conclude even in infinite births. How many are “others”? Whose accounts will you keep? For whom will you weep and laugh? Whom will you praise and whom will you condemn? If in this way you set out…

I have heard: A man was running. He asked a fellow by the road, “Brother, how far is Delhi?” The fellow said, “In the direction you are going—very far. Because you have left Delhi eight miles behind. If you insist on going this way, then after you circumambulate the whole earth and return—if you survive—you will reach Delhi. If you are ready to turn back, it is not far.”

You came by the world’s road—
otherwise the path of the heart was straight.

Delhi is right behind—not even eight miles away. It is a matter of observation, of inspection—of wakefulness, of apramad. Gather a little alertness.

First thing: Do not think about others. Your own reflection is enough. Close your eyes; see your own acts. And do not become a judge of your acts—otherwise observation ends. You become attached. If you say, “This is right,” attachment is born. If you say, “This is not right,” aversion is born. You begin to hate some acts and love others. Attachment and aversion, likes and dislikes arise; then the acts recede to a distance and you get lost in the web of attachment-aversion. Just keep watching the act.

Even if for a short while each day you observe your acts, you will feel as if the Atman has bathed—its freshness will remain all day. Again and again waves of joy will arise, gusts will come; you will be thrilled by some inner nectar. And this inner nectar is not of the intellect—it is of the heart.

When you think and decide, the intellect becomes active. When you simply see, the flower of the heart blooms. The moment you begin to decide, the intellect enters—because decision is the work of thought. The moment you weigh, the scale appears; the scale is the symbol of the intellect. If you do not weigh, if you only watch, then there is no need for the intellect to interfere. In mere seeing, in the witnessing state, the intellect recedes. And the deep mysteries of life—the heart knows them.

Why reveal love’s secret to the intellect?
One does not make an outsider a confidant.

The heart has never told any secret of love, of Paramatma, to the intellect.

Why reveal love’s secret to the intellect?
One does not make an outsider a confidant.

Does one reveal matters of the heart to a stranger? The intellect is a stranger, borrowed. The heart is yours.

Understand this a little. When you were born, you came with a heart. The intellect is given by society, by conditioning, by education—by home, family, civilization. So the Hindu has one kind of intellect; the Muslim, another; the Jain, a third—because their conditionings differ, their scriptures differ, their doctrines differ. But all three have one and the same heart. The heart belongs to Paramatma; intellects belong to societies.

In Russia one is born and will have a communist intellect. One born in a Christian household will have a Christian intellect. The intellect is dust gathered from outside—like dust accumulating on the mirror of the heart. The mirror you bring; the dust you receive.

This dust must be wiped away. The deepest process of all religion is the wiping of dust, so the mirror becomes clear again—you become a child again, you live again in the heart. You look again from where you looked the first time when you opened your eyes—there stood no intellect in between, you simply saw. That was observation.

“As a beautiful flower may be richly colored but without fragrance, so are fair words fruitless for one who does not act.”

The second sutra: A beautiful flower, very multi-colored, yet without fragrance—such is erudition. There is much color in it, no fragrance. Fragrance in life comes from conduct. From what you know, fragrance does not come. That is a seasonal flower—at a distance it may appear attractive; on coming near you will find it papier-mâché. A man may be deceived, but bees are not deceived; butterflies are not deceived; bumblebees are not deceived. If bumblebees are not deceived, how will you deceive Paramatma? If butterflies and bees are not deceived, how will you deceive Paramatma?

There is a story in the life of King Solomon. A queen was in love with him and wanted to test whether he was truly as wise as people said—only then would she marry him. She came and gave him many tests, all very significant.

One test was this: One day she arrived and stood at a distance in the royal court. In her hands she carried two bouquets of flowers. She called to Solomon from afar, “Tell me which are the real flowers.” It was difficult—the distance was great, and the two bouquets looked exactly alike.

