Es Dhammo Sanantano #20

They did not obey the Buddha’s command, but they had great compassion for human beings. And the Buddha’s command was the kind one could rightly break when the question of human compassion arises. In breaking the Buddha’s command, they actually obeyed it—because the whole teaching of the Buddha is compassion. This needs a little understanding.

The Buddha said, “Do not make images of me,” so those who made images broke his command. But the Buddha also said that when meditation flowers into samadhi, compassion will rain in that life. Those who made images did so out of compassion—so that the Buddha’s footprints would not be lost, so that the shadow of his footsteps would remain over time.

It was precisely this: of the man who said, “Do not make my statues,” had we not made his statues, we would have committed a great mistake. Those who said, “Make our statues,” we could have left them; not making them would have done no harm. The Buddha said, “Do not worship me.” Had we not worshiped the Buddha, we would have missed greatly.

Such a blessed hour comes only once in a while, once in centuries—when a man is born who says, “Do not worship me.” He alone is worthy of worship. He who says, “Do not make my image,” he alone is worthy of having images made of him. All the temples of the world should be dedicated to such a one.

The Buddha said, “Do not cling to my words, because what I have said—live it. What will come from discussing the lamp? Protect the lamp. Do not make scriptures; awaken yourself.” But about the one who said such a thing: had his every single word not been written down, humanity would have remained poor forever. Who would remind you? Who would tell you that once there was a man who said, “Throw my words into the fire, reduce my scriptures to ashes, for I want what I have said to live within you, not in books”? But who would write that down?

So certainly, those who made the images broke the Buddha’s command. Yet I tell you, they did right. The Buddha’s order was the kind to be broken. Not that what the Buddha said was wrong—how could the Buddha be wrong? He was exactly right in saying, “Do not make my images,” lest in the images you forget me, lest I get lost in them, lest the images become so many that I am buried under them. “Look at me directly.”

But we are so blind that we cannot see directly. We will grope. By groping perhaps we will get some touch. To grope, images are necessary. Through images we will pave the way. We cannot see that supreme peak that manifested in the Buddha’s life—that is too far from us, lost in the clouds of the sky. Our eyes will not rise to it. If we can at least see the Buddha’s feet, which are on the earth—that is already much. With their support, perhaps someday we too may reach the Buddha’s peak. There is hope.

So I say to you: those who broke the command, they alone obeyed it. Those who preserved the words, they alone understood the Buddha. But you will find it very complex, for the logical mind is very unintelligent.

It happened. A young man, a university lecturer, used to come to me. For many days he listened to me, stayed in my satsang. One night, at midnight, he came and said, “What you had told me, I have done. I have thrown my Vedas, Upanishads, the Gita into a well.” I said, “Madman! I had only said: do not cling to the Vedas and Upanishads. I never said: go throw them into a well. What have you done?”

Only when you do not cling to the Vedas and Upanishads do they become understandable. The art of understanding them is precisely not to seize them, not to carry them on your head. Understand them. Understanding liberates. Understanding even liberates you from that which you have understood. Why throw them into a well? And you think you have accomplished a great revolution—I do not think so. If the Vedas and Upanishads were useless, what need was there to haul them to the well at midnight? You could have left them where they were. It is only the one who has carried them on his head for long who goes to throw them into a well. Even throwing them into a well shows attachment. You hate only that which you have loved. You run away only from that to which you were bound.

A sannyasin came to me and said, “I have renounced wife and children.” I asked, “When were they ever yours? One can renounce only what is one’s own. Was the wife yours? Because you walked seven circles around a fire, did she become yours? Were the children yours?” The first mistake was to consider them yours. The second mistake was to run away leaving them. One can only leave that which one has first claimed as one’s own. The whole matter is simply this: know that nothing is yours—then what is there to leave and flee from? To leave and flee is only to repeat the original mistake.

Those who have known have left nothing. Those who have known have grasped nothing. Those who have known do not have to leave; it leaves them. When it is seen there is nothing here to hold, the fist opens.

When the Buddha died—till then no scripture had been written; these sayings of the Dhammapada had not yet been written—the Buddhist sangha gathered. “Whoever remembers, recite it so it can be written down.”

There were great wise monks, monks established in samadhi. But they had not kept anything in memory—there was no need. Once understood, the matter was complete. What is understood need not be remembered. So they said, “We can say something, but it will be a distant echo. They will not be exactly the Buddha’s words. We too have become mixed in them. It has become so one with us that to separate where we end and the Buddha begins is difficult.”

So they asked the ignorant to speak: “You say something, the wise say it is difficult to decide. In the ocean of our samadhi the Buddha’s words have been lost. Now ‘we heard’ and ‘we said that he said’—no dividing line remains. When one oneself becomes a buddha, the boundary-line becomes difficult. What is mine, what is the Buddha’s? Ask the ignorant.”

