Es Dhammo Sanantano #2

The interrelationship is absolutely clear.

Buddha says: desire is insatiable. Buddha is speaking of the nature of desire itself. However much one may try to fill it, one cannot. Not because the capacity to fill is small—however great the capacity, still it won’t fill. It’s like trying to fill a pot whose bottom is missing. This is not a question of capacity, nor convenience, nor affluence. The poor man’s desires remain unfulfilled, and so do the rich man’s. The pauper’s desires remain unfulfilled, and so do the emperor’s. Alexander dies as empty-handed as the beggar on the road. Both hands are empty—because desire is insatiable. Buddha is simply stating the nature of desire.

The Upanishads say: only those who have enjoyed can renounce. Only those who really enter into enjoyment can come to understand the nature of desire. How will those standing far away understand? If you have stayed at a distance from desire, frightened and wary, if you have never stepped into it, never closely examined that vessel that has no bottom, never held it in your hands, how will you know its nature? To know the nature of desire there is no other way but to enter it. The one who enters will know; the one who stands far away will miss. Standing far away, you will only remain tempted. You will see the vessel, but not see that it lacks a bottom. And seeing others’ vessels you will remain under the illusion: who knows, perhaps theirs have filled.

Looking at Alexander from the outside, would you think his vessel is empty? There are great palaces, vast empire, immense wealth, immense power. How would you understand? The vessel is studded with diamonds and jewels—but the bottom is missing. And diamonds and jewels won’t hold water in a pot. The poor man’s pot is dented and cheap, made of aluminum. Alexander’s pot is gold, inlaid with gems—but the nature of both is the same: neither has a bottom. From a distance you will see only the vessel. You have to come near, you have to inspect with eyes awake; you have to enter, you have to live it. That is why the Upanishads say: tena tyaktena bhunjithah—only those who have enjoyed have renounced.

Buddha speaks of the nature of desire. The Upanishads speak of the result of living desire out: those who have enjoyed have renounced. And I say: neither indulge nor renounce—awaken. Because many have indulged, but only a rare sage of the Upanishads knew—tena tyaktena bhunjithah. Many indulged, but they indulged in sleep. If you indulge while asleep, you still will not know. With your eyes closed, you will go on filling the vessel and never notice that the bottom is missing.

There is an old story from Mulla Nasruddin’s life. A young man came to him and said, “I have come from far away, hearing the fragrance of your name. I have been with many teachers and got nothing. I was close to despair when someone spoke of you. I come with firm trust that I will not go empty-handed.”

Nasruddin said, “We will speak of that later. Do you have trust? Only with trust will you be able to hold the truth. I have truth—but do you have trust?” The seeker said, “I have come with complete trust. Whatever you say, I will accept.” Nasruddin said, “I am just going to the well to draw water. Come along. Keep only one trust: that whatever I do, you will watch silently, without raising questions. Keep that much awareness.” The young man thought, “Is that all? What kind of test is this?” and followed.

Nasruddin set a vessel on the ghāt by the well. The youth was puzzled, for it had no bottom. Nasruddin dipped another vessel into the well, drew water, and poured it into the bottomless pot. The youth thought, “This man is mad!” All the water ran out, and Nasruddin didn’t even notice; he dipped again, filled, and poured. Twice, thrice. The fourth time the youth forgot he was to keep silent. He burst out, “Stop! This will never fill, not in a lifetime. We will die pouring and it still won’t fill—because it has no bottom!”

Nasruddin said, “That’s the end of our association. I told you—keep trust, remain silent. And what have we to do with the bottom? My job is to fill the pot with water; what concern is the bottom? I keep my attention on the surface—when it reaches the brim… What has the bottom to do with it?” The youth said, “Either you are insane, or I have lost my wits.”

Nasruddin said, “Go. Don’t come again. You failed—you couldn’t keep silent. Far greater tests were yet to come.”

The young man left, but he was deeply disturbed. He couldn’t sleep all night. He thought, “Even an idiot would see that much. Surely this man had another purpose—it was a test. I should have stood silently. I missed. Such a master came to hand and I slipped. What would it have cost me? If the water didn’t stay, it was his pot. If the labor was wasted, it was his. I should have simply stood by. How long could it have gone on? I was hasty. I missed.”

He came back the next day and begged forgiveness. Nasruddin said, “No. If you had only as much intelligence for your own life as you showed me, you would not need to come to me. The vessel you are filling—does it have a bottom?” He asked, “Which vessel?” Nasruddin said, “Again you missed. That was the only hint. You saw clearly that a pot without a bottom cannot be filled. You have been filling desires and cravings for so long—have you filled them? Until now, they have not filled. Is it not possible that they have no bottom?”

But where do we have the leisure? Who inquires about the bottom? When we want to fill, we think only of filling. If we fail to fill, we think others obstruct us. If we fail to fill, we think we did not labor enough, or that fate did not favor us. We invent a thousand reasons. But we do not see this one thing: perhaps desire is insatiable.

So I say: neither indulge nor renounce—awaken. For if you are lost in indulgence, who will know? Who will recognize the nature of desire as insatiable? It is very easy to get lost in enjoyment—and then, frightened, to flee. After long attempts to fill and never filling, you may run toward renunciation. But unconscious indulgence and unconscious renunciation are of the same order. There is no difference. Whether you sit in a temple or in a house, in a shop or on the Himalayas—it makes no difference. If you are unconscious, you are the same. There is only one difference, only one revolution: from stupor to awakening.