Solomon told his courtiers to open all the windows and doors. They were opened. Neither the courtiers nor the queen understood what opening windows and doors had to do with it. The queen thought perhaps he felt there was insufficient light—no harm. But Solomon was thinking of something else. Soon he declared which were real and which artificial—because a bee flew in from the garden and sat upon the real flowers. Neither the courtiers nor the queen noticed.

She said, “How did you recognize them?” Solomon replied, “You can deceive me, but not a bee.”

It is hard to deceive a bee—how will you deceive Paramatma?

Buddha says, “As a beautiful flower may be richly colored but without fragrance, so are fair words fruitless for one who does not act.”

You will not learn the truths of life by thinking about them. You will learn by living them. If something seems right, do not delay. Do not postpone it for tomorrow. If something seems right, dive into it today. If observation seems right to you, do not keep thinking, “I will begin tomorrow.” In this way fragrance will never enter your life. It may happen that you become skilled in talking about observation, become a pundit of meditation—but fragrance will not come.

To know about prayer is not to know prayer. Only he knows prayer who does it, who dives into it, who is dissolved in it—when prayer becomes your very being.

Conduct means: your knowing becomes your being. What you know does not remain merely pasted on from above; its roots spread into your life. It arises from within you; it becomes your own. Knowledge gathered from above is like eating food without being able to digest it; you will fall ill. Undigested food destroys life; digested food gives life, gives energy. The hungry can survive longer; those who eat too much die quickly. The whole system is burdened. And the heaviest burden is knowledge.

If your consciousness is suppressed, it is under the load of your knowledge. You know too much, have lived too little—an imbalance has occurred. Buddha says: Know a little, but go on transforming it into living. Eat a little, but chew well, digest well—let it become blood, flesh, marrow.

How will men of cleverness understand what folly is and what true wisdom—
The day they light the lamp of the heart in place of the intellect.

The day they light the lamp of the heart instead of the intellect—
then the clever will understand what folly is and what wisdom is.

Only those will understand who go deeper than the intellect and light the lamp of the heart. The heart’s lamp means: what you know you turn into life; what you have understood does not remain understanding, it becomes Samadhi; what you have heard is not merely heard—you have drunk it.

“As a beautiful flower may be richly colored but without fragrance, so are fair words fruitless for one who does not act.”

Know a little, live much—and you will arrive. Know much and live nothing—you will not arrive. Then you keep accounts of others’ cows; you own none of your own. You remain a cowherd, not a master.

Do not become a pundit. Even sinners reach—pundits do not. Because even a sinner will awaken someday; suffering awakens. A pundit dreams of a pleasure he “knows,” without knowing.

Beware of scripture. Scripture can become a chain. Fair sayings can become poison. Whatever you do not transform in life becomes poison. Anything that remains in your system without being transformed into blood, flesh, marrow becomes toxic. The pundit’s existence becomes poisoned.

“As a flower that is both richly colored and fragrant, so are fair words fruitful for one who acts.”

So let the focus be on: What is my conduct? What is my way of being? What is the style of my life? Believe in Paramatma or not—if your conduct is that of one who is returning home, not going toward the world; of one who is withdrawing, returning to the center of one’s consciousness—if your conduct is that of one who does not collect useless rubbish but chooses only jewels—if your conduct is like that of the swan who selects pearls, who in milk mixed with water drinks only the milk, leaves the water—

We have called the wise Paramhansa. Have you ever understood why? For two reasons: first, the hansa, the swan, distinguishes essence from the nonessential. Second, the hansa moves in all directions; it can swim in water, walk on land, fly in the sky—its freedom has no boundary. If there is land, it walks; if there is sea, it swims; if there is sky, it flies. In all three dimensions there is no obstacle for it. The day you begin to recognize essence and nonessential, your freedom will become as measureless as the swan’s. Therefore we have called the wise “Paramhansa.”

