Es Dhammo Sanantano #35

First sutra: “He who has completed the path, who is without grief and utterly free, and whose knots have been undone—no suffering befalls him.”

What is the path? That which we call life is the path. There is no path other than life. He who has ripened in the very experience of life has completed the path. If you seek a path anywhere other than life, you will go astray. There is no other way. This life flowing moment to moment, this life moving breath by breath—this is the path. You are already on the path.

Man has gone astray because he dropped seeing life as the path and created paths separate from life. Sometimes he called those paths “religion,” sometimes “yoga.” He gave them different names and raised great disputes. He got entangled in nets of words.

And the path stands before your eyes. The path is under your feet. Wherever you are standing, you are upon the path. For from wherever you stand, the road leads toward Paramatma. Even if you stand with your back turned, still you are on the path. Even if you stand with closed eyes, still you stand on the path.

Whether you understand it or not—there is no way to step outside the way. For his way is like the sky. His way is not a paved highway, not a royal road; each person must find his own footpath. And if you rightly understand this “footpath,” what is there to find? It is already given—only to be understood.

Life is the path. Life’s pleasures and pains are the path. Life’s successes and failures are the path. By wandering and wandering man arrives. By falling and falling man learns to stand. By missing and missing he comes to the mark. When your arrow finally meets the target, will you not give thanks to all those misses that went astray? Because of them it hits the center now. When you can stand firm, will you not thank the falls? For had you not fallen, you would never have learned to stand.

When virtue appears, even sin is thanked. And when Paramatma is realized, even the world is greeted with wonder. If condemnation remains, know that somewhere a mistake has happened. If condemnation remains, understand that the possibility of falling is still there, that the path is not complete.

He who arrives looks back and sees—all cooperated in his arriving. Errors and slips had their hand; sun and shade had their hand; friends and foes alike collaborated. Not only flowers served—thorns too were companions. Those who supported did, and those who became obstacles on the road—also.

He who has looked back has found—astonishing! Nothing was truly against me. By opposition man grows; therefore opposition is nothing to fear. By duality man develops; it is in the very duel that the non-dual matures. In the two, the glow of the One descends.

“He who has completed the path.”

Who is this one who has completed the path? The one who has allowed himself to be ripened in life’s sun; who has touched life’s depths and heights; who has tasted the bitter and the sweet; who has known the pain of falling and the blessedness of rising; who has known the dark nights and the sun-lit days; the one who has seen all and remained the witness of all.

He who saw all, who let everything pass over him, yet identified with none—youth came, but he did not become “young”; pleasure came, but he did not believe himself “happy”; pain arrived, but he did not believe himself “unhappy.” Wakefulness! He stayed awake. The lamp of awareness remained lit. Whatever came, he accepted: surely some teaching is hidden within it. In life nothing happens by accident, nothing without cause. Whatever occurs in life is purposeful—somewhere, some reason is at work.

If man has to be erased and remolded again and again, the reason is this: until man truly “is,” he must be reshaped over and over.

As a sculptor carves a statue, his chisel keeps striking until the form is complete. The stone must feel pain. The chisel must seem an enemy. The desire must arise to escape, to throw off the chisel. But then the stone would remain unhewn. Then that majestic image would never be born—worthy to be enshrined in temples, capable of bending a thousand heads in reverence.

To ripen in life’s sun—this is the completion of the path. As a fruit ripens and then falls, so the one who has completed life’s path becomes free of life. When a fruit ripens, it separates from the very tree that nourished it. You see this miracle every day yet do not recognize it. When the fruit ripens, from the very tree that ripened it, it is released; ripening, it is freed.

Only the unripe needs bondage. The unripe requires support. The unripe cannot be without tether. Bondage is not an enemy—it supports your unripeness. When you ripen, when you are complete in yourself, the tree is no longer needed, and the fruit drops away.

Thus liberation from the world blossoms when you ripen.

Buddha’s words have been gravely misunderstood. The words of all the awakened ones have been misunderstood. They said one thing—you heard another. Listen carefully!

“He who has completed the path, who is without grief and utterly free.”

This is the sign of path-completion: that he is free of grief, and utterly liberated.

The fruit fell on its own—this is the sign that it ripened. But you can also pluck an unripe fruit. A plucked fruit is not ripened; and a plucked fruit carries the sting of pain, a lurking sorrow. The lack of ripening will continue to smart, prick like a thorn. And when you pluck an unripe fruit, not only does the fruit suffer, the tree suffers too. The hour of falling had not yet arrived; the moment of freedom had not yet come—you were hasty, impatient.

So among those you call “sannyasis,” most are full of impatience. They did not give Paramatma full opportunity. The journey was not complete, and they withdrew. The fruit had not ripened—they jerked themselves free. Hence they may sit in temples, but their minds are in the marketplace. They may dwell in ashrams, but seeds of craving abide in them; desire continues to churn. They were unripe!

I say to you: never run away. No one has ever been freed by escape. Bhagwan is not for deserters. Has anything come by fleeing? Flight is the proof of fear. An unripe fruit torn away is proof of haste, of impatience.

And he who has no patience, no infinite waiting, cannot attain this supreme fruit we call Paramatma.

“He who has completed the path.”

Meaning: he who has given life full opportunity—in all its colors, in all its forms. Do not live timidly; do not live hiding from storms. If tempests arise, do not shut yourself inside. A storm does not come without reason; it blows dust away. A storm does not come without reason; it awakens a challenge, it plucks at strings sleeping within.

Remember one thing always: in this world, nothing happens without cause—whether you recognize it or not. Sooner or later, when you awaken, you will understand. Those fingers that now seem like enemies—you will one day find they too awakened the veena of your heart.

