Es Dhammo Sanantano #19

Other than this, what else is happening in the world?
Someone is laughing, someone is weeping.
Ah, wake up—how long will this dream of heedless sleep go on?
Dawn has broken, and you are still asleep.
Sleep is stench. Awakening is fragrance. The one who awakens—within him not only lamps of light begin to burn, but flowers of fragrance also blossom. And such a fragrance as never withers again. Centuries pass, aeons come and take their leave, yet the fragrance of life remains unmoving, still. Names may perhaps be forgotten—whose fragrance was it? Even the lines of memory may fade from history, but still the fragrance remains in the free sky of life, forever.
Buddha is neither the first enlightened one, nor the last. Before him many Buddhas have been, after him many have been and will be. Yet the fragrance of all Buddhas is one. The stench of all those asleep is one; the fragrance of all the awakened is one—because the fragrance belongs to awakening; because the stench belongs to sleep.
These words of Buddha are filled with a rare poetry. Some are poets of words; some are poets of life. Some sing a song; some themselves become the song. Buddha is a song. Whatever came from him—if only you could catch the cadence, then revolution would happen in your life too.
‘Sandalwood or tagara, lotus or jasmine—all their fragrances are surpassed by the fragrance of shila,’ so has Buddha said.
Sandalwood or tagara, lotus or jasmine; but if your own fragrance is set free, all other fragrances are pale. For man is the greatest flower of the earth. In man, the earth has staked all it has. With man, the earth has tied all its hopes. As a mother binds all her hopes with her son, so has the earth dreamed great dreams with man’s consciousness. And whenever any one person rises to that height, touches that depth, where the earth’s dreams come true, then the whole earth celebrates a festival of blessed joy.
There are delightful tales: when Buddha attained Buddhahood, in the forest-lands where he was, on the bank of the Niranjana, the trees burst into untimely blossom. No season had come, no time had arrived; but when the Buddha’s flower bloomed, flowers bloomed out of season upon the trees. It was needed for the welcome.
Life is together, one. We are not isolated. We are no islands—we are a continent. We are parts of a single life. If even one among us rises in height, with him we too rise; and if one among us falls downward, with him we too fall. With a Hitler or a Mussolini we experience a deep stench and anguish; with Buddha and Mahavira, with Krishna and Christ, we too ride upon their wings—we too come to behold the sky with them.
‘Sandalwood or tagara, lotus or jasmine—all their fragrances are surpassed by the fragrance of shila.’
Why? The fragrance of sandalwood is today; tomorrow it will not be. The flower opens in the morning, by evening it has withered. No sooner does it bloom than the withering begins. In this life only one event is eternal: the current of chaitanya within you, which remains forever and ever. Once it blossoms, the inner flowers never wither. They do not know how to wither—they know only how to bloom. And once bloomed, there is no return, no going back.
When you reach the height, you do not fall from there. What has been learned, has been learned. What has been known, has been known. What you have become, you have become. There is no way to go against it. If someone ‘falls’ from the height, understand—he had never reached the height at all. There is no way to fall from the height. What you have truly known you cannot forget. If you forget, it means it was never known—only heard, memorized, learned by rote. The ordinary flowers of life are here today, gone tomorrow. The flower of chaitanya is forever.
So do not go on being distracted by the outer flowers. Put your energy into the inner flower. How long will you go on laughing and weeping for outer flowers? Flowers bloom—you laugh; flowers wither, turn to ash—you weep.
Other than this, what else is happening in the world?
Someone is laughing, someone is weeping—
the whole world can be divided into these two halves.
Ah, wake up—how long this dream of heedlessness?
How long will you stretch this dream? You have stretched it enough.
Ah, wake—how long this dream of heedlessness?
Dawn has broken, and you are still asleep.
Morning has come. Morning has always been. It has never been that morning was not. Morning is the very style of existence. There, evening never is. Because you are asleep, it appears night.
Understand this a little. It is not that night is, therefore you sleep; you sleep, therefore there is night. Whoever awakened found, always, that it was dawn. Whoever slept believed, always, that it was night. Your eyes are closed, therefore there is darkness. Existence is luminous. Existence is light. A thousand suns have arisen. Everywhere there is a flood of light. Waves of light are striking you from all sides—but your eyes are closed. A tiny eyelid lies across the eye, and the vast sun is covered. A small speck of grit enters the eye and the whole world becomes dark.
