Es Dhammo Sanantano #44

Today's sutras of the Dhammapada are about paap and punya.
Paap brings sorrow, yet people keep doing it. Punya brings happiness, yet people keep postponing it. So it is necessary to understand the process of paap and punya. Even knowing that paap brings suffering, it is hard to be free of it. Even knowing that punya brings joy, it is hard to enter into it. There must be some entanglement in the process of paap and punya where man gets lost, becomes confused.
First thing: no one has ever done paap knowing it as paap. The moment one recognizes paap as paap, the hands stop instantly. One does paap only by mistaking it for punya. Even when you do wrong, you do it believing it to be right. The wrong is always hiding under the cover of the right.
Therefore do not wait for the day when you will know wrong as wrong and be free. You will have to search out the wrong hidden within your own rightness. You will have to look where you have never looked before. Your anger hides under the veil of your compassion. Your violence hides under the cover of your ahimsa. Your lust has donned the robes of brahmacharya. And your untruth has learned the words of truth. Your ignorance speaks the language of erudition.
The devil found no refuge and hid himself in the idols of the temples. There you cannot see him, because there you go to see God. There you go already taking sides. Your eyes are already filled. For the devil, there is no better refuge than temple and mosque. And for ignorance, there is no greater support than the shastras. And if the ego wants to hide itself safely forever, humility—yes, humility itself—is the strongest wall. Within that strong fortress the ego hides.
No one has ever done paap knowing it as paap. One has done it knowing it as something else. Therefore the real question of paap is not of action but of awareness. The mistake is in your knowing, not in your doing. If knowing becomes firm, straight, exact, doing will be transformed. Right vision will bring you to right conduct.
Therefore whoever tells you, “Drop paap,” is wasting time—his and yours. You have never caught hold of paap. You catch hold only of punya. Whoever says to you, “Do not do wrong,” you will laugh and say, “We never do wrong. It just happens—that is another matter! We always set out to do the right; at the end the wrong lands in our hands—our misfortune.”
Before entering these sutras, first understand: revolution in life is a revolution of awareness, not of action. Because the basic mistake is happening there. The mistake is in your knowing. The mistake is in your wakefulness.
Second thing: paap tempts you. Why? For centuries man has known, it is the universal human experience, and it proves only one thing inevitably—that paap has led people into deep suffering. Every time the result is sorrow. You were violent, you were angry—when did you find happiness? You were greedy, you fostered envy, you were jealous—when did showers of joy fall? Show at least one experience to stand in your support. All experiences are against you, yet you do not listen to experience. Then there must be a deeper trick somewhere.
Paap offers the temptation of pleasure. It never gives pleasure; it gives temptation. You know this too—that paap has never given happiness—but the temptation! There you go astray. The experience is suffering, but the temptation has no end. Temptation is a mere promise.
Paap says, “It did not happen this time—it will happen next time. Not today—thousands of things turned against you—tomorrow it will happen. People did not let it happen—I had arranged everything—time was unfavorable—fate and destiny did not support you—circumstances turned adverse—the winds began to blow the other way—I set the boat afloat at the right time, in the right direction; it is not my fault—tomorrow it will happen. Choose the right moment, the right season, the auspicious hour, the proper ritual, and begin again.” The art of paap is this: whenever paap loses, it throws the blame elsewhere—and it keeps saving the temptation again and again.
Therefore the person who is in the habit of blaming others will never be free from paap. For that is precisely the defense of paap. Paap always points the finger elsewhere, “See, this obstacle arose. If this obstacle had not been there, you would have been victorious today. The empire would have been yours.” Paap never takes the blame upon itself. And the person in whom this habit has become deep—to shift the blame onto others—will never be free of paap. There is no way.
So whenever you err, whatever the result, put the whole charge upon your own mistake. Then the promises will be cut, the temptation will be cut; then paap will appear to you plain and straight; then paap will not be able to deceive you, will not be able to delude you. The experiences of paap are of suffering, but the temptation is always of pleasure. Paap keeps beckoning. It paints great rainbows. As you come near, nothing lands in your hands. It is a mirage. A deception from afar.
But from a distance the deception looks very beautiful. Go near the rainbow—the colors will be lost. It has always been so. You went near paap—the colors vanished. Darkness came into your hands. No light was found. Again you moved away—again the temptation caught you. Again colors began to appear. Color exists in distance. The drums heard from afar sound sweet.
The first sutra is—
“Hasten in doing punya; turn your mind away from paap. The mind of one who does punya slowly begins to revel in paap.”
This language has become very old—two and a half thousand years old. It needs a new form to come close to your understanding. Understand it thus: life is energy. If there is no active outlet for energy, it begins to flow into directions you never intended it to flow.
If a small child has no toy, he will make a toy of anything. It is an expensive bargain. The toy cost a few pennies; if it broke, it did not matter. He picks up a watch and makes it a toy, or a radio—then it is a costly bargain. He has energy; energy needs to be engaged. Energy needs to flow. If energy does not flow, restlessness is born. And in restlessness man becomes ready to do anything. Paap is born out of restlessness.