It is by the grace of fingers that resonance is born; otherwise the veena is a silent, futile reed.

If the veena becomes afraid and hides itself, not allowing any fingers to touch its strings, the veena will remain dead. Music will sleep on.

As the tree remained locked inside the seed. As the voice stuck in the throat. As love was caged in the heart. As the fragrance was ready to bloom yet could not spread—bud never opened, scent never scattered.

There is only one sorrow in the world—only one—and that sorrow is that you do not become what you are meant to become. Your destiny remains unfulfilled. Somewhere you miss, and no note resounds on your veena.

Courage will be needed. When the storm’s fingers arrive, let them also play upon your lute.

“He who has completed the path.”

A runaway never completes the way. He flees before completion. He is frightened by the very length of the road; he wants the destination for free. He wants to ripen, but not to bear the pain of ripening. He is like the woman who wishes to be a mother but will not endure the pangs of pregnancy.

Nine months you must carry that pain. And if you would be a mother—if you would know that incomparable experience: that life has been born through me; I am not futile, not barren; through me also flows the Ganga of life; I too became Gangotri—if you would receive that blessedness, those nine months must be endured. The pains of childbirth must be borne. Tears will stream, a cry will burst forth. Yet behind those cries and tears the unique form of the mother appears.

A woman is merely a woman until she becomes a mother. Until then she remains ordinary. In becoming a mother, the veena is played. Without becoming a creator, where is beauty? Without giving birth, where is blessedness?

You have seen it too: when you create even a small thing, joy enfolds you. You sculpt a figure, you paint a picture, you compose a song—you become absorbed. Something dances within. You are not futile; you are meaningful. Something has happened through you. Paramatma has also done a work through you—you became His hands. Through your steps He walked a few steps. Through your breaths He hummed a song.

Until such a thing happens, life feels empty, void. The lives of runaways are empty.

A great misfortune has occurred in this land. Sannyas here became the property of escapists. Hence sannyasis became barren. Think: in a span of five thousand years, how many millions of talents went barren like this! They neither sang, nor danced, nor created; they planted no gardens; their fingers played no veena—they only ran away, shrank from life. Like the ostrich burying its head in the sand, they hid in caves, trembling, terrified of life.

Much worship has been offered to these hidden men. From such worship no sunrise has come. Rather the night has grown deeper and darker, into new-moon blackness. So much talent went barren. So many fertile fields lay desert. Where oases could have been, only wastelands remained.

No—the awakened ones never taught this. And if you do not see “creation” in the lives of the awakened, it only means their creativity is exceedingly subtle. One makes a song, one sculpts a form—the awakened create themselves. You may have given birth to another; the awakened give birth to themselves.

You know the pain of birthing another; you do not yet know the pain involved in birthing yourself. To be mother to another finishes in nine months; to be mother to yourself may take births upon births. For lives upon lives the womb must be carried.

The awakened gave birth to themselves. Hence we called them dvija—twice-born. Unsatisfied with the birth given by mother and father, they rebirthed themselves. They became their own parents. There is no process more arduous—than to give birth to oneself.

But it may not be visible to you, because their poetry is too subtle. They have sung songs, but soundless. They have spoken, but to know their utterance requires great receptivity. They too have sculpted, but their images are of consciousness—chinmaya, not mrnmaya; not of clay, not of stone.

Yet countless people, misunderstanding their words, fled. Many used Buddha as a foundation for their escape. Many slipped away from life quietly.

“He who has completed the path.”

Who has completed the path? The one who has lived life through all its storms.

Karta hai junoon-e-shauq mera mehrab-e-talatum mein sajde
Toofan ye aqeeda rakhta hai, sahil ke paristaron mein nahin.

I pray in the storms!

Karta hai junoon-e-shauq mera mehrab-e-talatum mein sajde—
Such is my frenzy of love, such is my passionate devotion that I bow in the sanctuary of tempests.

Toofan ye aqeeda rakhta hai…
The tempest carries this faith—

Toofan ye aqeeda rakhta hai, sahil ke paristaron mein nahin—
not in the safe expanses of the shore.

Those who hide behind the bank, there prayer is not born. There your life becomes borrowed, no longer cash. There your life turns stale, no longer fresh. The morning’s freshness is lost.

And then—like one who adopts a child to become a mother—you become “religious” by adopting someone else’s words. The lack of your womb cannot be fulfilled by adoption. If you missed the womb, then by filling your lap you only deceive yourself; and that deception is costly.

People keep the Gita in their lap—an adopted Gita. They keep the Koran in their lap—an adopted Koran. This Koran was not born from their own womb. It was not forged in the depths of their consciousness. They bore no pain for it.

Ask Mohammed what agony the Koran was born in! The day the first ayat descended upon him, he trembled like a tree caught in a storm. His roots shook; he was frightened. When an ocean descends into a drop, tremor is inevitable. He trembled so much that a fever seized him. He could not muster the courage to go home. He thought, “I have gone mad. Such grace from God on me? Such a vast gift to me, a nothing? Impossible! I must be mad. I have heard my own voice. This is the mind’s fancy. I have imagined it.” He wept, cried, shouted on the mountain; then, quietly, in the night’s darkness, slipped into bed.

His wife asked, “What has happened to you?” She placed her hand upon him—he burned like fire. “What happened? You left in the morning perfectly well.”

He said, “Do not ask yet. I am not certain what has happened. Surely some madness has come. Either I have gone mad, or I have fallen into an illusion. But you are my own—let me tell you what happened. Such and such a voice descended into me from the sky. Tell no one else; I will be defamed.”

