Es Dhammo Sanantano #31

There is an ancient tale: A jeweler was passing along a forest path.
He saw a potter walking with a great diamond tied to the neck of his donkey. He was stunned. He asked the potter, How much will you take for this stone?
The potter said, If I get eight annas, that’s plenty. But greed seized the jeweler. He said, Give it for four annas—it’s only a stone; what will you do with it?
But the potter too sat in stubbornness: not less than six annas. So the jeweler thought, All right, in a little while he will come back on his own and sell. He went a little ahead. The potter did not return, so the jeweler came back—but by then the chance was lost; someone else had bought it. He asked, For how much did you sell it?
The potter said, Sir, I got a whole rupee. I would have sold it for eight annas, would have sold for six annas—what a loss that would have been!
Imagine what shock struck the jeweler’s chest! He said, Fool! You’re a complete donkey. You sold a diamond worth lakhs for a rupee?
The potter said, Sir, if I were not a donkey, why would I tie a diamond worth lakhs on a donkey’s neck? But what shall I say about you? You knew it was a diamond worth lakhs, yet you were not ready to take it even for the price of a stone!
Whoever knows religion, if his life is not transformed, he is a donkey like that jeweler. Those who do not know are worthy of forgiveness; but what shall we say of those who do know?
There are only two possibilities: either they do not know at all, they only think they know—this seems the truer possibility. Or the second: they do know and still they go astray.
That second possibility does not seem possible. The jeweler perhaps tried to buy a diamond worth lakhs for four annas; but in the realm of religion it is impossible that you truly know and still move against it.
Socrates spoke a precious word: Knowledge is character. Whoever has known is changed. And if you have not changed even after knowing, understand that there is a flaw somewhere in the knowing.
People come to me often. They say, We do know, but life does not change. They have already assumed they know; now they are waiting for life to change.
I tell them: your first point is baseless; do not wait for the second. You have not yet laid the foundation, and you are trying to raise the house. First, think again: do you know? For it never happens that one who truly knows does not change. Change follows knowing of its own accord. It is a natural consequence; nothing has to be done for it.
If, besides knowing, something still has to be done for change, then understand that some lack remained in the knowing. The more the deficiency, the more will you have to do. That lack must be made up by effort. The deficiency of bodh must be completed by action; otherwise bodh is sufficient.
This is the entire message of Buddha: bodh is sufficient. See rightly—what Buddha calls samyak drishti, what Mahavira has called samyak darshan—seeing rightly is enough, more than enough. To see rightly is such a great fire that you will be burned in it as a little straw is burned. Not even ashes remain.
You keep surviving because the fire is not real. You shout fire, fire—but it burns nowhere. For you fire is only a word, scripture only—a truth not lived.
Religion for you is scriptural knowledge. You have not learned those sutras from the book of life. And whoever wanders in scriptures, wanders. Sin does not mislead as much as scriptures mislead. For in sin at least the hand gets burned. In sin there are wounds, there is pain. Scriptures are very safe: the hands are not burned, no wounds come; on the contrary, the ego gets jeweled ornaments. Without knowing, the taste of knowing is had. Crowns are tied on the head.
Buddha has said: He who knows by himself, only he is a knower; he is the Brahmin. He who knows by scripture is only a Brahmin-appearance—beware of him. And never create such a mischief in your own life that, not knowing life directly, you set out to search in scriptures. One who keeps diving in life, today or tomorrow will reach the shore. Those who dive into scriptures—their dreams know no end.
On the earth so many look religious, so many seem to know. What is lacking in knowing? Piles upon piles. People have heaped up a great hoard of knowledge. And look at their faces: their knowing has not served even them. The knowing that does not serve you by itself is no knowing at all.
Now let us try to descend into these sutras. Buddha learned them from life. If it had to be learned from scriptures, the scriptures would have come to the palace by themselves. If it had to be learned from pundits, the pundits always stood in lines with folded hands.
Buddha descended into life; he came down from the palace steps. He went where life is raw. He went where life is insecure. Where life burns in its full fire. He made a direct contact with life; then he knew something. That knowing then was no longer of the intellect. That knowing became of his totality.
And when knowing rises from each pore of you, when in each breath a fragrance of knowing comes, when you do not even have to try to remember what you know; when it becomes your very being—there is then no way to forget it, you cannot leave it somewhere and forget; it becomes your inner sound, it becomes your voice—only then, only then does the meaning of these sutras become altogether different. If you look at them with the eye of scripture, their meanings change. Try to understand. The first sutra is:
The satpurush renounce everything. They do not bargain for sensual enjoyments. Whether pleasure comes or pain, the wise do not display disturbance.
You can read this with the intellect—as it has been read for centuries—and then a tremendous harm has been done. Because if you read with intellect you will understand: The satpurush renounce everything—so the emphasis falls on renunciation. The statement is clear.
The satpurush renounce everything.
When you hear this, when you contemplate it—not from life, but from scripture; when the word itself becomes a little wave and births a thought within—you too will understand: Everything must be left; then you can become satpurush. There the mistake happened.
Buddha is saying: The satpurush let everything drop. Buddha is not saying: Whoever leaves everything becomes a satpurush. Buddha is saying: Become a satpurush—and all drops. Dropping is a consequence like a shadow. Dropping is not a deliberate leaving.
Let me repeat: The satpurush renounce everything.
Now the real question: do they become satpurush because they renounce, or do they renounce because they are satpurush?