Buddha says, “Hasten in doing punya.”
Whenever strength is in your hands—share it. Whenever you can do something—do something auspicious. Do not wait for tomorrow. Because the energy is today, and if you postpone the good till tomorrow, in the meantime paap will seize you. You will do something or other.
You will be surprised to know that most paap in life are not born out of weakness, but out of strength. The sick do not commit much paap; the healthy do. If you look from the standpoint of paap, illness is a fortune, health a misfortune. From the perspective of paap, those who have power are the mischief; those who have no power, no mischief of theirs. Lazy people do not commit great sins; to sin even laziness has to be broken. Industrious, active, valiant—these are the ones who sin. Where there is energy, there is the possibility—something will happen.
Flowers blossom by energy; thorns also sprout by energy. If flowers do not blossom, energy will flow into thorns. Before energy begins to become a thorn, you create a flower. So do not hoard strength.
Every day you produce strength in many, many ways. Food gives strength; breath gives strength; water gives strength; the sun gives strength. Your life at every moment is generating energy. What are you doing with this energy?
If it is not well used, if it does not become a flower, it will still have to be discharged. It will flow. If it does not become compassion, it will become anger. If it does not become love, it will become lust. If it does not become prayer, it will become condemnation. If it does not become worship, it will become something else. Energy will not remain as it is. It will not stay stored; it will scatter. Because tomorrow new energy is coming—you will have to empty space. Activate it—that is all the meaning of Buddha’s sutra.
“Hasten in doing punya.”
We do the reverse. If we are to do punya, we say, we will think, we will consider—tomorrow, the day after. If we are to do paap, we do it instantly.
Have you ever noticed—if someone abuses you, you do not say, “I will reply after twenty-four hours—after thinking it over.” If you did, perhaps you would never reply. Who has ever replied to an abuse after thinking it over? Thinking will not let abuse arise at all. Thinking will become a barrier to abuse. Abuse needs unconsciousness. You act instantly. Someone abuses you—you do not lose a moment. You do what you do right then—like a madman.
But if someone asks for love, how miserly you become! Have you ever noticed how miserly you are in love? Even when you give, you give very half-heartedly, withholding as you give—as if your life is breaking, as if your being is being destroyed.
Thousands come to me. The greatest difficulty I see is the difficulty of giving love. They ask, they do not give. In everyone’s mind there is a complaint that love is not being received. It will be so. Because no one is giving—how will it be received? They themselves are not giving either.
We have forgotten how to give. We feel that by giving we will lose. Whereas the very essence of life is that whatever is punya grows by giving, increases by sharing. By hoarding it decreases, by blocking it dies.
Punya needs a continuous flow—like a river stays fresh as it flows. If it becomes a stagnant pool, it begins to stink. Slime begins to form. Foul odor arises. Freshness is lost, virginity is lost. That fragrance is no more, that sweetness is no more. It falls into bondage; its cadence of freedom is gone; its song is gone.
Let it flow. Do not accumulate energy even for a moment. What is there to hoard? The One who has given today will give tomorrow too. The One who is giving every moment will continue to give every moment. You squander with both hands.
Punya means: whenever you find you have the power to do something—do it. Look for opportunities. There is no dearth of opportunities. Only if there is no miserliness, there are opportunities upon opportunities. Do anything—it need not be some great work. You need not change the whole world, create a great ideal society only then will something happen. Do some small thing. Pull a thorn out of someone’s foot. Sweep someone’s courtyard. Clear the trash from the pathway. Do anything. But keep one thing in mind—whatever you do should bring joy to someone. Whatever brings joy to someone—that is punya. And whatever brings joy to another, returns to you multiplied endlessly.
Paap says, “I will bring happiness to you.” Punya says, “I will bring happiness to others.” Paap says, “I will bring happiness to you”—it does not bring it; when it brings, it brings a bagful of sorrow. Punya says, “I will bring happiness to others”—but if you consent, it showers upon you a thousandfold. What you give to others—that alone comes to you.
Understand this a little.
When you want happiness for yourself, you want it even at the cost of others’ sorrow. You give sorrow to another and want happiness for yourself—only sorrow will come. When you begin to give happiness to another—even at the cost of suffering for yourself—then around you waves of happiness begin to rise.
“Hasten in doing punya.”
Urgency is needed. Do not be even a little slack, because energy does not stop even for a moment. If you delay, in that very delay energy will begin to become paap. It is like milk—if you do not use it in time, it will sour; it will turn to curd. If you ask me, even keeping energy for long brings sourness into it—it turns toward paap. Energy needs to be used moment to moment. Even a moment’s delay is futile. Do not miss the opportunity. And the fewer opportunities you miss, the more opportunities will become available to you.