The wife must have loved Mohammed truly. She bowed at his feet and said, “Do not be afraid. This is not a fever; you have come close to a great flame. I see an aura around you, a radiance I have never seen. A field of light surrounds you. Do not fear—Paramatma has descended.”

The wife reassures him, “It is divine,” while Mohammed says, “No—do not tell anyone; I have gone mad.”

Over years, ayat after ayat descended—like birthing child after child, in great pain.

And you sit with the Koran in your lap; but this Koran did not descend upon you. The Koran that did not descend upon you is not the Koran. The son not born of you—whom are you deceiving by calling him your son? Persuade yourself if you will! A lap will never be full unless the womb is first full; filling the lap is the second step. If the first step is missed, the second is only deception.

Life can fill everyone’s lap—for that is what life is.

Two kinds of mistakes are possible: either you remain asleep within life—that is the householder’s error; or, if someone comes to awaken you, you run away from life—that is the sannyasi’s error.

What is the exact, right way? Stay where you are, but stay awake. The experiences that passed you by were allowed to pass in sleep; the essence that could have been extracted, you did not take.

Had you taken the essence, anger would have become compassion—for compassion is hidden in anger. Anger is the seed of compassion. If you had learned from life’s experience, lust would have become love; love would have become prayer. Lust is the seed of love. Prayer is hidden within love.

Lust hides love; within love is hidden prayer; within prayer is hidden Paramatma.

Had you climbed each step…

Some are drowned blindly in lust. Others, hearing the call of an awakened one, grow frightened: “What are we doing? Sin! Sin!” They are filled with repentance. They run away. The seed of lust in them never becomes brahmacharya.

Where will you run? From what will you run? The disease is within. It is as if you have a fever and run into the jungle. Where will you go? The fever is inside you.

All illness is within. Give life the chance to burn away what is hidden inside you. Let the rubbish burn; let the gold remain. Give life a chance to make you pure gold.

“He who has completed the path.”

He who has completed life’s way sees: life is a dream.

Hasti apni hubab ki si hai—
Our existence is as a bubble;
Yeh numaish sarab ki si hai—
this spectacle is like a mirage.

He who has completed the path of life sees it as if a dream was seen. As one who has passed the night well and awakens in the freshness of dawn remembers, “How many dreams I saw!”—so when life begins to look to you like a dream, know the path is complete.

Hearing me, you may believe life is a dream; nothing will be solved by this. It must become your own experience; what will my saying do? I eat—your hunger is not satisfied. I dance—no fragrance arises in your being. My veena plays—your sleeping strings do not awaken.

When you yourself eat, you are satisfied. When water flows through your throat, your thirst is transformed into satiety.

Do not run away from life in haste. Your first mistake is that you are living asleep; do not commit the second—that you run away asleep. Stand up awake. He who is awake, ripens. And maturity is everything.

Anger will still occur—but allow it in wakefulness. Lust will still arise—but remain awake. Let someone within remain awake; lust may come and go—stay awake. Keep seeing, keep witnessing. And you will be astonished that that fierce storm of lust is no longer a storm—now it is a light breeze. The more you awaken, the more its power diminishes.

On the day your awakening is complete, on that very day lust gives birth to love. Then doors open upon doors. The first door alone is hard. Once you enter the palace by the main gate, then doors open upon doors, for the key is such that, once in hand, it unlocks all locks.

“He who has completed the path.”

He for whom it is seen that life is a dream. If this is not seen and you run away, then in the mountains and forests and deserts you will begin dreaming of another life—moksha, heaven, apsaras, houris! You will dream another dream of life. That dream is this same incomplete dream you did not finish seeing. Your sleep did not complete itself. You woke in the middle; you did not awaken healthy, but drowsy; and again you wish to sleep.

Look into the scriptures—you will see, many were written by runaways. Most scriptures were penned by them. How fascinating are the paintings of heaven! This is news of lust. These must have fled unfulfilled. Here women grow old, diseased; one day or another you begin to see bone, flesh, marrow, and the spell breaks. These runaways wrote that in their heaven the apsaras remain at sixteen forever—their age never increases. This must be the fantasy of the lust-possessed. The dream of here is unbroken, stretched to there.

Marne ki duaaen kyun maangu, jeene ki tamanna kaun kare
Yeh duniya ho ya woh duniya, ab khwahishe-duniya kaun kare—
Why should I pray for death? Who longs to live! Whether this world or the next—who would hanker for the world’s cravings?

He who understands that craving itself is dreamlike—whether of this world or that—why would he ask? Far from wanting to live, he does not even desire to die. The desire to die also arises in those tormented by the desire to live.

Those you see commit suicide—do not imagine they are free of life. Their craving for life was profound. So deep that life could not fulfill it. They were greedy—greed could not be filled. Their bag was too large—it remained empty. The woman they wanted did not come; the post desired was not attained; the wealth they sought did not arrive. They wanted to live on their terms. Defeated, in despair and dejection, they crave death. This is that same sannyasi’s error.

Some brave ones kill themselves at once; the weak commit suicide slowly. What you have called “renunciation” is slow suicide—killing yourself step by step.

There is no need to run from the dream. If awakening comes, the dream runs by itself—you need not. As long as you must run, know the dream is still true for you. When the dream itself becomes false, from what will you run?

A rope lies on the path and you mistake it for a snake—you run. Someone brings a lamp and shows it is a rope—you no longer run. The matter ends. From what will you run? There is no snake.

As long as the world seems real to you, you are not yet ripe; childishness remains. Your passions have not matured; otherwise they would drop.

Log kaanton se bach ke chalte hain,
Maine phoolon se zakhm khaye hain—
People avoid thorns; I have been wounded by flowers.