It is only from not-knowing that you are bound. You do not even know how to live well on land—how can you talk of walking upon water? And to fly in the sky is very far indeed! You do not know how to live well in the body—how can you speak of the mind, and the Atman is far, far away!

The body is the land; the mind is the water; the soul is the sky. Therefore the mind is wave-like like water; the body stable like the earth—standing for seventy years, then falling into that very earth from which it is formed. The mind is like water, like quicksilver—scattering. The Atman is pure like the sky; how many clouds may gather, not a trace of smoke remains; how many earths are formed and lost; how many moons and stars are created and dissolved—the sky remains immutable, unmoving.

You cannot even live rightly in the body—how to talk of the mind? The moment you enter the mind, anxiety seizes you; the turmoil of thoughts catches you. The soul is then very far—because the soul is thoughtlessness, meditation—Samadhi: sky, free, infinite.

We have called the wise Paramhansa. But the alchemy of turning knowledge into conduct must be understood—the secret of transformation. Sometimes you understand a thing—clear as crystal—and if in that very moment you begin to use it, it will go on being refined. You say, “I will use it tomorrow, or the day after; I have understood, let me store it for now.”

A friend used to come here to listen—a doctor, educated. I noticed that whenever he listened, he would only sit and take notes. He came to meet me; I asked, “What are you doing?” He said, “You speak such wondrous things that it is essential to take notes; they will come in handy later.” While I was explaining, they were not understanding—they were postponing even understanding to tomorrow. Doing is another matter—he was taking notes now. “Later, when needed, they will be useful.” You were present here, I was present here—why not let it sink into the heart now? But he believed he was doing something valuable. He was deceiving—deceiving himself. This is an escape from understanding, not understanding.

An event could have happened before your eyes, here and now. I was ready to look into your eyes; you avoided the gaze—you began to take notes. I stretched out a hand to pull you out of your ditch; you busied your hand in writing. I called you; you did not hear. You inscribed a few words in your notebook and felt pleased. You could not understand the living truth now—you postponed it to tomorrow. When will you do it?

Postponement is the greatest disease of the human mind. Whatever you understand, do it that very moment—because doing brings taste. With the taste, the urge to do more arises; with more doing, more taste comes. Suddenly one day you will find: what you had thought of as knowledge is no longer knowledge—it has become conduct.

“As a flower that is both richly colored and fragrant, so are fair words fruitful for one who acts.”

And remember: whatever can be known can be known only by living it. Do not fall into useless debate. Debate is often a way to escape. Do not become entangled in futile nets of argument. You will find many who say, “What is there in it?” But look closely: has the one who says so tasted anything?

Let the sober argue over my madness—
but first they must become mad themselves.

Let the sensible debate my madness—no harm, let them argue. But first they must become mad; only then will they have a little taste. Listen only to one who has some taste; otherwise, critics abound in this world, slanderers abound. Nothing is as easy as calling anything wrong. To say “God is not” is so easy. To say “God is” is very difficult—because if you say “is,” you must prove it. If you say “is not,” there is no question of proof; when it is not, what is there to prove?

To deny love is easy; to say yes to love is difficult—because then love means passing through a fire. “No” is very easy. Therefore cowards manage their lives through “no,” though they may appear very brave. Someone says, “God is not”—he seems courageous; you do not have that courage. But I say to you: cowards get along by saying “no.” To what you say “no,” you neither have to prove, nor to embody it, nor to stake your life, nor to walk a path. Only he who says “yes” is brave, courageous.

But even “yes” can be impotent, if you say “yes” merely to avoid trouble. Someone says, “God is,” and you reply, “Perhaps, surely”—only to avoid hassle—“Who has time to argue? Who has time to quarrel? Who wants trouble whether he is or is not? Yes, fine—surely he is.” If your yes is only for avoidance, your yes is in fact a no. In that yes there is no yes—only no.

Let the sober argue over my madness—
but first they must become mad themselves.