Only a tiny pebble has lodged in the eye—a minute particle of dust. Call it ego, call it ignorance, call it sleep, call it negligence, call it sin—name it as you please—the matter is this much and this little: for some reason your eye is closed. The eye opens—morning! Ah, awake: it is dawn and you are sleeping!
And this dawn has always been. For Buddha awakened twenty-five centuries ago and found it was dawn. Krishna awakened five thousand years ago and found it was dawn. Whenever anyone has awakened, he has found that morning had come.
Those who sleep are still asleep. They will sleep for thousands of years more. In your sleeping is the night. You will not awaken because of the morning, for morning is eternal. You will awaken—and then you will find that it is morning.
People ask, Where is God? They should ask, Where are our eyes? People ask, Where should we search for God? They should ask, Who is this that would search? Who is there to seek God? People say, We cannot trust in God—how can we accept what is not seen? They should ask whether they have yet opened their eyes. With closed eyes, how will anything be seen? Paramatma stands at the very door. Because whatsoever is—is That. Ah, wake up, it is dawn! Paramatma stands at the door, never for a moment moved away from the threshold, for besides Him there is nothing.
Existence is morning, is daybreak, is sunrise. The question is of your eye opening. And when your eye opens, the happening is like the petals of a flower opening. Your eyelids are petals. As petals open and fragrance is released—
But small flowers—jasmine, tagara, bela, rose, lotus—their capacity is small. They have a limit. With a little fragrance they move, pour it out, become empty, and fall back into the dust. But you carry a fragrance whose measure is without measure. You carry the ocean in your drop. In your little flower you carry the Infinite. That Infinite we have called Atman; that Infinite we have called Paramatma.
You appear small; you are not small. I searched much for ‘small’—I found none. I investigated deeply; within every boundary I found the Boundless hidden. In every drop the ocean has made its home. The day you bloom you will find—you did not bloom; Paramatma bloomed.
Hence Buddha says, ‘Sandalwood or tagara, lotus or jasmine—all these fragrances are surpassed by the fragrance of shila.’
The fragrance of shila means the fragrance of the life of the awakened, the fragrance of one whose eyes are open, the fragrance of a consciousness become prabuddha. The flowers you see outside—their blooming only brings the news of death. No sooner has a flower blossomed than its bier begins to be prepared.
In the joy of becoming a flower the bud smiled—
who knew that change carries death’s message.
Outside, the flowers that bloom bring tidings of death—there, to bloom is to die.
In the happiness of becoming a flower the bud smiled—
how could that poor, innocent bud know that this blooming is the moment of farewell? But the flower within you—when it blooms, it attains not death but Amrit. Ordinary flowers bloom and die; as long as they do not bloom, they remain saved. There, to be complete is equal to dying. But within you there is such a flower that when it blooms it attains Amrit.
But remember, when I say there is such a flower within you, do not think I am saying ‘you’. Within you—but not you. You too will die, you as you have known yourself until now. For you too are outside yourself.
In the joy of becoming a flower the bud smiled—
such an event will happen within you too. Your ego will die. The ‘you’ you have known will die. Name, form, family, prestige, all the identifications you have made until now—those will die. But when all those have died, for the first time your eyes will open to That which is immortal within you. That unstruck sound, anahat nada, you will hear for the first time—when your noises and clamors fall silent. When your babbling ceases, when your thoughts have gone, when your crowds depart, then suddenly your silence will speak; your emptiness will resound with the anahat nada. When your stench has gone, only then does the fragrance of Paramatma descend into you. It is hidden, but give it a chance and it will break forth. Give it space and it will spread. You are seated upon the bud’s breast, not allowing the petals to open.
‘Sandalwood or tagara, lotus or jasmine—all their fragrances are surpassed by the fragrance of shila.’
Why? Because sandalwood or jasmine, tagara or lotus—they are plays of form, color, shape. Dreams of form, dreams of color. The flower of the Formless can bloom within you. The flower of the Formless blooms only when one attains chaitanya. The Formless—nirakar—means chaitanya; form means trance, torpor.
The day the world awakens, that day it will attain Brahman. If even a particle of clay, or a chip of stone, awakens, it will find itself to be condensed consciousness. He who awakens finds Paramatma; he who sleeps understands matter. Matter is the explanation of the sleeping man for Paramatma; Paramatma is the experience of the awakened for ‘matter’. Matter and Paramatma are not two. What the sleeping man calls matter, the awakened knows as Paramatma. Two ways of seeing. What the awakened knows as Paramatma, the sleeping one takes as matter. Two outlooks.