He who truly sees discovers that flowers are only a camouflage for thorns. As long as people avoid suffering, know they are immature. When even happiness is seen as futile, know that understanding has dawned. For happiness is but the strategy by which suffering hides itself. Happiness is a cloak that pain wears. At the gate of hell a signboard reads “Heaven”—otherwise who would enter hell? People would run away from the door.

A fakir was nearing death; asleep at night he dreamt he stood before God. He said, “Before I die I have one wish. Let me see both—heaven and hell—so that I may choose. Do at least this much; all my life I have prayed to You. People say hell is very bad and heaven very good. Let me see with my own eyes.”

He was granted the favor. He was taken to heaven. He saw heaven and found it very lackluster—so it would be! If all your so-called sannyasis have landed there, it will be dull indeed—each sitting under his own tree, beating his head. What will they do? There will be neither song nor dance. Even the flowers on trees must be shy to bloom. In heaven, blooming is forbidden. With such things, how can there be any joy? Stagnation must pervade; dust must have settled. If all the paramahansas sit there, imagine the rubbish that must have accumulated—the filth everywhere.

He was alarmed. “This is heaven? Good that I saw it first. Now show me hell.” He went to hell and was astonished—pleasantly shocked. It was so beautiful! Flowers blooming, songs being sung, music playing, bustle, color, celebration. He was amazed.

He asked the Devil, “This is hell? And that was heaven? False rumors have spread in the world.”

The Devil said, “What can we do? We get no chance at publicity. All the temples belong to God; all the mosques belong to God. Great injustice has been done to us. See with your own eyes. We have no opportunity. We are defamed needlessly.”

He said, “Then I choose hell.” He woke up. When he died, he chose hell. When he entered hell, he was shocked. The wicked pounced on him; that earlier scene of songs and lights was nowhere. Cauldrons boiled; oil bubbled; people were being thrown in.

He said, “What is this matter? Just two days ago I came!”

The Devil replied, “That is our corner for visitors—to show to sightseers. This is the real hell. Before, you came as a visitor; now you have come as a resident. Now you will enjoy.”

Even at hell’s gate the signboard reads “Heaven.” Do not be deceived by signboards.

Log kaanton se bach ke chalte hain,
Maine phoolon se zakhm khaye hain—
In truth, thorns too have grown clever—hiding behind flowers. Everyone avoids thorns; everyone wishes to pluck flowers. As when you go to catch fish, you bait the hook with dough. The fish does not bite the hook—it comes for the dough; yet it gets caught by the hook.

If you watch this whole process of life in awareness you will see: wherever you received pain, wherever you met thorns, you had gone there in hope of pleasure. The desire was for the flower; the thorn was what came.

But when will you awaken? How many times must it be repeated that whenever you have desired pleasure, you have received pain—without exception. Whenever you asked for flowers, thorns came. Even fish have grown alert—when will you? Fish now swim vigilantly—yet man again and again desires pleasure.

The mature person is one who sees that every thorn wears a veil made of flowers.

He who has completed the path becomes free of grief—because he no longer hankers for pleasure. He has dropped flowers themselves; now thorns cannot deceive him. He no longer craves the bait—how will the hook catch his throat?

“Who is without grief and utterly free.”

This is the meaning of being utterly free. If you are still desiring pleasure—even going toward religion with the same desire for pleasure—your world is not complete. Your religion is only a part of your world. Only he can move toward religion who has seen that all pleasures bring pain. He has seen it so deeply that there is no exception. All successes call failure. All honor invites insult. Behind every praise hides blame. Death stands behind birth. He who has seen this without exception—only he is utterly free.

Ripened upon life’s road, they become utterly free.

“And whose knots are all undone.”

What are “knots”? This word is worth understanding. It is a most valuable word in the psychology of the awakened. In the West psychology has only recently coined a parallel term: “complex”—but in India this word is five thousand years old. Those who have become free we have called “nirgrantha”—without knots, without complexes.

What is a knot? The literal meaning is a tie, a tangle. What does that mean? A knot means a deep habit—so deep that even if you untie it, it ties itself again; it keeps re-forming. You cannot simply undo it and be done…

As the saying goes: keep a dog’s tail in a tube for twelve years, still it remains crooked. Even after twelve years, the moment you remove the tube, it instantly bends—knot! The tail has a habit too deep.

Have you observed in your life how many times you have awakened, how many times you have understood that anger is poison? The dog’s tail has returned. A thousand times you understand it; yet when the moment comes again—it bends once more; anger happens again.

These knots must be untied. Mere “untying” is not enough, because you re-tie them. You have even forgotten where and how you tied them. You lay blame on others; you say, “He said such a thing—so I became angry.” Anger does not come from anyone else—it comes from your own knot. You say, “He abused me, that’s why I was enraged.” But abuse only evokes anger when it strikes a knot. If no knot exists within, the abuse passes through—there is nothing to strike.

What we now call “life” is a life of knots. Everything in it functions from tangles. About you, nearly accurate predictions can be made of what you will do tomorrow—because what you did today is what you will do tomorrow. This is how astrologers manage to deceive you. Your life goes in a fixed circle—like the bullock revolving the oil-press. Is it any difficulty at all to tell where that bullock’s hoof will fall next? It will fall exactly where it has always fallen.

Astrology becomes “true” regarding you precisely because it knows you are that bullock of the oil-press. What you have always done, you will keep doing; you will repeat it endlessly. Some things the astrologer says to everyone—and he will not be wrong. He tells everyone, “Money comes in your hand, but it doesn’t stay.” In whom does it stay? And even in those with whom it stays, not one will agree that it stays. The most miserly person believes, “I am the most wasteful.” The most miserly will nod, “True—money comes, it doesn’t stick.” The astrologer knows your condition of greed—it is universal.