Ask only one in whose life there is fragrance and aroma, in whose life there is taste. Ask about wine only from one whose lips and breath carry some scent of wine, in whose atmosphere there is a breeze of intoxication, whose eyes have a little languor—ask him. Do not sit asking everyone; do not listen to everyone—or else you will waste life. The ignorant are many; cowards are many; critics are many—without end, for these are all strategies of avoidance. Those who know life are very few—do not be lost in the crowd. You will be lost if, when some sutra comes to you, you do not use it quickly; it will rust.

Truth is a very delicate thing. It is like a seed. If you take it into the heart immediately, it sprouts. Keep the seed stored safely in coffers—it will rot. All truths have rotted in the coffers of your scriptures. It is not that there is any shortage of truths—there are many; the Shastras are overflowing—but they are of no use. Until some truth enters the scripture of your life and becomes blood, flesh, marrow—until it is digested and begins to circulate in every fiber—it is of no use. Remember this.

“As from a heap of flowers garlands are woven, so should, having been born, a being weave many virtues.”

Life can be of two kinds. Buddha has chosen a very apt symbol. One kind of life is what you can at most call a heap of flowers. Another is what you can call a garland of flowers. Between a garland and a heap there is a great difference. In a garland there is a coordination, a sequence, a music, a rhythm; there is unity, a chain, a continuity. In a heap there is no chain, no music. No two flowers are joined by an unseen thread—each lies separate, scattered.

So life can be such that the moments of life lie scattered; there is no stream running from one moment to the next, no thread tying them all together. Most lives are heaps of moments. From birth to death you get as many moments as Buddha did. But Buddha’s life is a garland—each moment is strung, linked to what is behind and to what is ahead. Birth and death are tied in one sequence; an inner music pervades.

Understand it a little. You are like the letters of the alphabet; Buddha is like a song made of those very letters. There is no difference between the song and the alphabet—the same letters. What is in the alphabet is in all songs.

There is an incident from Mark Twain’s life. A friend invited him—the friend was a great preacher. Mark Twain had never gone to hear him; perhaps some jealousy was in Twain—the preacher had a great name, though Twain himself was a great writer. The friend invited him many times; once he went and sat in the front row. That day the friend said whatever was the best that stirred in his heart—because Mark Twain had come. But Twain’s face did not change a bit; he sat stiff, as if nothing was happening, as if, “What nonsense you are talking!” The friend was surprised. Returning together in the carriage, on the way he gathered courage to ask, “How did you like my talk?” Twain said, “Talk! All borrowed. I have a book in which everything you said is written. You read and spoke from there.” The man said, “You astonish me. A stray sentence here or there may be written somewhere, but what I spoke, I took from no book.” Twain said, “Do you want to bet?” A hundred-dollar bet was set. The preacher thought, “Certainly I will win—this madman is betting for nothing. What I spoke cannot possibly all be in one book.” He did not know—next day Mark Twain sent a dictionary and wrote: “In this is all that you spoke—every single word.”

But there is a difference between the dictionary and Shakespeare, between a lexicon and Kalidas, between a dictionary and the Upanishads. What is the difference? The same difference there is between you and Buddha. You are only a dictionary—a crowd of flowers, a heap—not strung, not joined, without sequence. All flowers lie separately; a garland has not been made.

A garland becomes the life of one who gives it a sadhana, a discipline—who gives to life a conscious rhythm. Then life becomes not only prose; if you go on refining it, prose becomes poetry. Your life begins to sing, to hum; from within you a ceaseless stream of music begins to flow; you begin to sound.

Until you sound, you will not be worthy of the feet of Paramatma. And remember: do not make futile complaints.

Complaining to Him is futile, Seemab—
you yourself are not worthy of His regard.

What complaint to make to Paramatma that there is no bliss in life?

You yourself are not worthy of His regard.

You yourself are not yet worthy of His grace. Therefore do not complain to another.

