Es Dhammo Sanantano #29

Kabir has said: Keep the critic near; build him a hut in your courtyard.
Whoever has taken a deep plunge into the ocean of life has, along with pearls, found this pearl too.

Buddha’s first sutra for today:
“If you find one who points out your faults like a revealer of treasures, keep the company of such an eloquent, discerning man; for by such company there is only welfare, never ill.”

Ordinarily we seek the company of those who praise us. Praise feeds the ego. Someone says we are beautiful; someone says we are virtuous; someone says we are superior—there is pleasure in it. But pleasure is costly. Because if we accept that we are what we are not, all doors to becoming what we can be will close.

And who actually becomes beautiful? One can only be on the path of becoming. This path has no final destination. One keeps becoming more and more beautiful, yet none has ever become Beauty itself. One keeps becoming nobler and nobler, yet none has ever become the Ultimate Noble. It is a journey.

But the one who praises creates the illusion that the destination has been reached. Beware of the praiser. Do not trust him; to trust him is to go astray. The mind will entice you—accept it! Who would refuse greatness so cheap, beauty so cheap, truth for free? Who will be so foolish as to say no when it is offered unasked?

Have you noticed? When someone begins to praise you, even if you wish to refuse, you cannot. Still, be alert: whenever anyone praises you, you will also feel within a subtle sense of guilt. You have accepted what you are not. You have desired fame cheaply. You have asked for eulogy without paying any price.

That is why flattery is so effective in the world; no one can refuse it. Tell the ugliest man he is handsome—he will not deny it. Tell the worst man he is a saint—he will not deny it.

But whoever calls you a saint and tells you that you are good has his own ends. He wants something from you. Do not think this praise is free. For the moment it may appear so; soon you will discover its price must be paid.

The outer price is little: he may borrow money, angle for a position, ask for a job, or press you for false testimony in a court—these are small matters. The terrible price you pay is this: if you come to believe him, you will wander forever. You will have begun to trust a wealth you do not possess. Why would you then search?

It is like a beggar believing he is an emperor; like a sick man believing he is healthy. It is the closing of the eyes. It is self-destruction. A very costly bargain.

Be alert to the praiser. From him, no good can come—only harm.

Understand a little: praise feels like praise only when you are told you are what you are not. If he merely states the fact of what you are, there is no praise in it; it is only a statement of fact—you will not be pleased. Call the one-eyed man one-eyed—he will not be pleased; it is simply the fact. Tell him: “How lovely your eyes are!”—then it is praise.

Praise is always a lie. Only when it is a lie do you feel delighted by it. If it were true, what would be “praise” in it? If you tell a rose it is delicate—what praise is that? But if you tell the thorn: “You are delicate,” the thorn will be pleased.

You are pleased by praise only when something is said that you have always wanted to be but are not. The pleasure in praise comes from falsehood. And from that praise your pride, vanity, your ego grows.

Ego is the sum total, the extract, of all the lies of your life. To erect the ego one must gather thousands of lies. Ego is the mansion built of these lies—brick upon brick of untruth.

Praise is like air to a balloon; it inflates you. But remember: the more the balloon inflates, the closer it comes to bursting. The larger it grows, the nearer death approaches. In the very joy of swelling, the grave draws near; life recedes; death comes close.

The ego is like a balloon: the more it swells, the weaker it becomes, the more liable to rupture any moment.

All the enlightened ones have said: close your ears to praise—it will not help you. Do not close your ears to blame; do not close your ears to criticism—only benefit can come from it, no harm at all.

Why benefit? Because if the critic lies, no matter; who will believe his lie? Even when criticism is true, the mind resists believing it.

If a critic calls a truthful man false, the truthful man smiles and passes on. There is no weight in it, no reason even to think about it for two moments, much less to be angry.

Remember, if you call someone a liar and he becomes angry, know that you have touched a knot, a wound; you have laid your hand upon a truth. If he remains unaffected, be sure that you have spoken something untrue. Call a thief a thief—he is disturbed. Call a non-thief a thief—why should he be disturbed? There is no wound within for you to hurt. Call the egoless egotistical—no thorn pricks him; it pricks only the egotist.

So if the critic’s charge is false, it is in vain. If it is true, it is of great use: it points out a deficiency, an obscure corner within you; it brings to light some hidden, repressed feeling. What you had kept behind your back is placed before your eyes. Flaws brought before the eyes can be erased; flaws kept behind the back multiply and bloom—they do not vanish.