‘The fragrance of shila is supreme.’
Because in truth it is the fragrance of Paramatma. What is the meaning of shila? It does not mean ‘character’. This distinction must be understood, only then can you enter Buddha’s exposition.
Character means a discipline imposed from without. Shila means a Ganga arising from within. Character is a canal dug by man; shila is the Ganga descending from the door of God. Character is what you organize, what you maintain. Doctrines, scriptures, society give you a view—sit like this, rise like this, live like this, do this. You yourself are not even sure whether what you are doing is right or wrong. If you were born in a non-meat-eating home, you do not eat meat; if born in a meat-eating home, you do. The family’s belief becomes your ‘character’. If you were born in Russia, you would not go to temple or mosque; you would say, God? Where is God?
Rahul Sankrityayan went to Russia in 1936. In a primary school he asked a little boy, Is there a God? The child said, There used to be—but no more. Used to be, before—when people were ignorant, before the revolution, before 1917. Now, no. God has died. When man was ignorant, He used to be.
What we keep hearing, we believe. Conditioning becomes our character. In the West, drinking wine is no vice—even little children sip; it is taken as natural. In the East, it’s a great vice. It is a matter of notions.
Just these last days I was reading health bulletins of Jayaprakash Narayan; it said he ate two eggs. Unthinkable, what kind of Sarvodayist! Ahimsa, Sarvodaya, a follower of Gandhi—eggs? But in Bihar it is customary. He is Bihari—no hindrance. A Jaina cannot even imagine that a nonviolent person can eat eggs. But it perhaps never occurred to Jayaprakash: even living with Gandhi and Vinoba, it did not occur to him that eggs ‘should not’ be eaten.
A Quaker was once my guest. In the morning I asked, Will you have tea, milk, coffee? He was startled as if I had proposed something dangerous. He said, Do you drink tea, milk, coffee? As if I had invited him to drink blood. I asked, Did I say something wrong? He said, I am a vegetarian—I cannot drink milk.
Quakers hold milk to be blood. There is some logic in it: they eat eggs but do not drink milk, because milk is made from blood. In the blood there are red and white corpuscles; in the female—cow or woman—the white part separates and becomes milk. It is half blood.
So he wrinkled his nose: Milk? What are you saying! He eats eggs, because they say till life has not manifested, there is no sin; life is hidden everywhere, so better to distinguish between the manifest and the unmanifest. If you do not eat a fruit and it lies there and rots, worms appear—life manifests—so as long as it has not manifested, it is not.
These are matters of beliefs. Character is made of beliefs, of conditioning. Shila? Shila is a very unique thing. Shila is not born of your beliefs and conditionings. Shila is born of your meditation. Understand this difference well. Belief, conditioning, society, culture, moral notions—these are thoughts impressed upon you.
I was born in a Jaina home. In childhood, the question of eating at night never arose; none did so at home, so it wasn’t a question. The first time I went on a picnic with some Hindu friends into the hills, they made no arrangement to cook during the day. Alone, it did not seem right to push my insistence. At night they cooked. After climbing all day, I was ravenously hungry. They cooked at night; the aroma—I still remember it. Outwardly I said no, how can I eat at night? But inside I wished they would somehow persuade me and feed me. They did persuade me—and I ate. Immediately I vomited.
That day I thought night-eating is so sinful, thus I vomited. But none of them did. It was a matter of conditioning. It had nothing to do with night-eating. I had never eaten, and the belief that night-eating is sin—somehow I ate, and the mind, the body, threw it out.
Shila has no connection with such events; these belong to the mind’s notions. To act in accord with your ingrained ideas is ‘conduct’; to act against them is ‘misconduct’.
What is shila? When all thoughts fall from your mind and a thought-free state is attained, when emptiness arises, when meditation ripens—what in that state you know to be right, that is shila. And such shila will be one and the same across the world—there will be no differences of conditioning or society.
Character will differ—Hindu, Muslim, Christian, Jaina, Sikh. Shila will be one. Shila comes from where neither Hindu goes, nor Muslim, nor Christian—from your deepest depth, untouched, virgin, where no one has ever reached, where you are still Paramatma; from there shila comes.
