Es Dhammo Sanantano #39

Today we enter a most singular sutra of the Dhammapada. So unique is this utterance that, except for Buddha, no one has ever said such a thing — nor will anyone.
Buddha’s entire distinctiveness is contained in this sutra — his revolution, his uncommon way of seeing, his utterly new approach.
Before Buddha, and even after Buddha, all have sung hymns to faith. These sutras stand in opposition to faith. It will be a little difficult to understand, yet if you truly grasp them, the very essence of faith will be understood. They are against faith because much goes on in the name of faith which is not faith. They are against faith because Buddha stands for the deepest dimension of faith. He must have been deeply wounded by what he saw parading as faith; it must have pained him.
He spoke against faith. But whoever understands will find that his opposition is born of being a great lover and partisan of faith. Hence it is delicate.
Often it is precisely those who speak against religion who are the true partisans of religion; they see that the religion of temples and mosques is dead; they see that the religion of pundits and priests is false. Watching so many lies being practiced in the name of religion, seeing so much worship of idols of untruth, a fire arises within them; they speak against religion. But if you catch only their words and miss their spirit, you will miss.
It has often happened, and will happen again, that the supremely religious person cannot be in favor of what you call religion. What you call religion is not religion at all.
Therefore, when Buddha speaks against faith, understand that he is speaking against what you call faith. And what Buddha calls faith may look to you like disbelief — because what you have taken to be faith is irreligion. What you have taken as straight is upside down. So when Buddha speaks straight, it will look upside down to you.
Therefore, try to understand Buddha’s words keeping them away from the crowd of your thoughts. Because of these very words, the whole of India remained deprived of Buddha. Buddha was born in India — and ceased to belong to India. Such a unique opportunity this country squandered that there is no way ever to compensate. The sun of Buddha rose over all of Asia — only in India, where he was born, did it set.
Why was India deprived of understanding Buddha? India possessed fixed ideas about religion, about faith. Buddha shattered all those ideas. Had we understood him, India’s long night would have broken long ago!
Even now it has not broken; even now Buddha cannot return home. Even now India’s doors remain closed. The very word ‘Buddha’ makes people anxious, afraid. For two, two and a half thousand years India’s pundits have spent themselves refuting Buddha — as though Buddha were the very emblem of irreligion. Never has a greater man been born. No one else has taken such a high flight into godliness. If anyone is to be called Bhagwan, it is this man. And if anyone has known religion in its deepest experiential core, it is this very man.
And yet — how did a country like India fail to understand? India, which calls itself religious; India with its ancient traditions! Babylon was once — it vanished; Egypt was once — it vanished; Greece was once — it vanished. Civilizations came and went; India remained. Thousands of civilizations rose and fell into dust; India’s edifice stood — ancient indeed.
Then how did such an ancient land not understand Buddha? The truth is, precisely because of this antiquity. Buddha is so new, so ever-fresh, that to understand him needs new eyes, young eyes; a virgin mind.
India carries a mind like an old ruin; so much dust has gathered upon it that whenever a new sunbeam arrives, even that ray is smothered in dust and debris. Whenever a new flower blooms, the ruin is so old that some brick falls and crushes the flower to death. Here, flowers find it hard to bloom; weeds and thorns proliferate; rose and lotus are lost; there is no place left for jasmine and vines.
So listen with great care.
‘He who is without faith, who knows the Akrit, who cuts through the interval, who has no return, who has vomited out craving — he alone is the supreme man.’
‘He who is without faith.’
Let us understand the scripture of faith. Faith — as you know it, as you believe it — we must first examine this. Without understanding it, this sutra cannot be understood.
Faith means: lacking trust in yourself, you seek another’s support; lacking confidence in yourself, you seek to rely on someone else.
But think a little: one who has no trust in himself — how can he trust another? One who does not trust himself — how will he trust his own trusting? One who has no confidence in himself — how will he have confidence in his confidence? It will be deception.
In taking shelter in another, you merely hide self-distrust. Walking behind another, you escape the hardship of walking on your own. By imitating another, you miss the challenge of discovery.
The journey is fraught with risk; you do not wish to take risk. You want your food pre-digested. Someone should chew it, then spit the chewed morsel into your mouth so you need not even move your jaws.
If stale food makes you nauseous, does stale faith not nauseate you? Someone hands it to you and you accept it. This only reveals that, in your mind, belief has no value. You refuse to wear another’s used clothing — because garments do have some value for you; yet you readily don the used scriptures of others. This reveals that within you there is no sense of value. You consider the matter so trivial that yours or another’s, happened or not — all is the same.
You have no reverence for truth; otherwise how could you accept it on loan? Truth — and borrowed! Truth — and someone else’s!
A pundit once went to a cobbler’s shop to get his shoes repaired. The condition of the shoes was very bad. The cobbler said, it will take two or three days. The pundit said, that is difficult. For two or three days I will have to walk without shoes. Can it not be done quicker? In two or three hours? The cobbler said, do this: here is a pair already repaired; wear these for a couple of days. When yours are ready, bring them back. The pundit looked at them — they were someone else’s, mended earlier. He said, think before you speak: do you expect me to wear another man’s shoes? Worn by someone else? What do you take me for? The cobbler laughed and said: I thought you were a pundit — you have worn borrowed shoes up to your very soul; what harm in one more?
