Es Dhammo Sanantano #41

Man can speak in two ways: one, because keeping silent is hard; and two, because words are being born out of silence. These two are utterly opposite states.
Ordinarily we talk because not talking is difficult. If we do not speak we feel restless; if we do not speak, we do not know what else to do. Silence bites.
And in the presence of another person, if we fall silent, a very disquieting situation arises. We are silent in anger. We are silent when we want to insult someone. We are silent when we are sad. We have tied every wrong association to silence. Silence’s creative, meaningful dimension has been lost.
You go to someone’s house and he sits silently without saying a word—you will feel insulted. In speaking there is welcome; in speaking there is hospitality. We cannot even conceive of the reverence of silence. For we can only understand words; we have no capacity to understand the wordless. You ask something and someone remains silent; you will think he did not answer.
Silence too can be an answer. And for some things only silence is the answer. There are questions for which there is no possibility whatsoever that words can become an answer. In truth, all the important questions of life are resolved only in silence. But if someone remains silent when you have asked, you will feel your question was not honored; or you will assume the one who kept silent knew nothing.
So those who do not know—speak as well. If they do not speak it will be evident that they do not know. The foolish are very voluble. Through the loquacity of fools, the mind has been filled with futile words. We go on talking—day and night, asleep and awake—as if there were no way to be free of words.
Yet words are only the bank; if you remain entangled in them, you will be deprived of life’s midstream—you will never know what the current of life was.
Words are acquired from outside; they do not arise from within. When you were born, you were born wordless. When you descended, you came immaculate, unmodified, without thought; words came from the outside. When the Ganges descends, she does not bring banks with her; the banks are met outside.
The limit comes from outside; you come limitless. You come in silence; then the courtyard of words raises walls all around you. Someone is a Hindu because he has the wall of Hindu words; the bricks of the Veda are set in his wall. Someone is a Mohammedan, someone a Christian—what is the difference? The difference is of words. In the wordless you are the same—neither Hindu nor Christian nor Mohammedan. In the wordless there are no adjectives; there you are shunya, empty. That is your real being.
Until you have known that you are Hindu, or Mohammedan, or Christian, you have not known who you are; you have known only words. Society fills you with words; this is what we call education. Schools and universities get filled with words.
Dharma is the university of the wordless. Society fills you with words; Dharma again frees you from words. Hence Dharma can be neither Hindu nor Islam nor Buddhist nor Jain. Sects can be, because sects are concerned with words; Dharma is related to the wordless.
What society taught, Dharma gives you the capacity to forget. The lines society has drawn, Dharma teaches you the art of wiping them away. If society is learning, then Dharma is unlearning; to become blank again, to break the boundaries again, for the Ganges to become ocean, to leave the banks behind.
There is comfort in being between banks, because being confined by banks is clear and neat. Between banks you are safely within a fort on both sides. The moment the banks are dropped, you will drop out of yourself as well. Falling into the ocean, the Ganges will no longer remain the Ganges—she will become the ocean.
The Buddha’s words today move in this direction.
“Better than a thousand verses composed of meaningless words is a single meaningful word that, on hearing, brings peace to a man.”
Which words are meaningless? Those inside you that are born only out of other words are meaningless. A word born out of the inner wordless is meaningful. “Meaningful” means: that which you have given birth to, which has been born from the innermost of your life-breath, which has come from you.
Society puts something in, and then an echo comes back out of you—that is meaningless. You go to a mountain, shout, and the valleys and hills echo your shout; that is meaningless. The valleys have not said anything; how can there be meaning in it? The valleys said nothing; the valleys only repeated. The valleys sent back what was thrown at them—perhaps distorted—but it cannot be meaningful.
So if the words of society come to you and return like the valleys, you only echo them; they cannot be meaningful. A meaningful word is one that is born from you, that has not entered from outside, that has come only from within. Only from the experience of truth can meaningfulness be born.
The Buddha says, “Better than a thousand verses made of meaningless words is a single meaningful word that, on hearing, brings peace to a man.”
And he has given the criterion—how will you recognize it? The criterion is this: the word that comes out of peace brings you to peace. The word that comes from the inner wordless fills you, even if only for a moment, with the resonance of the wordless; it makes you tranquil. If you have ever heard one who has known, then in his words you will find something more than words. Around his words you will sense emptiness moving. His being will soak his words. There will be a sweetness in his words from some other realm. His words are only pretexts.
If it were up to him, he would manage without words at all. If it were up to him, he would speak to you just by being silent—but you would not understand silence. It is a compulsion, a helplessness, that words must be used. But the use of words is not for the sake of words; the use of words is for shunya. His words will be very paradoxical. He will say one thing—yet he wants to indicate something altogether different. What he says will seem one thing; what he wishes to convey is something else. Therefore if you do not listen with sympathy, you will not understand him.
