Es Dhammo Sanantano #33

These are the words of Emperor Bahadur Shah Zafar—because they are an emperor’s words, they are worth pondering. Such things are sometimes uttered by beggars too, but it is possible a beggar’s mind longs to console itself. When an emperor speaks so, there is no question of consolation; only the direct seeing of a truth can make such a statement possible.

In a life of two days, do not walk with such restless haste
This world is a caravan road—tread with care

Only those who have possess wealth discover its futility. Only those who have power come to know its pointlessness. Those who do not have, keep building palaces of desire. Those who do not have, keep weaving webs of imagination.

Sometimes it also happens that even those who do not have begin to speak in ways that sound like wisdom—but in ninety-nine out of a hundred cases those words are full of self-deception. To console himself, a beggar too can look at a palace and say, “There is no essence there”—only to explain to himself that if there were essence, surely he would have attained the palace! There is no essence, therefore he has “renounced” it.

Do not think that what we fail to attain is what we have renounced. That which we attain and then leave—that alone is renunciation!

The most secret truths of life are known only to those who have run the whole race; who have ripened; who did not hurry, who did not grow impatient; who did not leave before time. No one has ever reached Paramatman by escape. Nor has renunciation ever borne fruit out of defeat.

Hence the Upanishads say: tena tyaktena bhunjitha. Only those who have truly lived can truly renounce. One who has not lived cannot renounce. In such renunciation, the craving for enjoyment remains suppressed, hidden, intact. Even his renunciation will be for the sake of enjoyment; with the hope that in some other world he will receive pleasures.

In one whose renunciation has flowered out of living, the language of the afterlife simply disappears. Where there is no craving, what need of an afterlife? Where there is no craving, what need of heaven? Where there is no craving, who needs apsaras? Where there is no craving, there can be no wish-fulfilling trees. Kalpavriksha is nothing but the projection of desires—and remember, of defeated desires; of a mind that has failed, a tired mind. One who could not win in this life dreams of winning in the life beyond.

There is truth in Karl Marx’s statement that religion is the opium of the people. In ninety-nine percent of cases his statement is absolutely correct; religion is an opiate. And yet, the statement is incomplete, because for that remaining one percent it is not true. For a Buddha, for a Mahavira, for a Krishna—it is not true; but for ninety-nine percent it is.

Man lives in suffering; hence he imagines heavens. The opium of those imaginations envelops the mind. The suffering here becomes bearable in the hope of the joy there. Man endures today’s pain banking on tomorrow. Even the darkness of night no longer seems dark—because “tomorrow morning will come.” Man trudges on sustained by desire.

Beware, let not religion become opium for you. Religion can become opium; there is danger. Religion can become awakening—and it can become deep stupor. Everything depends on you. The intelligent one, even if he drinks poison, it becomes medicine. The foolish one, even if he drinks nectar, it may produce death. Everything depends on you. Ultimately, you are the decisive factor.

So do not assume that simply having religion will make it a path of liberation for you. From it you can also forge chains. From it you can manufacture fetters. That is what most have done. Your temple can become a door to Paramatman—a real gateway; but it can also become a wall. Because of it you may not be able to reach.

Therefore everything depends on you—on your awareness. Religion is neither poison nor nectar; religion is a neutral truth. What use you make of it depends on you. With the same rope you can draw water from a well—and, dying of thirst, the well-water can save your life. With that same rope you can also hang yourself. The rope is the same, you are the same, but the relationship between you and the rope is not the same.

Most people are imprisoned because of religion. Most people cannot move in life because of religion. Their religion sits like a rock on their chest. For most people, religion has not become a boat; religion has drowned them midstream—drowned them badly.

Buddha’s first sutra today is worth understanding.

“Only those who practice the well-instructed Dharma truly cross over the realm of death which is hard to cross.”

“Well-instructed...”

There are many things to grasp here. If you have derived religion from scripture, there is danger—because scripture is dead. Scripture is not alive. Whatever meaning you derive by reading scripture will be yours, not the scripture’s.

Granted, you may read the Gita—but it will not be the same Gita Krishna spoke to Arjuna. Nor will it be what Arjuna heard from Krishna. When you read the Gita, you will be both Krishna and Arjuna. What Krishna says, you will interpret; what Arjuna hears, you will interpret. This Gita will be your Gita.

I have heard: A Muslim nawab was touring his state. In one village he saw a huge crowd. He asked, “What’s happening?” Someone said, “The Ramayana is being recited—the tale of King Rama.” He said, “Within my state, the story of some other king is being told? Intolerable! Tell the pundit to narrate my story. My state—some other king’s story?”

The pundit was clever, a seasoned fox—as pundits are. He said, “Huzoor! The tale is big; it will take time to write. In six months I’ll write your story and present it—then we will begin. What have we to do with King Rama?”

After six months the pundit came. He said, “The story has been written—just one difficulty: who has abducted your Sita? Give me his name so I can write it. For without Sita being abducted, there is no story. Who has carried away your Sita? Tell me the scoundrel’s name.”