Yes—if he looks at the palm of a Buddha, he will be in error. But that happens rarely. The hands that are available are the hands of the sleeping. He also tells you, “Those you consider your own—betray you.” It fits. It feels true. You feel you have done only good; others do bad to you. You believe you have done many acts of kindness—done or not, you at least believe so; it is the ego’s habit, the knot: “No one is as kind as I.” You follow the proverb: do good and cast it into the well. You go on doing good and pouring it away—never expecting thanks.

Everyone believes this of himself: “How much good I am doing for the world! And how blind people are—they do not see it. No one arranges plates for worship; no one performs my aarti. I keep doing good—and people keep doing harm.” Ask them, and they too think the same—that they do good, and others harm them.

Your knots… A knot means: a mechanical life. With awareness, there can be no prediction about you—because then your tomorrow will be new, not a repetition of today. Then every tomorrow will be new, every moment new. Newness will be your way. Leave others aside—you yourself will not be able to predict yourself. You too will shrug: “Who knows about tomorrow? When it comes, we will see.” Only when it comes will it be seen.

The knot must be undone. But it will untie only when you, awake, experience life’s pain. The knot is causing pain.

Every day people come and say, “I have great sorrow.” They speak as if someone else is giving them sorrow. They believe the entire world is giving them pain. The husband comes and says, “My wife gives me pain.” The wife comes, “My husband gives me pain.” Children come, “Our parents are killing us.” Parents say, “Children have become a noose around our necks.” Others give pain.

This means you have not tasted even a drop of life’s maturity. The moment you taste even a little, you will find, “I am giving myself pain. And if others give me pain, it is because I want them to. I make the arrangements—I set the stage. Even if they wouldn’t, I would be in trouble.”

A friend of mine—a professor with me in a university—always lamented, “When I approach my house, my feet hesitate to step in. My wife is as a wife should not be. She is dangerous. My chest starts pounding. I am a simple man.”

I said, “Then surely there must be causes in you too. First you yourself married her out of love; you chose her. Somewhere in you there must have been a desire to receive this pain from this woman—otherwise why? Looking at her from afar, even one with a little awareness would say, ‘Beware of this one.’ How did you get trapped? Did she tell you, ‘I love you’?” He said, “No. I myself put the noose around my neck.”

Women do not start things. A man cannot blame a woman for the beginning. She waits—stands and watches; “Come—slowly come near.” No husband can say, “You entangled me.” She does not entangle—you entangle yourself, she stands.

I said, “Then there must be causes in you. First you chose her; obviously you desired this pain. For lives you had been waiting for it. Now she has come and you are troubled. And I tell you, if this woman leaves you, you will choose another of the same kind. You will choose—won’t you? Do one thing: try to change yourself instead of bothering about her. Today, take flowers home; take ice-cream; buy a sari and take it. Have you ever done such a thing?” He said, “Never.”

I said, “Do it. Also, do some work in the house. Your wife works day and night; wash some plates; clean the kitchen.”

He said, “What? I should do that?”

I said, “Do it—at least today. Let us see the difference.”

He went and did it. Next day he told me, “More trouble has arisen. She began crying and shouting, ‘Have you been drinking? What has happened to you? Are you in your senses? Never in life did you bring ice-cream!’”

Whatever you do will not make much difference—because you remain the same. Whatever you do will issue from your knots; the sap flows from your knots; the pus is stored in your knots. The result will be the same. Do what you will—sorrow comes into your hand.

Yet you still do not see: “Am I not the creator of my sorrow?” Is the whole world so mad to give you pain? Why are all so eager to hurt you? The ego refuses to accept that “I could be the cause of my suffering.” The day you understand this, the revolution in life begins. From that day you no longer go to change others—you begin to change your knots.

You chose the wife—you chose her. Some error must be in you. The wife chose the husband—some error must be in her.

You have spent many lives seeing the faults of others—arriving nowhere. Now awaken and begin seeing your own faults. Transformation begins there. Then you start living in a different world—because you have become different. You change—and the world changes.

“Whose knots are all undone—no sorrow befalls him.”

Remove the ego from within, and you will find that no one can insult you—impossible! Even if the whole world conspires to insult you, it cannot.

A Sufi fakir entered a village. To insult him, people made a garland of shoes and placed it around his neck. He became delighted; he held the garland with great joy. People were astonished. They were expecting him to be angry, to abuse, to create a scene. They wanted a fight. He bowed again and again, as if he had been garlanded with roses. At last a man could not restrain himself: “What is the matter? Are you sane? This is a garland of shoes.” He said, “It is a garland—is that not enough? You worry about the shoes—I attend to the garland. And this is a cobblers’ village—what else can you do? Where will you bring flowers from? This is not a gardeners’ quarter; it is a cobblers’ quarter. I recognize it. Blessed are you that you at least brought a garland! I will keep it carefully. I have seen many garlands of flowers—this one is unique. You have said everything about yourselves by this.”

If within you there is no swelling of ego, if the knot of ego is not within, then no one can insult you. Even in a garland of shoes you will begin to see a garland. Right now you cannot see flowers even in a garland of flowers.

A politician held a rally. He was angry, unhappy. Afterwards he scolded the manager, “What is the matter? Why are you upset?” He said, “Only eleven garlands.” The manager said, “Is eleven too few?” He said, “I paid for twelve.”

Your garlands… you yourself must pay and keep count. Even flowers then are not flowers. Flowers placed upon your ego turn into thorns. It is a matter of the inner knot changing.

And this is possible only through the maturity of life; there is no other way. There is no path other than life. Life itself is the way—esa dhammo sanantano.

“The mindful ones labor; they do not delight in the house. As swans leave puddles, so they leave all homes.”