There is a way, an art, a discipline for listening to the utterances of one who has attained to truth. Such listening is not ordinary listening. Hence Mahavira and Buddha chose a different term for it: samyak shravan—right listening. Everyone listens, but such listening will not suffice. You will have to listen as you listen not with the head, but with the heart. While listening, you do not think—you only listen. You do not analyze—you only drink it in. You will have to listen as one drinks— with deep sympathy. If inside you there is argument, if thoughts are moving, then what is being said will be missed. It is very delicate, very subtle—subtler than the word.
But if you allow even a single such word to fall into your life-breath, you will be stilled. Instantly you will find that peace has showered. Instantly you will find that a radiance from another realm has surrounded you. You will find your feet are not touching this earth—you are touching some other sky. You will begin to fly; you will not walk.
In his words there will be a wine that will fill you with an unfamiliar, unworldly ecstasy. You will find the fragrance of flowers in it, the humming of bees—but not the droning of scriptures. The babble of brooks you may hear in it, the songs of birds you may hear in it—but you will not find the glint of dogmas, doctrines, conclusions.
Granted, he too is compelled to use the same words you use; he too uses the words used by the shastras. But his manner is different. He is compelled to use the words of scripture, yet the way he weaves them, the process of using them, is fundamentally different. He uses words less to explain and more to indicate. He does not wish to persuade you into any doctrine; he invites you into a pilgrimage.
There is a great difference. To argue you into doctrines is easy; you remain as you are, where you are, and the doctrines become new ornaments for you. You become a little more clever. Your stupidity acquires some adornment. Around your foolishness you will hang a few more stars and moons. Your ignorance will be hidden a little more—hidden inside garments and veils. You will not change.
When a Buddha speaks, it is to dissolve you and give you new birth. He digs your grave and also prepares a womb for you. His words are dangerous—they will kill you. And his words are ambrosial—for they will bring you to life again. In his words there is the cross and there is resurrection. If you have listened, even a single word of his will make you peaceful within.
If you go to hear a logician, you will return more agitated; you will come back more disturbed. You were disturbed already—he will disturb you further. It may even happen that you agree with him—and yet you will not be at peace. Even in agreeing with him there will be restlessness, discomfort; thorns will go on pricking, as if somewhere something has gone wrong. It will not be clear what has gone wrong—but something has. For peace belongs to the heart, not to the head. He has only stroked your head, beguiled your mind, inserted a few more thoughts and a few more words. You were burdened as it was; you have become a little more burdened.
But when you return after hearing the word of a Buddha, it may be you have not even agreed with him—yet you will not be able to remain restless. It may be you show no readiness to follow him—and still you will find as if you have bathed. Dust-laden, travel-weary, you dipped into some spring. You were drenched with sweat; a cloud came and showered—and all became cool. But the art of listening is needed.
To listen to a logician no art is required, because society already trains you for that. For the language of logic you are completely groomed. For the language of truth, you have no preparation. The language of truth will of necessity be paradoxical.
The Upanishads say: Paramatma is nearer than the nearest and farther than the farthest. If they say only, nearer than the nearest—fine. If they say only, farther than the farthest—fine. But in a single statement there is contradiction: nearer than the nearest and farther than the farthest. It goes beyond logic.
Ask Buddha—whatever you ask him, the answers will come paradoxical.
Truth is essentially paradoxical. Why? Because truth is so vast that all opposites are contained within it. Logic is very small; it has a clean and tidy boundary line. Truth has no boundary line. Truth is the ocean; logic is a little pond, a puddle—with clear edges. The small intellect can grasp matters with boundaries—it can understand. Truth is larger than you. If you touch it, that is enough; you will not be able to enclose it in your fist.
Buddha has said, “Better than a thousand verses filled with meaningless words is one meaningful word.”
Which word is meaningful? As we ordinarily speak, if you ask a linguist, all are meaningful. Whatever is said according to the rules of grammar, which violates no rule or custom of language, all that is meaningful. Meaningfulness lies in grammar; meaningfulness lies in the rules of language.
The enlightened do not call that meaningful. They say: meaningfulness lies in the experience of the speaker—let grammar be followed or not.
Kabir knew no grammar, but if all the pundits of Kashi in his time were placed on one side of the scale, and Kabir alone on the other, even then all the pundits together could not lift Kabir’s pan—their side would hang in midair. The whole of Kashi could not lift one Kabir.
One Kabir is more than the whole of Kashi; though there is no grammar, no learned language. Kabir is a rustic, unlettered.
Kabir has said: Ink and paper I never touched.
He never touched paper and pen. Yet what he said would make the seers of the Vedas blush; the creators of the Upanishads would feel shy—uttered in a rustic tongue. No rhyme, no arrangement—and still what is said is said with knowing. The meaning comes from within; it is not connected to any outer arrangement. The meaning arises from inner experience.