Thus, Buddha states the nature of desire. The Upanishads speak of the experience of desire. And I give you the method for experiencing desire. These three are linked. If you miss even one, the error is certain. If you forget even one of the three sutras, you will go astray. And if you must forget—if three seem too many—remember only my final sutra. If the last is remembered, the other two will follow on their own.

Buddha says: desire is insatiable—that you have not yet known. The Upanishads say: enjoyment ultimately leads to renunciation—that you have not yet been led to. You have lived in desire so long—longer than Buddha, indeed; Buddha attained freedom twenty-five centuries ago—so you are twenty-five hundred years more experienced than he, yet desire has not revealed itself as insatiable to you. The Upanishads were written five thousand years ago: “Those who enjoyed, renounced.” And you have enjoyed so much and have not yet renounced. Surely something is amiss. So, be awake as you enjoy. Don’t run away. Otherwise, I see that your renouncers and your so-called saints are no different from you. You stand on your feet; they stand on their heads. But they are exactly like you. What is gained by standing upside down?

Life is an experiment. Life is an inspection. Life is a moment-to-moment awakening. Every moment is an examination. If you do not awaken, you will go on missing; and not awakening can become a habit—you can miss for eternity. Many places along the way will make you feel you have arrived; many times you will want to rest. But until the divine is found—or what Buddha calls nirvana—do not stop. Pause if you must, but take care not to make a house there.

Until the destination, there were hundreds of way-stations along the road;
At every step there was a “destination,” but it was not the Destination.

On the path toward that truth… Until the destination, there were hundreds of way-stations. On the road to the real goal, many seeming destinations will be met: sometimes of wealth, sometimes position, sometimes prestige, fame. The ego will weave many plays.

At every step there was a “destination,” but it was not the Destination.

At every step you will find a destination. But the destination is not so cheap. Only if you remain very alert will you pass by these way-stations and reach the goal. It is a difficult journey, a hard ascent—high summits to climb. We are accustomed to valleys. Unconsciousness has become our nature. However much you cultivate awareness, it doesn’t stick; unconsciousness is so ancient that you even dream of being awake while asleep—like someone dreaming at night that he has awakened. He dreams that he has woken up, but that awakening is still in the dream. In just this way, many times you will feel, “Awareness has come.” But keep aware:

Until the destination, there were hundreds of way-stations;
At every step there was a “destination,” but it was not the Destination.

How will you recognize that the destination has come? How will you know that this “destination” is not the Destination?

Keep one touchstone in mind: if what appears before you, what comes into experience, seems separate from you, know that the real destination has not arrived. Light may appear—still, it is not the goal. Kundalini may awaken—still, it is not the goal. These too are experiences—of body and mind. If “God” appears before you, remember: the destination has not come—because the divine is hidden in the seer, never in the seen. Whatever is seen is your dream.

Take this as a sutra: whatever appears, whatever comes into experience, is a dream. The day nothing appears, nothing comes into experience; only your consciousness remains—the seer remains, and the seen has disappeared; nothing is seen, only you remain; around you there is no-thing—this is what Buddha called nirvana: pure consciousness remains. The mirror remains, but no reflections arise. Only then have you gone beyond enjoyment. Otherwise, all experiences are enjoyments. Someone is enjoying a wife; someone else is enjoying the vision of Krishna playing his flute. It is all enjoyment. Wherever there is an “other,” there is enjoyment. When you are utterly alone, pure aloneness remains—only awareness remains; not the awareness “of” something—just awareness. Nothing to know, nothing to see, nothing to experience—when that moment arrives, the destination has arrived.

And these three sutras are precious. Buddha says, “Desire is insatiable”—he points to its nature. The Upanishads say, “Those who enjoyed renounced”—they point to the result. I say, “Neither indulge nor renounce—awaken”—I give the method by which you will know that what Buddha said is right and what the Upanishads said is true. Only when you know will the Upanishads be true. Only when you know will Buddha be true. Apart from your knowing, neither Buddha nor the Upanishads are true. Your awakening alone will be the proof of Buddha’s truth.

That is why Buddha said, when asked, “How shall we honor you? How shall we express our gratitude for what you have given?”—he said, “Become the proof of what I have said. Become the witness to what I have said—then my honor is complete. No other thanks are needed.”

The day you become Buddha’s witness, the day you become the proof that what the Upanishads say is right, that day you have known the Upanishads, that day you have recognized Buddha. The difference between you and Buddha is not so great; between you and the Upanishads, not so great. It seems great—but it is not. The difference is very small: you are asleep; Buddha is awake. Your eyes are closed; Buddha has opened his eyes.

I was reading a couplet yesterday:
Come, let me tell you the difference between a bud and a blossom:
One word is spoken, the other remains unspoken—this alone is the difference.

Buddha is the flower; you are the bud. The Upanishads are in full bloom; you are about to bloom. The difference is slight—and yet immense, for upon that slight difference the whole life is transformed. The bud is only a bud, tight and closed. It may wither; it is not necessary that it become a flower. It can become a flower, or it can miss. And a bud has no fragrance. Fragrance comes only when the flower opens, when the scent spreads and the winds carry its message far and wide. You are still a closed bud, guarding your fragrance within.