One who has put on borrowed garments even for his soul, now gets troubled over wearing another’s shoes! But our feet we value; the soul we do not.
Buddha says: ‘He who is without faith.’
What do you call faith? What do you call belief? You are frightened of being alone; you tremble in your aloneness; you clutch at someone’s support. But when has anyone ever been anyone’s support? In this world, one has to search by oneself.
In truth the search is even more valuable than truth. One who searches rightly, whose search is samyak — true, total — he attains truth inevitably; that is the consequence.
But you wish to avoid the search. Your condition is like a small child doing arithmetic who flips to the back of the book to look up the answers — this you call faith — unwilling to do the method, he borrows the answer. Yet even with the borrowed answer, the problem is not solved. The method must be learned; the borrowed answer is useless. For the whole point of arithmetic was that when life places problems before you, you have the method in your hands so you can discover the answer. Now you got the answer free. You missed the method. Arithmetic lost its meaning.
In life, whenever a question arises — and life is not a book you can flip to the back for answers. Schoolbooks print answers at the back; the book of life has none. Answers have to be discovered; here answers must be created, watered with your own blood. Only when life itself is pledged do answers appear.
Once the falsehood of faith catches you, you say: why should we know? The Buddhas have known, Krishna and Christ have known — we shall merely believe.
Your faith is not knowing — it is believing. And truth cannot be believed; it can only be known. Truth is not so cheap that you ask for it and it is given.
One must search. The path is arduous, the journey long, nothing is certain. No one can promise you that you will find. At most a man can say: I too walked; I too wandered; and I arrived. I hope you too will walk, wander, fall, rise — and arrive. Hope is possible; assurance is not. One may bless you — but no one can guarantee. One may wish: may the Lord grant you arrival — but no guarantee can be given.
Truth is not a commodity for sale in a bazaar. Nor has truth any fixed address. Where I found it, you may not find it — for you are you and I am I. Your path will be a little different; you will begin from where you stand, for you stand elsewhere. I began from where I stood; you will never begin from there. You will begin from where you are — from where you have found yourself. How can my path be yours? How can your path be mine?
Yes, you can learn something from me; mere belief will be of no essence. You can draw the essence from my experience — that will support you on the way — but you cannot take the way itself.
Hence Buddha says: Buddhas only point. Do not cling to their fingers as if the pointing were the goal. You have to walk. You have to journey. You have to wander.
On the path to truth, the difficulties you meet are an essential part of truth. For truth is not some object lying outside; in the very search for it, that which is created within you — that is truth. In the search, in the ceaseless striving, again and again you wander and yet again return, again seek, fall, rise; a thousand times the thread slips from your hand — again you seek it.
Through this entire quest the breath within you begins to gather into an organic whole. Your broken scattered fragments begin to come close. A chemical process occurs, an alchemy; you pass through a transmutation. You are no longer a heap of fragments; you are integrated. Within you the Atman is born. That very Atman is truth.
In the search for truth, truth is created. The search for truth is the process of truth’s birth.
Had truth been ready-made somewhere, we would have borrowed it from others; we would have made roads, prepared maps, set up signposts and milestones — all would be easy. The crowd could go along quietly. No need to search.
But truth is not outside. You search — and within you it is formed. As in the womb, a child takes form, so within you truth is born. One must pass through the pangs of childbirth; one must carry the burden of pregnancy.
Thus when Buddha says ‘he who is without faith,’ he is saying: one who is free of ready-made beliefs, who has not believed, who is ready to search, who will believe only after discovering, who will not believe before he has sought.
What does this mean? Does it mean being filled with disbelief?
No — then you will miss again. That was the very mistake India’s pundits made: they thought Buddha was teaching disbelief. Buddha was merely saying: drop belief. He is not telling you to take up disbelief — for then disbelief becomes belief. Whatever you cling to becomes your faith. Even an atheist has faith. The theist calls it faithlessness; but for the atheist it is faith.
Ask a communist — his Karl Marx’s Capital is as sacred to him as the Vedas are to the Hindus or the Koran to the Muslims. And the Hindu Veda has taken the blows of centuries — it has become a bit humbled; Capital is a very new Veda — still stiff with arrogance; time’s blows have not yet battered it much; only a hundred years since it was written.
As a child is arrogant, unaware of limits, with the illusion that everything can be attained, nothing is impossible — such is its state. Neither do Hindus read the Veda nor communists read Capital. I have yet to meet a communist who has read the whole of Capital, or a Hindu who has read the whole of the Veda.
Why read? When it is a matter of believing, what need to read? Believe — and the matter is finished. In truth, lurking behind belief is the bother: who will do the trouble of reading? who will take on the hassle of searching? Fine, fine — it must be right; the hassle is over.
The atheist also has faith: he says, God is not. That is his faith. The theist calls it faithlessness because his faith is that God is. Ask the atheist and he will say: what the theist calls faith is faithlessness — it is lack of faith in the atheist’s God. For him ‘God is not’ — this is his God.
Have you noticed? Even the atheist becomes ready to fight and die. Strange! If there is no God, it is understandable if a theist becomes ready to die for God — at least he has a God. But the atheist also is ready to kill and be killed — for that which is not. He argues; he loses his life. More than the theist, the atheist wastes time in argument.