The nawab said, “Wait—why entangle me in such a mess? Let’s drop the whole idea. You tell the old story you used to tell. For your story you would have my Sita abducted? That’s too costly a bargain!”

When you read the Ramayana you will project yourself upon Rama’s tale. It will become your projection. It will not be Rama’s Sita who is stolen—it will be your Sita who is stolen.

When you read the Gita, it will not be what Krishna says that you will hear—you will hear only what you can hear. It will not be the war of Kurukshetra; it will be your inner conflict spread across the canvas of Kurukshetra.

Whoever has taken religion from scripture has taken bondage, has taken opium.

Hence Buddha says, “Well-instructed...”

Receive it from a living master, where the instruction is still flowing. Try to receive it from a living master. Only then is there a possibility that you will not turn religion into opium; otherwise there is great danger—you are already asleep...

Have you noticed? At night you decide you will get up at four in the morning. You even set the alarm. Then, asleep, when you hear the alarm—you don’t hear it as an alarm. Your dream interprets even the alarm. Your dream says, “Ah! The temple bells are ringing.” You have neutralized the alarm. The alarm is no longer ringing; there is no question of rising. In the chorus of temple bells you turn over and sink deeper into sleep. In the morning you awaken and realize—you deceived yourself, dodged even the alarm. Sleep is very cunning.

Stupor is very cunning. It tries to preserve itself—lest it be destroyed. It spins interpretations to keep itself intact. It devises such tricks that you cannot even suspect.

Therefore Buddha says, “Well-instructed.”

First: seek Dharma from a living master; where the river of instruction still flows. Do not seek it from stale pages of scripture. Scripture is helpless. You will extract meanings—wrong meanings—yet scripture can say nothing.

Understand the difference: when the alarm clock rings, your dream interprets it. But if you have told a living person—your wife—“Wake me up,” she will not allow your interpretation. She will shake you hard, she will wake you; you may try a thousand dream-ploys—an apsara may appear and lull you back to sleep—but your wife will not be so easily convinced. She will pull you out.

Only a living person can pull you out. In scripture there is danger; in doctrine there is danger. The danger is not in them—the danger is in you. And since scripture is helpless, whatever wrong interpretation you make, scripture cannot say, “This is wrong. This is not my intent. This is not what I wished to say—you have imposed your accounting.” Scripture will remain silent. Scripture has no soul. Where the soul has been lost, where the spark has gone out—do not search your religion in that ash; otherwise your whole life will turn to ash. And often we search religion in ash.

We avoid the living person—because with the living there is danger: he might actually wake us up! We worship the dead. The living we do not even recognize. When a Buddha walks the earth, no one cares. When he dies, he is worshiped for thousands of years. That worship is futile. A slight bow of the head at the feet of a living Buddha—and revolution happens. And these thousand-year worships, these rituals, these flowers and offerings—all go to waste. They fall at the feet of a stone statue.

How easy it is to bow before a stone image! There is no one there before whom you are bowing. It is your own image—you are the one bowing. As if one bows before one’s own picture in a mirror—mere play.

To recognize is only the nature of clay
Consciousness has always remained unrecognized
Therefore it has often happened in the world
Only when the guest departed, he was recognized
Therefore it has often happened in the world
Only when the guest departed, he was recognized

You take so long to recognize—you fail to make acquaintance.

There is a reason. When flowers of Samadhi bloom in a person, they are such from an unknown realm that your flowers bear no kinship with them. When such fragrance descends from the sky, it matches none of your fragrances. All that you know is thrown into disorder. Into your molds you cannot fit the Buddhas.

You are not ready to break molds; you are ready to remain blind to Buddhas. You want the enlightened one to fit your measures. You carry fixed lines, explanations. And whenever a Buddha appears, he is inexplicable! More alien than a Buddha you will never find. He does not fit into any of your frames—he cannot. Whoever fits your frame is not a Buddha. Whoever fits your frame will be a follower of yours—he will not be your true master. You worship those who walk behind you.

It is a great game. A wondrous game. And how blind we are that we cannot see it!

When the supernatural descends, when the ineffable arrives, all your frameworks, all your categories of reason become useless. You fall dumbstruck. You are astonished—bewildered, at a loss. For a moment your whole personality is disarrayed, chaos is born. In the presence of the enlightened, your entire order shatters into pieces. You will have to remake yourself. The houses you built until yesterday will crumble. The boats you rowed until yesterday will sink.

Buddha says, “Those who practice the well-instructed Dharma...”

First, let it be instructed—grasped from the living stream of teaching. Let there be a living person present so that you do not distort meanings. Someone must be present who will not let you make your own of it; who will keep awakening you on all sides. Try as you may, he will watch, alert, that you are not nursing your stupor.

First, let Dharma be instructed—taken from a shasta, not from shastra. Scriptures are born from shastas. Scripture is born in the knower of truth—his utterances, his words, become scripture.