And you will be amazed to discover the inner mathematics of life: the more you share, the more you receive. You never tire; you keep getting filled—like infinite springs have opened. Here you squander, and there the fountains keep filling you. Then comes the joy of squandering—because by squandering you receive. Once the economics of giving is understood, you can never be poor again—you can never be destitute. You have become a samrat. And there is no other way to be a samrat. If energy stays even a little while, it becomes poison. The very stoppage, the blockage of energy, is rotting.
Do not quench your thirst from every vessel, O thirsty one;
when the cup changes, even nectar turns to poison.
If you become old and stale, the energy which was nectar in your fresh moment becomes stale, decays. As soon as energy comes, use it. Live moment to moment.
Buddha called his vision, his philosophy, kshanavaad—the doctrine of the moment. He said: live moment to moment. Do not carry accounts beyond a moment. From that unknown source from which this moment has received life, from that same unknown, that same emptiness, the next moment will also receive life. Do not be miserly. If religion can be said in one word, it is non-miserliness.
Those who are dying are helpless indeed;
but the living—what marvels they do!
Someone has died—now he cannot share; that is understandable.
Those who are dying are helpless indeed;
but the living—what marvels they do!
They live and yet they do not share. Then in the name of living they only die. Death will snatch everything away—before that, give; become a giver. Death will snatch all from you; then even if you cry, it will be of no use. Before death takes from your hand, give—you will become a samrat. The person who dies in such a state—giving and giving—does not die at all. He has found the secret of immortality.
“Hasten in doing punya, turn your mind away from paap.”
If you do not set your mind toward punya, it will set itself toward paap. It will set somewhere. The mind needs a point of meditation.
Have you noticed—sitting in a crowded bazaar, if someone begins to play a flute and your attention moves to the flute, in that moment the entire noise of the bazaar dissolves. It continues where it is, the same noise—but for you, it is gone. Your attention moved elsewhere. You were standing in the market, hubbub all around; someone says, “Your house is on fire”—you run. Now you see nothing of the bazaar. It becomes like a dream. You see only the flames of the house. Your attention is set elsewhere.
Have you seen—young men playing hockey, football, volleyball—someone’s foot gets injured, blood is flowing; all the spectators see it, the player does not. His attention is still engaged—in the game. Where is the time? Where is the convenience? There is no way for attention to flow toward the foot. The game stops—instantly attention flows, and he becomes aware of the blood.
There are such stories—not very believable, but indicative—stories that Rana Sanga kept fighting in battle, his head was severed, and he kept fighting.
Whether this story happened or not is not the point; from the side of attention it is meaningful. If blood can flow from the foot and the player does not come to know, it is also possible that the warrior is so absorbed in battle that his head is cut and he does not know—he keeps fighting. Only when he knows will he stop. Whether it happened or not is not the question, but there is a hint here about attention. You will die also only when you give attention to death. If your whole attention keeps flowing toward life, even if death stands at the door, it will not be able to call you. Someone must have reminded Rana Sanga, “What are you doing? Your head is severed.” Remembering it, he must have stopped—then it is different. In this story there seems a grain of truth.
When the King of Kashi had his appendix operated on, he said, “I will keep reciting the Gita. I will not take any narcotic, any anesthesia.” It was so dangerous—without operation death was certain, and without anesthesia, even with operation, death was almost certain. The doctors decided to take the risk—if death is certain anyway, why not attempt the experiment; perhaps the man is right. They did.
He went on reciting his Gita; the operation proceeded. When it was over, the doctors said, “Now you can stop.” They asked him, “What happened?” He said, “I know nothing else. I only know this much: when I recite the Gita, nothing else remains in my awareness. All attention settles on the Gita. I am nowhere else; I shrink to the Gita.”
Paap and punya are alternatives. If your attention is on compassion, how can you be angry? Anger will be forgotten—will not even be remembered. As if anger never happens. As if anger is not a direction at all. If your attention is on giving, on dana, miserliness will be forgotten. These two cannot be remembered together. It is impossible. You can live only in one.
Therefore the meaning of Buddha’s sutra is: if you make haste, quickly, swiftly, and keep your mind engaged in punya, you will find you begin to be saved from paap; there is no need even to save yourself. And whenever you feel your glance moving toward paap, instantly turn it toward punya.
Imagine you see a man playing the flute, but his face is ugly. Now you have two alternatives: either look at his ugly face and become disturbed and pained, or listen to the beautiful music of his flute and become absorbed in beauty.
If you listen to the beautiful notes of the flute, his ugly face will be forgotten. You will become absorbed, entranced in the music. If you look at his ugly face, the flute will keep playing—you will not hear it. You will be entangled by the thorn of ugliness. Standing near a rosebush—you can count thorns or count flowers; both are possible. The one who counts flowers forgets the thorns. The one who counts thorns stops seeing flowers. Punya and paap are life’s alternatives.
“Turn your mind away from paap; hasten in doing punya. The mind of one who does punya slowly begins to revel in paap.”