One could ask: if that which is is not, why are you so upset?
No, the matter is not finished by saying ‘it is not.’ It must be proved. Evidence must be collected that it is not. And those who say it is must be shown wrong — because it is a matter of belief. If another continues to say ‘it is,’ our faith trembles — a doubt arises: perhaps it is! Therefore the atheist too must arrange everything to establish that it is not. He must build temples to the No. He must create scriptures of denial.
Buddha does not teach disbelief; Buddha says: let there be no belief. He says: let your consciousness not be encircled by dogma — neither this side nor that. Since you do not know, how can you decide? Perhaps it is; perhaps it is not. We do not know. So let us not cover our ignorance with any borrowed knowledge.
The theist’s claim is the same as the atheist’s. The theist says, God is — we know. The atheist says, God is not — we know. Both claim to know.
Buddha asks: truly, do you know? Reflect a little; contemplate a little — do you know? And then you will feel the ground slip from beneath your feet.
You do not know; you have heard; someone has said; you have understood, and believed. Why believe?
Buddha says: behind all your faith is fear. Your faith is nothing but fear extended.
Without believing in God, it is difficult. A thousand puzzles arise — without solution. Who made the world then? Who created this whole existence? Questions stand in long lines; answers do not come. And without answers you become restless. It is not that faith brings answers — but it brings the feeling of answers. Man is satisfied even with that. If not truth, a semblance of truth will do. A little solace comes.
The atheist’s trouble is the same — believing in God raises a thousand questions.
I have seen two kinds of people. One: for whom there are questions if God is not; and another: for whom there are questions if God is. But both are troubled because whether God is or is not, questions arise for them.
They want some answer. To live only with questions is arduous, almost unbearable. To live surrounded only by problems, with no thread in the hand, needs great courage. Only the daring can live with sheer questions — and therefore only the daring are blessed; sometimes answers come to them. If you accept answers before answers arrive, you block the way of answers; you create obstacles.
Hence Buddha says: ‘he who is without faith.’
Without faith means: he knows the questions; how can he accept any answer?
All answers are the same. Someone says, God is; another says, God is not — how shall I accept either? I stand silently without accepting. I make no choice; I take no decision. I say: I will search. Until I have searched, how can I say who among you is right? It is possible both are wrong; possible both are right; possible one is right and the other wrong. Everything is possible.
The seeker says: syat — perhaps it is so; syat — perhaps it is otherwise. I do not know yet; so how can I take sides? The seeker becomes neither Hindu nor Muslim nor Christian nor Jain nor Buddhist. He says: I am only a seeker. What caste has seeking? Seeking has no caste. What varna has seeking? What name, what adjective? What temple belongs to seeking? Which mosque is mine? The whole world is open to seeking. I shall search; the day I discover, I will declare. Not before.
For the seeker, patience is needed — not faith.
For the seeker, fearlessness is needed — not fear.
For the seeker, daring is needed — and a deep fidelity to oneself: I shall search — perhaps I may find. I need trust in myself.
So when Buddha says ‘he who is without faith,’ he is saying: only one who trusts in his own being can be without belief.
To place faith in another is self-distrust; to place faith in oneself is the possibility of the lamp within being lit.
Now reflect again on Buddha’s meaning. In truth Buddha wishes to fill you with faith — therefore he wants to pull away all false faith. Real faith is the faith of search — of inquiry, of discovery; not of partisanship, not of dogmas, not of opinions, not of impatience. Infinite patience is needed.
And Buddha’s words also mean: one who trusts himself — only his faith in another has value.
People come to me. A friend came; he said: nothing happens by my doing; I leave everything to you.
I said: will you be able to leave? Nothing happens by your doing — and you will do this great deed? Think a little: small things you could not do — and this ultimate doing, to leave all? You are placing it upon me! He was startled, uneasy. I said: understand this well. If nothing happens by your doing, then this is the last doing. Only one who is capable of much doing can manage this. Only one who has come to trust: I can do — is able to surrender. Surrender is the final peak of resolve. Only the resolute can surrender.
And you say you have no trust in yourself — then how will you trust me? For it is you who will come seeking me. You will search with your own eyes. You have no trust in your eyes — they have deceived you often; they may deceive you again — what then? A suspicion will remain inside.
Behind all your faiths, doubt is hidden. You may cover and decorate it in a thousand ways — your faith is only the ornamentation of doubt.
I told him: go and think for a few days. Understand well — for if you can do nothing, then this is the final doing. Only the one who has become capable of doing is capable of this non-doing. If you distrust your own decision to ‘leave everything,’ how will you trust me? If you trust that decision, then self-trust must already be there. If not, how will you have faith in me?
Buddha says: ‘he who is without faith’ — meaning: without faith-in-others, filled with self-trust.
And such a person — if he ever trusts another — his trust has value, has meaning; there is power in it.
If you are devoid of self-trust and you believe in someone, your faith is weak at its roots; it has no grounding — it is paper. No journey will happen in paper boats. You will drown — and the fun is you will think someone else drowned you.