Hence the critic cannot harm—he can only benefit. Kabir is right: keep the critic close, seat him near; roof him in your courtyard. Tell him: Do not go elsewhere; stay close, so that I can hide nothing; keep exposing me, so that no mistake slips by, so that you keep my life naked, so that I cannot cover myself. For wherever wounds are covered they become ulcers; left open to the air, to the sunlight—they heal. And when wounds are open, you work to heal them; you seek medicine, a Sadguru, a physician.

Buddha is right: “Like one who points to treasures...”

Understand the critic as one who shows where treasure lies. Your treasures are buried beneath your mistakes. Until you go beyond your errors, you cannot find the treasure.

Think this way: you are digging; beneath the layer of soil and rock lies a mine of diamonds and jewels—remove the overburden and the mine is yours.

You seek a water-source; you dig a well—twenty feet, thirty, forty, fifty; you take out the dirt and rubble, and a clear spring breaks forth. The spades that remove the dirt are not enemies—they are friends. The tools that remove your inner rubbish are not foes—they are friends.

The ordinary man is afraid of criticism. What is the fear? Only this: what you are hiding will be exposed. You barely manage to keep it concealed; he unveils it. Criticism seems an enemy because it undoes what you are doing.

But look closely and you will see: what you are doing is your real enmity to yourself. The faults you hide will never be transcended. The diseases you never tell the physician about, the ailments you never place before an X-ray, those very diseases will bury you.

Do not hide disease. Diagnosis is needed. The disease must be made manifest. The medicine must be found. One must be free of disease, not hide it.

So the enemy is you, who hide your faults; not the critic. The critic seems an enemy because he exposes your faults. But know this: by hiding your faults you were doing yourself harm; the critic is undoing that harm. He is your friend; you were the enemy.

Often we do not recognize who is friend and who is foe. We do not even know whether we are our own friend or enemy. There the first mistake happens. You have fashioned a self-image that is false—a statue sculpted by those who praised you.

As a child your mother said, “You are very beautiful.” Her ego is invested in that. Every mother calls her son beautiful; the son’s beauty proves the mother’s beauty. If the son is ugly the mother feels ugly. No mother can call her son ugly; no son can call his mother ugly. It is a mutual conspiracy. For if the son calls the mother ugly, how can he be handsome? If the source is ugly, how can I be beautiful?

Thus every son calls his mother beautiful; every mother calls her son a jewel, a diamond. There is a reason: the son is the fruit—if the fruit is bitter, the tree must have been neem; if the fruit is poisonous, the very source was poison.

The mother’s ego is staked in the son; the father’s ego too. Listen to parents and you would think the earth overflows with prodigies. Each thinks he has given birth to a diamond. Where do these diamonds disappear? Their diamonds beget more diamonds—and yet we can find no trace of diamonds. Life fills up with refuse.

Remember, your mother bestowed on you the delusion of beauty; your father bestowed the delusion of intelligence. The father keeps pushing: come first in the exam. It is his ego at stake. It is not merely the child being tested; the parents are examined too. If you return home having failed, the parents are more distressed than you. You have fractured their statue.

When you misbehave, they are not hurt because you did wrong; their pain is egoic. If your wrongdoing can remain hidden, no problem. Parents too try to hide it. If it remains concealed, all is well. If it is exposed, they are wounded—“My son!”

Mulla Nasruddin’s boy hurls obscene abuses, with relish—he learned from his father, who is a master of invective; the son surpassed him. I often told Nasruddin: this boy will land you in trouble. When school time came, I asked: “What will you do?” He said, “I have found a device.” On the boy’s collar he wrote: “This boy’s opinions are his own; the family takes no responsibility.”

Will you be saved by such tricks? The boy’s abuses will prove the father’s; the boy’s virtue will prove the father’s. What the father failed to do himself, he wants the son to do. Parents carry vast expectations—their unfulfilled ambitions they load on their children.

This is how your first ego is given. Then you go on gathering. Wherever praise is found, whoever slaps your back, you collect it. Whoever criticizes becomes an enemy.

Slowly, on the strength of these untruths, you craft a statue of yourself. It is fundamentally wrong. When someone criticizes you, the criticism collides with this statue; the statue cracks—and you are disturbed.