And until the fragrance is shared, you cannot be blissful. Until you pour it out with both hands, lavish what you carry within…

In my vision, this is the human anguish. What you call suffering is not suffering. Sometimes you say, “A thorn pricked my foot; I have a headache; I didn’t get a job; my wife died”—these are not the real sufferings. Even if the wife does not die, the thorn does not prick, the head does not ache—the suffering remains. There is one suffering, and it is this: what you have brought with you, you have not been able to give; what you are guarding, you have not been able to share. You are a cloud that longs to rain and cannot; a flower that longs to bloom and cannot; a flame that longs to blaze and cannot. This is the suffering. The thorn, the headache, the wife’s death, the husband’s absence—these are pretexts. On these pegs you hang the real anguish and deceive yourself.

Think a little: if none of the pains you call pains remained—would you be blissful? Is it enough for bliss that the head does not ache? Is it enough that no thorn pricks? Is it enough that no illness comes? Is it enough that food, clothing, and shelter are secured? Is it enough that loved ones do not die? Science strives for this—because science has mistaken the common man’s pains for the real pain.

It will make no essential difference. In fact, the situation is reversed. When your ordinary pains are removed, only then, for the first time, will you feel the great anguish, the real anguish—because then there are no pretexts left. You will say, “No headache, no thorn, wife alive, house there, clothes and food—everything is there. Everything is there—and something is missing. Everything is there—and somewhere, something is empty.”

That is why the rich man is the first to feel the anguish. The poor man’s anguish hides behind a thousand pretexts. He says, “If only I had a house, everything would be fine. I have no house. There are holes in the roof, rain seeps in—if the roof were sound, all would be well.” He doesn’t know that many have sound roofs and nothing is well. At least he has a pretext. The rich man has not even that. In that state the rich man becomes poorer still—he has not even a hook to hang his pain upon, to say, “Because of this, I suffer.” It is causeless suffering.

Religion is born from that causeless anguish.

What is that anguish? It is like a woman nine months pregnant with the child overdue—she is burdened: the child should be born. For countless births you have been carrying the divine in your womb. It is not being born—this is the pain. To recognize the true anguish is an essential step on the path. As long as you mistake other things for the pain and try to fix them, you remain worldly. The day you recognize the true anguish—“Here it is!”—the hand falls upon it; then you will see the pain is exactly this:

Come, let me tell you the difference between a bud and a blossom:
One word is spoken, the other remains unspoken.

Until the song you have carried within for centuries, for lives uncounted, can be sung; until the dance you keep in your feet can ring its anklets and dance—till then you will remain in pain. We have called that dance “the divine.” We have called the breaking forth of that song “nirvana.” We have called the blooming of that flower “kaivalya,” absolute aloneness.

When your bud becomes a flower—liberation, moksha, the destination has arrived.

The Buddha is not against faith. In fact, no one has ever been a greater partisan of faith than the Buddha. But he does not impose faith; he lets it be born. Others have imposed faith. Others say, “Believe. If you don’t, it’s a sin.” The Buddha says, “Think.” If you think rightly, faith will arise—on its own. The Buddha leads you toward faith; others shove you. There is a vast difference between leading and shoving. The Buddha coaxes you toward faith; others threaten you. They say, “If you don’t believe, you’ll rot in hell. If you do, you’ll be rewarded in heaven.” Others either entice you or frighten you.

We even have the phrase “God-fearing.” Other religions have made people afraid. They say, “Fear God.” Forget small people; even someone like Mahatma Gandhi says, “I fear no one except God.” But you do fear, don’t you? What difference does it make if you fear God? And the strange thing is: if you feared the world, it might even be understandable—this world has troublemakers, all kinds of wickedness. Fear the devil—one could understand that. But God? To fear God means your conduct will be forced. There is no reason to fear the Divine. God means love. Can love ever be related to fear? Where there is love, how can there be fear? And where there is fear, how can there be love? Near fear, the fragrance of love never arises; near love, the stench of fear never comes.

But religions have taught people to be afraid—to tremble. The Buddha coaxed people; he did not bully them. He said, “Reflect. Think. Experience life; analyze it.” He gave science, not superstition.

But this does not mean he did not give faith. He alone truly gave faith. When you begin to think and reflect in this way, one day you suddenly find you have arrived at a resting place called faith. Only through the journey of thought and inquiry does one reach faith.

Understand this a little; it may seem paradoxical.

- Without thinking and inquiring, no one ever reaches faith. That is one.
- Only by thinking and inquiring, no one ever reaches faith either. That is two.
- And third: in thinking and inquiring, a moment comes when one goes beyond thinking. Before thinking, there is no faith. In the midst of thinking, there is no faith. But a point comes when you go beyond it. How long will you keep thinking? Thinking has its limit. You are not limited. Soon you will find that thinking has come to an end, yet you still are. Thinking begins to lag behind; your steps keep moving ahead.

The Buddha takes you exactly there. He says, “Don’t panic; the intellect has a limit. Do not be afraid; you are the limitless.” If you keep going, the intellect will soon be exhausted. You will reach a place where a sign reads: “Intellect ends here.”

So the Buddha says there are two kinds of faith. One: without reflection—accepted beforehand without entering inquiry. That is false. That is illusory—blind faith. It does not belong to one who has eyes. Such faith will always remain weak. It can be broken at any time; anyone can shake it; any fact of life can wipe it out. It is worth two pennies; give it no value. And you will not be freed by that faith; you will be bound. It will encircle you like a chain. What you have not found through your own experience, do not regard as your wealth. That is faith born of non-inquiry.

Then move into inquiry. But you are afraid of inquiry, because people often get stuck in it. They don’t go far enough; they go two steps and stop. They build a hut by the roadside and settle there; they do not reach the destination. These all become atheists. And because of such atheists, some people are afraid to even begin.