The ignorant said, “We had heard, but we did not understand. We had heard, but the matter was so vast we could not hold it. We had heard, but the event was bigger than us; it did not fit in our memory. We were left stunned and amazed. The moment came and went, and we remained empty-handed. We can repeat something, but we cannot say for sure that the Buddha said exactly that. Much must have been left out. And we will say what we understood—how can we say what he said?”

A great difficulty arose. The ignorant could not speak, for they had no confidence. The wise had confidence, but their boundary-lines had dissolved.

Then someone suggested, “Find someone who stands between the two.” Ananda, the closest disciple, had been with the Buddha for forty years. People said, “Ask Ananda! He has not yet attained buddhahood, and he is not ignorant either. He stands at the door—this shore is the world, the other shore buddhahood; he stands on the threshold. And be quick: if he passes beyond the threshold, his boundary-lines will disappear too.”

What Ananda repeated was compiled. Great is Ananda’s compassion upon the world. Had Ananda not been, the Buddha’s words would have been lost. And had the Buddha’s words been lost, his very name would have been lost.

Not that you will be freed by the Buddha’s name or his words. Has anyone ever been burned by the word “fire”? Has anyone’s thirst been quenched by the word “water”? But a clue is given; a path opens. Perhaps someone among you will set out. Hearing of a lake, someone’s thirst may become clear and he may start walking. A thousand may hear—one may set out. A hundred thousand may hear—one may arrive. Is even that too little?

So you ask, “Those who made the Buddha’s images—did they violate his command?” Certainly they violated it—and it was worth doing. If there were a court somewhere, I would stand on their side. I would even stand against the Buddha in defense of those who made the images. Through the carved features of marble they sent us a little news.

To make the Buddha’s image is impossible, because buddhahood is formless, without shape. What image of the Buddha will you make? How will you make it? There is no way. And yet wondrous images were made. If someone looks closely at those images, the images are keys. As you go on gazing, locks within you will open. A key will fit within you; a door will suddenly open.

We carved in marble because marble is stone and yet soft. The Buddha is hard like stone and soft like a flower. So we chose marble. Marble is hard, but cool. The Buddha is hard like stone—but where will you find anyone as cool, as calm as he? We chose marble images also because when the Buddha was alive he would sit so still that from afar one doubted: is it a man or a statue?

I have heard a very old story. There was a great sculptor. He had only one fear always: death. When his death drew near, he made eleven statues of himself. He was such an artist that people said: if he made someone’s statue, it was hard to tell who was original and who was the statue—the statue was so alive. When death knocked at the door, he hid among his eleven statues. He controlled his breath. The only difference was that he breathed and the statues did not. He held his breath. Death entered and was greatly confused. She had come to take one, but there were twelve identical forms. But to deceive death is not so easy. Death called out loudly, “Everything is fine—except for one small mistake.” The sculptor blurted, “What mistake?” Death said, “Only this: you will not be able to forget yourself.”

But had the Buddha been standing there, even that mistake would not have remained—not even that. Not even the memory of oneself would remain; even the sense of being would be gone. If you rightly understand the Buddha, even in his self-respect you will see humility rippling. In his being you will taste the flavor of non-being.

Even in my pride there was the splendor of surrender;
Even when a wave of selfhood arose, it came like selflessness.

Even in my pride there was the splendor of surrender—within my identity, my self-respect, only his humility kept singing its glory. A wave of selfhood did arise—but it came like egolessness, as if even when I thought “I am,” it was as though I were not.

We carved the Buddha in marble. Sit by a Buddha image sometime and look closely. What is carved in stone holds much that is hidden. Look at the Buddha’s eyes—closed. Closed eyes say: what appears outside has become futile; now it is time to look within. The direction of the journey has changed. No longer moving outward—now moving inward. What could be seen no longer has any juice. Now it is the seer who must be seen. The search begins for the witness, not for the seen. The image is so still that not a trace of movement is perceived—just so, within, the Buddha’s consciousness has become still, unmoving. As if not a breath of air arrives and the flame of the lamp stands steady. We carved all this into the image. The image is a symbol. If you understand the secret of that symbol, then as you go on looking at the image you too will become image-like. Those who did not obey the Buddha’s command did well.

The Buddha was absolutely right to say, “Do not make an image—I am the formless. Do not cast me into shape—I am the shapeless. Whatever you do will be limited; I am the limitless.” He was absolutely right. But that may be right for other buddhas—what about all of you? For you, even news of the formless will come through form; even the attributeless through the attributed. Even the unstruck sound you will hear only through struck sound. You will set out from where you are. Where the Buddha is—that is to be reached; you cannot begin from there.