As you are now, you are not fit to be offered to Paramatma. Become a garland. Give your life a direction. Do not go running in all directions like madmen. Do not remain a crowd. Within you is a possibility of single-tonedness. And this, Buddha calls punya—virtue. You will be surprised—Buddha says: One whose life has single-tonedness, integration—that one is virtuous. The sinner is a crowd; the virtuous is a garland. The sinner is inconsistent—says something, does something else; thinks something, becomes something else. In the sinner there is no single-tonedness—he speaks one thing, his eyes say another, his hands do something else.

The sinner is many at once; the virtuous is one—yogastha, integrated. Whatever he does is coordinated; he moves in one direction; his feet go where his eyes go, his hands go where his heart goes; his breath goes where his heartbeat goes. He is gathered, one—there is direction, movement, not distraction.

“As from a heap of flowers garlands are woven, so should, having been born, a being weave virtue.”

So that your life becomes a garland.

“The fragrance of flowers does not go against the wind.”

Buddha says a very sweet thing—listen with a full heart.

“The fragrance of flowers does not go against the wind—not of sandalwood, nor tagar, nor jasmine, nor bela.”

If the breeze flows toward the east, sandalwood has no means to send its fragrance to the west. Fragrance does not go against the wind.

“Not of tagar, nor jasmine, nor sandalwood, nor bela. But the fragrance of the good goes even against the wind.”

A satpurush spreads fragrance in all directions. There is one fragrance in this world that goes even against the wind—that of the satpurush, the saint, the awakened.

Man is also a flower. Those who remain buds and cannot bloom—their suffering has no end. Ask the buds that could not open; that contained fragrance but could not pour it out. It is like a woman who conceives but the child is never born—understand her anguish. The womb grows, but no child is born—understand that woman’s pain. Such is every man’s pain, because what is growing within you does not take birth. You carry a pregnancy; the womb grows, but the direction of birth is forgotten. You have forgotten—you are a bud; fragrance is collecting within, the bud has become heavy, weighed down by its own burden.

As I see it, your pain is not that there is sorrow in your life. Your real pain is that the bliss that could be is not happening. It is not the presence of sorrow that hurts you, it is the absence of the bliss that was possible and is not happening. Your poverty does not pain you—but the spring of richness ready to burst within you, upon which a rock has fallen, cannot gush forth—this choking of growth is man’s anguish. Man’s pain is the struggle for birth.

All existence trusts blossoming. Whenever something blooms it becomes weightless. Man too is a flower. And Buddha says it is a unique flower. When his flower bloomed, he came to know a unique thing—that even in opposite directions, where the wind is not blowing, the saint’s fragrance reaches. The saint’s fragrance acknowledges no boundaries.

“The fragrance of flowers does not go against the wind—not of sandalwood, nor tagar, nor jasmine, nor bela. But the fragrance of the good goes even against the wind.”

The fragrance of the good is the only fragrance that does not obey the world’s rules—it transcends them.

Learn from the flowers, O heedless one, the aim of life:
Not only to be fragrant yourself, but to fragrance the garden.

It is not enough to be fragrant yourself—
Not only to be fragrant yourself, but to fragrance the garden.

Therefore Buddha has said: Samadhi, then Pragya. Samadhi, then Karuna. Buddha has said: That meditation which does not lead to compassion is not complete.

Not only to be fragrant yourself, but to fragrance the garden.

That Samadhi Buddha calls perfect which is poured out in all directions, flowing in all directions.

But understand this—this is paradoxical. In an ordinary state you run in all directions and reach nowhere. One who moves toward Buddhahood walks in one direction—and the day he arrives, he becomes capable of flowing in all directions.

You try to flow in all directions—“Let me gather some wealth and some religion too, some prestige and some Samadhi as well, save the shop and the temple too.” You stretch your hands in all directions and in the end leave as a beggar—empty-handed as you came. You wanted to grasp much; nothing came into your hand.