The Buddha says: those you call theists are false theists, and those you call atheists are false atheists. Because judging atheism is proper only when you have reached the very limit of intellect. Before that, no decision can be taken. If you have not gone all the way, not reflected fully, how will you decide? And whoever reaches the boundary of intellect has a realization: the intellect has a limit, but existence extends beyond. Then one knows there is reality beyond the intellect—vastness beyond. And what lies beyond intellect cannot be attained by intellect.

Listen—

To reach Your destination was no easy thing;
Only by crossing the frontier of the intellect did we come this far,
Only by crossing the frontier of the intellect did we come this far.

When we went beyond the frontier of the intellect, only then did we reach You—reach the Divine.

To reach Your destination was no easy thing.

Those who never walked, who adopted “faith” prematurely, never arrived. Their God is a toy of belief, a mere mental construct. They are only deluding themselves. Your temples and mosques are your illusions, not the true destination. Only those arrived who crossed the frontier of the intellect.

So the Buddha said, “Come. Do not become a theist out of fear. And do not be frightened of atheism either. Atheism is the necessary process that leads toward theism.” Before the Buddha, people thought theism and atheism were opposites. The Buddha made atheism the process of theism. No greater revolution has happened. He said, “Atheism is the ladder to theism.”

Yes—if you sit down on the ladder, that is your mistake. It is not the ladder’s fault. If I say to you, “Climb up—here is the ladder to the terrace,” and you sit on the ladder, you will say, “This ladder is the enemy of the terrace.” But the ladder did not catch you. It was ready to help you climb. That is its only purpose. You turned the ladder itself into an obstacle by clinging to it.

Atheism is a ladder. And whoever has not been rightly an atheist will never be rightly a theist. Keep this carefully in your heart.

People come to me every day. The one who has passed through atheism has a different splendor. The one who has suffered the pain of atheism, who has endured the thorns of doubt, who has known how to say “no”—the joy and dignity of his “yes” are of another order. If a person is afraid to say “no,” what value can his “yes” have? His “yes” is impotent. Do not trust the “yes” of someone who has never said “no.” That “yes” is the “yes” of the weak, not of the strong.

The Buddha taught people the “yes” of the strong. He said, “Say no; don’t be afraid. Because if you don’t learn to say no, how will you ever say yes? Yes is a further destination; it comes after no, not before it. Say no with your whole heart.”

For the first time the Buddha gave strength to religion. Before him, religion belonged to the weak. People say, “For the weak, Rama is strength.” The Buddha gave people strength and said, “There is nothing to fear, because the Divine is.” Therefore do not be afraid. Your saying “no” does not make God a no. Your saying “yes” does not make God a yes. But by saying “no,” you begin to be. And only when you are can you truly say “yes.”

Think a little:

If you don’t even know how to say no—if you are so frightened, so paralyzed that a refusal cannot come from you—then what acceptance will come from you? Acceptance is a greater event than refusal. If even refusal doesn’t arise, if you are not yet even a desert of atheism, how will you be an oasis of theism? If you cannot manage the dry, rough atheism within you, how will you bring forth the lush, flowering theism? Theism is not the opposite of atheism; it is beyond it. Theism is the destination; atheism is the means.

Thus the Buddha gave humanity a new alchemy in which even atheism can be used. This is, to me, something very unique. When you can make use of the “no,” when you can make use of your darkness, your rejection—only then can you become fully developed. When your darkness itself becomes a means to reach light; when you transform your darkness into fuel for illumination; when you put your “no” in the service of your “yes,” make it a servant; when your atheism massages the feet of your theism—only then.

The Buddha gave thought, analysis, and declared intelligence the starting point of his path—not the end. So don’t be anxious, “Why does the Buddha give initiation?” Don’t be anxious, “Why does he make disciples?” Don’t be anxious, “Why does he invite us to take refuge in the Buddha, the Dhamma, and the Sangha?”

He gives that invitation only to those who have gone beyond atheism. He does not give it to everyone. To everyone he gives thought and analysis. Then those who think and analyze and, through their own experience, become witnesses to the Buddha and say, “You are right. By thinking we have found that thinking is futile. We peered into the scriptures and found them useless. You are right that religion is not tradition but rebellion. We, too, have thought it through. But now thinking comes to a stop. Now, what beyond…? Now take us further”—to them the Buddha grants discipleship. Then he gives initiation. To the one who has passed through thought, risen beyond the web of thinking—the Buddha gives initiation.

People ask me, “If in the end one attains through faith, why do you explain so much?”

I explain precisely so that first faith may be attained. Yes, one realizes That through faith—through acceptance. But first you must attain faith. And how will you attain it? There are two methods. One: I could frighten you—“You will burn in hell, in boiling cauldrons of fire, thrown into vats of flame.” Either frighten you—or tempt you—“In heaven, nymphs await you. With faith—heaven; with lack of faith—hell.” In this way I could push you by force—which is wrong. For one who chants God’s name out of fear has not chanted God at all; he has chanted fear. The one who becomes moral out of fear is not moral. If you refrain from stealing only out of fear of the police, does that make you truly honest? If you avoid cheating because of fear of hellfire, is that integrity? If you adopt celibacy out of fear of the boiling cauldrons of hell, is that freedom from lust? That is merely conditioning—tricks of indoctrination.