I told that gentleman: you are only trying to shift the responsibility from your shoulders to mine. You will drown anyway; now you have found a trick to put the burden on this man’s shoulders — ‘I left everything to you; if I drown, remember, you are responsible.’ You are already sinking; the boat is leaking from all sides; in panic you take on faith. Bring a sound boat.
He said: had the boat been sound, why would I come?
Then there is a quandary. If the boat is sound, coming has meaning; if the boat is broken, coming has no meaning.
Hence Buddha says first: ‘he who is without faith.’
This is a most unique sutra on faith. One who is freed from other-faith will slowly discover self-faith. If you make other-faith your refuge, you will gradually forget that self-faith is needed; it will seem a substitute. As if a counterfeit coin has fallen into your hand and you clench your fist around it, thinking it real.
This trust will not work. It is costly indeed. Better not to have it. Walk, even if tottering; walk on your own feet. Totter long enough — you will fall, rise again; slowly the tottering will lessen. Slowly you will learn the art of steadiness. If you take your eyes off your own feet and fix them on another’s, no matter how steady his steps are — they are not your feet. And feet not your own will not take you to the goal; one travels only with one’s own feet.
Yes, you can learn the indication from another. Learn from the Buddhas, but do not become a burden on their shoulders. What you call faith — you imagine you are bestowing a favor. You are only throwing away responsibility. You say: take it, carry it. If anything goes wrong, the responsibility is yours. If it goes right, your ego will puff up: see, we had faith in the right man. We chose correctly. And if you drown, you will say: this man drowned me. This man deceived me. Such are the games of the ego.
Therefore Buddha left no room for this. He said: if you come to me, come filled with self-trust. Do not come with wavering feet. For the journey is long — lest you mistake me for your crutch. I am no one’s crutch. Yes, watch me walk; understand the art of walking; see how the feet fall without wobble — understand and learn the art. But the feet must be your own; the journey has to be with them — appo deepo bhava: be a light unto yourself. Learn the art of lighting the lamp from anyone — but the flame you must light yourself.
Do not look above for support
Do not ask below for prop
Is it not gift enough to you
That in your depths is song?
With rapture, bind the sky
With rapture, bind the underworld
Plunge through, pierce the dark
With rapture, school your stride
Your music is within. Seek neither the support of the sky nor of anything above or below. Do not seek support at all. Seeking support is an insult. This very seeking is the cause of your drowning. So many props you asked for — where did you reach?
Plunge through, pierce the dark
With rapture, school your stride
You need to catch hold of the music within. What you need, you already have — you only need to recognize it. What you need may be in disarray — a little order is needed. What you need may be anarchic — you may not even comprehend what to do there — a little understanding needs to grow right there.
The veena is within you; the strings may lie apart, the veena may lie separate, in pieces. The pieces must be joined. It may also be — as I often see in many — that even the veena is whole and ready; it waits for your fingers; but your fingers grope outside. And the more the darkness outside increases, the more the needless noise of life grows, the more restlessly you rush out searching — some music, some clue, some support. Meanwhile the veena within rots, waiting for your touch.
Buddha, in great compassion, turned your hands within. He said: take your hands inward; do not grope for me. I found my veena within; you too will find yours within. Understand at least this much from me. Do you hear my music? Do you hear this humming within me? I found it by letting my fingers dance upon my inner veena. You do the same.
Do not walk behind the Buddhas. Do what the Buddhas did.
It is a strange irony: properly understood, not walking behind the Buddhas — but going within yourself — is precisely to walk behind the Buddhas, because that is how they went within. If you begin walking behind the Buddhas — remember, Buddhas did not walk behind anyone — you have erred.
Buddha placed faith in no Veda, took shelter in no Upanishad. Buddha discovered his own Upanishad within. If you now place faith in Buddha’s words and sit — the Dhammapada becomes your Veda, as it has for many — then the matter has turned upside down.
When Bodhidharma reached China, Emperor Wu said: I have had great scriptures printed and distributed. Bodhidharma said: make a bonfire. Throw all the scriptures into the fire. There is a famous painting of Bodhidharma where he is tearing the Dhammapada and casting it into flames. And who is closer to Buddha than Bodhidharma? No one ever followed Buddha so closely. And yet he throws Buddha’s words into the fire! Because Buddha himself had consigned all scriptures to the fire.
It looks reversed, but not even a little is it reversed. You may say: Bodhidharma seems Buddha’s enemy. Then you have missed; you have failed to understand the riddle of Dharma. This very Bodhidharma is his disciple; he alone has understood and recognized him. When he throws the Dhammapada into the fire, Buddha must be showering flowers from above.
I too am casting the Dhammapada into fire — in another way; the fire is subtler. For from the fire into which Bodhidharma cast it, one could still rescue it. Sprinkle water — the fire will go out. Snatch the half-burnt book and run — and the worship of it will continue. I am passing it through an even subtler fire, from which the Dhammapada cannot emerge still the Dhammapada. And you will not be able to save it — because you will think it is being expounded, while I am burning it.
This is my knack for burning scripture. In outer fire, scriptures were burned — yet people saved them. Not wholly, but half-burnt were saved. The parts that were charred, people patched and inserted — and even greater mischief ensued.