Your condition is like that famous donkey: a prankster placed two heaps of grass on either side at an equal distance. The donkey stood in the middle. Hunger came; he wanted to go left, the mind said “right,” there too was grass; he wanted to go right, the mind said “left.” They say the donkey died starving, standing in the middle—neither could he go left nor right. When he wanted to go right, the mind said left; when he wanted to go left, the mind said right.

Your mind does the same. When you want to go toward the temple, the mind says shop; when you sit in the shop, the mind remembers bhajan, the temple. In this way you will die. And on both sides the means of satisfaction were present—had you gone anywhere!

I say to you: If you go wholly to the shop, even there meditation will happen. Instead of half-going to the temple, going wholly to the shop is better—because going wholly is meditation. While talking to the customer, humming “Ram-Ram” within is wrong; consider the customer himself wholly as Ram—that is right.

In halves there will be no essence. Half here, half there—you are riding two boats, in grave trouble. You want to reach all directions and reach nowhere. A Buddha goes in one direction; and the day he reaches the goal, his fragrance spreads in all directions. You try to get everything and lose all; a Buddha attains the One and attains all.

Mahavira has said: One who has attained the One has attained all; one who has known the One has known all.

Jesus said: “Seek ye first the Kingdom of God, and all else shall be added unto you.” First the Kingdom of God—search for that; the rest will come by itself. Do not worry about it. He who loses the One loses all; he who attains the One attains all.

But all your attainments are half—therefore you have become fragmentary. Big pieces have formed within you—one piece going here, another going there. You are a broken boat, whose planks are floating off separately. How will you reach? Where will you reach? You are not. You have become so fragmented that to say you “are” is not even proper. To be, there must be direction, discipline, a sequence—learn to string flowers, to make a garland.

In life truth is to be discovered, love is to be discovered. In life you are to be discovered. Do not just lose it. Then slowly discipline will begin to come into your life. If you have even a little vision, a little sense of direction—where to reach—then a coordination will arise. With that coordination, unity will be born within you. Through that unity you can someday become a garland. And the day you become a garland, you need not go to place it around the neck of Paramatma—Paramatma’s neck comes of itself into your garland. It will come—because you have become worthy.

You yourself are not worthy of His regard—
this was the hindrance.

Complaining to Him is futile, Seemab—
complaint is useless. Know only this: we are not yet prepared.

If you try to place this bundle of flowers round anyone’s neck, how will it become a garland? The flowers will fall to the dust. If a garland is to be placed around any neck, it must be a garland. Do not mistake a heap of flowers for a garland.

See a little—what is the difference between a garland and a heap? In the heap there is no organization—no soul. In the garland there is an organization, a personality, a soul. The thread is not visible; it is quietly hidden, strung from one flower to the next.

The goals of life are not visible; they are invisibly threaded from one moment into the next. When Buddha rises, sits, walks—within every moment the thread of meditation is strung. Whatever he does, he keeps one thing in remembrance—that in that doing the thread of meditation is not lost, that thread remains.

More valuable than the flower is the thread—the goal, the direction. And the day this happens, that you become organized, become one—that very day, Paramatma’s grace showers upon you. You need not say anything.

Therefore Buddha remained silent on that. What could be said, he said. What could not be said, he did not. He put all his emphasis on how your personality can become one, how your knowledge can become conduct, how your scattered flowers can become a garland. Beyond that he did not speak, for after that, speaking is not right. What is to happen, happens; it happens of itself—there is never any obstacle in it.

Therefore if you forget God there is no obstacle; but do not forget yourself. If you forget yourself, all is gone, all drowned. If you remember yourself and go on nurturing that remembrance daily—so that in every way it grows dense—like water falling from a mountain, and the rock is strong, the water subtle; but it keeps falling daily—one day the rock becomes sand and flows away, the water’s channel remains.

The hardest breaks before continuity. So do not be disheartened if today your state seems like a rock—you say, “How will this ego flow? This rock is very strong. How will this heart bow—it knows not how to bow?” Do not worry—only keep continuity in attention, observation, witnessing. All else happens by itself.