So while the living event is happening—when the Ganges is descending from the Himalaya—bathe then. You will bathe—but you are late; you reach in Kashi to catch her. By then the Ganges has died. By then how many ghats have distorted her, how many corpses been floated upon her, how many bodies decayed. How many villages have poured their dirt and dust into her.

Catch her at the Ganges’ source, at Gangotri—where each drop is pure and lovely, freshly fallen from heaven, not yet stamped by man, not yet polluted by the filth of the human world—chaste, virgin—catch her there.

You arrive late; you build tirthas—but your tirthas come much later.

Therefore it has often happened in the world
Only when the guest departed, he was recognized

Recognize while the guest is present. After he leaves, no amount of worship will help.

So first thing: well-instructed Dharma—taken from a living master.

People would come to Buddha and cite the Vedas: “The Vedas say this, but you say that. The Upanishads say this, but you say that.”

Man is pitiable. The one from whom the Upanishads arise is present. The one from whom the Vedas are born is present. You bring the Vedas before him as authority! And you try to prove that this man is wrong—because the Vedas say otherwise.

And whatever the Vedas say—you have interpreted. The Vedas have not said it—you have. You bring the Vedas as witness, standing them behind you. You have no trust in yourself. You borrow the Vedas’ authority. And whom are you confronting?

So Buddha would say, “Revise your Vedas. Amend your Upanishads. Surely somewhere a mistake has crept in.” But whenever someone tells you to amend your Upanishads, you become an enemy. You turn your back. You feel, “This man is an enemy of religion.”

It is astonishing: whenever someone brings religion alive on this earth, he appears to be the enemy of religion. Those whom you think are the friends of religion are the priests you have hired.

Then Buddha says a second thing: well-instructed.

This is not everyone’s good fortune. Out of millions, rarely does someone realize truth. And among those who realize, not all are fortunate enough to be able to express what they have known. That too happens rarely—once in millions. Out of millions, one Buddha; and out of millions of Buddhas, one who manifests as a shasta, a true master. For knowing is one thing; giving birth to knowing in others is quite another. More difficult than knowing is making it known.

You see the morning sun arise, beauty appears; you are drenched in it—but rarely can a poet sing it. You cannot say what happened. When a poet sings, you recognize—“Exactly this was my experience too. Exactly what I wanted to say but could not—you have said.”

Some painter may sometime give it color. From someone’s brush it may descend. You yourself cannot paint it. You have seen the sun rise daily—sit once and try to paint it; your attempt will seem childish. You will not wish to show it to anyone.

You have heard the music of birds; in the night, in the music of stars you have felt tremors of experience; but some musician may be able to translate that melody down to the plane where expression happens.

So first, seek the instructed Dharma; then, from one who can make you understand rightly. For Dharma is a very subtle matter. If the explainer is not clear and clean, more confusion will arise. Instead of resolving, people entangle. Then it would have been better had you remained in your darkness. These awkward talks of light will confuse you even more.

Dharma itself is beyond reason, beyond logic. If someone is a very skilled painter, he may render a little picture fit for your eyes. The matter is beyond words—if someone is a master of words, perhaps he may bring a little of the tune into words.

The matter is of the wordless, known only in silence. To bring it into words is like carving a delicate flower from stone. The medium is such that the flower’s tenderness will be lost, the bloom’s grace will be lost, its fleetingness will be lost. Yet sometimes a master sculptor carves the flower even in stone; in the hard medium he dissolves charm and grace.

Thus Buddha says: first, catch it where the Ganga is born. Recognize while the guest is here. And then, let it be well-instructed—else you will be further entangled. Dharma is beyond logic; reason has no purchase on it.

We do the reverse. First, we go to understand religion from those who themselves do not know. We go for treatment to physicians who themselves are ill.

I have heard: A man’s eyes went wrong—he began to see everything double. Poor fellow, a villager—he came to the city and went to a doctor. By coincidence, the doctor had the same disease, and older—the doctor saw one as four. When the villager said, “This is my trouble—free me from it. It’s hard to walk; every single thing appears double,” the doctor said, “Do not worry. Do all four of you see things double? All four of you have this illness?” The poor villager slapped his forehead. “Blessed sir! First cure yourself; then worry about me.”

Those from whom you go to understand religion—have you ever looked to see whether there is any fragrance of religion around them? Sitting near them, have you ever found yourself filled from some far sky? In their presence have you experienced inner transformation? In their satsang, has some inner bathing happened—such freshness, such a fragrance of flowers, such a whisper of dawn?

You do not even bother. You go to anyone. Often you do not even go—you pay them and call them home.

I was a guest in Delhi. Jugal Kishore Birla was alive then; he sent word, “Please come to my house; I want to understand some things from you.” I said, “If you really want to understand, come to where I am. If you do not, then no harm, I can come there too.”

He was offended. He said, “You should know—even Mahatma Gandhi stayed at my house and came to my house. I have not yet seen a saint whom I invited who did not come.”