If Buddha had meant to say that those who leave everything become satpurush, he would have said precisely that: Those who leave everything are satpurush. But Buddha says: The satpurush leave everything. To be a satpurush is something apart from leaving. Leaving comes behind, as the wheel-tracks behind a moving cart.
You walk and your shadow follows you. You do not have to bring it. You do not keep turning back to check—did the shadow get left behind or not? Whether you want it or not, it comes. The shadow is yours; where will it go?
Renunciation follows behind knowledge just as your shadow follows behind you—a consequence. Those who have read from scripture have taken it to be the cause. Renunciation is not the cause. Renounce and renounce—you will become dried up, all bones; but you will not become a satpurush. Lack of food may make you sallow, but the golden aura that rises from sat-bodh will not appear from that.
Not everything that is yellow is gold. Disease also makes a person yellow; call that brass. From bodh too there appears a golden aura in one’s life—but that is another matter. Before that aura the sun is abashed, shy.
So be aware: the emphasis of the awakened ones is not at all on renunciation; yet their every utterance mentions it. Those who have searched like pundits in the scriptures have lost themselves in a jungle. How easy it is to get lost in a jungle!
The satpurush renounce everything.
How quickly the mind rises with the thought: The sutra is found! Leave all, and you will be a satpurush. If only it were so easy! Then all beggars, who have nothing, would be satpurush. If you too leave everything, you too will have nothing—but that will not make you a satpurush.
I have heard: a beggar wandered into a shop that sold chests. Seeing many colored chests, he took great delight. He went round and round looking; the shopkeeper too began to display, as there were no other customers. He doubted whether this man would buy any chest—because for a chest one needs something to put inside! But with no customers, he indulged him, showed him all. After seeing everything, when the beggar turned to go, the shopkeeper said, Won’t you buy? The beggar asked, What are these used for? He had come in only for the colors and shapes. He asked again, What are they for? The shopkeeper said, This is too much! They are for keeping clothes—buy one to keep your clothing. The beggar said, If I put my clothes in it, what will I wear—may your shop be damned! I have nothing else—only these on my body.
But even in such a state you reach nowhere. Naked, you still reach nowhere. Your being is not affected by what you have. You are poor, you are poor; you are rich, you remain poor. If things are with you, you are the same; if things are removed, you are the same. Your being does not depend on things.
And your so-called renouncers teach the same as your so-called enjoyers. Both put their trust in things. The enjoyer says: Increase things and your soul will expand; your happiness, your bliss will increase. The renouncer’s language is the same. He says: Decrease things and your soul will expand.
If you must choose between the two, the enjoyer seems a little more logical. He says: Increase things and your soul will expand. The renouncer says: Decrease things and your soul will expand. If reason alone is the guide, the enjoyer would be right. But his logic does not satisfy you, because you have increased things and the soul did not expand. The renouncer’s reasoning seems right—because it is unfamiliar. You think: We increased and saw—nothing happened; now let us try by decreasing. So people embark on renunciation.
Neither by increasing things does the Atman expand, nor by decreasing things. The Atman has nothing to do with things. Do you become taller when your shadow lengthens? Or smaller when your shadow shrinks?
I have heard: One morning a fox came out of her den. The rising sun made a long shadow, stretching far. She thought, This is a big trouble today. For breakfast I shall need at least one camel. Such a big shadow! I am that big. Less than a camel won’t do.
She set out to find a camel. Searched all day. By noon the sun came overhead; she was still hungry. Even if she had found a camel, what would she have done? Returning, she saw her shadow again—shrunken to her feet. She said, Now even if an ant is found—it will do.
If you move by the shadow, this will be your fate. Neither by the shadow’s lengthening do you become great, nor by its shortening do you become small. Possession is shadow. Objects are shadow. Your house, your wealth—shadow.
I am telling you: the enjoyer’s logic is wrong—and the renouncer’s logic is also wrong. The awakened ones do not give such logic. Will the awakened turn into fools by offering such arguments? Such talk is fundamentally wrong. It makes the Atman secondary to things. If the Atman becomes greater or smaller by the increase or decrease of things, the Atman is made secondary and objects primary.
No—the awakened have said something utterly different. The mistake is in hearing, in reading the scriptures.
The satpurush renounce everything.
Not because renunciation is the path to become a satpurush, but because when you begin to see, when good sense is born within, when you attain to the state of meditation, when the waves of thought quieten a little, the dust in the eyes is shaken off a little, the clouds of consciousness thin a little, a space opens in which awakening can occur, an inner lamp becomes lit, the darkness recedes—there you suddenly see that those things to which you were giving value have no value at all. Those things to which you had dedicated your whole life—no value. You were trading the soul for the shadow. Up to their dying breath people keep bartering away the soul for the sake of shadow. Up to the dying moment man remains a beggar. His demand for objects continues.
Let me drink, let me drink—for in thy crimson goblet
There is still something, still something, still something, O cup-bearer.
Man keeps whining: There is still a little more left in the cup—just a little more.
Let me drink, let me drink—for in thy crimson goblet
There is still something, still something, still something, O cup-bearer.
Life keeps slipping away; the swoon of death begins to come; the sleep of death begins to surround. And man keeps crying, Let me drink! Let me drink!
Look at a dying man. Still the tears flow—over that life in which nothing was attained; over that running about that reached nowhere. And he still wants to run. If perhaps God exists—he will ask for more—Give me four days more. The days he had he squandered so; if more come, he will squander them the same. We have consecrated life in the temples of shadow.