What will you do? If the river does not flow, it will begin to turn into a stagnant pool. If it keeps flowing, how can it become a pool? Only one of the two can be. If the river becomes a stagnant pool, it cannot flow; if it flows, it cannot become a pool.
Buddha’s emphasis is not so much on saving yourself from paap as on being absorbed in punya. This is the difference between morality and religion. Morality says: avoid paap. Religion says: drown in punya. From the outside they look the same, but they are not. They are as far apart as earth and sky. If you only avoid paap, you will not be able to avoid it for long—because in avoiding and avoiding, what will you do with the energy? If you only repress anger, how long can you repress? There will be an explosion. It will accumulate and then flow—you will become helpless. No—no one avoids anger by merely repressing it. One has to flow into compassion; otherwise the pools of anger will fill up.
Religion is a positive search for punya; morality is a negative defense against paap. Yes, if you can use both, you will have two wings—flying becomes very easy. On this side, keep the mind away from paap; on that side, whatever energy is saved from paap, invest it in punya. But be swift. The mind has one trick—postponement. The mind says, “We will do it tomorrow.”
Thinking this and thinking this, the spring was over—
where shall we build a nest in the garden—who knows, where not?
This spring will not remain forever. This season of blossoms will not remain forever. It has a beginning, it has an end. There is birth—and death comes. In between, only a few moments. Do not spend them thinking where to build the home—where to raise the nest. Spring will not wait for your thinking. This life will be lost even if you do nothing—so do something. Because only what you turn into action will remain. What you transform into creativity, into activeness—that becomes your wealth. Life is not saved by saving it; it is saved by awakening it, by creating.
Blessed are those who use every single moment. Before the moment goes, they squeeze it dry. Their life becomes dense. Their life becomes filled with deep inner peace, joy, and abundance. Death does not find them poor. Death does not find them like beggars. Death finds them like emperors. But those whom you call emperors, death finds them like mendicants.
Use the moment—before it is lost. And the moment is being lost very quickly, running away. A moment’s delay—and it is gone. You close your eyes even for a little while—and it is gone. Seize time with such urgency. There is not even the convenience to think, because thinking also loses time, and the present moment gives no leisure even to think. Without thought, with meditation, step into punya. Therefore meditation is an essential element of the process of punya. Only the meditative can make haste. The thinker will delay—he will keep thinking—
Thinking this and thinking this, the spring was over—
where shall we build a nest in the garden—who knows, where not?
Religion is not the path of the thinker. Religion is the path of the meditator. The meditator means: thought dropped. What existence has placed in our hands—we will use it creatively. What is in our hands—there we will build the house. What is in our hands—we will transform that. Tomorrow—when it comes—we will see. We will not lose today for tomorrow. We will build today, so that on its foundation tomorrow may touch higher peaks.
“If a man happens to do paap, let him not do it again and again; let him not take delight in it. For the accumulation of paap is painful.”
Paap has two forms. One is its momentary form. That is forgivable. Then there is a permanent mood of paap. That is not forgivable. A small child—you slap him; he is enraged, begins to stamp his feet—this anger is forgivable. Because a moment later the child will forget it. A moment later you will find him laughing. A moment before he was saying, “I will never speak to you again, never even see your face.” A moment later you will find him sitting in your lap. It was a moment’s surge; not a lasting mood.
But we create a lasting mood of paap. Today you were angry; yesterday also, the day before also—now a groove of anger is being formed. Slowly you will become more and more skilled at getting angry for ever smaller causes. Anger will become almost your nature—your habit. First you get angry at big things; then at small things; then at nothing you will be angry. Then a time will come when you will have to look for reasons to be angry. Because if you do not get angry, you will feel restless, parched. On the day you do not get angry, it will seem life has gone in vain. Your zest will die. Anger will become a kind of smoking—providing stimulation, intoxication; you will feel alive; there will be a taste.
“If a man happens to do paap, let him not do it again and again.”
If paap happens—do not be overly worried. Man is man—mistakes are natural. But do not repeat it. Paap is forgivable; repetition is not. A mistake is forgivable; to keep repeating the same mistake is not. If once you have erred—understand—do not do it again. If you keep repeating the mistake, then gradually it will no longer look like a mistake. It will become the normal process of your life.
You know both kinds of people. There are those who are angry occasionally. You will find them good people, not bad. Their anger will not be dreadful. They are ordinary human beings—not perfected ones, granted. But then there are those who are not angry sometimes—they live in anger. Anger is their nature. They rise in anger, sit in anger; walk in anger; speak in anger; even when they love, they love in anger; even when they bow, they bow in anger. Anger is their permanent state. A continuous current of anger flows beneath them. This is not forgivable. They have committed a deep crime.
Why does this happen? Surely anger must give something. It gives suffering—that is clear. But no one does anger for suffering alone—it must give something else too, some taste. In anger you must have seen—you feel powerful. In anger a man moves a great rock; without anger he cannot. Four men would be needed. In anger you throw aside someone stronger than you. In love even your child can throw you flat. Anger seems to give power. Anger seems to feed the ego. In anger you feel powerful—master of others—as if you have the right to make others move according to you. When you are not angry, you feel impotent, weak—you cannot manage anyone.