I said, “Then mark this day—otherwise one experience will remain incomplete. I will not come. Now, formally I will not come. Now it has become meaningless. The saints will be maligned forever. If you want to come, come.”

People have their languages. The man he had sent returned and said to me, “You are making a mistake; he also wants to give you a donation. Your work will be easier if you have his support.”

I said, “Does he want to learn from me, or teach me? Does he want to take some convenience from my life, or give me some convenience? Let us make that clear first.”

It is very difficult. You not only go to understand—you call them, you buy them.

Sainthood cannot be purchased. Truth cannot be purchased. Before Truth, you have to sell yourself. Into the hands of Truth you must put yourself at stake.

Buddha says: first, instructed—living; second, seek one who will not further entangle you. He himself must not be entangled. It may be that he has had glimpses, that the tones of Samadhi have echoed in his life; but keep in mind—can he bring it to you or not?

Someone asked Buddha, “For forty years you have been explaining to people. Among your ten thousand monks, how many have attained Buddhahood? For we see none like you.”

Buddha said, “Many among them are like me. Many are like me; if there is a difference, it is only this—I am skilled in speaking, they are not. What I have known, many among them have known. If there is a difference—and for Buddhahood it is no great difference—it is only that I can say it, they cannot.”

Speaking has its own art. Explaining light to one who stands in darkness has its art. Awakening a sense of beauty in those who have no glimpse of beauty has its art. Those who have even forgotten their thirst—how will they recognize fulfillment? To give news of fulfillment to those who do not even remember thirst is intricate work.

Therefore Buddha says, “Only those who practice the well-instructed Dharma cross the realm of death which is hard to cross.”

The rest keep listening to religious talk, keep grasping, the whole play continues in sleep—they do not wake. Go to temples, mosques, churches—you will find millions asleep, listening to religion for years. Listening, they have become deaf; they have not awakened. Listening, they have lost the very sensitivity to listen—dull, bored; but nowhere does a revolution appear in life.

Do not fall into this mistake. To find a true master is essential. There is no other way. Religion is never received from one who has not realized—first point. And even from one who has realized, it is difficult—if he has no bridge to reach you.

Therefore there are many siddhas, but very few true masters. Not all siddhas are gurus; all true gurus are certainly siddhas.

The Jains have a system here. They call the true master a Tirthankara. Many attain Kevala-jnana—perfection; many reach the state of siddha—but only rarely does a Tirthankara appear. In one cycle of creation, from creation to dissolution, there are only twenty-four. Even twenty-four seems a large number.

In the Hindu expression, he is called an Avatara. Many go to Paramatman—but those who bring Paramatman down to you, who cause the descent—are very few. To go to Paramatman is difficult, but not impossible; many go. But an Avatara is one who brings Paramatman down to you.

And unless Paramatman is brought down to you, you cannot find the path to go to Paramatman. In some form the ray of the sun must reach you—by that ray you can reach the sun. Even a small support, a sutra...

“They alone cross the hard-to-cross realm of death.”

What does a living master say? What does he explain?

More than explaining, more than saying—his presence provokes something. His presence is catalytic.

The setting sun said to the little lamp—
Listen, what truth he spoke:
Rise, string your bow
The phalanx of darkness must be pierced
What pause is here?
A flame must learn to live in the storm
The setting sun said to the little lamp—
Listen, what truth he spoke

One who has attained is about to drown—he is the setting sun; his evening has come. There will be no more births. No further sunrise. The hour of farewell has come. What does he say to the little lamps for whom a long dark night and great struggle lie ahead?

The setting sun said to the little lamp—
Listen, what truth he spoke:
Rise, string your bow
The phalanx of darkness must be pierced
What pause is here?
A flame must learn to live in the storm

In the presence of Buddhas, a certain urgency arises in your search. A certain velocity. Riding their surge, your boat too begins to move. Filling your sails with their winds, you too engage in the journey with fierce speed.

And once you taste the pace of your own feet, then even if the company of the enlightened is no more, it makes no difference. Once you taste your own strength; once even a small lamp knows that no matter how dark the night, how deep the gloom, it cannot extinguish me—the dark has no power to blow out even a small flame—then trust arises. And once the little flame begins to feel the thrill of life in gusts of wind, to feel challenge in tempests, to feel the unknown’s invitation in storms—then the little lamp is little no more.

The true master is a setting sun. Evening has come; before night he wishes to say a few things. Listen to him directly.

But how strange is the human mind! A doctor comes to see me—whenever he comes, he keeps making notes. I told him, “I am speaking alive—and you are missing. What will you do with these notes?” He says, “Later at home I read them in peace.” You make scripture—and then you read it.

You go to the Himalayas with a camera—you do not see the Himalayas; you keep taking pictures. “Later, at home in the album, we will quietly look.” What limit to your craziness! By sheer good fortune you reached the Himalayas—fill your eyes, fill your heart—let the coolness and vastness of the Himalaya sink into you; that work you assign to the camera. A camera is only a device. How will it capture the Himalayas? What news it brings could have been bought as a picture from the marketplace. The real joy was satsang with the living Himalayas.