And those who compiled the Buddha’s words—such words have been spoken very rarely on this earth, as the Buddha’s are: how direct their blow, what alchemy they contain to transform the human heart. Such words have rarely been spoken. They could have been lost. And many buddhas came before the Buddha—whose words were lost. It seems their disciples had no deep obedience. A great misfortune, a great loss. Who knows which of those words might have become the cause, the occasion for your awakening?

So I say both things. Those who made images broke the Buddha’s injunction; those who compiled his words broke the Buddha’s injunction; and yet I say they did rightly, they did well. And deep down I know that the Buddha too is pleased that they did so. For the Buddha can only say what he can say, what he must say. The disciple has to think of many more things—not only what the Buddha says. He must also consider the thousands groping in the dark.

In the presence of buddhas, a certain love is born. Though buddhas say that love is attachment, yet with buddhas the last consummation of love comes. Though they say, “Do not fall in love with me,” how will you save yourself from such a one? The more they say, “Do not fall in love,” the more love surges toward them. The more they steady you, the more you stagger. It is very difficult. To meet a buddha and not fall in love is difficult. The buddha is right in saying, “Do not fall in love with me”—but to avoid it is impossible.

At that place where even angels melt with ardor—
Come, sir, take care; that station has indeed arrived.

At that very place even angels melt; even if gods were to stand there, they would fall in love.

At that place where even angels melt with ardor—
Come, sir, take care; that station has indeed arrived.

When one comes near a buddha, one arrives at such a station that—their teaching is “Do not fall in love”—but their very being is such that we fall in love. Their teaching is “Do not hold me,” but who has a heart of stone to let them go?

So then what to do? There are ways of holding that cannot be called holding. There are forms of love in which there is no attachment. One can drown in love and yet remain outside of love. I tell you: like the lotus in water—so is being with a buddha. You do fall in love, and yet you keep your hem unstained. The one who masters this paradox is worthy of the company of buddhas.

If out of these two you master only one, you will miss. If you fall in love as ordinary worldly love falls, then love becomes bondage. Then you think your connection with the Buddha has been made—but on the Buddha’s side it is broken. You think you stayed near—but on the Buddha’s side you have gone thousands of miles away. If you decide not to relate at all because relationship becomes bondage, then you will appear near the Buddha but will not arrive near. Has anyone ever come close without love?

So I tell you something very knotty: Love, and remain alert. Love, and do not forge love’s chains. Love, and build love’s temple. Love, and let love become liberation.

At that place where even angels melt with ardor—
Come, sir, take care; that station has indeed arrived.

Satsang requires great carefulness. Its danger is that you may fall in love. And its other danger is that, in trying to avoid love, you may remain far away. If you remain far, you miss; if love becomes bondage, you miss—such is the predicament. But it is so. There is no other way; one must walk very carefully. That is why satsang is called the edge of a sword: as if one were walking on the blade—fall this side, a well; fall that side, a ravine.

Come, sir, take care...
It is a matter of walking with great care.

When darkness begins to be seen, it begins to dissolve—its very life lies in not being seen.

If you have merely repeated poetic lines, that is another matter. But if this has begun to arise in your experience—“all around me, deep darkness”—if these words are not borrowed, not hearsay, not stolen from someone else’s plate, if you have tasted even a little of it, then the one to whom darkness has become visible has already recognized light. Without a recognition of light one cannot even see darkness. What is darkness, after all? Until you know light—even a single ray, a tiny flickering lamp—only if you have seen light can you recognize darkness.

This is what happens in the presence of the enlightened. When you bring your darkness to their light, then for the first time you know: “All around me, deep darkness.” Before that you were also in darkness—born in it, raised in it, nourished by it; darkness your food, darkness your shawl, darkness your bed, darkness your breath, darkness the beat of your heart—but there was no way to recognize it.

Therefore the scriptures sing the glory of satsang and of the Master. The whole secret is only this: until you come to one in whom the lamp burns, you will not recognize your darkness. Without comparison, how will recognition happen? The opposite is needed—contrast—then seeing begins. And when seeing begins, anxiety begins. Life becomes a restlessness; nowhere is there ease. Sitting or standing, waking or sleeping, working or not, one thought keeps circling within:

“All around me, deep darkness—
May I not forget Your door.”

A lovely utterance. In darkness there is every possibility of forgetting the door. In darkness, where is the address of the door? In darkness you have only dreamt of a door—where is the door itself? But if such remembrance remains, if such prayer continues, if this inner alertness goes on—“May I not forget Your door”—then this very remembrance slowly becomes the door.