There was a great psychologist in Russia—Pavlov. Now Russia is an atheistic country, but Pavlov’s ideas appealed even there. No one investigated that what Pavlov said is not very different from what the so-called religious teachers have always done. Pavlov said, “If you want to change someone, there is no need to reason with him.”

Suppose a man smokes. There’s no need to lecture him, nor to print on the packet, “Smoking is injurious to health.” Nothing will come of it—he will only become blind to the warning. Reading it daily, even the intended effect of the word ‘injurious’ will vanish. If you want to change him, Pavlov said, give him an electric shock each time he smokes. The shock should be so sharp that the pain exceeds whatever little pleasure he gets. There is hardly any real pleasure—what pleasure can there be in drawing smoke in and out? It is an illusion. A real electric shock will break the illusion. Do this daily for a week or two. Then when he picks up a cigarette, his hand will tremble. The moment cigarette comes to mind, the memory of the shock will also arise. He has been conditioned. The cigarette will drop from his hand. There was no need to argue that smoking is bad. People have been preaching that for years—no one listens.

But what Pavlov proposed is not very different. This is exactly what old religious teachers did. From childhood, they filled minds with “Hell’s cauldrons are boiling”—hang paintings in temples of blazing infernos—“You’ll be thrown into kettles, burned alive; worms will bore through your body, run here and there; and you won’t die. Water will be there before you; your throat parched with thirst, but you won’t be able to drink. You’ll suffer eternal torment.” And what are your “sins”? Trifles—like smoking a cigarette. For a cigarette, such massive punishment! One is bound to panic.

If this is poured into the mind from early childhood, fear will naturally seize you. You won’t smoke—but is that character? You have destroyed his character forever. Character stands on strength; on understanding. You poured in the poison of fear. You killed him. Now he will never truly live.

And similarly, there is the temptation of heaven—great pleasures there. You do two-penny deeds and expect great rewards. You give a beggar a coin and start calculating your heaven. Build a roadside shelter, or a temple, and imagine you have done God a great favor and are destined for paradise.

I have heard of a religious guru who sold tickets to heaven—indeed, all religious gurus do. Naturally, the rich bought first-class. The poor bought second-class. There was third-class too, and for the masses a fourth-class as well. There should be arrangements for all kinds of people in heaven. He collected a lot of money by frightening people with hell. People would skip meals to save for a ticket.

This is what people do. They won’t eat—I have seen them—so they can go on pilgrimages. They won’t buy clothes, but they donate to a temple. They starve themselves, but feed the Brahmin. For centuries the Brahmin has frightened people: “We are the kith and kin of Brahman—nepotism! Our relation is close; we’ll arrange your entry.” If you eat yourself—no merit. If you feed a Brahmin—merit. People starve, go on pilgrimages, feed Brahmins, give to priests and pandits.

That guru amassed great wealth. One night, a man climbed onto his chest with a knife and said, “Hand it over—everything.” The guru looked closely; the man was of his own flock. “Hey! Don’t you know you’ll rot in hell?” The man said, “Forget worry—I’ve already bought a first-class ticket. Hand over the money. I bought it from you. Since my ticket is secured, hell no longer frightens me. You can frighten other people; me, you can’t. Now give me all the money you’ve piled up in your vault.”

This is what people are doing. And you call this character? A personality standing on fear and greed—this you call character? That is a counterfeit character.

The Buddha did not peddle that fraud. He said: understanding, reflection, contemplation, meditation. And gradually he brings you to the place from where the beyond begins to be seen—where transcendence happens; where you come to the edge of your thinking and see that which cannot be thought; where mystery envelops you and thoughts fall away by themselves; where the Vast comes near and your little skull staggers and falls silent—awestruck.

The Buddha said, “I will not impose faith. I will walk you to faith.” That is why he gave initiation and yet did not preach faith. This is his art. And tell me—who has given initiation as he did? Who has given as many a taste of the nectar of sannyas as he did? Who has brought as much faith down to this earth as the Buddha did? And he hardly spoke of faith. That is his art, his beauty, his uniqueness. Others wear themselves out pounding on heads—“Have faith, believe”—and they dump trash into people. The Buddha did not indulge in the futile. He used everything life offered as a ladder. If there is logic—use it. Where will you throw it away? Make it a staircase. If there is doubt—do not be afraid. We will make a ladder of it too—what is there to fear? We will climb even on this. We will stand upon the shoulders of logic, upon the head of doubt, and look across.

And when the beyond becomes visible, faith descends.

Faith is the concomitant of the experience of the beyond—its shadow. As the wheels follow the oxen of the cart, as your shadow follows when you run, so it is. The moment the Vast is glimpsed—even for an instant—clouds part briefly and the sun is seen; in the dark night a flash of lightning shows the path, and the finials of the destination gleam in the distance—faith is born. The glory of this faith is different. Do not mistake this faith for your own petty, impotent beliefs. This faith has to be earned.

The Buddha said, no one is born with faith. We are born with doubt. Every child is born with doubt; that is why children ask more questions than old people. A child turns everything into a question. It is natural. He must ask; only by asking will he come to the place where experience happens and all questions drop, all curiosity falls away.

People ask me, “Why do you explain so much if one reaches through faith?”

I explain so that you may reach faith. After that, you will walk by yourself. Faith is enough. Then you will no longer need me. I coax you up to faith; from there the road is easy. From there you will walk on your own; from there your faith will pull you. The magnet of faith is enough.