Suppose you have read many scriptures on love and then you write something on love—it will certainly appear meaningful, yet it will not be. It will appear meaningful because there will be order, coherence, a chain of reasoning—but it cannot be meaningful because you have not known love.
And often it happens that those who do not know love speak about love, write about love, sing songs of love. These are devices to cover the lack of love. Those who have known love may well fall silent; or if they say something, it may not appeal to your understanding, it may seem senseless—for you have not known love either; what is said from knowing will not suit your taste.
I have heard: a boat lay by the bank of a river, and four turtles jumped in. The wind was strong; with their jolt the boat moved—they were delighted. But a great philosophical question arose: who is steering the boat? We are not.
One turtle said, the river is steering it. Can’t you see? The current flows—it is carrying the boat.
The second said, are you crazy? It is the wind, not the river, that moves the boat.
A great dispute broke out. The third said, this is all illusion—he must have been an even greater philosopher—this is all illusion; neither wind is steering, nor river is steering; no one moves, no one goes anywhere; it is all a dream; we are seeing in sleep.
But the fourth remained silent. The three looked at him and said, why don’t you say something? Still he kept quiet; he said, I know nothing.
Hearing this, the three who were fighting became comrades and pushed the fourth into the river: posing as a wise guy! All he had said was: I do not know who is steering. He had uttered a statement of deep experience. Who knows who steers? How could it be known?
The seers of the Vedas have said: Who made this world? Who can say? How can it be said? Who knows? He who made it—perhaps he knows; perhaps even he does not. They said something unique: perhaps he knows; perhaps even he does not. For does one necessarily know just because one has made?
A sculptor carves a statue—what does he know thereby? Ask him; he will say: a mood arose—I don’t know from where. Why it came? Even if it had not, there was no way to force it. But when it came, the mood caught hold of me—caught me by the throat—and the statue had to be made. How it was made? Who made it? I became an instrument. Ask a poet who has composed a song—ask: how did you make it? He will say: I don’t know.
Those who know, perhaps they will say: I do not know. And those who do not know will give definite answers that they do know—because that is how they cover their ignorance.
The three turtles fought among themselves; but their dispute ended when the fourth said quietly: I do not know. Their anger knew no bounds: posing as a mystic, pretending wisdom! Saying such a wise thing—that we do not know, no one knows! They pushed him in.
Whenever truth has been spoken, the remaining turtles have pushed the speaker down. Truth is rarely accepted. Because you have accepted something beforehand, you are deprived of truth and of the peace that the expression of truth could bring. You already presume that you know.
When you come to me, set aside all your information; tie it in a bundle and sink it in the river—and as you listen to me, you will begin to be stilled. Perhaps you will not have to do anything; perhaps just in the listening you will be filled with a new meaning—yes, you will be; you should be. There is no reason, no obstacle.
But if you listen carrying your information, protecting your scripture, clutching your doctrines, then you have not listened; you have remained in argument—the dialogue could not happen. If the dialogue happens and a single meaningful word falls within you—that is enough.
Buddha says, “One meaningful word is superior even to thousands of words.”
But what is his definition of meaningfulness? It must come from inner experience—soaked in experience, spoken from knowing; not borrowed—cash, not credit.
Worship of knowledge is the sleep of day
Freedom from affliction is only through karma
Who has gained siddhis from philosophies?
The jiva’s deliverance is only through Dharma
Who has gained siddhis from philosophies?
Understand as much as you will—think, reflect, study the shastras, contemplate—but who ever attained siddhis from philosophies? Who became accomplished by reading scriptures? Yes—wherever there were accomplished ones, from them the scriptures were born; that is quite another matter.
The jiva’s deliverance is only through Dharma.
What does Dharma mean? Dharma means: that which comes into experience.
As yet what you call Dharma is not Dharma either—it is darshan, philosophy. Someone comes to me and says: I believe in Jain-Dharma. I say: say Jain-darshan—don’t say Jain-Dharma. For what do you know of Jain-Dharma? Mahavira knew; how do you? You believe in the doctrine of Mahavira—you take Mahavira’s words on belief. Mahavira did not believe in anyone; Mahavira knew. You believe; belief reaches only to a viewpoint—an opinion—not to experience.
And the criterion is this: if you fulfill the condition of listening, you will become peaceful.
Many times people ask me: how to recognize the true Master? I say: do not worry about the satguru; just learn the art of listening. Then you will recognize the satguru yourselves. Even if he tries to hide, he will not be able to; you will recognize him. Coming near him you will begin to be stilled.
As when you come near a garden, cool breezes touch you; even if the garden is not yet visible you know you are coming close. Come closer and the fragrance of flowers begins to drift in the air; even then the garden may not be visible—the night is dark—yet you know the direction is right. The fragrance grows, the garden draws near. But if your nostrils are spoiled, if your capacity to smell has been lost, then it will be difficult.