Take care that you do not fall into a mistake again. See—the Buddha’s statement is very subtle. The polarity he draws is not between “ashram and house,” but between “labor and home.”

Buddha says, “The mindful ones labor; they do not delight in the house.”

It seems reversed. You would expect him to say, “They live in ashrams, not in houses; in forests, not in homes.” But the polarity Buddha draws is unique.

He says, “The mindful ones labor; they do not delight in the house.”

What is the opposition between labor and house? What has labor to do with the house?

There lies the secret. You build a house so that tomorrow you need not labor. You build homes today for tomorrow’s security. You make bank balances today for tomorrow’s safety. You perform merit now for safety in the next world.

If you look closely, all your efforts at house-building are efforts to avoid labor. Why do you want to be rich? So that you need not labor. Even when you labor, you labor in the hope of escaping labor.

The mindful—smritivan means those who are awake, who have remembrance of themselves—such people labor; they do not revel in house.

Buddhist monks understood this sutra to mean “Run from home.” But its meaning is: labor—do not manufacture houses of security.

Even such a straight meaning gets missed. It must be said explicitly. It is clear—who needs to tell it? Yet all commentaries on the Dhammapada conclude: “Leave the house.” Two and a half millennia of wrong interpretation have misled countless people.

Buddha says, “The mindful labor.”

What does it mean? They make no arrangements for security. When tomorrow comes, tomorrow’s challenge will be met tomorrow. If we could live today, we will live tomorrow too. On the basis of the intelligence with which we resolved today, we will resolve tomorrow as well. Why build houses today for tomorrow? Why worry today for the future?

Jesus said: Foxes have holes to hide their heads, but the Son of God has nowhere to lay His head.

It means the same. Jesus told his disciples, “Look at the lilies of the field—they have no thought for tomorrow. They blossom today; they do not worry for the morrow. Therefore no line of anxiety creases their brow. Even King Solomon in all his palaces was not so beautiful as these flowers who, without care, have attained supreme beauty.”

If sannyas is true, no happening is more beautiful—because it means the sannyasi carries no burden of the future in his mind. It also means he carries no burden of the past. He who does not build houses for the future—why would he carry the houses of the past? The house built yesterday served yesterday. What will be needed tomorrow will be built tomorrow. Today suffices. This is sannyas.

Saare chaman ko main to samajhta hoon apna ghar,
Tu aashiyan-parast hai—ja aashiyan bana—
I take the whole garden as my home; you are a worshipper of nests—go, build your little nest.

Sannyasi does not mean he has “left home.” It means he has claimed the whole existence as his home—there is no need to build a separate one. It means this whole expanse—this sky, this earth—is mine. This life is mine; these moons and stars are mine. All this vastness is home. What need is there to build another?

Yes—those who are at odds with the sky, who fear the moon and stars, who want a separate security—for whom the security of the Whole seems insufficient—those for whom Paramatma is not enough, build houses.

Paramatma is enough—more than enough; not merely sufficient, more than abundant. When such understanding dawns, one works, struggles, labors—but does not seek security. The mysteries of life are revealed only to him who knows the art of living in insecurity.

Love—do not marry. Marriage is security; love is insecurity. Two people fall in love—and immediately worry: “We should marry.” For if we do not, what will happen tomorrow? Trees are living; birds and animals are living—nothing happens. So many tomorrows have passed. Only man worries about tomorrow.

You do not trust your love—hence you seek the law’s security. If you trust your love, what need is there of legal safeguards? If there is love today, there will be tomorrow—and more so. So much time will have passed, the Ganga will be broader, life’s springs will have fed it further.

But you do not trust that love exists even today. Even today your Ganga is shrunken; even today it seems dry. It feels as if the river may vanish any time. Before the Ganga disperses and the desert remains, put a legal tap in place; make the law your river. Before the river flies away, install legal faucets—so a little water will keep dripping. But to lose the Ganga and gain a tap is a costly bargain.

I do not say do not marry; I say: do not let marriage become the substitute for love. As a social arrangement, fine; but your inner security must not be handed over to it. Do not rely on marriage—rely on love; then you are sannyas. Then you are not building a house. Then you are not seeking security in law; you are open. You say, “When tomorrow comes we will see. We have made no arrangements today for tomorrow.”

Ab ek raat agar kam jiye to kam hi sahi,
Yahi bahut hai ki hum mashalen jala ke jiye—
If we live one night less, so be it—enough that we lived with torches lit.

What difference if we live a day less—live! But people say, “Let us live one day more—whether we live or not.” People want a long life, without asking what length has to do with life. What has quantity to do with the depth of living? People seek measure in life, not quality.

He who seeks quality is sannyas; he who seeks quantity is householder. He says, “Let me live as long as possible.” He forgets to ask whether in seeking length he might not miss life itself.

Ab ek raat agar kam jiye to kam hi sahi,
Yahi bahut hai ki hum mashalen jala ke jiye—
Live with torches lit—live in light. Even a single moment lived with torches aflame is worth more than thousands of births. And you may drag on for thousands of lives, yet never find the chance to live—for today you prepare for tomorrow. Today is wasted.

Today is everything—the one treasure. Tomorrow you will prepare for the day after tomorrow, because tomorrow too will come as today. And you never live today. You always sacrifice today for tomorrow. When then will you live? One day death comes—and snatches away all tomorrows. You remain blank.

Many are born; few live. Millions are born; hardly anyone lives. Only he lives who lives today.

The surest way to miss life—the infallible remedy—is to live in planning for tomorrow. Make arrangements—do not live. When the arrangements are complete, then we will live. Arrangements never complete—only you do.