So anger gives suffering, true; but anger also gives ego. Understand this. No one does paap for suffering—but for ego he does. If you nourish the ego, you cannot be free of anger. If you nourish the ego, you cannot be free of greed. You will then coin new noble words for ego.
People come to me and ask, what is the difference between ego and self-respect? I say to them, when it is yours it is self-respect; when it is another’s it is ego. There is no other difference. Man wants to give good names even to his diseases.
Just yesterday a friend asked: others receive the Mahavir Chakra—should we also try to get it or not? In Delhi people are honored—Mahavir Chakra, Padma Bhushan, Bharat Ratna—are these worth attaining or not?
What will you do with the Mahavir Chakra? Are you not already enough of a chakra yourself? And the government’s seal will be stamped on it—certified! But the ego takes great delight in futile things. And the one who has asked has come to the wrong place. Here the whole effort is how you do not become a chakra—how to come out of the whirl. You are thinking of the Mahavir Chakra! What will you do getting it? What will you gain? If you must gain, speak of gaining something within. Whether people say you are a great scholar, or a great strongman—what does it matter what people say? Be concerned with what you are.
What others say of you is secondary—utterly secondary;
what matters is what you yourself see, what you know of yourself.
Only one thing is significant: within your own being, in your own understanding, in your own interior—what do you think, what do you know yourself to be? Leave the crowd. At the time of death you will go alone. You will not be able to take the Mahavir Chakra along. You cannot show the Mahavir Chakra to death and say, “Wait a moment—I am no ordinary man—I am a Bharat Ratna.” Death will take you just as it takes everyone else. Alone in birth, alone in death; in between, there is the crowd. Do not be overly concerned with the babble of that crowd.
Ego means: concern with what others say about you. People say, if we do not get angry, people think we are weak. So we must be angry. Then they ask: how to find peace of mind? Then I tell them, forget peace too—because the peaceful are also thought weak. Remain unpeaceful. The more mad you become, the better—because people think madmen are powerful. People fear the mad.
To frighten others you have become almost mad. The wife goes mad; the husband is scared. The husband goes mad; the wife is scared. Everyone is frightening everyone else. Time is being lost. When you could have known yourself, you are wasting time frightening others. Parents frighten small children—so badly! And they enjoy it, though they believe they frighten for the child’s good. But the children will be tormented all their lives because of this fear.
Psychologists say that if parents frighten children too much, they will remain frightened all their lives. Wherever there is anyone powerful, they will fear. They will always be touching feet. They will always be trembling. They will never be able to be themselves. But parents frighten saying they do it for their good.
I want to say to you: do not give good names to your diseases. Call your diseases by their right names. Call ego, ego—not self-respect. Call anger, anger—not another’s welfare. If you hit a child, know that you are enjoying it, taking pleasure in it. In tormenting a small child you are savoring the joy of being powerful. Do not say, “I beat you for your good.” Otherwise you will miss—and then paap will continue.
“If a man happens to do paap, let him not do it again and again; let him not take delight in it. For the accumulation of paap is painful.”
But sages have been saying for ages that the accumulation of paap is painful—yet people continue to sin. Then we must find the cause. People do not want to give up even suffering. In suffering too there are vested interests.
Try to understand. The deeper I look into people’s lives, the harder it is to find someone who really wants to drop suffering. Because suffering does not come alone—big things are attached to it.
Understand. Psychologists say a savior hides in everyone. If someone is ill, your desire arises to serve him, to free him from illness. If someone is unhappy, your desire arises to pull him out of his suffering, to redeem him.
Nothing wrong in the desire, but the consequences are dangerous. Men often fall in love with women who are unhappy, because men enjoy being saviors—pulling someone out of suffering. Women get entangled with men who have room for improvement. If the husband is a drunkard, the wife is even more excited—there is joy in reforming, the chance to redeem.
Now understand this.
If you loved a woman because she was ill, frail, and you were to treat her, bring her out of suffering—then she will not be able to drop her suffering. Because to drop her suffering will be to lose your love. If a wife is after her husband to make him give up alcohol—and if the whole love has arisen out of his giving it up—then the husband will not be able to give it up. Because to give it up would mean the relationship ends.
People ask me: if we change, will it affect our relationships? If we meditate, will our relationships not be transformed? I say to them: do it thoughtfully. They will be transformed. Because your relationships are filled with your diseases. Meditation will change one; the other will begin to change too. We have a grip even on our suffering. The fun will be gone.
I knew two enemies—both retired professors. Their whole occupation—condemning each other. If you met one, you had to hear a discourse about the other. One of them died—seventy-eight years old. The day he died I said to a friend, “The other will not live long now.” Three months later the other also died. My friend came to me, “How did you say that?” It was simple. His only zest was that condemnation. Now the other had nothing left to talk about. The whole talk—only that condemnation! Bonds are not only among friends—enemies also have deep ties.