Seek the living stream. Only with the help of the living stream can you cross the realm of death. Why? Because only one who has known Amrita can take you on the journey to Amrita.

Otherwise you may shout a thousand prayers to the sky: Asato ma sadgamaya—but the empty sky hears; there is no response. What can the poor sky do? “Lead me from untruth to truth; from darkness to light; from death to immortality”—who is there to hear? Go to the one who has reached the truth—go to him filled with this thirst: Asato ma sadgamaya, lead me. To the one who has arrived at the source—walk a little with him. Before the guest departs, recognize him.

Therefore it has often happened in the world
Only when the guest departed, he was recognized

Let this mistake not happen to you.

The second sutra: “The wise one should abandon the unwholesome and contemplate the wholesome; becoming homeless, he should dwell in such solitude where it is hard for the heart to find attachment. The wise, renouncing pleasures, becoming ownerless, should desire to be absorbed in that solitude, and cleanse himself of the stains of mind.”

Those who have heard the call of the Buddhas—only they are the wise. Mere knowledge of scripture does not make one wise—wisdom is the awakening of the thirst for Paramatman.

Wise means: you are no longer content to live within your boundaries; the search has begun. Granted, the dark night surrounds you—but the seeking of dawn has begun. In the dark womb of night, the sun of morning has begun to stir. The journey of morning has begun. Granted, you live in darkness, in the unwholesome, in the world—granted; but you are no longer finished there. The aspiration to go beyond has made a home in your heart; the longing has awakened.

Nasim, awake—gird your loins
Fold your bed, the night is short
The journey is hard—how long will you dream?
The destination is immeasurably far

In the presence of a true master, when you begin to pack your bed—the birth of wisdom has happened. Wise does not mean one who knows much; wise means one who longs to know. Not a collector of information, but one aflame with the urge for truth.

“The wise should abandon the unwholesome and contemplate the wholesome.”

When Buddha says, “abandon the unwholesome and contemplate the wholesome,” he does not say the unwholesome will drop this very instant. Rather, lessen your attention upon it. That which we attend to receives our energy, our strength.

Understand: if you are prone to much anger, you often begin to pay a lot of attention to anger—even in order to be free of it: “Somehow I must be rid of anger.” Thus you become hypersensitive to anger. You keep a constant watch—lest anger come again, lest anger come again... And this very repeated attention gives energy to anger. By remembering anger again and again, anger grows dense, solid. The groove of anger deepens in you.

If you would be free of anger, the first key is: do not attend to anger. Acknowledge it is there—but neither forget nor suppress. Place your attention on compassion. If anger is your disease, attend to compassion. Think more of compassion, hum it, contemplate it. If any opportunity comes to be compassionate—do not miss it.

What we generally do: an angry man tries not to be angry when the occasion arises. In not doing, it will happen within; it will smoke within—poison will spread.

No—if lust for anger is your disease, ignore anger. Not worth your attention, not worth your thought. Attend to compassion. Compassion is the opposite pole; pour energy there. Water compassion. Give it love. If even a tiny chance arises—do not miss it.

Even if a fly sits upon you, when you shoo it away, shoo it with utmost compassion. Do not miss even that tiny chance—because the more energy transforms into compassion, the less remains to feed anger. The energy is the same: give it to anger, anger grows; give it to compassion, compassion grows.

In Buddha’s discipline, noble indifference is very important. They say: whatever you want to be free of—turn your back on it. No need to suppress—just be indifferent. Loosen your hold from there. Let all your energy flow to the opposite pole; gradually you will find the power that fed anger is no longer available.

Try this a little. Do not fight anger. If plagued by lust, do not fight lust—otherwise it grows. The more you fight, the deeper the wound; and repeated defeat destroys self-trust. Without self-trust the seeker goes astray. Do not fight.

“The wise should abandon the unwholesome and contemplate the wholesome—and becoming homeless, dwell in such solitude where it is hard for the heart to settle.”

Ordinarily we live in crowds. We have grown up in crowds. We are part of crowds. The crowd has occupied us within. There remains no inner solitude. You say in your house you have privacy, solitude—no, you do not. Even in night dreams the crowd does not leave you. Consider your pitiable condition: asleep at night, in dreams—people are present. Uninvited guests present. And remember: it is not their fault—they have not come.

In Egypt there was an emperor, somewhat eccentric. He proclaimed: “If anyone appears in my dream, I will have him killed.”

Great difficulty arose. People were afraid. What could they do? It is not in others’ hands. No one comes into your dreams—you bring them. Your own projections. It is said he had a vizier hanged, because the vizier appeared in his dream and spoiled his sleep.

Remember: no one comes into your dream. You are the crowd; you are not yet a person. The soul is not yet born in you. You are a heap of odds and ends. A thousand kinds of scrap lie within you. You are a junkyard: someone’s leg, someone’s arm, someone’s nose, someone’s ear—everything collected inside. If you go within, you will find the marketplace, the shop, the scriptures, temples and mosques—you will not find yourself. You will not find your own being—yet you will find the whole world. What a joke!