But the sages say: bear the disturbance; endure the pain; pass through the unrest. It is useful. Let this statue fall; let it shatter—so that fact may be seen clearly.

Remember: only he reaches Truth who first reaches fact. If you deny facts about yourself, you will never reach the Ultimate Truth.

“If you find one who points out your faults like a revealer of treasures, keep the company of such an eloquent, discerning man.”

Buddha says “discerning man” with a smile, a deep irony. He calls him a “great man,” fit for satsang. He calls him “brilliant”—ironically—because he can see everyone’s faults except his own! So brilliant! His eyes hunt down the world’s errors, only not his own. Use his talent. He cannot use it for himself—use it for yourself.

Had he searched his own faults with such vigor, his life would be radiant; his darkness would have dispersed; blossoms would have opened in his being. But he has not used his talent for himself. You do not miss—use it fully.

I have heard: In China there was a great painter. Whenever he finished a painting, before showing anyone, he would call his harshest critic. This critic was no ordinary critic; he could find faults. The painter thanked him, then set to correcting. Sometimes it took years. Until the critic was satisfied, the painting never left the studio.

Even today his paintings are magnificent—so flawless that finding fault is difficult. He never missed the chance. Slowly the critic thought: I am wasting my life; by criticizing this man’s paintings, what am I gaining? With the same effort I could have become a painter. But by then it was late.

Use the talent. The critic has a penetrating faculty: to see faults. He is foolish not to use it on himself. You do not be foolish.

“Like one who points to treasures...”

Honor him. He points to treasure; for wherever he reveals a lie in you, underneath that lie your truth lies hidden. If you drop the lie, the truth will be unveiled. The lie presses upon the spring of truth like a rock. If he shows you your violence, your anger, your theft and dishonesty—right beneath them lies their opposite.

Where you have hidden theft, beneath it lies your non-stealing. Where you have concealed lust, beneath that very rock lies the possibility of Brahmacharya. Where your anger is, beneath it flow the springs of compassion.

Buddha is right: “Like one who points to treasures...”

Removing the rock is your work; pointing is his. But half the work is done: diagnosis has happened; the disease is identified. Now to find the medicine is not so great a matter; even a simple chemist can help. The specialist is needed for diagnosis; the physician is needed for diagnosis. Once the disease is caught rightly, it is already half solved.

If it is not caught rightly, solution is difficult. You may go on treating—it will breed new diseases. The old disease will stay intact; a thousand new ones will sprout.

This is how your life is tangled. You do not allow diagnosis. The sick man himself does not allow his disease to be diagnosed. And free physicians abound—use the brilliance of those “brilliant men.” Lest, before you use them, they begin to use their brilliance on themselves and forget you. No—roof them in your courtyard; seat them close.

“For by such company there is only welfare, never ill.”

And remember: never presume you are complete—that is delusion. No one is ever complete. Life is ceaseless movement, a journey. The journey itself is the destination. So remember: however much you have become, much remains to be.

Why should your rhythm remain veiled behind the curtain of the instrument?
If you are a bud, become a flower; if a flower, become a garden.

If someone criticizes you, challenges you, plucks at your strings, do not think him an enemy; do not think he has disturbed your sleep. He has awakened something within you. He is unwise, no doubt, a little mad—by the same effort he could have awakened his own strings; by the same effort his own veena could have danced.

But you at least make use. By the Lord’s grace, a critic has come your way—do not let this prasad pass unused. Receive the whole benediction of it.

Remember: if you wrap yourself in praise, you will become like a hothouse plant—no sun, no wind, no storms roaring upon your chest, no thunder, no lightning—safe in flatteries, eulogies, certificates, beneath the umbrellas of the “dear ones.”

You will remain weak. A small jolt will bring your whole edifice down. Your boat will not be real—it will be paper. A small ripple and you will sink; for you to drown, even midstream is not needed; you will drown in a handful of water. No great oceans are required. Your own boat will drown you; no rivers needed.

Do not protect yourself with so much safety; it will prove disastrous. Open yourself to the open of life—there are storms too; it is difficult, yes. The sun is fierce; sometimes there is pain. The paths are thorny, not royal roads—wild footpaths of the forest. Sometimes clouds thunder; sometimes cold bites; sometimes heat scorches; sometimes you feel uprooted. Storms come that loosen your roots; now die or live—such moments arrive.

Yet in just this, personality is born. In these blows, what is hidden within grows strong. In this struggle, the rhythm of the soul begins to rise.