The scripture must pass through such a fire that it is burned, and you cannot save it — and whatever in it was worth saving remains — that always remains; no fire can burn it.
The Dhammapada can be burned; Dharma cannot. The Dhammapada can be burned; how will you burn Dharma? That which does not burn is Dharma. That which survives beyond all burning — that is Dharma.
Therefore one who is busy saving scriptures has no inkling of Dharma. That which has to be saved, that which needs saving — that is not Dharma.
‘He who is without faith.’
Buddha never bowed his head in any temple or shrine — not because he was incapable of bowing, but because these temples and shrines were unworthy of bowing. And those lined up there, bowing, were not bowing at all — they were playing a false game, a mere performance. They bowed — and did not bow.
‘To bow in cloisters and harems is shameless to the head;
Where our head bows — that alone is the true threshold.’
Whoever wrote these lines must have understood Buddha’s vision. Buddha says: for your head to bow in temple or mosque is an insult to the God within you. You make living consciousness bow before clay and stone? You make the emperor bow before toys you have made?
Buddha said: do not make my statues — for if you do, you will begin to bow. If you bow, you err — for within you is the real temple, the real God, the real image.
‘To bow in cloisters and harems is shameless to the head.’
It is an insult; unworthy of your dignity.
‘Where our head bows — that alone is the true threshold.’
The door is another — where the head ought to bow. That door is within you; that gurdwara is within you, where the head bows — and where bowing is dignity.
Buddha taught faith indeed, but right faith. And the indispensable part of right faith is that all blind faith, other-faith, be dissolved.
Be self-possessed! Belong first to yourself! At least be your own — then you can belong to another too. The one who is not even his own sets out to belong to others. From the first step the path is lost.
‘He who is without faith, who knows the Akrit’ —
A most precious sutra — ‘who knows the Akrit.’
Akrit — says Buddha — is Nirvana: that which cannot be done; that which happens.
In this world everything can be done — only the Ultimate cannot be done. It is beyond your doing; it is Akrit; you cannot do it. In this world one can do all, and by doing one can attain all — Nirvana cannot be attained by doing.
Buddha attained Nirvana when he was doing nothing. Whoever has attained — attained in the moment of no-doing.
This does not mean become lazy and sit; your interpretations are very entertaining. You find your tricks. Hearing this, your mind thinks: then we are already fine — we are doing nothing!
Then you wonder why I involve you in such troubles — meditation, prayer, and so on! If it happens by non-doing, you were fine before — doing nothing — and I have now troubled you more — do meditation, do prayer.
Buddha found it by non-doing — but the state of non-doing comes after much doing. When, by doing and doing, one is exhausted, then it comes. When doing rises to such a peak that you cannot hold it anymore — it drops.
At the ultimate height of Kriya, Akrit begins.
So long as you feel you can do, Akrit does not begin. Do whatsoever you can — only then will you come to that perimeter where you see: ah! ahead of this, nothing more can I do.
Understand the distinction. One man may say: I can do nothing — out of lack of self-trust. Another may say: now nothing can be done — because he has reached the pass beyond which Akrit begins. Laziness does not give Nirvana — Akrit does.
Akrit means: after doing — beyond doing. Laziness is before doing; Akrit is beyond doing.
Do all that can be done. Reach the furthest peak of doing. Meditate, do yoga, chant, do tapas — do all. Much will be gained by that — only Nirvana will not be. Peace will come, bliss will come, waves of deep delight will spread, profound music will play, dance will come to life, festivity will dawn, the dark night will end and morning will arrive — much will be gained — but not Nirvana.
Then what is Nirvana? Nirvana means: where you cease to be. Peace will come — you remain. Bliss will come — you remain. Festivity — you remain. One small lack persists — you are. That thorn still remains. When that thorn too is out — Nirvana.
Nirvana means: when you are extinguished. Nirvana literally means ‘to be blown out’ — when you are no more; your non-being happens.
Understand — through doing you will only strengthen the ‘I’: I am — and I will become stronger. Earn wealth — I am. Practice yoga — I am, for I am a yogi, I have done so much yoga. Do tapas — I am. Doing only fattens the I. Doing makes you self-full.
Now Buddha’s language will be easy if this is in your heart. Doing makes you self-full — I am. And a moment comes when you see: all that could be done has been done — but one more step remains — which cannot be done. You will writhe, run, rush — but that step cannot be taken. You begin to go insane.
Have you seen in dreams — you want to wake up, but cannot. You want to move your hand, but cannot. You want to open your eyes, but cannot. How panic-stricken you become! Even when the eyes open, the chest still throbs and sweat runs across the brow. You say: a nightmare!
Imagine a little from this nightmare. In the lives of those who have brought yoga to its culmination, such a moment comes in full wakefulness — what happens to you in sleep happens to them wide awake. Just one more step — the Ultimate is there! But the step does not rise. You want to move your hand — it does not move. You want to leap — the leap does not happen. You want to breathe — you cannot. And all this in perfect wakefulness, with great awareness.
Zen masters call this — for Nirvana they use this phrase — the last nightmare. Waking while it happens! You writhe, you cry — no support; all dissolves into emptiness — and just one step! You stand before the door; it is open; one step, and all would be resolved — but it will not lift, it will not, it will not — Akrit has arrived, Nirvana has dawned.