The door is not somewhere outside you, not other than you; it is not some place to be found. The door will be revealed from you. From your remembrance alone the door will be formed. From your persistence, your constant knocking, the door will be formed. Your prayer itself will become your door. What Nanak and Kabir call surati, what Buddha called smriti, what in the West the remarkable Gurdjieff called self-remembering—that very self-remembering will become your door.

Keep remembrance of the darkness. By forgetting, darkness increases; by remembering, it diminishes. For remembrance has the nature of light. Memory’s nature is illumination. Keep remembering—“All around me, deep darkness.” Do not hum it as a mere line of song—let it become your mantra. As the breath goes in and out, let the remembrance continue. Through this remembering you will begin to be separate from the darkness. Whatever you can remember, whatever you can see—whatever has become an object— from that you have become distinct, separate.

“May I not forget Your door.”
The devotee lives in deep humility. Even if the door is found he still says, “May I not forget Your door.” For he knows: by my doing nothing will happen; whatever I do gets undone. I build a house—it collapses. I make plans—they come to naught. I set out for the East—I arrive in the West. I do good—it turns bad. I think one thing—something else happens. By my doing, nothing will be. The devotee says, Only if You—if Your grace continues to shower—is anything possible.

“May I not forget Your door—
Once, Lord, take my hand.”

A most beautiful line. For if once the Lord takes your hand, it never slips again. From His side, once taken, it is forever taken. And once your hand feels His touch, you are no longer you. That hand is not an ordinary hand—it is the philosopher’s stone: at its touch iron turns to gold.

But you will have to keep groping tirelessly. That hand is not had for free. It comes only to those who have searched intensely, who have brought the search to its peak, who have held nothing back. If you have saved even a little of your strength, you are being clever—then your prayer will go in vain. If you stake everything, your victory is certain.

This is the work of gamblers, not shopkeepers. Religion is for gamblers, not traders. Do not keep account books—“Let me invest two pennies of effort, a quarter-anna, two annas, and see.” With such calculations His hand will not come into yours; your dishonesty is evident. When you wager your whole self—leaving nothing behind—when you yourself sit on the stake in totality, in that very instant hand meets hand. If it did not in that instant, it would be a great injustice. Such injustice does not exist—there may be delay, but no darkness. And the delay is on your side.

You have heard the saying—there is delay, but no darkness. People think the delay is on His side. That is the mistake. The delay is yours. Take as long as you like. You grope half‑heartedly. You grope, and you are afraid that perhaps you might actually find. You grope, and you are suspicious—what if hand truly meets hand? For it is a dangerous hand. After that, you will no longer be you. One glimpse of Him will reduce you to ashes; one ray will erase you forever. You will not remain as you now are.

Yes, you will remain as you ought to be—your essential nature. All the rubbish you have piled around yourself—of position, prestige, name, form—will burn to ashes. So your prayer—your prayer to the Divine—can be only one: this rubbish of mine, which I have taken to be me—erase it.

Life is a shoreless sea, and the boat is damaged—
Frightened, I pray for a storm.

Your one prayer can only be this: pray for the storm.

Life is a shoreless expanse—no bank anywhere in sight. The whole experience of life is that there is no shore. And the boat is damaged—broken, patched; now sinking, now sinking! So, terrified, I make only one prayer: O God, send the storm.

Just look closely at your boat. Open your eyes and look around—where are the shores? You have dreamt of shores, cherished hopes of shores—but where are they? You are even afraid to lift your eyes lest it turn out that the shore truly is not. You keep your gaze down and think of shores: not today—tomorrow we shall arrive. One premise you have taken for granted: there is a shore.

I tell you, that which you call life has no shore at all. It is a bankless turbulence. No one has ever reached a shore there—not Alexander, not Napoleon. Everyone drowns midstream—some a little ahead, some a little behind.

But what meaning have “ahead” and “behind” where there is no shore? If there were a shore, one drowning near it we could call “a little ahead,” and we, drowning in midstream, would be “a little behind.” But everywhere is midstream—only midstream. There is no shore.

And look at the boat: you keep pasting patches. One hole opens—you plug it; another opens—you plug it. You keep bailing water. Life passes in trying to save this broken boat.

Those who know pray for the storm. They say, O God, erase me as I am, so that I may become as You intend.

If such a prayer enters your life—a prayer that is, in truth, a prayer for death—there is no other prayer. You have prayed, I know well. In your temples I have heard your prayers; in your mosques and gurdwaras your prayers are engraved—written on stones. But you have always prayed for that very life which has no shore, and you have always prayed to repair that very boat which has never been repaired and never can be. You have never prayed to be drowned. The one who does—his prayer is fulfilled. And the one who consents to drown finds the shore right in midstream.