Why should your rhythm remain veiled behind the curtain of the instrument?
If you are a bud, become a flower; if a flower, become a garden.

Do not become addicted to securities. Do not become addicted to flattery. Be alert.

You are that carefully combed lock of hair that fears the wind;
I am that disheveled curl that is set in order by the wind.

If you go out after grooming yourself so finely, you will fear the breeze. How will you walk?

You are that carefully combed lock that fears the wind;
I am that disheveled curl that the winds themselves arranged.

Life will be very different then. That is why in overly comfortable families, resolute souls are rarely born. Where from childhood there has been protection on all sides, no challenge, talent does not flower. There the rhythm stays locked in the veena; no one plucks the strings. Slowly a fear sets in—that someone might pluck them.

Let tempests arrange you. Let storms set your order. When struggle itself becomes your peace, the value of your peace will be inexpressible.

There is a kind of peace one can secure by sitting in a corner of the house; that peace is a corpse’s peace, of the cremation ground. There will be no life in it, no heartbeat. Let life’s anarchy give birth to an inner discipline. Let life give you discipline. Bitter-sweet experiences, joy and sorrow, heat and shade, tempests and hurricanes—let them strengthen your boat. Do not rush to the shore in fear.

In the inner world, a critic raises storms. Someone abuses you—suddenly a gale surrounds you. What do you do? When someone abuses you, when someone criticizes you—what do you do?

Gurdjieff used to say: When my father was dying he told me, “I have nothing to give, but I have a treasure my father gave me; from it I reaped precious harvests in life. I give you the same key. You are only nine—you will not understand; but remember it. Someday it will serve you. When someone abuses you, when someone criticizes you, think for twenty-four hours—then reply.”

Gurdjieff said: A dying father’s words are hard to forget—as if a seal had been pressed upon the heart, as if letters were branded in fire. He had said: when you become intelligent—but I became intelligent that very day. From that day on, whenever someone insulted me, I would say, “I will answer after twenty-four hours. I have given my father my word.” The mind wanted to respond immediately—but I had to keep the vow: after twenty-four hours.

And after twenty-four hours, a reply was never needed. Thinking for one full day, I usually found that the other had spoken truth.

Look closely: in the criticisms people have hurled at you, how much truth was there? Sit in solitude and contemplate. You were so agitated because truth had been touched.

A politician came to Mulla Nasruddin: “Stop spreading false rumors about me; otherwise I will take you to court.” Nasruddin said, “Thank God I am speaking lies. If I started speaking the truth, you would be in more trouble.” They say the politician never returned; another trouble indeed.

Truth would be more troublesome. Good that enemies speak falsehoods. Reflect. Gurdjieff’s whole life changed, a revolution. A small key—yet all the scriptures fit into it.

Twenty-four hours is a long time. After thinking that long, how will you deny it? If someone says, “You are dishonest,”—how will you deny it? For twenty-four hours the statement returns; at some moment you will see: it is true—I am dishonest. Then go and thank him.

If you prepare a reply at once, you are agitated—someone has touched a wound, the pain is fresh, there is no time to reflect; whatever you do will be a blind reaction. Think, contemplate, be silent—then either you will find what he said is true, or you will find it is false. There is no third alternative. If true, go and offer thanks. If false, there is no need to be upset; if false, laugh. If true, go and express gratitude. There is no place for anger, no reason for counterattack, no basis for reaction.

Remember: if you want your inner lamp to blaze, if you want your life’s flower to bloom, stop keeping so far from thorns. Flowers bloom among thorns. Light sparkles in darkness. When the sculptor’s chisel strikes stone, a statue is born. If the stone says, “No, I will not endure the chisel; leave me as I am,” it will remain a crude stone. A little wounding is necessary.

I am a lover of the garden; not only flowers are dear to me—
I am making do with thorns as well.

If you truly love flowers, you will learn to love thorns too. Not merely “make do” with them—that very phrase holds resistance. Not “make do,” but love them equally. If you do not love thorns, you will, sooner or later, buy plastic flowers—because they have no thorns. Paper flowers—because they have no thorns. If you long for a real rose, you must be ready for thorns.

Thorns are as essential to life as flowers. Darkness as essential as light. Night as necessary as day. Death as necessary as birth. Being buffeted between friends and enemies, your inner consciousness is born.