An accomplished true master is not so easy to find. They don’t appear every day, nor do you meet them in every place. Thousands of years can pass, and only once in a rare while does an accomplished true master appear.

This question arises in you because you imagine true masters are sitting in every village. To sit posing as a master is one thing; to open a shop in the marketplace is one thing. But this matter concerns the divine—the invisible! That’s why it’s so hard to grasp.

I have heard that in America a shop sold invisible hairpins. Invisible! Women are especially curious about such things: an invisible hairpin—can’t be seen, yet holds the hair. There were crowds, long queues. One day a woman came, opened a box, and saw there was nothing in it—because if it’s invisible, you can’t see it. She asked, “Are they actually in here?” The shopkeeper said, “These are invisible hairpins; of course you can’t see them.” She felt a bit doubtful. “Invisible—fine, that’s what I came for. But are they really in there? And no one can see them?” The shopkeeper replied, “Believe it or not, for a whole month we’ve been out of stock—and they’re still selling. Even before that they kept selling; what need is there of stock for invisible hairpins?”

This is a business in the invisible. There’s a difficulty: you can’t catch hold of who is selling and who is not, who has it and who does not. It’s very tricky. That’s why it’s easy to sit down as a guru here. In any other kind of shop you must have goods to sell. In any other trade there’s a way to get caught; some snag will arise. Cheat as cleverly as you like, you’ll be exposed. But sell God—who will catch you? How? Centuries pass; it keeps selling without any stock.

So don’t be troubled that Buddha went to so many gurus and did not find a true master. This is Swami Yog Chinmaya’s question. Chinmaya imagines that true masters are seated everywhere; wherever you go you’ll find one. It is very difficult. It is a great blessing if one ever reaches a true master. How will you recognize one? There is only one way: whatever a master tells you—forget worrying whether he is a true master—do it. If he is a true master, by doing what he says something will begin to happen within you. If he is not, nothing has happened in him—how will anything happen in you?

True masters are rare. But the search for them is constant. That is why the false ones get a chance to sit on the seat. And since you never do anything—you only listen—you can be deceived. If you do, you cannot be deceived. It is my understanding that because you want to deceive, you can be deceived. You don’t really want to do anything; you want it to happen by someone’s grace.

People come to me and say, “Now that we have come to you, why meditate? By your grace!” They are trying to trick me. “Now that we are with you, why should we practice? You do it—we have faith.” Not even enough faith to do what I say—and they talk of faith! How else will your trust in me be shown? Do what I ask.

Because you don’t do, the false gurus keep thriving. If you do, your doing itself becomes the proof. You will soon see, again and again, that nothing is happening—nothing is happening to anyone—and people will start leaving. The market will empty by itself.

Buddha did exactly this. He went—but wherever he went, he did precisely what was told. Some told him such foolish things—and he did those too—that even the tellers began to feel pity: “What are we making him do!” Someone said, “Just one grain of rice a day—only that much food.” Utter foolishness. But Buddha did it. It is said his bones jutted out, his belly stuck to his spine, his skin so thin that a touch would tear it. Then even that guru felt compassion. However much of a fraud he was, this had gone too far. He folded his hands and said, “Go somewhere else. What I knew, I’ve told you. I know no more.”

Buddha’s own steadfastness—his unflinching commitment—became the touchstone. He wandered on, tested everyone, found nothing anywhere. Then he set out alone. And consider this: you often want to believe quickly because you don’t want to do. Your hurry to believe is a device to avoid doing.

In life everything must be earned. Even trust is not so easy that you simply decide and it is there. You will have to struggle, be tempered, burn yourself. Slowly your raw gold will be refined. Passing through the fire, the gold becomes pure. Only then will trust arise within you. And true masters are not sitting in every alley and lane. Once in thousands of years there may be an accomplished true master. Centuries pass while the seekers go on seeking.

Therefore, if ever you catch even a hint of a true master, count it as great good fortune—blessed indeed!!

Knowingly. Avair is negative—like ahimsa. Buddha says: drop enmity; what remains is love. Buddha does not tell you to love, because the love you “do” is not love.

You go to a physician. He diagnoses the disease; he gives a medicine to remove it. When the disease disappears, what remains is health. To talk separately about health is pointless—and risky too. Because if you are told to love, you will not drop enmity; you will start “doing” love. Doing always seems easier; doing gratifies the ego. You will begin to love—without dropping enmity. Then you may only cover your hostility with the garment of love; enmity remains, wrapped in a love-cover. Then your love will be false. How can love stand upon enmity?

You have loved many times. You know well: your love does not erase hatred; at best it suppresses it. The ember doesn’t die; it hides under ash. You love the very person you also hate. In the evening you sing their praises; in the morning you hurl abuses. A moment ago you were ready to die for them; a moment later you are ready to kill them. Buddha knows well this love of yours. Such love does not end hatred; it decorates hatred, makes it look beautiful, puts an elixir-label on a bottle of poison—but it does not remove the poison.

Hence Buddha did not speak of love. Buddha said: avair—non-enmity. Drop enmity. Drop hatred. Then what remains is love. And the quality of this love is different. The love you do is an act. The love Buddha speaks of is not an act and not a relationship. It is your nature.

Right now you say, “I love you.” It is in your hands: if you wish, you do; if you wish, you undo. Tomorrow you can say, “I don’t.”

But one from whose life enmity has gone cannot say, “I love you—and now I stop.” He will say, “I am love.” Whether you do good or harm, I am love. This love is my nature. Whether you hit me or serve me, honor me or insult me—your action has no meaning now; my love will not change.