You are swept along with the current,
Turn the oars the other way—then we shall know.
The careful walkers are many;
Lose everything to gain all—then we shall know.
But only he is ready to lose all who sees that in all there is nothing. The diamond slips from your hand the day it is seen to be a pebble. The pebble rises and takes its place in the soul the very moment it is seen to be a diamond. Ultimately your bodh is decisive. You give value—and you pick up. You do not give value—and the thing falls away. The whole matter is of your bodh, your vision, your realisation.
All around crowds of millions move—walking by the support of shadows. You are born into that. From childhood you too learn their language. Then within this crowd there is a small class of renouncers too; they are also within the crowd. If the crowd walks on its feet, they stand on their heads in headstand—but still in the crowd. If the crowd moves east, they move west—but still in the crowd. No real difference. Their language too is the same.
More than half of life passes before you begin to understand a little—that this had no essence. What was earned seems as if it was lost. What was gotten left only a bitter taste in the mouth. There is no sense of attainment. It does not feel as if life’s destiny has been fulfilled; that we reached somewhere; that a destination drew near. It does not feel as if a seed broke and became a tree. It does not feel that a lamp was lit and there was light. The hands feel empty, empty.
Naturally, in that moment the opposite logic begins to grip you. We enjoyed and saw—this was wrong, the worldly were wrong—now we should listen to renouncers. Half the life people waste in the world; even if they awaken, then they waste the other half in sannyas. The logic is the same. First they collected objects; now they drop objects. But the gaze remains fixed on objects.
The gaze must turn within.
You are swept along with the current,
Turn the oars the other way—then we shall know.
And when the gaze moves inward, the oars turn. As long as the gaze goes outward, you go with the crowd. Until then you are not—only the crowd is. You are not; there is a crowd of the blind, a crowd of the deaf, a crowd of the dead—you are not. You are pushed and shoved along.
Have you seen at fairs—if you get caught in the crowd’s current, even if you do not want to go, you must move, else you will be crushed. The whole crowd is rushing—you too must rush. If you stand you will fall. To go against is difficult, to stand still is difficult—moving seems the only safety. Not because you want to move.
Peering within thousands of people I found they do not want to move—they are tired. But there is crowd on every side—wife, children, husband, mother, father, friends, family, shop, market—the whole crowd rushes. The whole world runs. If you do not run with that run, you will be crushed.
You are swept along with the current,
Turn the oars the other way—then we shall know.
The first significant thing that happens in a man’s life is this: he closes the eyes—and the oars turn inward. The boat of consciousness begins to flow within. The worldly runs outward—to the east; your renouncer also runs outward—to the west; the religious man goes neither east nor west—the religious goes within.
Turn the oars the other way—then we shall know.
He closes the eyes so that the world of objects dissolves. He begins to know that, to search for that, which is I am. And there there are such diamonds, such pearls, such showers of gold, that if all outer gold becomes worthless—it is no surprise.
The surprise would be if one who has peered within still finds value in outer things. Impossible. One who has once looked in, who has tasted of the vast wealth, the wealth outside goes hollow and useless of itself. For the first time comparison is born. For the first time, with light you know the outer is darkness. Before this, the very talk of leaving is wrong.
Becoming lit within is what it means to become a satpurush.
The satpurush renounce all song and raga, etc.
When the inner music begins to play, who will take the nuisance of outer songs? When the inner veena begins to sound, all outer notes become a mere clamour.
Sri Aurobindo has said: What I had first known as light—on knowing the inner light I found it was darkness. What I had first known as life—on knowing the inner life I found it was a nest of death. What I had first known as nectar—looking within I found was poison. Under whose deception was I living?
The first dawn of revolution in life is when you look within.
Turn the oars the other way—then we shall know.
The natural current of consciousness is outward, for you are born among those who are all swept outward. The child imitates.
Therefore the greatest thing Buddha said is this: Find a kalyan-mitra. A kalyan-mitra means: those who are flowing within, who have begun to pull the oars the other way. Sitting near them, in their peace, in their silence, hearing the sound of their inner-going oars, within you too a longing to go within will arise. Within you too a sleeping aspiration will awaken.
As a bird locked in a cage, seeing a bird flying in the sky, feels the birth of the desire to fly. The wings flutter. Memory arises: I too could fly. This blueness of the sky could be mine. This boundless expanse without shore—was mine. For the first time the prison is seen. For the first time the iron bars all around are seen. Till yesterday he had taken it for home; within it he hopped about. He had taken it for life; within it he strutted and made noise. Thought this was all.
Near the kalyan-mitras... Buddha made the sangha of bhikkhus only for this; not for organisation. What has religion to do with organisation? Organisation is the enemy of religion. Buddha made a sangha of bhikkhus—a family in which those imprisoned can get a little company of the birds outside the prison. We have called this satsang. So that seeing another you remember your home. You remember the homeland.
Have you ever noticed? If you are abroad, for years abroad, cannot even speak your language—have forgotten—and suddenly one day you meet someone from your land, how you embrace him! You do not even know him. You had never seen him before in your own country. Yet that same face, same eyes, same way—immediately your language returns. How you mingle and talk with him, as if some beloved of many lives had returned. He is a stranger, but he is of your land; he speaks your tongue.