That which you call life has no shore. And that which I call God is all shore—there is no midstream there. There are two ways of seeing: one, through the medium of the ego—the broken boat—there there is only fear, only death. The other, seeing with the ego put aside—there there is no death, no fear, because it is only the ego that dies, not you. Within you is the eternal. Es dhammo sanantano. Within you is the nectar, the deathless; within you the eternal is hidden, the Sanatan is hidden.

Even now the tavern of vision opens in every particle—
If a person becomes a stranger to himself.

Just one small thing: let the ego not remain. If a person becomes a stranger to himself—moves a little away from himself, lets himself go a little, lets this “I‑ness” be effaced a little—

Then the tavern of vision opens in every particle. Then in every speck God’s winehouse opens; everywhere His offering becomes available. The trick is very small: just step aside. Between you and God there is no one—except you.

Dharma is one, but its reflections can be many. On the full-moon night, the moon appears in the oceans, in lakes, and in tiny roadside puddles—the reflections are many.
Pointing to the ocean I have said to you, “Esa dhammo sanantano.” Pointing to a small lake I have said, “Esa dhammo sanantano.” Pointing to a rain-filled puddle by the road I have said, “Esa dhammo sanantano.” I have said it many times, in many forms. But all these are reflections; the moon itself cannot be said. If you cling to the reflections you will only get more entangled.
Whenever I have said, “Esa dhammo sanantano—this is the eternal dharma,” I have spoken of the reflection. Do not get caught in the reflection. I have only indicated. Do not grasp the finger that points. And as for the real moon above, no finger can point to it. Fingers fall short there; words fail there. And to see that moon you will have to lift your head very high, while you have become habituated to looking down at the ground. So I can only show you the reflections.
But if a reflection somewhere begins to draw your life, if the magnet of a reflection starts to pull you, then perhaps today or tomorrow you will also set out in search of the real. Because the reflection will be lost—let a breeze pass, the lake will ripple, and the moon will shatter into fragments. Then sooner or later it will occur to you: what I saw in the lake cannot be the truth. It can be news of the truth, a distant resonance of it—an echo, a reflection—but what is seen in the lake cannot be the truth. What is said in words cannot be the truth. Yet what is said in words can be a very distant relative of truth.
There is an anecdote from Mulla Nasruddin’s life: A friend sent him a chicken from a far-off village. Nasruddin made broth. He also invited the man who had brought the chicken. A few days later a second man arrived. “Where are you from?” asked Nasruddin. “From the same village,” he said, “and I am a relative of the one who sent the chicken.” Now a relative of a relative came too, and he was also hosted. Broth was prepared for him as well. But a few days later a third man turned up. “Where are you from?” “I am the relative of the relative of the one who sent the chicken.”
So the numbers kept growing. Nasruddin got exasperated. That chicken has opened the floodgates of guests—now the whole village is arriving! At last another man came. “And who might you be?” “I am a friend of the relative of the relative of the one who sent the chicken.”
Nasruddin had broth prepared. The friend tasted it and said, “This broth! It tastes like plain hot water.” Nasruddin said, “This is the friend of the broth of the broth of the broth of that chicken.”
Things drift farther and farther away. I showed you the lake. You can even do this—and in fact you will do it—you will place a mirror before the lake and look at the reflection in the mirror. Because when I speak, you do not exactly hear me; your mind interprets it.
The very moment I speak, the moon goes far. When I look, there is the moon; when I speak to you, there is only the reflection in the lake. When you listen and think, you have seen the lake in a mirror. Then you will look at the mirror in yet another mirror. In this way, words move further and further away from truth.
For this reason, many who have known have remained silent. But silence also doesn’t help by itself. When you do not hear even when told again and again, when you do not awaken though nudged and shaken, how will you hear the one who sits silently? When words miss the mark, silence will certainly miss it too. Still, remember: whatever can be said is an echo. Use that echo to journey toward the source, to undertake the pilgrimage.
“The circle of speech was too narrow for that tale;
that story we ended up telling in silence.”
Words fall short; the circle is small.
“The circle of speech was too narrow for that tale…”
There is a limit to saying; what there is to be said has no limit. There is a limit to song; what there is to sing has no limit. There is a limit to the instrument; what there is to be played has no limit.
“…that story we ended up telling in silence.”
But how will you understand silence? Even words fail. When shaken and shaken you do not stir from sleep, when awakened and awakened you do not awaken—words are like an alarm ringing on the bedside clock. Even then you do not wake. So how will you wake to a clock in which no alarm rings?
Thus many wise ones remained silent; many wise ones spoke. Those who stayed silent you never even recognized. From those who spoke you learnt words and became pundits. But some knowers chose the middle way—and the middle way is always the right way. They spoke, and they spoke in such a way that the unsaid would not be lost on you. They spoke, and left empty spaces between their words. They spoke, and left blanks—spaces you must fill.
You have seen children’s books? One word, then a blank, then another word—and the children are told to fill in the missing word. The supreme knowers did just that. One word, a blank, then another word. The empty space in between is for you to fill. What I am saying is the reflection. What you will fill in will be the moon.
Truth cannot be borrowed. You must give birth to it. You must conceive it in your own womb. Truth will grow within you. As the child grows in the mother’s belly, it will ask for your blood, your breath. It will be your own expansion. Until you yourself become the moon, you will not be able to see the moon.
So I have said it many times and I will say it many times—because these words of the Buddha will keep traveling for a long time yet. In many places I will say, “Esa dhammo sanantano.” Then remember: I am not saying there are many dharmas. I am only saying there are many places from which the dharma can be indicated. Sometimes I will point to a rose and say, “Esa dhammo sanantano.” Sometimes I will point to the moon and say it. Sometimes I will look into the eyes of a small child and say it. Because whether it is the rose, the eye, or the moon—beauty is one.
The Divine has manifested in countless forms. Our blindness knows no bounds. He has appeared in so many forms, and still we keep asking, “Where is he?” If he had appeared in only one form, in only one temple, available at only one place, there would have been no way to meet him. He appears in so many forms; he has surrounded you from every side. Wherever you go, there he stands before you. Whomsoever you meet, it is he you meet. Listen to the song of a waterfall—it is his song. Listen to the hush of the night—it is his silence. Look at the sun—it is his radiance. Look at the new-moon darkness—it is his darkness. He has encircled you in so many forms, yet you keep missing. Man would have been truly unfortunate if he had only one form, one temple, only one place to be found. Then perhaps no one would ever arrive. He is available in so many forms, and still we miss.
So in many places I will say to you, “Here is the Divine!” That does not mean there are many Gods. It only means his forms are many. His modes are many. His figures are many. But he himself, among all figures, is formless. And he must be. For only the formless can have so many forms. Only the shapeless can take on so many shapes. Only that which, even when manifest, is never fully manifest, can reveal itself through infinite mediums.
“Devotion has changed a thousand faces;
the One who was God is still God.”
Prayers change. The modes of worship change. The rituals change. At times a gurdwara, at times a mosque, at times a temple; at times the Kaaba, at times Kashi.
“Devotion has changed a thousand faces…”
Who knows before how many stones heads have bowed, in how many words prayers have been offered, in how many scriptures he has been praised.
“Devotion has changed a thousand faces;
the One who was God is still God.”
And to this day, the One who was God is still God.
So I will often say, “Esa dhammo sanantano—this is the eternal dharma.” Do not take it to mean: only this is it. Take it to mean: it is here too. And in many other places as well. Everywhere. Everywhere is his expanse. It is not like your courtyard; it is like the sky. And yet, in your courtyard too, it is the same sky.