A man spat on Buddha’s face. Buddha wiped it with his robe and said to the man, “Anything more to say?” Buddha said, “This too was something you wanted to say; I have understood. Anything more to say?” Ananda, his disciple, grew furious. He said, “This is beyond all limits! If someone spits on you and we sit and watch? This is a matter of life and death! Give me the order—I will set him right.” Ananda was a Kshatriya, Buddha’s cousin, once a warrior. His arms quivered. He said, “Enough is enough,” forgetting he was a monk, a sannyasin.

Buddha said, “What he did is forgivable; what you are doing is even more dangerous. He has done nothing—he has only said something. You do not understand, Ananda: there are moments when you want to say something but cannot; words are too small. We sometimes embrace someone. We wanted to say it with words, ‘I love you very much’—but it felt too banal; so we hug and speak by hugging. This man was angry; he wanted to abuse, but he found no abuse strong enough. He spat—and thus spoke. I understood what he said. Where is the need to quarrel? We ask him if there is anything more to say.”

The man was ashamed. He fell at Buddha’s feet: “Forgive me. I am a great offender. Till today your love was upon me—now I have lost it with my own hands.”

Buddha said, “Do not worry about that, because I did not love you for the reason that you did not spit on me.”

Buddha’s words are worth hearing: “I did not love you because you did not spit on me. If that were the reason, then a spit would break love. I love you because I cannot do otherwise. It is my nature. Whether you spit or not is your affair. Whether you accept my love or not is also your affair. My love is like a flower: it blossoms and the fragrance spreads. If an enemy passes by, his nostrils are filled too. He may hold a handkerchief to his nose—that is his matter. A friend passes; his nostrils are filled too. If the friend lingers by the flower and shares its bliss—that is another matter. Even if no one passes on the path, the fragrance keeps falling—in empty solitude. My love is my nature.”

Understand this.

What you call love is not nature; it is your act, a mood-state of your mind. Not your nature. Therefore the one you love in the morning you can hate in the evening. No difference—because the mind changes, the mood shifts, the feeling turns.

Buddha did not say “love,” because by the word love you would misunderstand—you would understand only what you call love. Buddha said: avair. Do at least this much—do not be inimical. Then what remains is love. And the fragrance of that love is different; the song of that love is different.

And remember: whatever Buddha has said, he has said from deep experience. He spoke knowing such love. He is not a poet of love, nor a philosopher of love. He experienced love. He knew this new kind of love that becomes your nature. What you know about love is mostly secondhand. Either poets have told you and you repeat them. Freud wrote in a letter to a friend: if there were no poets in the world, perhaps no one would even know about love.

It makes sense. Poets kept singing of love. Though poets don’t necessarily know love—often the opposite is true. Those whose lives are without love console themselves by writing love poetry. One whose life is love—why would he write poetry? His life itself is poetry. But those who have no love in life sit and compose love poems to soothe their minds. What they could not express as love otherwise, they pour into verse. Of a hundred love poems, ninety-nine were written by those who had no experience of love.

This is a hard truth. Often those who talk bravely are cowards. They spin tales of valor. Why should the brave talk of bravery? His bravery is enough.

What Buddha said is not a poet’s talk, nor a scholar’s. He knew love. And he knew it in only one way—and whenever anyone has known, it has been only in this way: by dropping enmity.

The love you call love—Buddha knew that too. He had a wife, a son, a mother, a father—everything. He loved them deeply. And one day he saw there was nothing in that love—it was only the mind’s dream. Seeing the futility of that love, he stepped aside. He wanted to seek a new kind of love—so pure that hatred could not distort it, not even a single drop of hatred in it. And the irony is this: a single drop of poison in a brimful cup of milk is enough to destroy it; but a single drop of milk in a cupful of poison will not purify it. The corrupt is powerful; the impure is powerful. The pure is very delicate, tender. Throw a stone at a flower and the flower shatters. Throw a thousand flowers at a stone—nothing happens.

Buddha went in search of that love which is uncorrupted, virgin. And he found it by dropping enmity. If enmity remains and you cultivate love, your enmity will distort that love, poison it. First remove enmity. And the wonder is: the moment enmity is removed, love needs no cultivation; you suddenly find, “Ah! It was only because of enmity that love was not visible; it has been flowing within all along. It is my nature. Love is the soul.” But beware of books. Do not try to understand love by reading books.

I have heard: A drunkard was being lectured by a religious teacher, “Stop drinking, or you will miss God.” The drunkard said, “We have recognized him only by drinking and becoming intoxicated. So let there be a test.” He said—

“Let us see from which side the lightning flashes, O wise one.
I raise my goblet; you raise your book.”

And we shall see from where the lightning flashes. You raise your book!

“I raise my goblet; you raise your book.
Let us see from which side the lightning flashes, O wise one.”

There is a world of books and a world of the goblet. A world of those who have drunk and known the taste, and a world of those who only juggle words. Be a little careful here. Those who have known said “avair.” Those who have not said “love.” And by their saying “love,” love has never come; by those who taught avair, love has come. This is the paradox.

“I raise my goblet; you raise your book.”

Books are dead. Veda, Quran, Purana—all dead. Until you drink the goblet of life yourself, whatever you say—however skillfully—remains false; it cannot become truth.

We have used two words in this land: kavi and rishi. We call him rishi whose poetry comes from experience. We call him kavi whose poetry comes from imagination. Both are poets, but the rishi has lived. He has put his very heart into his song. He has drunk, and there is taste upon his lips. He too uses words—but the difference shows.