Do not ask where the garden is; ask how to regain the nostrils. How to regain the capacity to smell?
You ask how to recognize the satguru. How will you? Do only this: become capable of listening; become available to the satguru; remain open for him. When he knocks at your door, do not remain asleep so that you do not hear—this much is enough.
One who has learned to listen—who has mastered the art of shravan—immediately begins to recognize where peace begins to settle. Then he will not worry whether to go to temple or to mosque, whether to listen to a Jain muni or to a Hindu sadhu or to a Muslim fakir—this will not concern him.
These concerns are for the unwise. He will have only one concern: wherever I become peaceful, there I go. Then whether it is a Muslim fakir, a Jain muni, a Buddhist bhikkhu—what difference does it make?
Then whether it is mosque or temple—what difference does it make? The real touchstone is at hand: where all starts becoming quiet; where the veena of the heart begins to play notes of peace; where every pore begins to thrill; where it feels dust has fallen away, a bath has happened; where freshness comes; where nourishment is felt; where you return more alive, with a lamp lit—as if someone has coaxed the flame of your life’s lamp.
“Even thousands of words are futile; one meaningful word is supreme—on hearing which a man becomes peaceful.”
“Superior even to him who, in battle, conquers thousands upon thousands of men is he who conquers only one—himself.”
First thing: find one in whose being there is the wealth of meaning. Because until you see the treasure, the thirst and search for your inner treasure will not arise. How could it? Until you have seen someone dance, how can the urge for dance arise? Until you have seen someone sway in ecstasy, how can the desire to be intoxicated arise? Until you have experienced someone as the very embodiment of peace, of shunya, how can a vision of peace spread its wings within you?
Among those with whom you live, you find them more restless than yourself. From morning you read the newspaper; the world’s disturbances, thefts, dishonesty, murders—you read it all, and reading it you feel: we are better than these. The secret of newspapers is just this; people read with such relish only for this reason: reading them they feel—we are at least better than these.
In a world where you feel you are better than most, there can be no growth, no movement. The camel must come near the mountain; only then will he know—Ah! I am very small.
Whenever a Buddha walks the earth, those who dare to come near that mountain—dare they must, because the camel feels great fear going near the mountain. To accept that someone could be greater than I—that very acceptance seems hard. By a thousand devices, by a thousand supports, we keep believing we are great. Any place where this image might be shattered—where this feeling might fall—seems painful; we avoid going there. Even if we do go, we shut our eyes and hurry past.
So first Buddha says: go to one in whom the flower of meaning has bloomed. Immediately you will feel your whole life is futile. Where, in whose presence, your life appears futile, know that there meaningfulness has flowered; only by comparison are you made aware of your futility.
This world is like the semal flower
In ten days’ traffic do not forget its false color
Kabir has said. Like the semal flower—so radiant the world appears. In ten days’ dealings—but it does not last long.
In ten days’ traffic do not forget its false color
It scatters. A slight gust of wind—and the semal flower shatters; breaks into a thousand pieces and blows in a thousand directions.
In the presence of one with whom you come to feel: my life is futile, fleeting; what I have accumulated I have not gained—I have lost; the way I have walked, I did not walk—I wandered astray; what I took as wealth was calamity; what I thought a boon was a curse; what I took as love was not love; what I assumed as truth was not truth—when such a feeling arises, do not panic and run away. The mind will say: run away—move away; we are better off in our darkness. The mind will say: why get into such trouble? This journey looks too much. The mind will say: continue as you were—the familiar road. The mind is a line-walker; it trembles to go after the new. But whenever you hear a meaningful word it will feel new, fresh—freshly bathed; and it is from that very freshness that peace will be received. When that shower of freshness falls upon you, the mind becomes tranquil.
Be courageous. Do not worry about finding the satguru; develop the capacity to listen. And when, in listening, you begin to taste meaningfulness, do not run in fear. For where the Master appears meaningful, you will appear meaningless.
Understand this a little. If your attention remains on the Master, you will find peace. If you bring the attention onto yourself, you will become very disturbed. Whenever something meaningful is seen, in the background much becomes meaningless.
You were busy gathering pebbles and stones, and I told you they are pebbles; I showed you a diamond. Now you have two options: either drop the pebbles and go in search of the diamond—if you choose this, the mind will immediately be at rest: the sooner they are dropped the better; whenever they are dropped, it is right; whenever one wakes up, it is morning; do not lose the day—good fortune.
Or there is the second option—chosen by the ninety-nine out of a hundred—that you become angry with me for calling your jewels pebbles. You become my enemy for life—then you will be disturbed.
And remember, now whatever you do, your pebbles will never again become jewels. You will become very restless; great pain will arise. However much you try to believe that these are jewels, they will not be. However angry you become, however enraged, however many abuses you throw at me—these jewels will not again become jewels. However you clasp them to your chest—the illusion broken is broken. What is gone is gone; it cannot be brought back.