If you dig a little into the earth, the water you find near the surface is the runoff of the streets, soaked in—the water of drains: character. That will be character. But if you dig a deep well, so deep that the drains can never reach, you will meet the watersources—they belong to the ocean; then you will find pure water.
Within, such digging is needed that thoughts end, the level of no-thought is found. From there the light that comes to your life is of shila. Character has no great fragrance—character is a plastic flower, stuck upon you, ornamented for show; good for others to see, but before God it is of no use. Shila are those flowers you did not paste on; they sprouted, grew from within you—whose roots are hidden in you. Those are the flowers you will be able to carry before God. What society has given, death will snatch, for it was given after birth; you cannot carry it beyond death. Between birth and death alone is its span.
But if shila is born, it means you have found that which was before birth, when you had not yet been born—it comes from pure chaitanya. That you can carry beyond death. What is before birth remains after death. To attain shila is the greatest revolution in this world.
Who is astray, who is aware of the destination?
Thousands of caravans move on life’s highways.
Who is astray—who is wandering? Who is aware of the goal? Thousands of traveling bands are on the royal road of life—how will you recognize? Do not be deceived by ‘character’. Leave aside the ill-behaved; leave aside even the ‘virtuous’. Seek the shilavan—the one of shila.
Understand through this. A Sufi fakir went on pilgrimage to the Kaaba. The journey was a month. The fakir and his disciples decided to fast for a month. Five or seven days had passed when they reached a village. At the outskirts the people said, Your devotee lives here; he has sold his house and land—he is poor—and has invited the whole village to a feast to welcome you. He has prepared many sweets. The disciples said, This cannot be—we are fasting; we have taken a vow, it cannot be broken. But the fakir said nothing.
They entered the village; the devotee welcomed them and invited to eat. The master sat to dine. The disciples were shocked—what kind of guru is this? For a morsel of food he breaks a vow! Forgot the oath to fast for a month! But when the guru himself did not refuse, the disciples could not either, though they wished to.
The ceremony ended. At night they surrounded the master: What is this? Have you forgotten? Or have you fallen?
The master said, Fools! Is there any pilgrimage greater than love? This man, with such love, has sold his all—poor as he is—to arrange this meal. To refuse him would be to refuse God, for to refuse love is to refuse Paramatma. As for the fast, what worry—add seven days more; if you want penance too, add ten days more. What is the hurry? And I tell you, your rigidity—I have taken a vow and now cannot eat—is the stiffness of ego. It is not the humility of love and religion.
Here you can see the difference. The disciples have only character; the master has shila. Shila is self-owned, born of awareness. Character is not self-owned; it is born of blind imitation. If ever you meet a shilavan, know: such are the feet to hold. Do not be fooled by the ‘virtuous’, for their virtue is only on the surface; inside, the opposite runs.
How to discern? The ‘virtuous’ you will always find stiff—So much I am doing!—the ego is strengthened. You will find him tight, tense: doing, doing, doing—expecting fruits. The shilavan you will always find at rest. He is not doing in order to get something ahead; he does because there is joy in the doing. You will find him cheerful. He will not talk of his austerities; he will sing songs of celebration. He will feel blissful; the ‘virtuous’ will seem taut, burdened. The differences are fine, but if your eyes are open, you will not be troubled.
With the ‘virtuous’ you will smell the stench of vanity. With the shilavan you will feel the fragrance of simplicity. You will find him like a small child; the ‘virtuous’ you will find calculating—keeping accounts of every act. He will be expert in arithmetic, not in love. And where arithmetic becomes too precise, distance from God becomes great. The ‘virtuous’ will be logical—whatever he does, he does because logic approves. The shilavan you will not find ruled by logic, but by spontaneity. Whatever happens is his natural sfurana, his spontaneous arising. He is yielded into the hands of Paramatma; the ‘virtuous’ you will find controlled by his own hands. In him there is control, discipline; in the shilavan there is freedom, liberation—and fragrance where the other has stench.
Do not be ill-behaved; but do not become ‘virtuous’ either. If you must be, be shilavan. Character is imposed from above; shila is the life-stream arising from within, the knowing that wells up from within.
‘Sandalwood or tagara, lotus or jasmine—all their fragrances are surpassed by the fragrance of shila.’
Shila is like a small child. Look again at little children. Very few look with attention. Recognize little children rightly, for there lies the key to recognizing the saints. Have you ever seen an ugly little child? All little children are beautiful; there is in them the delight of life—a simplicity, without arithmetic, free of accounting, a flow.