Exactly such a thing happens when you fall into the stream of satsang. You have met your people. You have met those returning home. Their presence will awaken sleeping memories within you. Your wings will begin to flutter. Comparison will arise in your life. And what up to now you had called life will seem futile. But a little taste is needed. If the inner taste is found, the outer becomes worthless.
Certainly, the satpurush leave all song and raga. The inner rhythm is found—the rhythm of rhythms.
Life dances, carrying a tavern upon its shoulder;
Thirst itself stands, holding an overflowing goblet.
And when life itself is dancing within!
Life dances, carrying a tavern upon its shoulder;
And with a tavern on its shoulder life itself is dancing within!
Thirst itself...
And thirst itself stands with an overflowing goblet in her hands—then the taverns outside, the dances outside, slowly go far, become only a distant sound. Little by little, the distance becomes like that to the stars. That sound no longer reaches you.
It reaches now because your taste is there. Wherever your taste is, that alone is heard. When the taste begins to flow within, outer rhythms are lost, outer colours fade. But remember: this is a consequence.
To attain to satpurushhood is the cause; renunciation is the result.
To find oneself is the cause; sannyas is the result.
By sannyas no one ever found himself. When the journey to find oneself begins, sannyas begins to happen.
They do not bargain for sensual enjoyments.
One who is immersed in self-delight—why will he bargain for sense-delights? One who is meeting himself, who is sinking into that supreme bliss, whose banks are vanishing, whose stream falls into the ocean—why will he now talk of shores? Why should the drop worry for its boundaries? But walk carefully: by leaving sense-enjoyments no one attains to self-delight. By attaining to self-delight, sense-delights fall away.
Remember this always; for the other logic is very convenient. It seems you can do it right away. Leave sense-pleasures? You can leave. You have clutched—you can unclutch. By clutching you got nothing, by unclutching you will also get nothing. By clutching you found misery; by unclutching you will also find misery. Because misery is inherent in that outward-going gaze.
So here I see the enjoyers unhappy and eager to become renouncers. I see the renouncers unhappy and eager to become enjoyers. Whatever your present state is—that is where misery appears.
Understand it thus, it will be easier. You were alone, and you were unhappy. You sought a companion, to marry, to have company. Then you married—and now you are unhappy married. Now you think: Better to be alone. I did not know how much happiness there was in being alone. But do not think that if by chance the wife dies you will be very happy. As soon as she dies you will begin to seek another wife. Perhaps for two or four days you will rest, take a breath—being over-tired—but soon you will find a great pain in aloneness. Again you want to be two.
Within you too the play of renunciation and enjoyment goes on. It is not that different people do the play—each within himself plays both sides. They are two faces of one coin.
Self-awakening is neither renunciation nor enjoyment; for self-awakening is the art of being free of the outer. Self-awakening is the art of settling in the Self, of becoming swastha. Buddha calls satpurush one who has found stillness in his being, whose flame has begun to burn unwavering.
Whether pleasure comes or pain, the wise do not display disturbance.
Right now, if pain comes, how will you avoid showing your reaction? Pain will come—you will be in pain. Even if you try to hide it—it will be there. It may not show to others, but that makes no difference; you will be in pain. Pleasure will come—you will be pleased.
Right now, whatever event happens—you become identified with it. You cannot remain distant. Pain comes—you become one with it. You begin to say: I am unhappy. Whether you say it or not, within you know: I am unhappy. Pleasure comes—you become one with it. You begin to say: I am happy. Pleasure comes—your gait changes. Pain comes—your gait changes. When pain comes you walk as if dead. When joy comes you dance as if alive. Now pleasure and pain encompass you entirely. Your being is not beyond pleasure and pain; it is within them.
The satpurush is one who has his own being, has authenticity. When pleasure comes he knows: pleasure has come—but I am not pleasure. When pain comes he knows: pain has come—but I am not pain. There is no change in his gait. The inner rhythm remains the same. Nothing within is altered. He is like a mirror. If no one stands before the mirror, the mirror is content in its emptiness. If a beautiful image comes—fine; if an ugly person comes—fine. The mirror is not disturbed. The mirror abides in its suchness.
Morning comes, evening comes. So do pains, so do pleasures—and they pass. They pass by you like travelers on the road—you are not they. Whoever begins to remember: I am separate from all experiences; experiences are other than me; I am the witness—he has placed a ladder to satpurushhood in his life.
Whether pleasure comes or pain, the wise do not display disturbance.
This is the definition of the wise: whatever happens outside, the inner sky remains as it is—formless, without change. Clouds come upon the sky, the sky remains without stain. Clouds go—the sky remains without stain. Nothing touches the sky—untouched!
Therefore the true satpurush is not frightened of the world. The world cannot defile him. He will not wish to hide in the forest. If earlier he did hide in the forest, he will return. What difference does it make now? Forest or settlement, cremation ground or market—no difference. The day you become such that the outer dualities do not fracture you within...
Have you noticed? Draw a line upon water—it is drawn, and as it is drawn, it is erased. Draw upon sand—it holds for a while; when winds come, someone erases, then it is gone. Draw upon stone—it remains; it can remain for centuries. Draw upon the sky—it does not draw at all; there is no question of erasing.
Similarly there are four kinds of people. Stone-like people—what is carved never gets erased; erase as you may, it does not erase. They become angry, and they carry that anger for life. Enmity is formed—and it is formed. They will bequeath their enmity in their will to their children: We could not settle this; you settle it. We could not kill the enemy; you kill him.