A falsehood that once you have seen as false can never again be made true. And a truth that once has flashed as truth—you will not be able to deny it.
So be aware: from where the supreme peace could be gained, you can also go away disturbed. Because of yourself, you will be disturbed.
If you catch the thread of peace, if you engage in the search for meaning, if the urge arises within you that the light that has arisen in this person’s life should arise in mine as well, then you have embarked upon the journey of self-victory.
“Superior to the victor who conquers thousands of men in battle is he who conquers only one—himself.”
All victories prove, in the end, to be defeat. All victories—unconditionally I say it. All successes finally fall into the ditch of failure. And what you call life ends without fail upon the pyre—without fail. There is no other end.
This world is like the semal flower
In ten days’ traffic do not forget its false color
Only conquering oneself proves to be conquest. Only attaining to oneself proves attainment, because death cannot snatch it away. That alone is life which death cannot take. That alone is wealth which fire cannot burn. That station alone is worth gaining which none can snatch from you. The winds of the world cannot dislodge you from that throne. That is the station to be gained—which cannot be taken away. Esa dhammo sanantano. That is the eternal Dharma before which death is defeated.
Not a madman’s tale
Not a meaningless prattle
Within the human being
Whatever is the nobler
Life is the occasion
For its expression
He is happy only who
Is intent on this tapas
This life will either become a tale told by a madman. Shakespeare’s famous line: a tale told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, signifying nothing. A madman’s tale, meaninglessness.
Ordinarily life is just this—like the semal flower. No sooner does it bloom than it begins to scatter. No sooner has it come than it has begun to go. What is birth but entry into death? The very step of success becomes the step of failure.
Look closely. Praise comes—and abuse begins. You take a flower in your hand—and thorns prick you. You make love—and you invite hurricanes of hate. You ask for happiness—and sorrow begins to shower.
Look a little at life. What you want, the opposite happens. What you ask, the opposite arrives. What you believe—never happens; and what happens—you do not see.
You are mad. A thousand times you ask for happiness and get sorrow—and you do not see that in the very demand for happiness the coming of sorrow is hidden. You call out for happiness—sorrow hears and comes. You go on calling to happiness—and sorrow keeps coming. It seems happiness is the name of sorrow; success the name of failure. What you call life is the veil of death.
If this becomes visible to you, if you understand it a little, then to run in it, to spend life’s energy in it, to lose the opportunity in it—this is as if a madman were telling a story without head or tail, without sense or coherence. At the time of death you will find that all that happened was a painful dream—or did it really happen?
No, but this is your mistake—not the nature of life. It is your wrong way of seeing.
Not a madman’s tale
Not a meaningless prattle
Within the human being
Whatever is the nobler
Life is the occasion
For its expression
He is happy only who
Is intent on this tapas
If the direction is right, the vision clear—then what now appears an unintelligible riddle becomes profoundly meaningful.
But meaningfulness begins when your hand falls upon yourself; when you conquer yourself. One who has conquered himself—his whole life becomes harmonious. Then there remains no discord; then all things fall into their right place. And everything is used.
Then this life is no longer a futile running about—it becomes self-expression. Then this life is not a sorrow-dream—a pain, a meaningless labor—but begins to be meaningful.
One who has gained a little understanding within—who has planted his feet within, grown roots in his own nature, known the Atman a little, recognized himself—at that very moment the whole world changes its form.
The story turns upside down. Now life hides behind death. Now behind every thorn a flower is found. Now behind every sorrow a joy begins to be found. You change—and everything changes.
It is as if you are now standing on your head; thus all appears inverted—because you are inverted. Stand upright—and all is right. Everything depends on your way of being.
“Superior to conquering thousands in battle is he who conquers only one—himself.”
What is the difficulty? What is the obstacle? The enlightened have cried from rooftops and mountaintops—what is the obstruction? Why do we not listen? The obstruction must be heavy indeed—so heavy that we set aside the enlightened and continue our petty business.
The obstruction is this: what you presently take yourself to be has to be lost, if you are to gain what you truly are. Your name, your dwelling, your address, your identity, your identifications—all are false. Whatever you have known as ‘I am’—that you are not at all. What you have thus far taken to be the soul is not the soul. These ideas too have been handed to you by others.
Someone said, you are beautiful—and you believed you are beautiful. You have not yet seen your own face. Someone said, you are intelligent—and you believed you are intelligent. You have not yet seen your own face. Then one mistake leads to another, the second to a third; mistakes pile up. And those who tell you, you are beautiful—they have their own purposes.