The day Gandhi was shot, Jinnah was sitting in his garden. Until then, however much his friends and followers tried to arrange security, he always refused: “Who will kill me? For whom I have spent my life, given them a nation—will they kill me? Impossible. I need no security.” There were not even police at his house.
But as the news came on the radio and his secretary told him Gandhi had been shot in Delhi, he became suddenly sad, got up, went inside. The secretary was surprised—Jinnah should be happy at Gandhi’s death, but he is sad! He went in and said, “You look sad.” Jinnah said, “I do. Life feels suddenly empty. With this man alone was all my struggle.”
And from that day a guard sat at Jinnah’s house. If Gandhi can be killed, what to say of Jinnah! But Jinnah did not live much longer. Had Gandhi lived, Jinnah would have lived too. The zest of life was gone. Enemies keep each other alive.
There will be a vested interest in your suffering too. That is why people keep saying, “I am unhappy, I am unhappy,” yet keep doing what makes them unhappy. There must be some delight in it. From suffering too some ray of pleasure must be coming.
If you are a woman, and a husband or lover has fallen in love with you because you are weak, frail, ill—you will not be able to become healthy. Because health will mean this husband is gone. He will find another ill woman to pity, to love, to sympathize with, to take to the hospital—and around whom he can be the messiah—“See, I am saving her.”
There are men who marry prostitutes—to redeem them. Marriage is no great matter. What has marriage to do with a prostitute? But they want to redeem. Then they face great difficulty. I know such men who married prostitutes and then were in trouble—because after marriage the woman was no longer a prostitute. They redeemed her—the fun was in redeeming. Then the prostitute became a wife—the fun was gone. He began to chase another prostitute. The wife cries and wails: “You married me—you redeemed me—now why do you leave?” She herself cannot understand what is happening.
The matter is simple—pure arithmetic. As long as she was a prostitute, there was taste in it for him. The moment she was no longer a prostitute, the taste finished. She became an ordinary woman. Such ordinary women are many. If he must retain his taste, the wife must remain a prostitute—so he can keep redeeming, keep the work going. We have vested interests in our suffering.
People say to me, “We want to be free of suffering,” but when I look closely, I barely see anyone who truly wants to be free. They say it—for there is pleasure in saying it. Not in being free of suffering, but in showing that they want to be free—there is pleasure. But if you truly want to be free of suffering—who can keep you unhappy? There is no way in this world to keep a person unhappy who wants to be free. But he does not want to be free. Because he will lose all sympathy.
Observe yourself. A small illness occurs—you exaggerate it. Notice: a slight headache and you feel as if a mountain has fallen, the Himalayas have collapsed upon you. Why do you exaggerate? Because by exaggerating, the eyes of others fill with sympathy. You are begging alms of sympathy. People go on talking of their suffering, telling each other, “I am very unhappy.” Why? What is the point of talking of suffering? People’s eyes fill with sympathy; a little counterfeit of love happens. You feel that you matter—people are interested in you; you are important; people are pained by your pain; they want to free you from it.
Try this: stop talking of your suffering for a week. You will be amazed—stop talking of suffering and you lose people’s sympathy. Losing sympathy will feel like losing a kind of treasure. You will be surprised—those who were your friends begin to change. Because their taste was in showing sympathy. They want those who are unhappy, poor—so they can show sympathy and enjoy it for free. Your relationships will change. You will have to make new friends. They will have to find new sick people.
Try it—observe for seven days. Do not talk of suffering. Do the opposite—talk of your joys for seven days. See—your friends will change. To whomever you meet, say, “Ah, what bliss is showering!” He will be startled—“Yesterday headaches, stomachaches, backaches—twenty-five complaints!”
People come to me. Ninety percent of it is untrue. I do not say they lie knowingly. They meditate—and then “my back aches, my head aches, my chest aches, my belly aches”—as if meditation has to do with aches! If I say to them, “This is nonsense,” they get angry with me. I have to say, “Kundalini is awakening!” They become very happy. They came with their pains just to hear this. “Kundalini is awakening—ah!” The next day they come with a bigger pain. And it is not even that they are lying—understand me rightly—they imagine so intensely that it seems real. A great web.
If I set them free of their pain, they are not pleased. Because in pain they have a vested interest. Every day I see—if I say to someone, “This is nonsense—you have nothing—only imagination,” he looks at me as if I am his enemy—I have robbed him. Not only is the pain not being cured—I say there is no pain—and they feel robbed. They look at me as if I have not understood—they must find another guru who will say, “Everything is going perfectly.” If I say, “A deep happening is happening,” then pain is forgotten—they smile, they are delighted.
So you are deriving pleasure from pain—therefore pain persists. Sages may go on saying that paap brings suffering—drop it—you will not drop it. Because you have pleasure even in suffering. Until you catch it there, Buddha’s words will fall on you and slip away like rain on a smooth pot.