If you insist on clinging to only one, you are like a man who insists on walking with one leg, like a bird who insists on flying with one wing, like a sailor who insists on rowing with one oar.

Try rowing with one oar. If you have not, go to the river—you will gain a great insight. The boat will only move in circles. This is your life: it goes nowhere, it does nothing—only circles, like an ox tied to a mill. Two oars are needed. Between two oars the boat shoots like an arrow.

Remember: in the company of critics, opponents, detractors, there is only welfare, never ill.

Because criticism can never feed your ego. It can be poison—indeed it is—the poison that kills ego; it makes you humble, bends you, makes you wiser—but it cannot inflate the ego. Therefore it is always salutary. Ego alone is the one misfortune. Praise is dangerous: it makes you more stiff. Criticism has no danger.

And how mad we are: we go on seeking praisers! We search lifelong for someone to decorate our statue, to perfume us with eulogies; a mirror in which, peering, we may find ourselves beautiful. Whether we are beautiful or not, we depend on the mirror; if it says “beautiful,” all is well.

We peer into others’ eyes for our dignity and glory. Only he is glorious who looks within.

Iqbal is not hopeless of his barren plot—
Moisten it a little, O cupbearer, and this soil is immensely fertile.

I am not hopeless about my barren field of life.
Moisten it a little, O cupbearer—and flowers can bloom from this earth.

Moisten it a little! The more rigid you are, the more barren you become. The more moist you are, the more creative power arises within. The more humble you are, the more your field is watered; as you are soaked, possibilities burst forth. The critic can moisten you.

The praiser stiffens you. Flee the praiser. Turn your back upon him. At best, if you are very alert, you may escape unharmed; but you will gain nothing. A slight unconsciousness—and the pit is ready. Praise is a snare. If you are alert, you slip by; no harm, no gain. From criticism, harm is not possible.

“Do not keep the company of bad friends, nor of the ignoble. Keep the company of welfare-friends and of the excellent.”

This must be understood. You might feel a contradiction: first he said, keep the critic close; now he says, avoid bad friends.

In truth, the one who criticizes you, you call “bad.” Buddha does not. He is not bad for you—though he may be bad for himself. Toward you his actions brim with good. It is not that he wishes your good, but what he does can be used by you. The stones he hurls can become flowers by the time they reach you. It depends on you.

“Do not keep bad friends.”

Then who is bad? Not the critic—he seems bad, but is not. Distinguish between “seems” and “is.” The surgeon seems “bad” when he cuts; he is not. The critic is like a surgeon: he cuts; it hurts. Perhaps his intention is to hurt—no matter. You can benefit. The door he opened to harm can become the door to your treasure. It is in your hands. The critic is in your hands.

Who then is a bad friend? One who appears a friend but is not—he who praises you. Praise serves his profit. He fans your balloon, and you rejoice, thinking festive times have arrived.

He is bringing your death closer. He will leave you where return is difficult. He will make your ego so huge that life becomes impossible. Ego will sit upon your chest for life.

He is not concerned with you; he seeks his own gains through praise. Calling you great, he wants to use you—turn you into a means, a ladder, a shoulder to climb upon.

A politician comes to your door, hands folded: “I am the dust of your feet.” You are delighted, honored. He is looking for votes. He does not care about your feet. Tomorrow, once in office, you will be shoved from his door; he will not even recognize you. On such trust you voted for him.

They say that when Roosevelt ran for President, he wrote personal letters to a hundred thousand people—great and small. A porter at a station received one: fifteen years earlier Roosevelt had alighted there and that porter had carried his luggage. In the letter Roosevelt remembered the man’s name, even that his wife had been ill then—“How is she now?” The porter went mad with joy—politics ceased to matter; party ceased to matter. With such care, millions worked for him personally. Roosevelt noted everything: how many children, which class the child was in—things of no direct relevance. But such attention inflates a small man; he feels, “I am not small—Roosevelt remembers me.”

When someone praises you, be a little cautious—his hands are already in your pocket. He will sell you in the marketplace. Escape his clutches quickly. A bad friend is one who wants to use you as a means.

Friendship makes you an end, never a means. Friendship and love exist only where you become an end for each other—no exploitation, no profit. Your joy is his joy; your sorrow his sorrow. No relation of gain—only love, unconditional. Where conditions exist, there is no friendship—only trickery and politics.

“Do not keep bad friends.”

Beware of such friends.