Aankh padti hai kahin, paon kahin padta hai,
Sabki hai tumko khabar, apni khabar kuch bhi nahin—
Your eyes fall here, your feet elsewhere—you know everything about others, nothing about yourself.

You go on calculating—about children, wife, parents, society, the world; what is happening in Israel, Cambodia, Vietnam…

Aankh padti hai kahin, paon kahin padta hai,
Sabki hai tumko khabar, apni khabar kuch bhi nahin—
Walking thus in unawareness, you will fall into the grave. Live with torches lit. Bring a little light. Let go of all other worries. This life is immensely precious—do not waste it so. Transform it; give it quality; give it godliness.

“The mindful ones labor; they do not delight in the house.”

They are a river’s current—they flow; they are not a bound pond.

“As swans leave puddles, so they leave all homes.”

Do not mistake the word “homes.” The awakened do not speak of petty things. Why would they talk of small houses? The point is clear: as swans leave puddles, seeking Manasarovar, so the mindful seek the boundless and leave the limits behind.

Home means limit. They do not become ponds; they set out in search of the ocean. It is in the search for the ocean that a pond becomes a river. Without the search for the ocean, it becomes a puddle. Slowly it dries, stagnates, and stinks. What fault is it of the puddle that it stinks? Where there is boundary, there is rot. The puddle built a house; it feared to flow; it trembled before the unknown—“Who knows what lies ahead?” It stayed, built a home.

The river keeps going. Today’s bank may be beautiful—yet do not cling. If you grasp beauty and stop, beauty too will rot. Beauty lies in the flowing. As you keep flowing, the river remains clean, remains maiden. No one can steal her virginity—her flow keeps her ever-virgin.

Sannyas is virginity. Sannyas means: to go on flowing forever.

Nirale hain andaz duniya se apne,
Ke taqleed ko khudkushi jaante hain—
Our ways differ from the world’s: we take imitation to be suicide.

Sannyas is a rare style. The sannyasi considers following the crowd to be self-murder.

Nirale hain andaz duniya se apne,
Ke taqleed ko khudkushi jaante hain—
Taqleed means the crowd. Everyone is building houses—you too begin. Everyone is getting married—you too. Everyone is piling money in the bank—you too. You never asked: Is this what I came here to do? You have no awareness of what you are doing—you merely imitate. Ask whether you truly need to do it. If it is your inner call, do it; but “others are doing it”…

One day I was riding in Mulla Nasruddin’s car. Blazing sun, a hot day, and he would not lower the windows. I asked, “Will you kill me?” He said, “Better to die than let the neighborhood know the car is not air-conditioned.”

Others have air-conditioned cars. Breezes are outside, but he sits with doors and windows sealed—soaked in sweat—yet he must endure. Imitation!

Have you noticed how many things you do simply because others do? Someone built a new house—you too. Was there any need? Someone bought new clothes—you too. You saw someone’s new sari—you ran. Did you need it? Walk by your own need; walk from within—otherwise you are committing suicide. If you keep running behind others, you will run much—and arrive nowhere.

“As swans leave puddles…”

Everyone has built his own puddle. They were frightened to flow; they lost courage. Where courage is lost, the soul is lost.

Flow; in any case you will be gone. But there is a majesty in the river’s going. The puddle’s going has a poverty, a wretchedness. The puddle too will dry. The sun will drink it. It too will end—but with great twitching and clinging. It will cling to the ground, drive its feet into the earth, refuse to move. Death will occur by force—never by consent. It will not be able to flow simply. Its death will be miserable and painful.

The river too dies—but dancing; the river dies in Samadhi. Have you seen the humming of a river as it meets the ocean? Have you seen the dance when it falls into the sea? Waves rising in joy—when it merges? It too is ending. The water of the puddle will also reach the ocean—but by difficulty, by struggle. The river goes by its own will, in its own joy.

If you learn to die by your own joy, even death is beautiful.

The sannyasi also dies, but his death dances. He sees Paramatma standing behind death. He does not see death as his ending—he sees it as becoming the ocean: “Now I am ocean! Now I am ocean!”

The puddle says, “I died! I died!”—it does not see the ocean—it is too far. It never flowed—otherwise it would be near the sea. Many banks of clouds stand between—only after them the ocean.

All die. The householder dies; the sannyasi dies. But even death changes its quality. If you live rightly, you will die rightly. If you lived dancing, you will die dancing. Your style of life will become your style of death. Death will stamp your being: it will reveal who you were, what you were. If you die writhing, you signal that you did not live rightly; you missed. You went incomplete—unripe.

Zindagani hai faqat garmiye-raftar ka naam,
Manzilen saath liye, raah pe chalte rehna—
Life is but the warmth of motion; carry the destinations along as you walk on the path.

Life has no final destination. Many destinations come, but “Destination” does not. All destinations are halting places—pause, and move on.

Zindagani hai faqat garmiye-raftar ka naam—
that warmth of movement is life.

Manzilen saath liye, raah pe chalte rehna—
Do not place destinations ahead—in the future; carry them with you—now. Do not push them to tomorrow.

Manzilen saath liye, raah pe chalte rehna—
Then you will not become ducks of puddles—you will become swans of Manasarovar.

In this sense we have called sannyasis hansa and paramahansa. Those who set out in search of Manasarovar; those whose thirst is to meet the boundless; those who long to disappear; those who have no more obsession to survive.

Those obsessed with survival build houses. Those ready to lose themselves build no house. And the wonder is: those who cling are lost; those who lose themselves—never perish.

“Those who do not accumulate, who are moderate in food, for whom the liberations of shunya and animitta are the field of going—their course is as in the sky, like the birds’—hard to follow.”