What do you do — when, in a nightmare, you cannot wake up, cannot open the eyes, cannot move the hand? You do nothing. After a little struggling, you fall still. The moment you are still, the eyes open, the hand moves.
Just so, on the ultimate crest it happens. First there is immense effort, immense striving, then one falls exhausted. When your doing cannot do, what will you do? All doing collapses, breaks. And the very moment you collapse, suddenly you find: you have arrived. That which did not happen by doing — happens by non-doing.
The devotee calls this Prasad — grace. For he has God; he has the idea of God. He says: by my doing it does not happen; He gives. Buddha cannot call it Prasad — he has not the devotee’s language. He says: Akrit.
Now understand — it is a mere difference of language. Buddha says Akrit — for there is no God to give. You cannot do; there is no giver — yet it happens. Then only one phrase remains: it happens without doing, by itself.
The devotee has a language that wants duality. He has duality — I and God. He has the convenience: not by my doing — no matter — You bestow; by Your giving it happens.
Buddha wishes to speak the language of nonduality; thus he uses Akrit. Akrit means: my doing cannot do it; there is none to give; none to ask; none to call — a vast empty sky; I scream, I shout, I run, I rush — I do all. Doing and doing, a limit arrives beyond which there is no way — I fall. In that very falling, Nirvana happens.
Hence Buddha called Nirvana Anatta. Up to doing, there is Atta — self; when doing drops, the I drops with it — Anatta.
People found it very hard to understand this word Anatta. They said: this is the limit! No God — and no soul either? Then what remains lacking in atheism? This is supreme atheism.
The Jains were tolerated by the Hindus. At least they do not accept God — well then — but they accept the soul. Fifty percent theists — let them stay. So the Jains stayed, not too much, but the Hindus bore with them — not worth throwing away: they will survive in a corner.
But Buddha — impossible to bear. For he let go of everything; a hundred percent atheist he seemed. First he took away God — then, saying Akrit, he took away the soul; what remains is Anatta; Nirvana — as if the lamp has gone out. This man is the great atheist. Therefore Hindus remained so angry with the Buddhists; they could not forgive Buddha.
Ambedkar took his revenge for this very reason. As opposition between him and the Hindus grew and grew, one way remained. First he thought to become Christian — but Hindus have no special opposition with Christians. That did not appeal. Many times he considered becoming Muslim — that too did not appeal — there are quarrels and frictions, but nothing foundational. In the end he decided to become Buddhist — for then there could never be any question of reconciliation with the Hindus. No greater opposition is possible. Out of political revenge Ambedkar became Buddhist and converted a group of Harijans as well.
This was politics. When Buddhism returned, it returned as though not returned — in the hands of the wrong man. Buddhism had already been gravely harmed; when Ambedkar brought it back, it was harmed further. All doors for its true return closed.
But Buddha spoke the supreme truth. For when Akrit arrives, how can the I remain? The I is a sum of doings. What we have done — the aggregate of it — is the I.
If someone asks you: who are you? You say: I am an engineer, a doctor, an artist, a poet. Meaning: these things I have done. If someone says: leave aside your doings and simply tell me who you are. What you do we do not ask. You write poetry? We care not. You practice medicine? Not our concern. Tell us simply: who are you?
He will be a bit baffled. He will say: then there is no way to tell. For I am the sum of acts. One says: I am a thief — that too is a sum of acts. One says: I am a sadhu — that too is a sum. ‘I have fasted, renounced — I am a holy man.’
Buddha says: as long as there is ‘I,’ there is world; where Anatta begins, Akrit, no ‘I’ — there is Nirvana.
‘He who is without faith; who knows the Akrit; who cuts through the interval.’
I have often spoken to you about the evening gap; Buddha calls it Sandhi — the interval. Between two thoughts, between two states of being, the non-being interval. Between two egos — the empty space, the gap.
‘Who cuts through the interval; who has no return.’
One for whom there is no longer any need to come into the world. He will not return now — no reason remains. He has found the interval, the door. He who has known the Akrit — who has vanished — how will you bring him back? As long as you are, there is return. As long as I is, there is rebirth.
Buddha says: as long as you are, there is bondage — for you are the bondage. Others have said: bondage is the world; leave the world, take sannyas. Others have said: desire is bondage; drop desire, be desireless. Others have said: opposite the world is Moksha. Buddha says: opposite the world is not Moksha; opposite the I is Moksha. And Buddha spoke a deep truth: the I itself is the world. Drop the I; nothing else will help. Leave wealth — you will cling to renunciation. Leave the world — you will cling to Moksha — because the grip of the I remains — it will cling to something. Drop the I; break the grip.
Moksha is not the liberation of the I; Moksha is liberation from the I.
‘And who has vomited out craving — he alone is the supreme man.’
Heaven is nothing at all
But the shadow of the world dropped;
The world that dreams of heaven
Has always slept.
Moksha is not your dream. You cannot, with any effort, make an image of Moksha. Moksha is not your desire. You cannot, by any amount of thinking, understand Moksha. Moksha is not an extension of your greed.
Therefore Buddha speaks not of heaven and hell — he speaks only of Nirvana. Even for Moksha he used a new word: Nirvana. He did not use ‘Moksha’ — for ‘Moksha’ suggests you will remain — become free. In the very word Moksha he saw a danger.