“Nor keep company with the ignoble.”

The ignoble is one whose movement is downward. His companionship is not right. You are not yet strong enough to be with one going downward and not go down yourself. As yet you fall into step with anyone; you are weak; within you lurk all the downward tendencies.

You were going to a temple; on the way a friend meets you and speaks of the brothel—very likely you will postpone the temple: “It will remain tomorrow; what is the hurry?” Even if you still go to the temple, you will not arrive—the brothel will visit you there. Hands folded before God, your presence will be absent.

Your tendency to go downward is strong; downward is always easy—like descending a mountain; upward is hard—like climbing. Climbing requires effort; descending—the slope carries you; nothing to do.

Do not extend a hand of friendship towards one who goes down. It is hard enough to pull yourself up; to pull another as well is harder. Likely the one going down will drag you with him. There is a crowd going downward; its gravity is great—do not forget.

Once it happened I sat by a river. A man began to drown. I ran to help, but another gentleman seated nearer jumped in first. I thought the matter ended and stood still—then I saw the gentleman also drowning. I had to save him first and asked, “Why did you jump?” He said, “Seeing him drown I forgot I cannot swim.”

Be careful: do you yet know how to go upward? Do not, out of pity, jump in. Lest the drowning drown you too. Walk with much caution.

“Do not keep bad friends, nor the ignoble. Keep the company of welfare-friends and of the excellent.”

“Kalyan Mitra”—Buddha’s own sweet phrase: a welfare-friend. A true friend is a welfare-friend: one whose heart longs for your welfare; whose prayers are filled with that longing; who has no other interest in you; who wants to see you happy, singing; who becomes infinitely happier on seeing your joy; who delights in your welfare; who has no wish to use you as a means.

Seeking a welfare-friend is almost seeking a Guru. Only one who has attained his own welfare can long for yours; only one who has reached the heights can wish to draw you up. One who has made his home on the peaks can lead you out of your valleys of darkness; one who has known light, who has lived even a moment in Paramatma, who has tasted the Divine—only then does the shower of welfare begin.

“Kalyan Mitra” is Buddha’s word for Guru. Buddha was wary of the word “Guru.” He said it had become corrupted; under its name much exploitation had occurred. Of a hundred so-called gurus, perhaps one is truly a Guru; ninety-nine are counterfeit appearances. So he chose a new word: Kalyan Mitra. He told his disciples: I am your welfare-friend. He said: after all my understanding, when I return I will be called Maitreya—only “Friend.” As if to cut the word “Guru” altogether. And he was right—the function of the Guru is precisely to become your welfare-friend.

Friend is a loving word; with Kalyan attached, Buddha magnified it—as if iron touched by the philosopher’s stone turned to gold.

“Do not keep bad friends, nor the ignoble. Keep the company of welfare-friends and of the excellent.”

If a welfare-friend is not found, keep the company of the excellent. “Excellent” means one who has gone a little ahead of you; who is on the path—more noble, more refined than you. An uttam purush—a saint—one who is a few steps ahead. He can at least draw you those few steps. Are four steps so little? With four steps taken, you will see others more excellent ahead.

By living with the excellent you will learn to recognize the welfare-friend. By rejoicing in their company your eyes will lift toward the summit. Those who move upward look upward; those who move downward, downward. Your gaze turns where you intend to go.

“Keep the company of the excellent and of welfare-friends.”

Great results come if the company of the excellent is found. Understand a basic law: you were not born alone; you were born in society. Your very first breath was in society. Alone, a human child cannot survive. Without mother, father, family—no hope. Among loving ones you took your first breath.

For the great birth as well—the new birth—you need a family in which you will take another breath: call it the breath of Paramatma, call it the breath of Nirvana. For the breath of the body you needed others’ love; alone you would not have survived. Man is born in love. Without love, a man is not yet born.

The company of the excellent means: a new family.

This is what we are attempting here. People ask me: why the ochre robe? I say: a symbol of family—so you can be recognized as related to me, of my family. To make a family so that newcomers may find the company of the excellent; so they need not search for the new birth. When many travel together, pilgrimage becomes easy.

That is why people go to holy places in groups; alone it is hard; together it is simple.

Gone are the days when I was alone in the assembly;
Here now are others who share my secrets.

As soon as you find the company of the excellent, those days are gone—alone, no more. Now there are companions to share your secret, your quest.