So in the beginning the seeker must take himself out of the crowd. And it is not only a matter of outer crowd; you can flee to the forest and nothing much will happen. Sitting in the forest you will think of the marketplace—more than ever.

Often people say: when they sit to meditate, the mind thinks of the world even more. In the temple they think more of the shop. For there is leisure—and nothing else is to be done.

People come to me and say, “Strange—ordinarily there are not so many thoughts; but when we meditate, there is a great onslaught.” The rest of the time you are entangled—thoughts flow but you have no leisure to notice. In meditation you sit empty—there is space; the whole world seems to pounce.

The real question is inner; yet outer solitude can help. The essential thing is inner aloneness.

“In such solitude where it is hard for the heart to settle.”

Your heart settles only in the crowd. Sitting idle you read the newspaper. Newspaper means news of the crowd. Idle, you switch on the radio, the television. Idle, you go to a friend’s house, to the club, to the neighbor. Idle, you do something—anything. Without the other, your heart does not settle. So dependent! The other is your master? Without another you cannot pass even a moment? What kind of freedom is this? What kind of self-ownership? You are not even your own.

One begins to become one’s own who starts to relish solitude—who delights in being with oneself. Whose only joy is not being with the other; whose supreme joy becomes being with oneself.

And a very delightful—though paradoxical—thing: one who enjoys being with himself deeply—others will enjoy being with him. You are bored with yourself; you will bore others too. What else can you do? You bore yourself—you will bore others. You are wearying them, they are wearying you. They listen to you only so they can speak their part. You ran from your solitude; they ran from theirs. Both are disturbed.

Listen carefully to two people conversing—you will be amazed: they are not talking to each other; each is saying his own piece. Who has time to talk to another? Each is overflowing with his own fumes.

So first—begin to savor solitude a little. Buddha says: that is the wise one.

Why? Because only the intelligent begin to create the capacity to live within themselves—to roam in their inner sky. Because there lies the very life of your life, the source of your being, your origin and your end, the temple—and the enthroned Lord—if anywhere, there. He who loses that loses all. He who gains that gains all.

“And becoming homeless...”

As we are tied to the crowd, so we are tied to house. The crowd is no real help; it is only a means to forget, a kind of intoxication. In life’s crucial moments you always remain alone. At birth, you were alone—within you there was only you. At death, you will be alone—within you, only you. And whenever, if you observe, you have moments of exaltation, of wonder, of blessedness—you will find, you are alone.

At dawn, for a moment the sun rose and your heart was in rapture, colors spread—suddenly you find, no one is there. Your inner sky becomes empty. Only then does a little taste of beauty come.

Listening to music, when within you no one remains—vast aloneness—that is the moment the music will touch your inner veena; the strings within will vibrate. Until your inner instrument begins to play, how will you understand the music without? Until you have a sense of inner beauty, all outer beauty is useless.

So whenever something significant happens in life—you will suddenly find, you are alone. I want to say a hard thing: if love has ever happened in your life—you will suddenly find, you are alone. Though people think that in love two become one—that is not true. In love two solitudes meet. In love, two individuals become alone. Lovers are free of the crowd. And when there are two, there is no crowd there. There, you are alone—and the other is alone. There aloneness is complete. Two zeros together make only one zero, not two. Two emptinesses merge into one emptiness, not two.

And if this does not happen—if even in love you remain you, full of the crowd—know that it is the moment of lust, not love. This is the difference: lust seeks the other; love experiences one’s own being. At most, the other becomes a mirror in which we see our own image.

Whenever you are alone, use those moments. Consider those moments of solitude a blessing; use them, dwell in them. Slowly, taste will arise. At first there will be restlessness, anxiety.

That is what Buddha says: such solitude where it is hard for the heart to settle.

Your heart is borrowed—it settles only in the crowd. It is used to stench; fragrance irritates it. The peace of solitude bites; the noise of crowd delights. The habit will change; it will take time. But once the taste of solitude is gained—you will live in the crowd and yet be alone. You will stand in the marketplace—yet alone. Your inner Himalaya will never be lost. The Himalaya within will go with you.

High peaks are within you; great heights and great depths. But you remain unacquainted with the inner world.

One heart’s pain that stayed with life
One heart’s peace that we kept seeking forever

This is how your life goes. Yet peace can be found now—because what you seek outside is present within. And the sorrow can be lost now—because it is born of outer seeking.

Let me repeat—

One heart’s pain that stayed with life
One heart’s peace that we kept seeking forever

This is your life-story. All life seeking some peace; all life seeking escape from sorrow—but it does not happen.

The direction is wrong. Like squeezing oil from sand. Peace is within; you seek it outside. Sorrow is outside; peace is within. Seek outside—you will find only sorrow. Seek within—the note of bliss begins to sound.