I have heard: three swindlers went to a sweet shop. It was the most famous and crowded shop in the village. They stood in the crowd. Then one said, it’s been a long time since I gave my money—neither the sweets come nor the change is returned. The shopkeeper lifted his eyes: what money! A quarrel started. The man insisted: I ordered sweets for eight annas; I should get eight annas back. No sweets have come, no change has come. In fact, he had given nothing at all.
The second swindler said, no, this cannot be. This shopkeeper is very honest—such a thing can never happen; you are mistaken. The quarrel grew. While this was going on, the second said: dear Lala, in this confusion don’t forget my rupee. Now the poor owner was in a fix: if he said you too gave nothing, the whole crowd would turn against him: you rich saraf—everyone else is a thief! And this man is saying you are honest—such a thing is impossible.
Before he could speak, the third swindler said: that is fine—theirs is a matter of rupees; mine is a five-rupee note. The owner thought: better to say yes quickly, otherwise the whole crowd is here—anyone may claim anything, even a hundred-rupee note. He said: brothers, you three take your money—my mistake.
Have you ever noticed? Those who tell you: you are beautiful, you are intelligent, you are brilliant, you are honest—they have purposes, vested interests.
You will be surprised: even those nearest you have interests—not only those far away with whom you have dealings. The mother says to her son: none is more handsome than you. All mothers believe so. There is interest there. How can my son be ugly? He is my son. The tree is known by its fruit; the mother’s beauty rides upon the son’s beauty. The father says: you are very intelligent.
People come to me praising their children. I am amazed. If everyone’s children are so extraordinary, the world should be extraordinary; but later they all get lost.
Children must be extraordinary—there is parental interest. They are proofs, evidences. And when these children do not prove extraordinary, parents suffer and are tormented. That is why you will rarely find parents pleased—whatever their children become.
I have heard a story: a Jewish woman died; she had always one question in her mind—that if she reached heaven she would ask Mary, mother of Jesus. When she died, by fortune she reached heaven. At the gate the first thing she asked was: take me to Mary—I have a question. She was taken to Mary. Mary said: I know, this question has always been in your mind; now ask it.
She said: my question is this. When children are born, I have always heard parents praising them; I have never heard any parent condemn an infant. When children grow up and go into life, I have always heard parents condemn them; I have never heard praise. For this I have been very disturbed. At least you must have praised your son—your son is Jesus!
Mary, it is said, became sad and said: we had thought he would become a doctor.
Even what parents tell you is not your truth; it is their ambition. What others tell you outside is not your truth either; it is their convenience. Upon these scraps you build your image of who you are—patching together clippings from newspapers—you construct a portrait.
Because of this portrait you find it difficult to go within—how to drop it! A whole life has been poured into it—how to break it! And for self-conquest this breaking is necessary. Only then will you know yourself—when all you have heard from others about yourself has been left behind; only then will you be able to encounter yourself directly, face to face.
Your soul will awaken—you will fall asleep
At the fountainhead of life you will be washed away
Lost in the spectacles of nature
You will become very close to yourself
You will break on one side—and on the other your nature will be revealed. Here you will be lost—there you will come home.
Lost in the spectacles of nature
You will become very close to yourself
Your soul will awaken—you will fall asleep
On one side you will sleep, fall, vanish; on the other, the ruh will awaken.
You will have to stake yourself utterly. It will not be a cheap bargain.
You want the soul for free. Sometimes you even give up a little for the soul—you donate a little, build a temple, raise a mosque—but that will not do. There is only one condition to attain the soul: that you agree to lose yourself.
One who is ready to lose himself—that one I call sannyasin. That is whom Buddha called bhikkhu. Bhikkhu means: one who is ready to lose all the wealth of his being, ready to be a beggar; who says: I will clutch nothing. What I have taken as wealth, my identifications—I drop. The resolve to be nothing—that is to be a bhikkhu.
“It is better to conquer oneself than other peoples. The victory of the man who has subdued himself and who is constantly mastering himself cannot be undone—neither by gods, nor gandharvas, nor Brahma, nor even Mara.”
Even if one conquers the whole world, it is no victory. What meaning is there in conquering these defeated people? What meaning in conquering these dead ones? It is like going to a cremation ground and planting a flag—what meaning?
This is a cremation ground that you call the world. And those you go to conquer—they are the dead. And the irony: you have not yet conquered yourself, and you set out to conquer others. How will you conquer? You can sit on someone’s chest by force—but you will not conquer. Sitting on another’s chest is not necessarily his defeat. Sitting on another’s chest is not necessarily your victory. What we call victory in the world is compulsion. Can compulsion be victory?
Those who conquered themselves—their victory spread like magic over multitudes; far and wide their spell spread. All those who wished to conquer themselves fell under their magic. And the wonder is—there is no compulsion there.
How many came and bowed at the feet of the Buddha! Alexander too forced many to bow—but they had not bowed; they were made to.