A man was dying. He called his sons near and said: Fulfill a dying man’s wish. Your father—I am dying. A small wish—promise me. The elder sons knew this man was dangerous—though a father, he would get some mischief done. And to give a promise to a dying man, then not fulfill—not good. So they kept their heads down in silence. The youngest was not so aware of the father—he studied away at the university. He came near and said, Whatever you say. The father whispered in his ear: Only this wish remains—that when I die, cut my body into pieces and throw them in the neighbor’s house; then report to the police that while alive they tormented our father—and after his death they cut his body into pieces. My soul will go toward heaven gleeful to see the neighbors being led to the police station tied with ropes.
People bequeath their hatreds, their enmities in their wills. They burn all their life; and hatreds pass from generation to generation. Line on stone. This is the maximum inertia of consciousness—as if totally asleep, without any awareness.
Then there are people like sand—it draws; today it draws, tomorrow it erases. A little while it remains; an hour or two—and then they settle, they are fine again.
Then there are people like small children—it is not even drawn—drawn, it is gone. The child gets angry, jumps and shouts and makes a racket—then forgets. A moment ago he was telling another child, I will not see your face ever in life; five minutes later both sit with hands entwined, chattering. Matter came and went—like water.
Then the satpurush, whom we call the saints—like the sky. Nothing is drawn; the question of erasing does not arise. Saintliness is more innocent even than children.
Someone asked Jesus: Who will be worthy to enter your kingdom of heaven? He glanced around at the crowd, lifted a small child upon his shoulder and said: Those who will be like this child.
But beyond the child is the matter. One must become like a child—and more innocent than a child—like the sky.
Whether pleasure comes or pain, the wise do not display disturbance.
The ordinary man lives like a shallow stream—have you seen? What noise! No depth—only noise. Have you noticed: the deeper a river becomes, the less the noise. If the river is very deep, there is no noise at all. If the river is very, very deep—you cannot even tell that it moves! Its pace becomes so gentle, so serene.
The ocean’s hush speaks through the river’s roar:
As deep as one’s depth, that deep is one’s silence.
When you go within, your depth will increase. If you remain outside, you will remain shallow. To live outside means: you will not be able to touch depth. You will remain a small, shallow stream; you will never become an ocean. And your possibility was to become the Pacific—to find a depth that is boundless; that begins—and has no end.
The ocean’s hush speaks through the river’s roar:
As deep as one’s depth, that deep is one’s silence.
Look a little at yourself: how your life is on the surface, on the surface! Little things cause great pain. Little things intoxicate you.
Have you ever reflected on the nature of man?
Frothing wine now—now only the dregs at the cup’s bottom.
In a moment it seems a storm of ecstasy, the cup overflowing; and a moment later an empty cup—only the lees remain.
Have you ever reflected on the nature of man?
Frothing wine now—now only the dregs at the cup’s bottom.
It happens from moment to moment—as if a leaf swaying in the wind. You have no personality. You have no soul. You are not yet. You are gusts of wind. The river’s waves take you wherever they will; you go—like a dry leaf floating. You have no roots in existence yet. Otherwise life could not shake you so easily.
And whoever seeks roots must go within. For within you are rooted to the Divine, to Truth, to Existence. The trees’ feet are sunk into the earth; your life-breaths are sunk into the Divine. The more deeply you go within, the more you will find that outer events affect you less and less and less.
A moment comes when an event happens to you—and you stand and watch as if it is happening to someone else—that is the birth of the satpurush. Fire has caught your own house—and you stand and watch as if someone else’s house has caught fire. Your own wife has died—and you stand as if someone else’s wife has died. All that was yours is lost—and you stand as if someone else’s is lost.
Aldous Huxley was a great thinker of America. In California he built a great museum over his entire life. He brought costly books from far and wide, beautiful sculptures, ancient archaeological objects, inscriptions; his whole life’s wealth he poured into it. Forty years of labour. And it is said his collection was unique. Suddenly one day it caught fire. But in the search for such antiquities, and gradually searching these very truths, a revolution had happened in his life. We can call him a rishi of the modern world. That day he gave proof. His wife thought he would go mad, for the whole life had gone to dust. The fire was so fierce there was no way to save anything. His own writings, his manuscripts—all burned.
He stood and watched the house burning. The wife was frightened, because he neither spoke nor looked disturbed. She thought: Has he gone mad? If he cries, shouts, screams—he will feel lighter. And Aldous Huxley said: I felt only that a burden became light. And after it burned, when I saw the house the next day, I felt as if a cleaning had happened—as if I had bathed.
As you go inward, outer events remain of less and less value. Slowly they have no value at all. As a snake leaves its sloughed skin and slips away, so you leave the outer and slip within. The outer skin lies there; it has no value.
Who neither seeks for himself nor for others son, wealth, or kingdom, and desires not to advance himself through adharma—he alone is virtuous, wise, religious.
Who neither for himself nor for others...
Because we are great tricksters. We say: We want nothing for ourselves; we do it for the children. We say: What is there to do for ourselves? For ourselves we are sannyasins; but there is wife, children, home. Our dishonesty has no end. We devise great strategies. We fire guns from others’ shoulders.
So Buddha says: Who neither for himself nor for others seeks son, wealth, or kingdom...
Who is not ambitious. In whose mind there is no race of competition.
Remember: whenever you seek something in the outer world, you have to pay with the Atman. Every penny you bring from outside—you bring by losing something. Nothing is free here. And it is a very costly bargain.