Remember: you came alone, you will go alone. In between these few days—do not depend too much on the crowd. If even the gap is filled with aloneness, you will find all the secrets, all the keys.

And who stands with you anyway? Who stands in adversity? All companionship is deception.

In black misfortune, who stands with whom?
In darkness even a shadow departs from man

Who stands by in the moment of calamity? All this is the song of pleasure. All companions seem companions of joy. When darkness gathers, who stands with whom? When death takes your hand, who holds your hand?

In darkness even a shadow departs from man

In deep night, even your shadow leaves you—what trust in another then? One who accepts this truth, understands it—becomes his own companion. He finds the real companion.

“Homeless” is also worth understanding. It does not mean you must run away from your house. It only means—wherever you live, do not make a home. It does not mean do not put a roof over your head; do not stand under any shelter. It only means—do not think, “This is my home.” Let it remain an inn. At most a night’s halt—when morning comes, move on. Such homelessness—this is sannyas.

We have a word—grihastha. People take it to mean one who lives in a house. That is a mistake. Everyone lives in a house. A sannyasin is one who does not make a “home.” He will live in a house, but he does not believe there is any home. As if his luggage is always packed—when the hour to depart comes, he is ready.

An American president was near death. The physician thought it necessary to tell him. He said, “Your hour has come.” He had thought the president would be frightened. The president barely opened his eyes and said, “Ready!” That was all.

The householder is ready to grasp; the renunciate is ready to let go. It is a matter of readiness; it is not necessary that you actually leave. The feeling of letting go! If it is snatched away, you will not wail; you will not scream and writhe; you will not say, “My home is gone.” Then you are homeless.

“The wise, renouncing pleasures, becoming ownerless, should wish to be absorbed in solitude, and cleanse themselves of the defilements of mind.”

Nurture the desire, the longing to live in solitude—water this plant.

“Becoming ownerless...”

You can be alone only if you are ready to be a nobody. Keep this sutra in mind. If you want to be big—you will need the crowd. Who will call you big otherwise? If you want to be an emperor—you will need an empire. If you want to be a leader—you will need followers. If you want to be “something”—you will need the crowd. And of what you need—you will be dependent; you will be a slave.

Thus those you call leaders are slaves to their followers. And those you call emperors—you will not find bigger slaves.

Nadir Shah came to Hindustan. He conquered Delhi. He had never seen an elephant before. Seeing one, he wished to sit on it. They seated him. He looked forward and saw the mahout with an ankusha. “What are you doing there?” he asked. The mahout said, “Sir, this is an elephant; to drive it a mahout is needed.” Nadir Shah said, “Give me the reins and get down.” He was used to horses; he had never seen an elephant. “Get down; give me the reins.” The mahout laughed: “There are no reins—and only a mahout can drive it.” It is said Nadir Shah leapt down. “What I cannot hold the reins of—it is dangerous to sit upon. I do not wish to own anything whose reins are not in my hands.”

But look deeper—reins also make little difference. With reins, control increases a bit—but even then, little changes. Because whose reins you hold—your reins are in his hands too.

The Sufi Bayazid once passed with his disciples and saw a man dragging a cow. The cow did not want to go; the man was pulling. Bayazid said, “Stop! Surround this man. There is a lesson.” He asked his disciples, “Tell me—is the man binding the cow, or the cow binding the man?” The disciples said, “Clear—the man binds the cow. The man is the master; the cow the slave.”

Bayazid said, “One more question: If we cut this rope in the middle—will the cow go after the man, or the man after the cow?” They said, “The man will go after the cow.” “Then who is the master?”

Whom you follow—that is your master. Whose reins you hold—he holds yours. The moment you possess a thing—you become its slave.

When you say, “This is my house”—you become the house’s. And remember, when the rope breaks, the house will not weep for you; you will weep for the house. When the reins snap, you will discover you were the slave.

“Homeless, solitary, and ownerless...”

Only one ready to be a nobody can be free of the crowd.

But all of us have these experiences—not unique. What is unique is that though we have them, we remain unlearned. How many times your home was built and demolished! How many reins you held—and were held! How many times you tried to be master—and became slave! How many times you sought the crowd—and lost yourself! So many experiences—and yet the wonder is you do not learn.

Whether pearl or glass, goblet or wine
What breaks is broken
How can tears ever mend it?
What breaks is broken

In vain you gather shards and hide them in your robe
There is no messiah of broken glass—
What hope do you harbor?

Jesus raised the dead—but the shards you carry, he cannot rejoin.

There is no messiah of broken glass—
What hope do you harbor?

And in your garment there are only shards. All mirrors broken. In life you have collected nothing but fragments, useless fragments. Yet you hope someone will join them. And you weep.

How can tears ever mend it?
What breaks is broken

Look carefully at your life once more—a re-examination—and you will find: what the Buddhas say, your experience confirms as true. That is why Buddha has said again and again: do not believe because I say it—believe only if it aligns with your experience.