Buddha gave the science of the human personality. He gave psychology—he did not speak of metaphysics, of the other world. Buddha is very realistic. He says: Only what is necessary to do—that, nothing more. Do not confuse you any further with unnecessary expanses. You are already confused enough.

He has given you a few sutras; if you do them, there is great fire in them. They will burn the darkness; they will reduce the useless to ash. And from the fire of those sutras the gold within you will emerge refined. Buddha has said very few things—and has gone on repeating them. Because Buddha has no taste for philosophy; he has taste for the inner revolution and transformation of man. Those who have studied Buddha closely have been surprised that he keeps repeating the same thing again and again. That surprise arises because he never brings in the unnecessary; he repeats only the essential—so that the hammer falls continuously.

And you are such that even after much repetition, if you hear, that itself is a wonder. If someone asked Buddha, he would answer thrice—repeating the answer then and there. Why three times? Someone asked, “Do you think we are deaf?” Buddha said, “No. Had you been deaf there would be less trouble. You are not deaf and yet you do not hear. You are not asleep—that is the trouble. If you were asleep, waking you would be easy. You pretend to sleep. You do not want to get up, and yet you are awake. You look as if you listen, and yet you do not. Therefore I repeat thrice.”

This repetition of Buddha’s will come again and again in the Dhammapada—through different doors he returns to the same: How to transform you? All of Buddha’s longing and aspiration are man-centered. Mahavira is Moksha-centered; he talks of Moksha. Jesus is God-centered; he talks of God. Buddha is man-centered—as if for him there is no truth above man.

Sabār ūpar mānus satya, tāhār ūpar nāhīṁ—
Above all is the truth of man; above it there is no truth. Because one who has understood the truth of man has found the key; the doors of all truths then open for him.

Make Buddha your food—drink, digest—and slowly you will find Buddha descending within you. Slowly you will see an image of Buddha arising within you. Every stone hides within it the image of Buddha—only a chisel and hammer are needed, just cut away the unnecessary.

Someone asked Michelangelo—outside a church there lay for long a stone, rejected by the builders as useless, rough; Michelangelo worked on it and from it fashioned an incomparable image of Christ. Someone said, “This stone was worthless, thrown away, a stumbling block in the path—yet you transformed it! You are a rare artist.” Michelangelo said, “No, you are mistaken. What I have brought forth was already hidden in the stone; I only recognized it and cut away the useless pieces around it. This image existed; I did not make it. I only heard the call. I used to pass this way; the stone cried out and said, ‘How long must I lie like this? No one recognizes me. Take me up, awaken me.’ I picked up the chisel and worked. I awakened what slept.”

Buddhahood is not to be sought anywhere; each one carries it within. What today seems like a rock—rough—needs only a little chisel and hammer. Within all, a call arises: “How long shall I lie thus? Uncover me!”

Therefore Buddha says: Whatever you hear, whatever fair sayings fall upon your ears—do not go on storing them in memory. Bring them down into conduct—make them the style of your life. Let the air around you be filled with them—live in their climate. Soon you will find Buddhahood emerging within—the flowers have become a garland.

Then an event happens that is beyond the world’s rules: The fragrance of flowers does not go against the wind, not of sandalwood, nor tagar, nor jasmine, nor bela. But in those within whom the Buddha-consciousness has awakened—their fragrance goes against the wind as well; their fragrance spreads in all directions.

And until you can give yourself away thus, you will remain in pain. There is only one hell—not being able to express oneself. And there is only one heaven—finding one’s expression.

The song that lies unsung within you—sing it. The veena that sleeps within you—touch its strings. The dance that is preparing within you—do not carry it as a burden; let it be expressed.

Each person carries Buddhahood within. Until that flower blooms there will be restlessness, disturbance, pain, anguish. When that flower blooms—there is nirvana, sat-chit-anand, Moksha.

Enough for today.