Like a man imprisoned who becomes free — he comes out of the prison. The man remains — the same who was inside. Buddha says: when you are free of the prison, you are not. Your very being is the prison. It is not that the prison is outside and you can step out — the prison is such that wherever you are, it will be. It clings all around you; it is your very mode of being.
So Buddha had to find a new word — Nirvana. Nirvana means: you are the world; where you are not — that alone is Moksha.
In every heart a thorn
On every foot, dust;
To stop here is mistake —
To sleep upon the way is not good.
The world — the world —
All are filled with sorrow. Being filled with sorrow, naturally there arises the longing for happiness. All live in hell; naturally the fantasy of heaven arises. Heaven is the extension of your hell. Happiness is the expansion of your unhappiness. You must be free of both — otherwise sleep continues. What you call happiness is at most a rest.
To sleep upon the way is not good —
The world — the world.
What you call happiness is sleep. What you call sorrow is like someone disturbed your sleep. You do not like being awakened; you wish to sleep again. Sorrow wakes; happiness lulls.
Therefore those who have searched deeply into life’s truths say: sorrow is a blessing; happiness a misfortune. For if you awaken in sorrow, you can set out on the quest for truth. But if you seek happiness again, it is like this: someone woke you; some noise; a car passed on the street; your sleep broke; you turned over, hid under the blanket — and slept again; you drowned yourself again in happiness.
Happiness is a kind of oblivion, a kind of sleep. Sorrow is the disturbance in that sleep. The shop was doing well, Diwali was near — suddenly bankruptcy — disturbance. Health was fine, all was smooth — suddenly illness — disturbance. All was as it should be — the wife died, the husband died — disturbance. One who uses this disturbance rightly — his sorrow becomes tapas.
Sorrow has two dimensions: either you try to sleep again — harder — you find sedatives and again drown in sleep — this is the ordinary man’s effort.
The other dimension: you take sorrow’s awakening as good fortune — we woke! Now we will not sleep; now we will remain awake; now we will use this awakening. One who uses sorrow’s awakening — his sorrow becomes tapas.
Sorrow’s two dimensions: pleasure and tapas; sleeping and waking; oblivion and remembrance; unconsciousness and awareness. How you use sorrow — on that depends the transformation of your whole life.
The supreme man is he who uses sorrow to awaken. The supreme man is he who, by waking and waking, invests all his labor in awakening and touches that moment where Akrit enters.
‘Town or forest, lowland or high — wherever the Arhat dwells, that land is delightful.’
Beauty is not in flowers; not in sunrise, not in sunset. Beauty is in the eye that sees.
You too have observed: when you are happy, delighted, humming — flowers look more beautiful. When you are depressed, pained, troubled — flowers seem withered, faded. When you are exuberant, the moon seems to dance among the clouds; when you are dejected, hopeless — even the moon looks wan, sad, tired — dragging itself. It is all in your vision.
You cannot even imagine what occurs when an Arhat...
Arhat is Buddha’s word. It means: one who has conquered all inner enemies — ‘ari’ means enemy; ‘hat’ — has slain. The Jains call him ‘Jin’ — the conqueror.
‘Town or forest, lowland or high — wherever the Arhat dwells, that land is delightful.’
The presence of the Arhat is delight. In the Arhat is beauty. In the Arhat is an auspicious, unparalleled celebration. Wherever the Arhat walks, his festival spreads there.
You cannot seat an Arhat in a desert; even in the desert, flowers bloom. You cannot make an Arhat lonely; in his aloneness the supreme Sound arises. You cannot kill an Arhat; in his death, only Nirvana flowers.
‘Town or forest, lowland or high — wherever the Arhat dwells, that land is delightful.’
Desire gone, worry ended, the mind care-free;
They who need nothing — they are the emperors.
Says Kabir.
Desire gone, worry ended...
Worry is the shadow of desire.
...the mind care-free.
They who need nothing — they are the emperors.
They are the sovereigns, the chakravartins.
When Buddha was born, astrologers said: either this boy will be a universal emperor, or he will attain Buddhahood — a supreme renunciate. The father was anxious. He had invited eight great astrologers from across the realm; among them was a young astrologer named Kodanna. Seven gave the alternative: either a universal emperor or a Buddha — a supreme sannyasin. But Kodanna said: he will be a universal emperor.
The father rejoiced; he loaded Kodanna with gifts. But Kodanna said: wait — perhaps you have not understood. I mean: he will be a Buddha. For only a Buddha is truly a universal emperor; none else. There is no alternative at all.
Then the father became very sad. For Kodanna was the most insightful of them all; young, yet with sharp eyes. And truly his eyes must have been sharp. What a wonder he said: he will be a Buddha — that is what I mean — you did not understand. Before you fill my bag, wait a little. These others gave an alternative — I do not. He will be a Buddha; and that is the only way to be a universal emperor — there is no other way.
Desire gone, worry ended, the mind care-free;
They who need nothing — they are the emperors.
Swami Ram called himself a king — though he had nothing. When he went to America and continued to call himself that, here in India such talk passes; there, people were puzzled — a king? The American President came to meet him, and even he asked: everything else is fine, but you seem to possess nothing — how are you a king? Swami Ram said: precisely because I possess nothing!