Alignment does happen. Truth is that which aligns with everyone’s experience. Yes, if you refuse to align—sit with eyes closed—that’s another matter. Man keeps cajoling himself: “Not yet—tomorrow it will happen. Missed this time—won’t miss again.” But this is a target that never gets hit. Its nature is to be missed—not because of your archery. However skilled you become—this target will keep eluding you. Because there is no target there at all. The sooner this failure dawns in your life, the sooner the inner journey begins.

The moon and stars will not illumine your life
Do not keep yourself amused with these false toys

The light does not come from moon and stars—it comes from within. Awaken it within. In solitude awaken it; homeless, awaken it; leaving possessions, awaken it; leaving the crowd, awaken it. Lest life pass—and the flame remain asleep.

“Those whose minds are well-trained in the limbs of Awakening, who are unattached, ever engaged in abandoning possession, whose outflows are exhausted and who shine—they alone, in this very world, have attained Nirvana.”

A rare utterance. If you awaken—here, in this world—Nirvana is attained. Nirvana is not some afterlife. It is not a destination you will reach later. If you awaken, it is here and now. It is a destination hidden in your very steps. It is to be uncovered, not to be found. It lies concealed under every step of yours.

The destination is tied to your step
What is not upon the destination is not your step

If your destination appears far, in the future—you are mistaken. The destination lies beneath your feet. If you seek treasure elsewhere—you are mistaken. You are standing upon the treasure.

“Those whose minds...”

Buddha has spoken of the limbs of Samadhi much like Patanjali: Right View, Right Livelihood, Right Effort, Right Mindfulness, Right Samadhi—the Eightfold. One who practices these...

One who practices steadiness of seeing—Right View. The art of seeing without thought—this is Right View. If the eye is filled with thoughts, thoughts distort whatever you see. If the eye is empty of thought—you see what is. Then truth appears.

The journey begins with Right View, ends in Right Samadhi.

Right Samadhi means: an inner state where all is resolved... all is resolved... all is resolved. No question remains—such questionlessness. In that moment truth lifts all veils. In that moment life dances around you. In that moment life’s tavern showers on you from all sides.

“Whose mind is well-practiced in the limbs of Awakening.”

Practice is needed. The stupor is long, the laziness long—break it; hammer it. Lift the chisel of effort, of meditation—cut away the stoniness gathered all around, so that the inner spring may flow again.

“Who are unattached, ever engaged in the abandonment of possession.”

Whoever continually endeavors to abide in the feeling: other than me, nothing is mine. Only I am mine. The stabilization of this feeling—this is non-attachment.

“Whose outflows are exhausted.”

His karmas begin to thin. He acts—and yet is a non-doer. He walks—and yet does not walk, for what moves is desire.

Man does not walk in this world—
Desire walks

He whose desire is gone—he walks, yet is unmoving. He eats—and is fasting. He rises, sits, does all—but as if he does nothing. Within, the state of non-doer, the witness, abides.

“Whose outflows are exhausted.”

His karmas gradually are drained.

Krishna in the Gita tells Arjuna: “Consider yourself an instrument. Become a nobody, an ownerless one. Do not say, ‘I act’; say, ‘Paramatman acts.’”

Buddha does not even bring Paramatman in between. He says, “Even that may bring stiffness, ego.” Buddha says simply: no one is doing—it is happening.

Understand: Buddha says, everything is happening; no one is doing—not you, not anyone. Things are happening. Rivers flow to the ocean; the ocean rises by the sun and becomes clouds; clouds rain upon the Himalaya; rivers are born again—happening. No one is doing.

When such a state begins to be felt, karmas are exhausted. And a radiance is born—a glow within appears. Around such a person you will see a halo. Around him an intense light—so strong you could almost touch it.

“They alone, in this very world, have attained Nirvana.”

There is no other world. This very world—when you change—becomes the other world. A change of eye.

This is the mark of the unbeliever: he is lost in the world.
This is the mark of the believer: within him the world is lost.

The kafir’s identity is that he is lost in the horizons.
The momin’s identity is that within him the horizons are lost.

The irreligious is lost in the world—drowned; only the world remains, he himself is gone. The religious—only the Self remains; the world dissolves into the vastness of the Self.

Test Buddha’s words on the touchstone of your life. Look again and again at your life—everything is hidden there. There is the criterion whether Buddha’s words are true. There is no other logic for these words—their logic is in consonance with your life. These words are not proof in themselves—the proof happens between your experience and them. Look carefully and you will find—

Life—and a memory of life
A curtain—and some shadows upon the curtain

You will find life is no more than a dream.

A curtain—and some shadows upon the curtain

If you keep trusting these shadows—there is the world. If you know them as shadows—Nirvana happens.

To know the false as false—is to be free of the false.

Truth—you are. Only freedom from the false is needed.

Nirvana—you are. Nirvana is your nature. The recognition of this nature, the remembrance of this nature, the meeting with this nature—bringing it face-to-face.

Enough for today.