Leaving Your lane, we were ruined—
nowhere did we find the peace like in Your street.
If you remember your own childhood, these sayings will become clear. They are spoken for Adam: when Adam was expelled from the garden of paradise… Why expelled? Because he lost childhood, he lost simplicity, innocence. He tasted the fruit of the tree of knowledge—he became ‘wise’.
This is the great marvel of the Christian story—none like it in the world’s history. Adam was expelled for becoming ‘knowledgeable’. Think a little. We think the knowledgeable will be taken back. As long as Adam was simple, he remained in the garden; when he became cunning—when he tasted the fruit of the tree of knowledge—God cast him out.
Leaving Your lane, we were ruined—
nowhere did we find the peace like in Your street.
And man, says Christianity, has been restless since—seeking again that street. But this search can be fulfilled only when you vomit out knowledge, when you throw your pedantry on the garbage heap, when you become simple again, childlike. In saintliness, the child’s shila returns, the child’s fragrance returns.
‘Sandalwood or tagara, lotus or jasmine—all their fragrances are surpassed by the fragrance of shila.’
This fragrance of shila is not the head’s bookkeeping; it is a lamp lit in your heart, a flame kindled within.
A path meets the heart from somewhere—
I wonder, is this the lane that leads to You, or not?
Do not wonder. The path that meets the heart is the path of God. If you think, you will be lost. Walk a little on that path—no sooner you do, temple-spires will begin to appear; the tone of temple-bells will be heard; the fragrance of incense burning in the sanctum will fill your nostrils.
A path meets the heart from somewhere—
the path of the Unknown meets not the head but the heart.
I wonder, is this the lane that leads to You, or not?
Do not think. Whoever thought, lost—because thinking throws you into the head. Love, trust the feeling. It is better to weep than to think; better to dance than to think; better to let tears fall than to think. Whatever rises from the heart is better, is higher. And as your link deepens, you will surely know—it is by this path that God comes. He comes not by the way of knowledge, but by the way of innocent feeling.
‘The fragrance of tagara and sandalwood is scant; but the fragrance of the shilavants—the fragrance of shila—spreads even in the devalokas, among the gods.’
Understand a little. Tagara and sandalwood have a small scent, short-lived; a gust of wind will carry it away. Soon it will be lost in the vastness; later you will wonder whether it ever was—like a rumor. But the fragrance of the shilavants spreads even among the gods.
I have heard: a woman selling fish was returning home. As she came to the city’s edge she met an old friend, a gardener’s wife. Stay with me tonight, she said; it’s been long, we have so much to talk. She stayed. Thinking her dear friend, the gardener laid her bed where the fragrance of jasmine came full from the garden. But the fish-seller tossed and turned—the scent of jasmine was unfamiliar. At midnight the gardener asked, Sister, can you not sleep? Any trouble? She said, Nothing else—give me my basket back, and sprinkle a little water on it. Without the smell of fish I cannot sleep. The jasmine’s scent troubles me; it’s too strong.
The gardener could hardly believe it—call that ‘scent’? It is stench! Yet she sprinkled water on the cloths in which fish had been wrapped. The woman placed it near her head—and soon she was snoring, gone deep into sleep.
There are many levels. Buddha says: even the gods—in heaven—are drawn to the fragrance of shila. Perhaps those on earth are like the fish-seller.
Stones were thrown at Buddha; to those throwers, stench came, not fragrance. Mahavira was harassed—they smelled no fragrance, or they would have worshiped. Jesus was hung upon the cross—what more need be said? Evident it is that we live in a town where the reek of fish smells like perfume; where we crucify Jesus, poison Socrates, stone Buddhas, insult Mahaviras. Their fragrance does not seem fragrance to us; we feel frightened. Their very being makes us tremble. In their every breath we hear rebellion. But the gods smell their fragrance.
There is a very lovely mention in Mahavira’s life; a story, but precious and meaningful. Sometimes stories are truer than life’s facts. They say that when Mahavira first proclaimed his truth, none came to hear but the gods. Who else could? The proclamation was so high; its fragrance such that only gods could catch it. If there are gods anywhere, surely they came to hear. Then the gods said to Mahavira: Please speak in such a way that men also may understand; speak somewhat in man’s language. Meaning: sprinkle a little water on man’s basket; place man’s basket near him—then perhaps he can recognize.