There is nowhere to go in religion. Where you are is where you are to be.

It is good that no road appears ahead; otherwise you would go on going. It is good that you cannot return; otherwise you would have gone back. Do not feel restless about this. I understand that restlessness arises—because you have become habituated to going. When there is nowhere to go, one panics. Even if there is some pointless place to go, one sets off feeling at ease.

Where you are going is not the question; that you are going gives a sense that something is happening, some work is on, that you are getting somewhere. Who worries about the destination? The busyness continues. Being entangled in movement, it feels as if something is happening.

Who has ever arrived by walking? You will not arrive that way either. No one ever arrived by going. Those who arrived, arrived by stopping. Those who knew, knew by halting. Look at the Buddha’s statues—do they look like they’re walking? They are sitting. As long as they walked, they did not arrive. When they sat, they arrived.

This is a very auspicious moment. But our habits have gone wrong. We have become addicted to movement. Without movement it seems life is going waste—even if that movement is like the bullock of an oil-press that circles round and round. Isn’t that what it is? Every day you get up—what do you do? You walk and walk—where do you reach? By evening you are back where you set out in the morning. Life begins at birth and death brings you to the same place. It is a circle.

I have heard: A great logician went to buy oil at an oilman’s shop. The oil-press was turning; a bullock was pulling; oil was dripping out. Being a logician, he observed: “Amazing! This bullock is walking on its own; no one is even goading it. Why doesn’t it stop?” The oilman said, “Sir, whenever it slows or stops, I get up and prod it again. It can’t tell whether the driver is behind or not.”