Great trust arises when you see others on the same journey. Alone, seeing the long road, fear arises: will I reach? Seeing the distance to the peaks, you doubt your small feet. But there is a long line—someone ahead of you, someone ahead of him, and ahead of him—an unbroken procession. Then even a thousand-mile journey becomes easy, for it is clear: if others have arrived, we too can arrive.

What is possible for one becomes possible for another. If Paramatma has been found by even one, millions of hearts awaken with trust: it is possible. If Samadhi has been attained by one, thousands of hearts begin to beat with hope—there is no cause for despair.

Seek welfare-friends, true Gurus, who stand as companions in transforming the inner state of your life. You change—but in their presence arises trust.

Like a mother sitting nearby, the small child tries to walk without fear; he keeps glancing back—mother is there, no worry. Even if he falls, he will be picked up—hands are stretched nearby, a canopy of love surrounds him. He dares to go beyond the courtyard, glancing back stealthily to see if mother is there. If she moves away, he stops and returns; beyond the courtyard is dangerous.

Notice: when a child falls, he first looks around—if the mother is near, he cries; if not, he does not. Strange—so small, yet he knows the mathematics of the heart: for whom to cry? Who will console? Who will pat the head? If no one is there, even tears are futile; he gets up and dusts his clothes.

A child does not weep from pain; he weeps from the assurance of love. Pain alone is not enough to bring tears; if there is no prospect of sympathy, what is the point?

As you travel the inner sky, you again become a small child; you need someone by whose courage you can move, someone who can say now and then—

“The lamp said only this and raised the moths’ courage:
It is the work of those with heart and mettle to burn.”

Just that much. Someone pats your back: “Well done!” Someone says: “I recognize it—there is strength in your step; you will arrive.” Someone says: “We passed through the same nights; they passed—yours will pass.”

A faith is born, a unique strength. Power-springs open from an unknown source.

They are the rich who build the order of the world;
I am the fakir who changes the mood of the world.

Know the difference between leader and Guru: the leader labors to change outer conditions; the Sadguru changes your inner condition—the mood within, not the system without.

A welfare-friend helps transform your inner mood. This is possible only if he is above you—an uttam purush—if he has gone ahead. One who has not gone ahead cannot lead you on; even if he speaks of the beyond, he will pull you below.

Be alert, for many will speak of leading you beyond. There is no other test; walk with them, but keep checking: Are you becoming more tranquil than before? More silent than before? Is a ray of celebration entering your life? Does the darkness feel a shade less than before? Is the flame steadier than before? Is love growing? Is there a gentle humming within? Can you sing, can you dance? If celebration is increasing, you are moving forward.

If gloom is growing, if poverty of spirit is settling in, if life feels more and more like a dark night—run away.

I say this because I see many entangled there. In the name of religion, gloom is spread. If Paramatma is anything, He is celebration. Look around—in flowers, trees, skies—if Paramatma is anything, He is celebration, continuous celebration, a great festival that never pauses, a dance that never ends; waterfalls flow, flowers bloom. Look carefully—do you find any gloom in existence? Any indifference? Any corner in this vastness that harmonizes with your so-called renunciates and ascetics?

Somewhere there is a mistake. What they take as ascent is not ascent; they become stones and sink. They grow more rigid; sensitivity does not increase—it dies. Aesthetic sense does not blossom—it withers. Love does not expand—it shrivels. Shriveled love, dead sensitivity, exhausted breaths, a dull stoniness!

Those you think are gurus are not gurus; they are leading you into darker valleys. They will leave you in the grave, not at the temple.

“He who drinks the nectar of Dharma sleeps happily with a cheerful heart.”

This is the criterion.

“He who drinks the nectar of Dharma sleeps happily with a cheerful heart.”

Dharma is rasa—nectar. Raso vai sah—the Upanishads: the Divine is rasa.

Body drenched, mind drenched, every particle, every blade drenched;
Threshold and doorway, courtyard and garden—three worlds drenched.

Rasa is Paramatma—soaking, drowning, every hair thrilled.

Buddha is right: “He who drinks the nectar of Dharma...”

Near such a one you will find delight, a cheerful heart. You will hear a humming as you come close. You will glimpse an inner dance of energies. Not darkness in his aura, but the expanse of sky, the rays of the sun. Know by this. Where rasa is poured, where the tavern of nectar is open—there.