You earn five rupees by telling a little lie, you think: What can go wrong with so small a lie? But with that small lie you have lost a corner of the soul. You lost an inner cleanliness. You lost an inner peace. Because one lie will bring a thousand lies; there is no end then. A thousand lies will bring millions. Speak one lie and see how lies give birth to lies; a long chain, child after child, is born. Falsehood does not believe in family planning; it keeps producing.
Truth is utterly barren: notice, whenever you speak a truth, the matter is finished—a full stop. The chain of lie never ends. Truth spoken—you need not even remember it. Lie needs a great memory. Truth does not need memory—no such burden. Lie needs memory. You told something to someone, and something else to someone else. Today you lied to this man—tomorrow he will ask again—so you must remember yesterday’s lie. But lies slip, because a lie has no place to stand. Lies shift. If you do not remember, returning again and again to recall, you yourself will forget your own lies—you will trap yourself.
Truth does not need to be remembered. That which is—what need to remember it? Years later it will be there. When needed, it will surface. Otherwise there is no reason to keep it on your head. The mind of one who speaks truth is unburdened. Being unburdened, he can fly into the sky.
The liar carries stones around his neck. Then he wants to fly in the sky—how? These stones take life away.
Speak one lie—you spoiled a corner of the soul. You brought dirt into the temple. You covered the flower with a stone. It will rot now. You have created obstacles to its life. You have obstructed the natural flow of the stream. You have put a rock in the way.
Commit a little theft—and remember: theft is never little or big. So-called little is already big. All thieves steal with the thought: What will be made or marred by so little? Have you noticed—the mathematics of lying and stealing? Lie always says: It’s so small—what difference does it make? Today we speak it—who says we have to always? It will be handled. Theft also says: It’s so little!
There is no difference between stealing two pennies and stealing two crores. Theft is theft; it is not small or big. There is no small or big lie. Falsehood is falsehood—how can it be small or big? Truth is truth—not small, not big. Neither lie nor theft is small or big.
But mind keeps persuading: It is so small—what difference does it make? So small a theft—do it; tomorrow we will donate. And remember—even if you do however much good, there is no way to un-do the bad. It will not be improved by good.
It is like this—I have heard: The king of England wanted to send a minister as ambassador to France. The minister’s name was Moore. But he was afraid, because the French king was somewhat crazy. And there was tension between England and France. So Moore said: You are sending me—but that madman can cut off my head any day in full court.
The English king said, Don’t worry. If your head is cut, all the French in England will be beheaded the same day. Don’t worry at all.
He said, That I understood you would do. You will not be behind in madness. But none of those heads will sit back on my neck. I am gone! For my one head you will cut a thousand French heads—but none of them will revive me. What difference does it make then what you do after I am dead? I am gone!
You told one lie—what difference does it make how many truths you speak afterwards? You stabbed a man—what difference if you later garland him with flowers? You abused someone—what difference if you went and praised him later?
But in life your mind constantly convinces you: No harm—commit theft, then do virtue. Committed a sin—then go on pilgrimage; become a Haji. All mind’s strategies. Beware of them.
What is done is done; there is no way to un-do it. Because there is no way to go back into the past. What is done, is done.
Yes, there is a way to go beyond it—not to un-do it. If you have cut a man’s head, what can you do? You may build a thousand temples, offer a thousand worships, feed thousands of Brahmins—what will happen? What is done is done. Yes, this can happen: if you become full of bodh, if you awaken—you can go beyond; there will be transcendence. But what has been done cannot be un-done.
Therefore when falsehood and dishonesty seize your mind and argue that it is a small thing—do it—then be careful. Nothing is small. For at every moment your soul is at stake. Nothing is free; the price for everything must be paid. And the irony is that you pay an immense price—and you receive nothing. After a whole life your hands are empty—and the soul is also lost.
Who neither seeks for himself nor for others son, wealth, or kingdom—he is the satpurush.
Desirelessness is the fragrance of the satpurush. Desirelessness! Because the moment you desire, you prepare to snatch from someone. If you want much wealth—you will have to snatch. If you want great prestige—you will have to snatch. If you want high positions—you will have to push others aside—someone is already there. Violence will be in all.
Whatever comes without snatching—only that count as wealth. Whatever comes without asking—only that call a blessing. Whatever, in your gaining, takes nothing away from another—only that call religion.
There are such riches as come to you and rob no one. Understand: if love increases in your life, it does not mean that because you have more love, someone’s love on this earth will be diminished; that a few people’s coins of love will be stolen. No—on the contrary: if love increases in you, the possibility of love increasing in others increases. Because you are an inseparable part of this world. If your inner lamp begins to burn, many will feel the desire to light their lamp; trust will arise. If your meditation deepens, it is not that someone’s unrest will increase because yours has deepened. By your meditation deepening nothing is taken from anyone. And if someone is intelligent, he can receive much from you. Otherwise—
Wherever a bud is blooming,
There some flower is withering.
If you take much relish in worldly wealth, you will bloom a bud somewhere and find a flower elsewhere withered. You will fill your safe—and some people’s safes will become empty. You will rise to positions—and some will be defeated, removed. In your happiness how many people’s sorrow will hide!
Such happiness is worth two pennies—if others’ misery is hidden in it. Such happiness is worthless—if it bears the stains of someone’s blood.
And the irony: for nothing! You get nothing. Sitting upon a throne—you are you. Sit upon the highest throne—you are you. Sit upon the moon and stars—you will not change.