The logician said, “But you’re sitting here running the shop; can’t the bullock see you?” The oilman replied, “Look carefully: there are blindfolds over its eyes. It sees nothing. If it so much as pauses, I prod it. But,” said the logician, “you’re sitting with your back to it; the press is behind—how do you know when it stops?” He said, “Don’t you see there’s a bell tied around its neck? As long as the bell rings, I know it’s moving. When the bell stops, I get up and prod it. It can’t tell.” The logician asked, “One more question: can’t the bull just stand still and shake its neck?” The oilman whispered, “Please speak softly, lest the bull hear you.”

Look carefully at your life. No one is goading you, yet you go on going. Your eyes are covered. The bell around your neck—you tied it yourself. Though you claim otherwise: the husband says, “My wife tied it, I have to move”; the son says, “My father tied it”; the father says, “My children tied it.” Who is tying whose bell? No one ties it for anyone. Without the bell, you don’t feel good. You’ve taken the bell for ornament. Eyes blindfolded, a bell tied—and you go on moving. Where will you reach? After so many days of going, where have you reached? If there were a destination, it would have come closer by now.

But whenever someone tries to wake you, you say, “Speak softly—don’t be loud, or it might dawn on us.” You avoid those who speak loudly. People don’t go to saints. If they do, they go to those who will tie more blindfolds on your eyes, polish your bell, teach you how to make it ring louder. They go to such saints who, if your legs are growing tired and the time to sit is nearing, will prod you from behind: “Move! Who ever arrived by sitting? Do something, be industrious. If God has sent you, prove yourself!”

Understand a little. The deepest truths of life are not attained by doing but by being. Doing is the surface, like ripples on water. Being is the depth.

It is good that this has happened—but your interpretation is wrong.

You say, “My condition has become like Trishanku.” Excellent—auspicious. Give thanks to the Divine. But the tone of your word carries complaint. You say you cannot return. Why is there any need to return? If there was anything to be found back there, you would already have found it. Your hands are empty, and you want to go back? You have already traversed that road; if it had anything to give, you would have brought something other than dust. Why tread it again?

You may say, “All right, forget the past, at least let me go forward.” But the path ahead is the very same path that stretches behind. They are two directions of the same road. The road on which you have been walking from the past is exactly the one you will follow into the future—the same chain, the same continuity.

What have you received so far? You’re fifty; walk twenty more years on this road—what will you get? You may say, “Then show me another road.” But what you want is a road—because you are addicted to walking. The madness of running has overtaken you. You cannot stop, cannot be still, cannot sit for two moments.

Why? Because whenever you stop, the futility of life is exposed. When you pause and an empty moment comes, you feel the void: I have earned nothing. You tremble; an existential dread seizes you. To escape it you plunge into activity: switch on the radio, read the newspaper, visit a friend, quarrel with your wife—do any foolish thing. Buy a ball, string up a net, throw it back and forth. People say, “They’re playing football,” or “volleyball.” And millions gather to watch—fights break out. You kick a ball from here to there—aren’t you ashamed? But the whole of life is like that. Any excuse will do to be busy. You shuffle cards and deal them out; you spread a chessboard. Waging real wars is costly; keeping horses is hard; who keeps elephants now? So you lay out chess—move elephants and horses—and become so absorbed as if your very life were at stake. In how many ways you deceive yourself.

Enough. Now wake up. And the one way to wake up is to sit empty for a little while every day. Do nothing. Doing is your world; non-doing will be your nirvana. Sit empty for a while. For an hour or two, be as if you are not. Let a silent void descend. Let the breath go on by itself, but let no whisper of activity remain nearby. Simply sit quietly. At first there will be great restlessness; a burning urge will seize you to do something—“Why sit here wasting time?”—but soon you will find life’s waves becoming still; inner doors start opening.

People come to me. I tell them, “Sit silently.” They say, “We can’t do that. At least give us a mantra—so we can do something. Give us a mala—we’ll keep turning it.” What is the difference between chess and a mala? Whether you hum film songs or chant “Ram, Ram,” what’s the difference? The real issue is your busyness. How can you become un-busy, unoccupied?

Meditation means: there is nothing to do; you simply are—like flowers, like stars in the sky. You just are. Nothing to do. It is very hard, the hardest thing. There is nothing harder.

But if you keep sitting and sitting and sitting, then one day, suddenly, some inner veena will begin to sound. One cannot predict it; I cannot say when it will happen. It depends on you. It could be today; it may not happen in a lifetime. It depends on you.

But the day your inner veena begins to sing, you will see how life was wasted. Inside, such a great festival was going on—and we kept moving elephants and horses on boards. Within, a ceaseless rain of bliss was showering, heaven’s gates were open—and we were squandering ourselves in the marketplace.

I am not saying to run away from the marketplace. I am saying: in twenty-four hours, take out two hours for yourself. Lose the rest in the marketplace—no harm. In the end you will see: the time you spent sitting is what you saved; the rest is gone.