Wake up a little. Catch yourself red-handed—what kind of game have you set up around yourself! Do not beg false sympathy. Do not seek love on the basis of suffering. Because there is no greater self-insult than to seek love on the basis of suffering. If you seek love, seek it on the basis of bliss. If you seek love, seek it on the basis of health. If you seek love, seek it on the basis of beauty. Do not seek love on the basis of negation—otherwise you will become negation.
Women learn this art well. Everyone learns it in childhood, but women master it more—there are reasons for it. Children learn that when they are ill, they become the center of the whole house. The child falls ill—the father comes and sits by him even if tired from the office—puts his hand on his head: “Son, how are you?” When he is well, no one puts a hand on his head. The mother sits by him. The whole house tends to him. The doctor comes. Neighbors come to see him. The child understands one thing: whenever love is needed—fall ill.
Women become adept in this art. Whenever they want love, they suddenly fall ill. See it—a woman is sitting fine, the husband arrives—suddenly there is a headache. This miracle is not understood—what has the husband’s arrival to do with a headache! And it is not that she lies—understand me—she is not lying. It really happens.
She is so proficient that she cannot catch herself in the lie. The sight of the husband—and the headache arises. The sequence has become so natural—because only when there is a headache does the husband show sympathy; otherwise he hides behind the newspaper. That newspaper too is a device. He has read it three times in the day already. In the office too he reads; at home he reads the same paper. Behind the newspaper he hides—somehow to escape! It is his umbrella.
But when the wife has a headache, the paper must be put down. The hand must be placed on her head—sit—speak a few words of joy and sorrow. If in your suffering you take any kind of pleasure, you will never come out of suffering. Then you have invested in hell—made it your business.
Therefore, for one who wants to journey toward self-awakening, the very first and fundamental thing is: do not trade in your suffering. Otherwise it is impossible to leave suffering—then you will want to produce it.
“If a man does punya, let him do it again and again; let him take delight in it. For the accumulation of punya is blissful.”
After deep anguish comes the new dance of joy;
across the pangs of birth, the vision of the newborn child.
Sorrow hides behind the camouflage of happiness. Paap gives the promise of pleasure. As you come near, a thorn pierces—you receive suffering. Exactly the opposite is true of punya—of happiness. Punya gives you no promise. It calls you to sadhana, not to promises. Punya says: you will have to labor, pass through tapas, be refined. For happiness is not as free as you have assumed due to the promises of paap.
Paap says: it will be given, you deserve happiness—just come, a little to do—indeed nothing to do—only ask and it shall be given. Punya says: you will have to do, to earn, to refine yourself within. Happiness does not fall from the sky. When inner capacity, inner worth is born—then it descends. It does not come for free. It is not obtained by begging. It must be earned—with effort. Punya says: sadhana. Paap says: promises—cheap. He says: for free—nothing to be done—just stretch out your hand—we are ready to give.
But think: can something like happiness be so free? So cheap? Surely there is a deception. Withdraw your hand. To receive happiness, capacity must be earned.
After deep anguish comes the new dance of joy;
you must pass through the pain, for pain refines.
Across the pangs of birth—comes the vision of the newborn child.
When the small child is born, a new life appears—the mother passes through great pain. If you want to avoid this pain, plastic babies can be had. Keep toys and deceive yourself.
But in those lies your time will be wasted; the opportunity will be lost. For a moment paap creates the feeling that happiness is arriving. Therefore the touchstone of punya is: what remains—only that is true. Whatever is momentary is a deception.
Life is a goblet of ecstasy—but
what use if it does not stay?
If some goblet of dream-like happiness comes before you, and even as your hand reaches it, it disappears—not abiding—what use if it does not stay? Make this a criterion in life: whatever remains, abides, becomes eternal—that alone is happiness. What flashes for a moment, enters the dream and vanishes—when you open your eyes there is neither trace nor trail—that is mere deception. That is maya’s net.
“If a man does punya, let him do it again and again.”
Just as the repetition of paap creates nature, so does the repetition of punya create nature. Do not make suffering your nature. Otherwise you will become more and more unhappy. Yes—if you have decided to be unhappy, that is another matter! Make happiness your nature. Whatever moments of happiness come—do not lose them. Repeat them. Remember them again and again. Bring them back into your life again and again. Repeat the mornings, repeat the light, sing of the Lord. Wherever happiness is found—dig there again and again—so that all your energy slowly begins to flow toward happiness.
“Until paap ripens—until its fruit arrives—the sinner thinks paap is good. But when paap ripens, then he sees the paap of paap.”
Paap is known by its fruit. Punya too is known by its fruit. So take life as a continuous schooling. Whatever things bear fruit in happiness—repeat them. And whatever bear fruit in suffering—save yourself from them. If by being angry you found joy—repeat it; it is punya. If by being compassionate you found sorrow—do not repeat it; it is paap. If by giving you found happiness—give. If by being miserly you found happiness—hoard. Make this the criterion. But pay attention to the fruit, the result.