You change—and wherever you sit, there is the throne. And those thrones need not be snatched. You change—and wherever you walk becomes a pilgrimage. You change—and you carry into your surroundings a transformed climate. You become the dawn of a new world.
Do not fall into the deception of existence:
However much it insists it is—It is not.
Do not be deceived by the trick of this life. However much life says, I am—it is not. Death snatches all this away. It is a dream seen with open eyes.
Before you many have seen this dream. Where are they? They have dissolved into dust. You are seeing similar dreams; you too will be lost in dust. Do something in time. Find such a key that is not lost, that is eternal—Es dhammo sanantano. Find that which is sanatan, which death cannot erase.
And who does not desire his own advancement through adharma—he is virtuous, wise, and religious.
Whenever I have thought this, my heart has trembled:
What has man made man suffer by man’s hands!
What has man not done to man? Think a little—what for? What is gained? Hitler killed so many! Genghis Khan extinguished so many! We too do the same on small scales. What do we gain?
We gain nothing. Children’s games! Great palaces are built of dreams—and one day all lies there.
I do not say to you: without understanding, run away. The point is not to run—understand. When you take a step of competition—watch: What will happen? When the craving to collect wealth possesses you—watch: What will happen? Contemplate upon it. When someone abuses you and you are insulted and murder seizes your mind, clouds of violence surround you—watch: What will happen? What is the essence of this? When you become mad collecting meaningless things—watch:
What use are colored robes if
The soul burns, melts, and stays half-dead within?
What use? However many colored robes—and the soul rots within—whom are you deceiving? What is the essence of this deception? And any moment the breath can stop. This great opportunity—to awaken—will you waste collecting toy-things?
The world is a wall of sand;
Worldly love is petty.
The world is a wall of sand.
Build—build much—labour, blood and sweat, lose yourself in building—and it keeps sliding. Not only little children build houses of sand—you too do the same. On the sands of time, all houses will fall. Upon the sands of time, nothing built will abide.
There is a story in the Jain scriptures. When one becomes a chakravarti—so the Jains say—chakravarti means emperor of the whole world, sole master of all—and all want to be that; whose wheel turns through the whole world—he gets a special privilege. On Mount Kailash in heaven, a chakravarti has the right to sign his name. Whatever signature is made upon that mountain lasts for billions and trillions of years. It is not like mountains here where signatures fade in a few centuries; there they last for ages upon ages.
One became a chakravarti; he was delighted—ambition fulfilled—and he was going to sign upon that mountain. He had thought to sign in big letters. But as he reached the mountain his eyes filled with tears—there was no space left; so many had signed before. Not to speak of large—there was not even a corner empty; so many chakravartis had been before in the endless stream of time. Imagine! He had thought on that vast mountain to engrave a big signature.
Finding no place, compelled, he erased some old signatures and wrote his own. But his mind became wretched: If this is the case, someone will erase mine and sign above. How long will it last!
As he was going in, he wanted to take his wife along. But the gatekeeper said, Good man! No permission; one has to go in alone. But what fun if the wife cannot see the husband’s glory as he signs!
He insisted greatly; the doorkeeper said, Listen to reason! Later you will be pleased you did not take her. Not only with you—it is always thus; my father also used to be gatekeeper here. He used to say: Whenever someone comes, he wants to take his wife along. His father told him the same. It has always been so. And I also know that returning you will give thanks—it also always happens—that it is good I did not take my wife. Honour becomes mud.
Returning he gave thanks: Great kindness that you stand guard here. Now at least I can boast at home. If the wife had seen there was no space at all—what great glory is this?
Become a chakravarti—what will you get? How many have been! And even if you get to sign on the mountains of heaven—they are signatures upon sand. All signatures are upon sand.
Only one thing is beyond time—you. Only your being is not in the stream of time. If you have found that—you have found. If you have lost that—you have lost all.
Few are those who cross over—few among men. Others run along the shore.
Few cross the world—few transcend time. Others run along the shore.
Run as much as you like on the shore—you will gain nothing. You must cross—you must transcend. The alchemy of transcendence is nameable as religion. The boat made for that crossing is called meditation. The ladder placed for that crossing is called no-thought.
How to place this ladder of no-thought? How to build this boat of meditation—so that you can cross, beyond time? Understand a little; this is a precious sutra.
Craving always says—tomorrow. Thirst always says—tomorrow. Desire always says—tomorrow. Meditation says—today, now, here. For meditation there is no moment other than the present. For desire, there is everything but the present—future and past. For meditation there is neither past nor future—only this moment. And it is in this very moment that the door beyond time opens.
In the present there is this facility: if you settle, you slip beyond time. But the mind will not let you settle. Mind says: Tomorrow the house must be built; the day after earning must be done; then this, then that. Mind makes plans. Because of those plans, the door—so narrow...
Jesus has said: The gate is very narrow—but absolutely straight. Simple, easy—but very narrow. So narrow that unless you look with extreme delicacy you will keep missing.
Have you thought how small the present moment is? It is next to nothing. When you think of the present, it is already past—so small. You say present—and it is no longer present—gone! Knowing, it becomes past. So either it is future, or it is past. Until you know, it is future; as soon as you know, it is past. As long as you hope, it is coming... coming... it has not yet come; as soon as you know, it has come—it has gone!
Thought can never grasp the present moment.