Where nectar is not shared, where rasa is absent, there some fraud is afoot in the name of religion—a congregation of the dead, defeated, and tired. “Losers take the Lord’s name,” they say. Beaten by life, unable to arrive, staggering, they drape themselves in God’s name and sit in gloom.

Paramatma is not gloomy. Look—He is no ascetic. He is a great enjoyer—else the stream of creation would have paused. Buddha does not speak of God; he need not. For him, Dharma-rasa is symbol enough for the Divine.

“He who drinks the nectar of Dharma sleeps happily with a cheerful heart.”

His slumber is dreamless; his wakefulness is thoughtless; everywhere, rasa.

Body drenched, mind drenched, every particle, every blade drenched;
Threshold and doorway, courtyard and garden—three worlds drenched.

“All the wise delight in the Dharma taught by the noble.”

Understand “arya.” It does not mean a race; it means the noble—the upward-moving energy.

“The wise forever delight in the Dharma taught by the noble.”

The intelligent join the company of those who ascend—the arya. They dwell among the excellent.

And whatever takes you higher takes you inward; whatever takes you inward takes you higher. Height and depth are two names for one reality.

Understand this: relative to worldly depth, the height of religion is opposite; but the height of religion is synonymous with the depth of the self. The deeper you go within, the higher you rise above the world. The deeper you go into the world, the further you go from yourself.

To go into the world is to go outside yourself. To go into Paramatma is to go within yourself. The day you reach your inmost core, you are enthroned upon Kailash. The world moves on all around, but your flame is unmoving; you have reached the inner shrine where no wave arrives.

I carry an unwavering flame of life—
What can this dark storm do to me?

When your flame is steady, no storm shakes you. Now you say: storms shake me—that is an excuse. The storm does not shake; you shake. When you are unshakable, no storm can shake you.

Notice: a tiny lamp—one gust and it is out. But when a forest fire rages, the same wind that snuffs small lamps fans the great blaze. Transformation! The small lamp says, “The wind extinguished me”; the great fire says, “The wind nourished me.” Whom will you believe?

You are snuffed by a small storm because the flame of consciousness is small. Let the fire of consciousness spread—then these very winds will not destroy you; they will feed you.

I carry an unwavering flame of life—
What can this dark storm do to me?

“Water-benders turn the stream; fletchers straighten the arrow; carpenters shape the wood; and the wise shape themselves.”

All other arts are outer. The sculptor carves stone, the painter paints pictures, the singer shapes song. Buddha says: the true knower shapes himself. Not the statue—himself. Not the painting—himself. Not the song—himself. He refines his own beauty. The greatest creator is he who gives birth to himself anew.

Life is one thing; knowledge another.
Life is the warmth of the heart; knowledge the heat of the head.
In knowledge there is wealth, power, delight—
One difficulty remains: you never find your own trace.

Knowledge knows the outer—science. Life is within. Knowledge touches the head; it does not drown you. By knowledge you know everything—except yourself. What use is such knowing, where within remains dark and only outside is lit? What gain, if you know all and the knower remains unknown?

In knowledge there is wealth, power, pleasures—
Only one difficulty: your own spoor is never found.

Buddha says: if you do not find yourself, you are no “pundit”; you have wasted yourself in knowledge. This knowledge is worth two pennies.

He who knows himself alone is wise. And the moment you know yourself, you find you are not limited—you are limitless. Limitation belongs to ignorance; knowing has no boundary. Until you know, there are shores; when you know, there is only ocean.

The flower is limited; its fragrance is not. Fragrance is free—soaring into the sky, without bounds.

The flower remained tied to the branch—
The fragrance wandered the world.
The person is limited—but the persona,
The radiance of being, is timeless, boundless, ever-expanding.
The flower stayed bound to the twig—
The fragrance circled the world.

That fragrance is what the Upanishads call Atman. Buddha calls that same fragrance anatta—non-self. Do not be troubled by the word. The Upanishads call it Atman—your true being; Buddha calls it anatta because, he says, there is no “I”-sense there—how to call it “self”? Being is there, but no “I.” Buddha seems to take a step beyond the Upanishads. In “Atman” a faint ego seems to linger—“I.” Buddha says: let even that go; it will become a boundary. Where “I” is, “thou” will be.

Become fragrance, not flower.

Understanding is fragrance. Then neither body binds nor mind. Understanding is beyond both mind and body—pure witnessing.

Enough for today.