No one knows what Mahavira said in his first proclamation, his first address—that must have been the purest religion. But upon that, Jainism did not form. Jainism formed when Mahavira spoke in ways men could understand—that cannot be his innermost.
Buddha remained silent when he attained. He said, To speak is futile—who will understand? To share this fragrance is in vain; there are no connoisseurs. We will offer gold, and people will think it brass; we will give diamonds, they will think them pebbles—throw them away. For seven days Buddha was silent.
Then the story says the gods descended—Brahma himself—laid their heads at Buddha’s feet: Such a rare event happens once in ages—speak. Whether anyone understands or not, speak. Perhaps someone will. Perhaps only a little will be understood. Even a single ray in someone’s understanding is much—for with a ray one can travel to the sun.
Buddha says, ‘The fragrance of tagara and sandalwood is scant; but the fragrance of the shilavants spreads to the highest devalokas.’
To give words to this fragrance is difficult. It is no earthly happening. You cannot weigh it, nor bind it in bundles, nor confine it in scriptures, nor make doctrines of it. This fragrance is unearthly. It is found only by those who can gaze into the eyes of Buddhas; only by those who can drown in the hearts of Buddhas; only by those willing to vanish, willing to lose. To gain this fragrance is a great gamble—only gamblers attain it.
The secrets of the kings of love are revealed by these alone—
eyes are not a tongue, yet they are not dumb.
Whoever looks into Buddha’s eyes—those eyes are not a tongue to speak, yet they are not dumb—they do speak. Whoever understands the lamp in Buddha’s eyes; whoever brings his extinguished lamps near the flame in Buddha’s eyes; whoever merges his emptiness into Buddha’s emptiness; whoever is willing to go with Buddha—upon a journey into the Unknown—only such a one will have his inner curtains filled with that fragrance; only he will become its possessor.
‘Those who are shilavan, who abide in apramad, who are liberated through samyak-jnana—in their path Mara does not come.’
Whoever has found shila, found apramad, found samyak-jnana—these are one—upon his path the god of lust, Mara, does not appear again. The one who has awakened meets no more with Mara; he meets only with Paramatma. The one who sleeps meets Mara at every turn.
‘As on a heap of refuse thrown by the great highway a fragrant, lovely lotus blooms, so among the blind common folk, like a pile of rubbish, the shravaka of the Fully Awakened shines, adorned with prajna.’
There are many meanings in this. First: the lotus blooms out of mud, arises from a heap of refuse. The lotus is hidden in the mud. You have to produce the lotus—but do not become the enemy of the mud, or the lotus will never be born.
Understand. What you call anger is the mud; what you call compassion is the lotus. What you call lust is the mud; what you call brahmacharya is the lotus. From the mud of kama, the lotus of Rama blooms; from the mud of anger, the flowers of karuna bloom.
Life is an art—and life belongs to those who learn that art. Life is not for the escapists, nor for the foolish. Do not fall into the mistake taught by your so-called saints and sannyasins. They say: remove anger; remove lust. I say to you: transform, do not remove. Change, do not cut off. Anger is energy; cut it and compassion will not be born—you will be left impotent. Kama is energy; if you cut it you become bloodless. Transform it—great treasure is hidden there. Do not throw it away. Do not discard the mud thinking it only mud—the lotus is hidden in it. Yet do not mistake the mud for the lotus either.
There are two kinds of people—dangerous both. One says: throw away the mud—why carry it? Cut off lust, break anger, burn the senses. They have harmed the world—robbed man of dignity, left him beggarly; for in that very mud the lotus was hidden. The other kind—when told, In the mud the lotus is hidden, do not throw the mud away, transform it—they say, Exactly! and enthrone the mud, begin to worship it. They say, Did you not say the lotus is hidden in the mud? We worship the mud.
Both are dangerous. In the mud the lotus is hidden. Do not throw the mud, do not worship it. Draw out the lotus from the mud. Bring the hidden into the open. Avoid these two extremes—both are alike: either the well or the ditch. Find a space to stand between—find balance.
‘As on a heap of refuse by the great road a fragrant, beautiful lotus blooms…’
First, the lotus blooms only in mud. Its deep meaning: the mud is not only mud—it is the possibility of the lotus. Look with a sharp eye and you will find the lotus hidden in the mud. The mud is not only the present—it is the future. Look closely and you will glimpse the future lotus peeping from it, hidden. Only those with keen eyes can see it.