When you force someone to bow, watch carefully—he stands stiff within; only the body bends. When someone bows of himself, voluntarily—only then does he bow. Only in love is there victory; no other victory exists.
But only one who has conquered himself can love. Only one who has conquered himself is capable of giving love. Many come to him and are defeated. And the wonder is—that in that defeat, they take the first step toward their own victory. Defeat before him becomes the first step toward victory.
If you must be defeated, be defeated by the Buddhas—for from that you will move toward victory. If you must be defeated, be defeated by those who have conquered themselves—then you too will set out upon the journey of conquest.
“It is better to conquer oneself than other peoples. The victory of the man who has subdued himself and who is constantly mastering himself cannot be undone—neither by gods, nor gandharvas, nor Brahma, nor even Mara.”
There is only one victory that none can undo; the rest—anyone can turn them into defeat. A victory that can be turned into defeat by another is a deception, not victory. The one that none can turn into defeat—that alone is victory; the eternal victory.
What is the key?
“One who subdues himself.”
In Buddha’s time the word ‘subdue’ (daman) had a very different meaning than now. After Freud, the meaning has changed. Today ‘repression’ is a condemned word. In Buddha’s time ‘daman’ had another quality.
What did Buddha mean by ‘daman’? Exactly what we mean today by ‘shant’ and ‘dant’—one whose passions have become quiet, one who has made his desires peaceful. Daman—from ‘dam’—was the name of the process of pacifying.
Today to use this word is dangerous, for after Freud’s discoveries it has a new meaning: repression—one who has pressed down his passions. Now ‘daman’ means suppression; then it meant freedom. Keep this distinction in mind.
In Freud’s sense, repression is dangerous—very dangerous. For whatever you repress will reassert itself again and again. Whatever you push down will gain more juice, not less. Whatever you suppress, the desire to do it grows stronger.
Yesterday I was reading a poem of Agyeya—
Bapu said: if you go abroad
Do whatever else you will
But do not eat beef.
Bapu said: if you go abroad
Do whatever else you will
But do not eat beef.
The last line was prohibition
Naturally it slipped from the mind
The rest we obeyed
And did everything else
Only that one thing—of beef—we could not avoid.
Whatever is forbidden becomes attractive—immensely attractive. If you are told: do not do this—the urge to do it arises immediately. Upon hearing ‘do not’—a deep ego rises: we will do it. If you do not do it—you will writhe: how to do it? If you do it—you will feel guilty. This is not the way to freedom. Do it—and you are caught in remorse and sin. Do not do it—and you are caught in the burning desire to do it. Caught both ways—no escape. Freud defines repression thus. In this sense repression is a disease—avoid it.
But when Buddha or Patanjali use ‘daman’, in those days it meant something else: to understand desires, to be the witness of desires, to watch them—to bring insight to them. Through prajna and through recognition, desires slowly become peaceful, docile—available to ‘dam’—no longer active.
If someone else tells you ‘do not do’—there will be no benefit. When you yourself, from deep experience of life, come to the point of not doing—because doing, again and again, you have been burned; doing, again and again, you have suffered—only out of that suffering, when understanding arises, will you see: this is not to be done. Not because the shastras say so; not because the satguru says so; but because your whole life says so—your own experience says so.
Understand the difference. When your own experience says so—no conflict arises within. When you yourself say: this is futile, not worthy of doing—but this must come from your experience. You can also read it in a book and say: not to be done. Then immediately you will find a conflict within—one mind wants to do, one mind wants not to. If conflict arises, know you are falling into Freud’s repression. If there is no conflict—your own understanding says ‘not worthy’ and it drops—then, in Buddha’s sense, daman has happened.
“One who subdues himself and who is nitya—constantly—mastering himself...”
This is a unique sutra; understand it deeply.
“And who is constantly mastering himself...”
Many commentaries have been written on the Dhammapada, but no commentary seems to have grasped the supreme value of this sutra. The supreme value lies hidden in the word ‘nitya’—
“Who constantly masters himself...”
Do not practice restraint through vows. A vow means: you swear today to be restrained tomorrow. Nitya—constant—means: tomorrow we will watch life as it actually is, and wherever life leads, whatever understanding dawns, we will move accordingly. Let restraint be moment-to-moment—fresh, not stale.
What you call monks, sadhus, sannyasins—their restraint is stale. They took a vow once; now they keep that vow—how can they break it? The ego comes in the way. This is stale restraint—eating yesterday’s cooked bread today.
Buddha says: restraint fresh every day—this is unique. It means: living every day anew, moment-to-moment, with awareness. Awareness is restraint. Not a vow, but awareness. Not a pledge to rules, but the understanding of law.
Do not say: I swear I will never be angry. That will become repression in Freud’s sense. Because when anger comes tomorrow, what will you do? Today you swear not to be angry tomorrow—when anger comes tomorrow what will you do?