Desire gone, worry ended, the mind care-free;
They who need nothing — they are the emperors.
I am a sovereign, because I have nothing. Those who possess something — have limits; the periphery of their kingdom is fixed. Those who possess nothing — have the kingdom of the Void — the boundless empire — they are the chakravartins.
‘Town or forest, lowland or high — wherever the Arhat dwells, that land is delightful.’
‘There are such delightful woods where the common folk do not delight. There the desireless dwell; those unfascinated by sensual pleasures alone delight there.’
Layer upon layer beauty is spread on all sides. What you see is only news of your limits; it has little to do with existence. What appears to you reveals your vision. Here, layer upon layer — flowers within flowers; rays within rays. Here, within forms, more subtle forms; and, ultimately, the formless. Here there is a rain of beauty. If you remain deprived, the fault is somewhere yours.
Behind every drop, another drop; and behind the endless rows of drops — the ocean hidden. How much you receive depends on you — on how much you can drink; on the measure of your vessel. The clouds rain — pour infinity — but into your bowl, only so much as it can hold.
What you have taken to be a world of stones and pebbles — there too the Divine is hiding. Wherever you see limit, right there the dance of the limitless is afoot. Where you hear sounds, there the resonance of the Void rings too.
As you grow subtle, subtler layers of beauty are unveiled. The more gross you become, the more life grows ugly.
‘Delightful are those woods where the common folk do not delight.’
They cannot delight. Even when they pass through, they do not see. Even when sometimes they arrive there, they do not know where they have come. Even reaching the presence of a Buddha, some return empty-handed.
Much is happening in this world. Do not settle into the belief that what you have known is the end.
There is no end. The scriptures end; the scripture of life has no end. No beginning, no conclusion — always the middle.
The more you search, the more you find. The limit never comes. Searching and searching, the searcher himself melts away. Beauty grows so dense that you do not remain. As the cup fills and fills, it melts; the cup disappears — the filling does not.
The sung silence of the mountains,
This quivering, colored intoxication in the winds,
The proud stature of the tall deodars —
My beloved, my heartstrings resound.
The sung silence of the mountains —
The singing quiet of the hills’ beauty!
This quivering, colored intoxication in the winds —
The sway and tremble of ecstasy in the air!
The proud stature of the tall deodars —
These heights of the deodar trees, these longings to touch the sky!
My beloved, my heartstrings resound.
As the music of the mountains is heard, as the yearning of trees is felt, as the intoxication in the winds gives you a taste — so within you too the Beloved’s string begins to sound. Fingers touch the one-stringed lute inside.
This has a beginning — it has no end.
‘Delightful are those woods where the common folk do not delight.’
Not that the common folk cannot reach those places — even arriving, they do not arrive; their eyes miss. They lack the way of seeing, the art. They have no style of seeing; they lack meditation.
To know beauty — meditation is needed.
To know truth — meditation is needed.
To know Shiva — meditation is needed.
Without meditation nothing is attained. Meditation is eligibility; meditation is inner space, room.
‘Only the desireless delight there.’
Why? Why the desireless?
‘Those who are not in search of sensual pleasures.’
Because so long as your mind searches for pleasure, you will have only the gross vision.
Think: a woodcutter goes into the forest — the deodars touching the sky — he sees only wood, to be turned into fuel. An artist goes — he sees statues hidden in the tree, waiting to be revealed. A painter goes, a poet goes — different experiences — the tree is the same.
And when an Arhat sits beneath that tree, what he sees — only he can see. I say this literally — not as metaphor. What appears to you is the news of your way of seeing. For the Arhat there is no limit. A tiny rose becomes for him sufficient proof of the Divine. It all depends on your vision...
A beautiful woman appears — a beautiful man appears — and instantly lust arises. An Arhat too may see a beautiful woman — but lust does not arise; prayer arises. A sense of gratitude comes, of grace. If the Arhat is a devotee, he thanks the Divine for creating beauty. If he is not a devotee, thanks do not form; no words arise — but a feeling of ah! — blessedness — not gratitude, for there is none to be thanked — but a sense of benediction: blessed I am, fortunate I am. To be at all is such fortune; to be surrounded on all sides by beauty — what benediction!
It depends on you. Where you stand is your choice. Where you are, all can change — only change your choice.
‘Such are the delightful woods where common folk do not delight; only the desireless delight there...’
But you will find that delight only when lust drops from the mind. Lust is gross; it is entangled in the petty; its gaze remains petty; with such eyes it cannot go beyond.
If, filled with lust, you look at a body — only the outer shape of skin will be in your grasp. If you look desirelessly upon someone, you will glimpse the consciousness hidden within bone, flesh, marrow.
Now think: if your mind is filled with desirelessness — how many lamps all around, how many conscious flames! On every side so many torches of awareness are lit! Diwali is happening each moment. The festival goes on. This great festival never ends; not for a moment does it pause.
One flower falls — a thousand bloom.
One door closes — a thousand open.
The great festival goes on and on. The Arhat lives in this festival.
Certainly there are such delightful woods where the common folk do not delight; only the desireless delight there.
Enough for today.