Do not worship the mud; use it. Do not make the mud your master; keep it your servant. Remain the master—only then can you draw the lotus from the mud. If your movement is upward, if you are journeying above, then the lotus of the mud can travel upward with you. Do not dive into the mud and sit there, or else by what support will the lotus rise? You yourself must become the lotus-stem. Let the feet remain in the mud, the head in the sky—then you can draw the lotus out of the mud. Walk upon the earth, fly in Paramatma; keep the harmony between the two, and within you a unique lotus will bloom.
‘As on a heap of refuse by the great highway a fragrant, beautiful lotus blooms, so among blind, common folk, like a heap of rubbish, the shravaka of the Fully Awakened shines, adorned with prajna.’
Buddha calls his disciple a shravaka—one who has truly heard Buddha. Many heard Buddha; not all were shravakas. Those who only heard with the ears are not shravakas; those who heard with their life are. Those who listened such that in the very listening, revolution happened; who listened such that Buddha’s truth became their truth—not by belief, but by the intensity and depth of listening. Not believing, not accepting—but listening with their whole being, so wholly open that Buddha’s words were not merely words—silence also came wrapped in them. Not only the words entered, but the fragrance of Buddhahood entered their hearts.
Remember: when Buddha speaks, the words are the same as yours, yet there is a difference like earth and sky. The words are the same, but they are steeped in Buddha, drenched in Buddhahood—Buddhahood drips from them. If you give those words a place in your life, then, along with them, the seed of Buddhahood is implanted within you. Buddha calls shravakas those who have heard thus.
And Buddha says: among the crowd of common rubbish, the shravaka of the Fully Awakened blossoms like a lotus—set apart. He remains in the world, yet is beyond it. The lotus is in the mud, yet far from it. It rises, rises—becomes different.
How great the distance between lotus and mud! Yet the lotus comes only from mud. If anyone among you allows the seed of Buddhahood to be implanted, gives it a place in his heart, waters it, protects it, then right amidst the market’s dung-heap his lotus will bloom.
Only one thing—do not forget to move upward. That which pulls downward is kama, the mud. That which draws upward is love, is prayer. Transform kama into love.
Kama means: the belief that happiness can be had from the other. Love means: no one can give you happiness, nor can anyone give you sorrow; therefore the question of taking from the other does not arise. Kama begs from the other—kama is a beggar’s bowl. Love is the understanding that from the other nothing has ever been had, nor will be. Do not stretch out your bowl before the other. Love is to give, to share that which overflows in you. As the flower gives fragrance, so share your love. Then shila will be born in your life. And you will find: the more you give, the more your wealth grows; the more you scatter, the wider your kingdom.
Empire and kingship are passing shadows—
only love is the one enduring wealth human beings possess.
There is only one wealth, one treasure. All else is fleeting shade. Ishq—love—is the one abiding treasure.
And remember: the lamp of love can burn only if you live very awake. Let awareness be the oil, love the wick—then the light of Paramatma spreads. Where you found darkness, there is illumination; where you found thorns, there are flowers; where you saw the world, there is nirvana; where you found only matter, there the heart of Paramatma begins to beat.
Jesus said, Lift a stone and you will find me hidden; split the rock and you will find me hidden.
Such revolutions we have seen in the world—
where once there was a cage, there a nest was made.
This very world which you take for a prison—it is a prison now, not because the world is prison, but because your way of seeing is foolish, dark.
Such revolutions we have seen in the world—
where once a jail stood, there a dwelling was built.
Buddha, Mahavira, Krishna are such revolutions. Where you found only prison and chains, there they made a home; where you found only mud, there their lotuses bloomed; where you found nothing but darkness, there they lit a thousand suns.
Again I say to you—
Other than this, what else is happening in the world?
Someone is laughing, someone is weeping.
Ah, wake up—how long this dream of heedlessness?
Dawn has broken, and you are still asleep.
Dawn is eternal, morning has always been; because you sleep it appears night. And awakening is entirely in your hands. No one else can awaken you. If you are stubborn to sleep, none can wake you. If you wish to awaken, a little indication is enough.
The awakened can indicate; the walking, you must do. The awakening, you must do. If you have not yet grown nauseated with your stench, that is another matter. If you are nauseated, then let the flower bloom now.
‘Sandalwood or tagara, lotus or jasmine—all their fragrances are surpassed by the fragrance of shila.’
This much for today.