And once the inner resonance becomes audible to you—call it Om, or whatever you like—once you hear that inner sound, then whether you are in the marketplace or at a shop or anywhere, it makes no difference. The veena within goes on playing. It has always been playing. Only you have not cultivated the habit of listening. You have not developed the capacity. You have not found the rhythm with it.

So it is good that your condition has become like Trishanku: no path backward—give thanks to God! No way forward—great good fortune! Now sit down. Sit right where you are. Do not look back, nor forward. Close your eyes. There is nowhere to go. Come to yourself.

What you seek is hidden within you. Where you are going is where it already resides. In the end it is discovered that what we were searching for was concealed in the seeker himself. That is why it took so long—we could not find it.

The last question:
I have not known love; this has been a thorn in my life. Perhaps that is what gave me momentum toward meditation. Through meditation, restlessness and hostility are dissolving. Devotion and surrender have remained empty words for me. Yet in meditation—and especially during discourses—many times a deep feeling arises that whatever could be attained in this life has already been attained.

There is nothing unfortunate in what you have gone through. Obstacles can become steps; and steps can become obstacles. Good fortune and misfortune are in your hands. Life is a neutral opportunity. If a big rock lies on the road, you can sit stuck there: “How to go on? A rock has come.” Or you can climb upon it—and then you will find the rock has increased your height, expanded your view. You can see the road farther than without the rock. Then the rock became a step.

You say, “I did not know love; this has been the thorn of my life.” Don’t regard it as a thorn now. Love did not happen—surely that is why you moved toward meditation. Turn it into good fortune. Now drop talking about love. One who has known meditation—love will come to him on its own, like a shadow.

There are only two alternatives to reach the Divine, two paths: one is love, one is meditation. What is attained is one and the same. Some move toward That by love. That path has conveniences and dangers. The convenience is that love is very natural, spontaneous. The danger is precisely that: it is so natural that one may get entangled; awareness is lost; unconsciousness happens.

Therefore most do not reach the Divine through love; they build small prisons out of love and are locked within them. For very few does love become liberation; for most it becomes bondage, attachment. Until love becomes dispassion, one does not reach the Divine.

So love’s convenience is that it is natural; its danger is that it seems to need no awareness—you can get entangled.

For those in whose lives love has not been possible—and for many it has not—don’t sit worshiping the thorn. If love was not possible, drop the worry. Meditation is possible. Meditation too has dangers and conveniences. The “danger” is that it requires labor, effort, practice, resolve. If you slacken even a little, meditation will not be mastered. If you are even a little lazy, it will not settle. If you think you’ll do it lukewarmly, it won’t happen. You must burn—boil at a hundred degrees. That is the difficulty. But the advantage is: even a little meditation ripens, and awareness ripens with it—because effort, practice, resolve are involved.

Therefore, once meditation is mastered, it never becomes a prison. It is hard to master; love settles easily but soon forges chains. Meditation settles with difficulty; but once it settles, it always leads toward liberation, toward the sky of freedom.

There are two kinds of people in the world. One kind: if love didn’t settle, they turned to meditation, and the energy that would have gone into love was gathered into meditation. Or, if meditation didn’t settle, they dedicated all that energy to love. Be either a devotee or a meditator.

The second kind: love didn’t happen, yet they did not turn toward meditation—they sit lamenting that love did not happen. And of the same kind are others: meditation didn’t happen—and they sit, sad in temples and ashrams, lamenting that meditation didn’t happen. They do not turn toward love.

I tell you: all methods are for you; you are not for any method. If it settles through love, use love. If through meditation, use meditation. The means have no intrinsic value. Whether you came to me by bullock cart, on foot, by train, or by airplane—once you’ve arrived, the matter is finished. How you came—what is the use of that? You arrived—the story is over.

Keep your attention on arriving. Whether by love or by meditation, by devotion or by knowledge, don’t get overly entangled in this. Do not mistake the means for the end. Use the means. Climb by the ladder and then forget it. Step out of the boat and forget the boat.

Remember only this much: all religions are for you. All methods and techniques are for you. You yourself are the destination. You are where one has to arrive. There is nothing above you.

“Above all is the truth of man; above that, nothing.” These are the words of Chandidas. This does not mean there is no God. It means that if a human being knows his own truth, he knows God.

“Above all is the truth of man; above that, nothing.”

You are supreme—because in your innermost core the Divine is hidden. You are a seed now; one day you will become a flower. Neither fertilizer, nor soil, nor sunlight has any ultimate worth in themselves—their only worth is that what is hidden within you may be brought to bloom.

Therefore do not be stubborn about the means. Arrive—by whatever way. God will not ask, “By which path did you come? How did you come?” You came—welcome!

That’s all for today.