Nor can you say that because you swore it will not come—for what has swearing to do with the coming or not coming of anger? The truth is—you swear precisely because you know it will come. Why else swear? For what are vows needed? If it were not going to come, the matter was finished—why swear?
You too are afraid; you too know yourself well enough—your nature, your habits, your past. You know it will come tomorrow; you put the vow in between—perhaps the vow will help to prevent it. Then when anger comes, you will repress it.
Buddha says: if anger comes today—understand it, awaken, be aware; allow this anger to be dissolved in awareness. Do not let it dissolve in darkness, or it will return again. Bid it farewell properly. Bring it to the door and bow it out. Bid it farewell consciously.
Do not take vows—all vows are in the dark. Unconscious people take vows; one who is full of awareness never takes any vow. What is the question of vows? Awareness is enough. All vows are fulfilled in awareness. If anger comes tomorrow—the awareness you practiced today, practice again tomorrow. Slowly strengthen awareness; practice awareness—anger will dissolve.
An aware person does not get angry; unawareness is the essential condition for anger.
Let me say it this way: unawareness is the essential condition for anger, and unawareness is the essential condition for vows as well. Unconscious people take vows; and unconscious people get angry. Unconscious people fall into lust; and unconscious people take the rule of brahmacharya. In unawareness, repression begins.
Buddha says: “Who constantly masters himself...”
I have wondered: why do those who study and contemplate the Dhammapada miss this word ‘nitya’? It is so clear—there is hardly need to comment; it is straightforward.
“Constantly mastering himself...”
Fresh, daily—again and again—living with awareness. Not yesterday’s stale pledge, but today’s fresh prajna—today’s awareness.
“...such a man’s victory cannot be undone by gods, or gandharvas, or Brahma, or even Mara.”
No one can undo his victory. The foundation of his victory is set in awareness—no one can ever uproot that foundation.
If the heart is naked, seven veils are futile
Garments are useless if the inner mind is well covered
Wrap yourself as you will—even in seven robes—if within there is nakedness, it will remain.
Garments are useless if the inner mind is well covered
Then you can stand naked—and still you will not be naked—if the inner nakedness is gone.
Let me say: Mahavira, standing naked, is not naked; and you—cover yourself with countless garments—you will remain naked.
“Even if month after month, for a hundred years, one should perform sacrifices by the thousands with wealth—if one honors for a moment a man of pure mind, that moment of honor is better than a hundred years of sacrifice.”
“Even if month after month, for a hundred years, one should perform sacrifices...”
Buddha points to the true direction of yagna. In his time yagna was widespread: light the fire, offer oblations, burn ghee, throw grains—countless kinds of sacrifice. Also violent sacrifices—ashvamedha, gomeda, even narmedha—human beings were offered. Terrible violence paraded in the name of sacrifice.
Among Buddha’s revolutions was this: if you must sacrifice, then offer yourself. And if you are to be offered, what will be gained by offering yourself in an outer fire? Seek the fire of the satguru. Where there is a sanctified flame within—there bow; there offer yourself; there go and burn. If you are to burn—become the moth. Find the lamp.
“Even if month after month, for a hundred years, one should perform sacrifices with thousands of rupees—and if one, for a muhurta, honors a man of pure mind—that muhurta is superior to a hundred years of oblation.”
For a single moment! Muhurta is even shorter than a moment—the empty space between two moments is called muhurta—tiny, very narrow. But muhurta means the present. One moment has gone—past. The one coming—has not yet come—future. Between the two is muhurta.
Only in the present can satsang with the satguru happen. Gurus of the past will not help; gurus of the future will not help. The one who is now, who is here, who is—only he can help. If for a muhurta you honor him—that is superior to hundreds of years of sacrifice. Because in that worship you bowed, in that worship you burned, in that worship you were gone.
Call it: the atma-medha yagna. There have been enough narmedhas, ashvamedhas, gomeds; Buddha and Mahavira taught atma-medha—the annihilation of the self.
You will have to be annihilated. Only then is worship possible. If you remain, worship cannot be. To bow at the feet of a Buddha means you bow totally—you are gone. Even for a muhurta if you are not—worship has happened.
On every lower peak there is a temple
Above—only the formless You
All other shrines are on lowly peaks—however high they seem—Badrinath or Kedarnath—yet all temples are on small summits.
On every lower peak there is a temple
Above—only the formless You
And when you come near a true man, you will raise your eyes and raise your eyes—and never find the end.
Above—only the formless You
To bow beneath such a formless sky is atma-medha.
If even for a muhurta this happens—just once—then you will never return. For one who has tasted the bliss of such bowing will not rise again.
Not that the body will not rise; the body will rise, will walk, will work—but within something will remain bowed—remain bowed; inside, no one will ever rise again.
One moment of worship—one muhurta—becomes eternal.
Esa dhammo sanantano.
Enough for today.