“He whose outflows (asrava) have dried up, who is not attached to food, and for whom the liberations of shunya and animitta are the field of going—his place becomes, like the birds’ path in the sky, impossible to follow.”

“Those who do not accumulate.”

Accumulation belongs to the ego. The more you can say “mine,” the bigger your “I” feels. As “mine” grows, “I” grows. As “mine” shrinks, “I” shrinks. If the wealth is great, the office is great, the kingdom is great, then the boundary of your kingdom is the boundary of your “I.” When the kingdom contracts, your “I” contracts.

People do not seek wealth for wealth’s sake, office for office’s sake, fame for fame’s sake. All these cravings are to feed the ego—“I am something, not a nothing.”

He who understands that this “I” is the cause of all sorrow becomes ready to be a nobody. His tendency to accumulate drops; the spirit of possession dissolves; he no longer grasps.

“Those who do not accumulate, who are moderate in food.”

Buddha emphasizes greatly “sanyam”—balance, moderation. Understand moderation: to overeat is imbalance; to fast is imbalance. Moderation means: centered in the middle; neither too much nor too little.

There are those who overeat—immoderate; you call them immoderate. Then these same people take to temples, become monks, begin fasting—and you call them “moderate.”

These too are immoderate. These are the same people, troubled earlier by overeating—now troubling themselves by undereating. The knot remains; they are suffering. Earlier they suffered by eating too much; now they suffer by fasting.

This is what I said: the knot must change; otherwise whatever you do, you will get sorrow. Now the strange thing: suffering by overeating; suffering by fasting—as if they have sworn to suffer; as if they must suffer.

Moderation means: the just—exactly as needed. As much food as the body needs. As much labor as the body needs. As much rest as the body needs. Not more than necessary; not less. One who is so balanced—music arises in his life. A deep, balanced peace spreads. He lives in music and peace.

“For whom shunya and animitta vimoksha are the field of going.”

Buddha says: live with such total acceptance that what is necessary will be given.

This is what I said earlier: if there is thirst, water must already be somewhere. If breath is needed, air surrounds you. They arise together. Therefore do not take yourself as the “cause.”

Exert yourself in labor—doing is necessary; doing is joyous. But do not take yourself as the indispensable cause: “If I do not do, what will happen? If I do not gather, I will starve; if I do not build a mansion, I will have no shade; if I do not hoard, what then?”

No—do not regard yourself as the cause. Do not think it happens “because of you.” Walk in such a way that what is happening—happens; what is to happen—will happen.

This does not mean become sluggish or lazy—act; but do not become the doer.

“Their course is like the birds’ in the sky.”

Therefore the path of the awakened cannot be imitated. Birds leave no footprints in the sky. On the road, someone walks—footprints form; you can place your feet in theirs and follow. That is why the awakened leave no “path.” Birds fly in the sky—no mark remains; the bird is gone, the sky remains empty.

So it is in the sky of consciousness. Understand the awakened; do not imitate them. The path you must find yourself. Every bird must find his own sky. There are no pre-laid roads.

Therefore following the awakened is so hard, so “duranusaraniya”—difficult to trace. If there were a road, all would go. If there were a road, by now we would have put mile-stones and run buses. Buses with the signboard “Paramatma” would drive straight into God’s house.

There is no road. Buddhas walk—and reach—but the road cannot be preserved. It is not formed. Therefore, what you have taken as “roads”—Hindu, Muslim, Christian, Jain—if you have taken these as roads, you are mistaken. The awakened leave no road behind. Mahavira walked, arrived—but no “Jainism” forms as a road. Buddha walked, arrived—but no “Buddhism” forms as a road.

Take the fragrance of the awakened; take their understanding; take their presence—satsang. But you must walk your own way; you must find your path.

And the great difficulty is: the path forms as you walk. As in a dense forest there is no path beforehand—you walk; the grass parts; a footpath appears. As much as you walk, that much the way appears. No road is ready ahead of you—no “ready-made.”

But this is good. It is good that no buses go to Paramatma; otherwise all joy would be lost; the crowd would reach. Those capable of reaching would go elsewhere—then none would go toward Paramatma. The whole matter would become futile.

Nirale hain andaz duniya se apne,
Ke taqleed ko khudkushi jaante hain—
Then Buddha, Mahavira, Krishna, Kabir would not go there. Christ, Mohammed would not. Their ways are unique. In that uniqueness the real God is born—out of your own uniqueness, your distinctness, your courage to find your path.

The weak walk on another’s road. The brave find their own; do not merely find—they forge it. From that, the soul is born.

“Those who do not accumulate, are moderate in food; whose outflows have dried up; who are not attached to food; for whom shunya and animitta liberation are the field—their place is like the birds’ track in the sky.”

The awakened have no prisons; their home is open sky. Wherever we have raised temples and mosques, we have raised prisons.

Yeh bhi zindaan, woh bhi zindaan—
This is a prison, that is a prison;
Kya hai masjid, kya hai shivalaya—
what is a mosque, what is a temple—
All prisons.

The awakened dwell in the sky. If you would seek a true temple, seek in the sky. On earth, what is built is man’s—of the sleeping man. There, sedation is administered. The bell-ringing, the rituals—these are arrangements to sleep well.

If you would see the temple of the awakened, look into the sky—upward where there is no boundary. Sky means shunya. And when your eyes become capable of seeing the outer sky—when they become receptive to outer emptiness—they will begin to see inner sky as well. The outer shunya will remind you of the inner shunya. The outer will stir the inner; the outer will awaken the inner emptiness.

And the moment the outer emptiness and inner emptiness meet—this is called nirvana. Call it Paramatma, call it moksha, by any name—the names are one, for That has no name.

Enough for today.