Mahavira said ahimsa—not love. Buddha said avair—not love. Because both understood that the real issue is not to bring love, the real issue is to remove violence, to remove enmity, to remove hatred. Hatred is the disease; the moment it is removed, the health of love becomes available on its own. Clouds have gathered—you do not have to bring the sky; you only have to disperse the clouds. The sky is already present. The sky is what you are. So what love is there to bring? You are love. Let the clouds of hatred clear—that’s all.

So that many people could set out together, each alone, on the journey. The Sangha was not created to go together. No one can enter samadhi together. One has to go alone. The journey always ends in aloneness. But in the beginning, if there is company, great reassurance, great courage arises.

When you meditate alone, trust doesn’t come that anything will happen. You have lost trust in yourself. Meditate with ten thousand people: you may not trust yourself, but you begin to trust the crowd of nine thousand nine hundred and ninety-nine.

Each of them is in the same condition. They too don’t trust themselves. And why would they? The total earning of a whole life is rubbish. No real experience has come. Their very faith is lost that “I can still find peace.” Impossible! Even if joy happens to them, they will think, “This is some fantasy, or someone has cast a spell. Me, and joy? No, that can’t be.” This is the state of all.

But when ten thousand stand together, the nine thousand nine hundred and ninety-nine give you strength: “Where so many are going, there must be something.” That strength becomes the initial shove. Movement begins. Once movement begins, your own experience gives you trust. Gradually the need for company disappears. You become alone. Even to be alone, company is needed. You have become so weak, have forgotten your own nature so much, that to bring trust in yourself you need the crowd.

Buddha created the Sangha so that people could take the first steps on the inner journey of aloneness with one another’s support. The final step is always alone. By then no one remains. And in Buddha’s vision, at the last step even you do not remain—anatta, no-self. Even the soul is lost. Let alone the other; Buddha says, you too do not remain. Something remains for which we have no words. It is ineffable—something like emptiness. But neither you are there, nor any other. Yet at the preliminary stage, the Sangha has its use.

This is my experience too. I have had people meditate alone—no movement. But if they meditate together, once the momentum comes, then they themselves say, “Now we want to do it alone.” With company the beginning becomes easy. You can gather courage. You can even gather the courage to be a little mad. You can gather the courage to be a little blissful. When a thousand people dance, something in your feet also begins to dance; then it won’t stop even if you try. And when a thousand people are exhilarated, their exhilaration becomes contagious. Not only disease is contagious—health is contagious too. Sit among ten dejected people and you too become dejected. Sit among ten laughing people and you too start laughing.

Buddha understood this. He created the first Sangha because he saw that man has become so weak he cannot go alone. The journey is solitary; but he will not be able to go alone. In company, courage will grow.

My very words are such that faith cannot settle. Because I am not speaking of the world in which you have faith, and in which faith would easily settle for you. What I am saying goes over your head. You will have to raise your head a little.
There are only two ways. Either I lower what I am saying; then I become pointless, with nothing of substance left. The other way is that you lift your head a little—rise a little higher. Everyone imagines that he already has faith, it only needs to be seated. You do not have faith yet. If it were there, it would have settled. In those who have it, it has settled. If there is no faith at all, how will it sit?

Your situation is like this: I have heard that Mulla Nasruddin went to the eye doctor and said, “My eyes are very weak.” The doctor said, “Don’t worry. Read the chart on the board in front.” Nasruddin said, “I can’t see anything.” “Nothing at all?” “Nothing at all.” The doctor said, “Your eyes are very weak—glasses will fix everything.” Nasruddin asked, “Then I will be able to read?” “Of course, you will be able to read,” said the doctor. Nasruddin exclaimed, “What good fortune! Because I am illiterate.”

By putting on glasses you don’t become educated. By just listening to me, faith will not settle either. Faith itself must be there. So first I am trying to kindle faith in you.

If faith does not arise, don’t panic. There is no hurry. First thing: do not adopt false faith. Until it happens, don’t force it. Wait. Do not be in haste. Because the one who takes on a false faith becomes deprived of true faith forever. Doubt—what harm is there? If right now there is doubt, then doubt. Do something at least. If not faith, then let there be doubt. It is out of doubt that slowly you will rise toward faith. As you go on doubting, you will find that doubt becomes tired and falls. What I am saying, you will not be able to cut through with doubt. What I am saying will cut through your doubt. Let there be a struggle. There is no hurry.

And you say, “All your words seem false.” Quite right. They will. Because where you stand, you have taken the false to be true. Therefore, when you hear truth for the first time, it will seem false. And think a little. Do not have blind faith. True disbelief is better than false belief. Be honest. Be authentic.

And you ask, “Even so, why is it that I don’t feel like leaving from here?” Perhaps you don’t know—somewhere within you the sprouting of faith may have begun. Even you yourself may take time to get the news. What begins in the heart often takes years for the news to reach the intellect. Therefore you cannot run away. You are caught. Now there is no way to leave. And if even now faith has not happened and it is already difficult to flee, then think a little: what will your state be when faith does happen?

You are fortunate that even though faith has not yet happened and the words seem false, still the heart does not let you go. The heart you have is precious—more valuable than your intellect and your head. Something greater than you is hidden within; it does not let you go, does not let you run. Someone greater than you is seated within; he understands my words, he has come to have faith in me.

That is all for today.