Understand this a little. The grasp of thought is gross; the present is very subtle. Either thought grasps the future which has not yet come, or the past which has gone—both are futile.
Truth means: that which is; that which neither comes nor goes. Es dhammo sanantano—that dharma which ever is, now is; was yesterday; will be tomorrow. Therefore to speak of tomorrow is meaningless. It is always today.
The seed’s final phase, beloved—
The seed itself—it is not the fruit.
Branch, bud, flower, leaflet—
All are but coverings.
What forgetfulness is there in this—
That the seed forgets itself for a moment?
Today’s final stage is today itself—
It is not tomorrow.
Day, night, month, year—
Heat, frost, spring, autumn—
Has ever the song of today’s being been lost in them?
The path’s final refuge is the path itself—
It is not the goal.
The seed’s final phase, beloved—
The seed itself—it is not the fruit.
The seed becomes seed again after the whole journey. Sprouting, it becomes a tree, flowers, fruits—and the seed returns. At first seed—and at the end seed.
All in between is play. The forms taken in between are coverings. The colours donned in between, the many masks the seed wore—sometimes flower, sometimes leaf, sometimes tree—these are not the real. That which was at the beginning and is again at the end—only that is real.
Only the present is real. It is that which returns again and again. Tomorrow will again become today. When tomorrow comes, it will not be tomorrow; when it arrives, it will be today. The day before yesterday, which you call yesterday—was also today; and in the timeless realm it is still today.
Our seeing is limited. We cannot see the unbroken expanse; we see by breaking into pieces.
You stand upon a road. A man passes—when he comes before you, you see him; when he turns the corner ahead, you do not see; before he turned the corner behind, you did not see. When you did not see—he still was. When now you do not see—he still is. Your seeing has a limit; his being has no limit. Your seeing’s limit is not his being’s limit.
Another man sits atop a tree—he sees much further. When the man below can no longer see, the man above still can. Someone in an airplane sees further yet. As the height of your consciousness grows, your vision widens.
What you call past—the knower sees it as present. What you call future—the knower sees it as present.
For the knower the seed is truth—because it is that which returns. The present is truth—because it is that which recurs. Past and future indicate only our limitations.
Time is indivisible. There is neither past nor future. What is, ever is. Those who have seen with attention have said: That which is ever—is. What is—ever is.
The seed’s final phase, beloved—
The seed itself—it is not the fruit.
Branch, bud, flower, leaflet—
All are but coverings.
What forgetfulness is there in this—
That the seed forgets itself for a moment?
Today’s final stage is today itself—
It is not tomorrow.
Day, night, month, year—
Heat, frost, spring, autumn—
Has ever the song of today’s being been lost in them?
The path’s final refuge is the path itself—
It is not the goal.
The seed’s final phase, beloved—
The seed itself—it is not the fruit.
Vasana is the hankering for fruit. Dhyana is freedom from fruit-hankering.
Therefore the whole Gita of Krishna rests upon one word: relinquishment of fruit-hankering. Vasana thinks of what will happen tomorrow; in that thinking it squanders today. Meditation lives today; it does not think of tomorrow. From that living, tomorrow blossoms and arises.
Last night a woman asked me: Will peace truly come through meditation? If there is a firm guarantee—then she will think to meditate. Who will give the guarantee? And the irony is: meditation means precisely dropping what will I get. If even in meditation there is fruit-hankering—Will peace come?—then meditation is no longer meditation, it has become desire.
Peace comes through meditation—not will come, but comes; it is its consequence. But even this much desire in the meditator—that peace must come—is dangerous. Then he is not meditating, he is thinking. Even that small greed is a hindrance. That is why many meditate and go on missing; because they miss the basic key.
One has to be complete in this moment. Not go outside this moment. Know this moment as the whole of existence. Beyond this moment there is nothing—nothing behind, nothing ahead; only this moment. If in this very moment you become utterly still—meditation has happened. Great peace ensues. Note: not will ensue—does ensue. But only for those who do not ask. Those who ask miss the key. Ask—and it becomes desire; ask—and tomorrow has arrived; ask—and fruit has arrived.
The seed’s final phase, beloved—
The seed itself—it is not the fruit.
Once you have one glimpse, then there will be no difficulty. The first glimpse is extremely difficult, because it looks almost impossible. You will ask: If we must not desire at all—then why should we meditate? How will we even do it? If we do, we will do it with desire.
I understand your difficulty. Whatever you have done so far, you have done with desire. But you have not yet seen that despite so much desire, what have you gained? Are you not yet weary of desiring? Have you not yet tasted the bitterness of the mouth from desire? Are you not yet bored with desire? What has desire given? It gave many promises—none fulfilled. It kept you moving—but brought you nowhere.
When you look keenly at desire, you will find: nothing is gained by it. In the moment of that insight desire drops. In that very moment meditation happens. The absence of desire is meditation.
At first it will happen sometimes; then you will again wander. Then it will happen more often; you will wander less. Then a day comes when you become utterly still. Gusts of wind will come and pass—your flame will not tremble. Pains will come, pleasures will come—you will move unshaken. All will fall away—because you have found yourself.
He who has found himself—has found all. It falls away—because he who has found all no longer runs to gain the futile.
The satpurush becomes the possessor of such a wealth as is eternal. He sits upon such a throne beyond which there is no throne.
Surely, all song and raga fall away—because the great rhythm has arisen. The rhythm of rhythms resounds within day and night. All songs cease—because the Gayatri becomes voiced.
Enough for today.