“Until punya ripens—until its fruit arrives—even the virtuous does not recognize it as punya. But when punya ripens, then he sees his punya.”
Naturally—you sow the seed; time is needed. When the fruit comes, then you know whether you sowed neem or mango. The seed can only be judged when the fruit appears. Then whether bitter or sweet—the judgment is made. From that learn for the future. If bitter fruit came—do not sow those seeds again. Whoever understands this much has taken the first step on the journey to Buddhahood.
If behind a delight there stand queues of sorrows,
do not play with that delight, even by mistake.
Because that delight only appears to be such; behind it the line of sorrows marches. It is only a mask.
“Do not despise paap thinking, ‘It will not come to me.’ As the jar fills drop by drop, so the fool, gathering little by little, fills himself with paap.”
We keep entangling ourselves in such thinking—“It will not come to me.” Anger, greed, delusion, lust—“will not come to me—they come to others.” Do not be so contemptuous. For through this very contempt it enters.
There is a famous tale in Arabia: God has made great proclamations in the world that “I am”—the Koran, the Bible, the Vedas, the Upanishads, the Gita—everywhere God announces: mam ekam sharanam vraja—“Take refuge in me; I am.” The story says, but the devil has not written even a single scripture till now, and made no announcement. Strange! Does the devil know nothing of advertising? Does he not know the science of publicity? God has so many temples, mosques, gurudwaras, churches. Bells keep tolling—advertising goes on, “God is.” The devil is utterly silent.
Someone once asked the devil, so the story goes. He said, “I know my whole genius lies in this: that people dismiss me. If people don’t know I exist, my work goes smoothly. I strike only in their unconsciousness. If they come to know that I am, they will become alert. My not being acknowledged is what makes things easy for me. In fact, I’ve left a few disciples whose whole job is to spread the news that there is no devil at all. It’s all fancy. A trick of the mind. Human fear. There is no devil. People relax—and it becomes convenient for me.”
Buddha is saying, “He will not come to me—do not, thinking so, disregard sin.”
Because the moment you dismiss it, you grow unconscious. You fall asleep. If you’re sure the thief will not come, you sleep without a care. It is in that unguarded ease that the thief finds his advantage.
Stay awake! Keep awareness aflame! Keep the lamp lit! For just as a jar is filled drop by drop, so too a person’s whole being is filled by small, small sins.

“He will not come to me—do not, thinking so, disregard merit. As water fills a jar, drop by drop, so the prudent, gathering little by little, fill themselves with virtue.”
So do not slight sin, thinking it won’t come near you; nor slight merit, thinking it won’t come near you. There are such people—I know them. Ask them, “Can we become peaceful?” I tell them, “Certainly you can.” They say, “We don’t trust it! We can’t believe we’ll ever be at peace.” Now they’ve raised a wall. If you cannot trust that peace is possible for you, how will you take even a single step toward it? You’ve adopted a negative outlook, the tone of denial. Be a little constructive.

People come to me and say, “This we can never do. It’s impossible.” Impossible? You haven’t even tried. First make an effort to make it possible; if you fail, then say “impossible.” You’ve never tried, and before any effort you declare it impossible—then for you it will be impossible. Your very notion will keep you from moving forward.

Enthusiasm is needed. Trust is needed. Joy is needed. Faith is needed—that it can be done, and then it happens. For if it was possible for one human being, why not for you? If it was possible for Buddha, why not for you?
What Buddha had, you too were born with—exactly that much. There isn’t an atom’s gap between your veena and Buddha’s veena. Perhaps your strings are a little loose and need tightening; or a bit too tight and need loosening; or the strings are lying off the instrument and must be set upon it. But you have precisely the same instrument, the same equipment, that Buddha had. If music could arise in Buddha’s life, it can arise in yours too.
This is what is meant by faith.

Faith does not mean believing in God. Faith means trusting that happiness is possible; trusting that bliss is possible; trusting that liberation is possible. Do not say “impossible” without experimenting. Do not be dismissive. For drop by drop the jar fills—of merit as well as of sin.

Maani, do not be naive.
The darkness of mourning spreads—granted.
If you take this to be the final truth,
then of life’s story till now
you have heard only the half of it.
Maani, do not be naive.

There is suffering—granted. But if you take this alone to be the whole of life, you have heard only half the story. There is darkness precisely because light is possible. There is unconsciousness precisely because awakening is possible. The opposite is possible.

Maani, do not be naive.
The darkness of mourning spreads—granted.
If you take this to be the final truth,
then of life’s story till now
you have heard only the half of it.
Maani, do not be naive.

There is suffering—but don’t take it as life’s end. There is sin—but don’t take it as life’s end. There is wandering, confusion—but don’t take it as life’s ultimate fruition. Do not make it absolute. All this is only the journey in between. Let your gaze stay fixed on the far temple’s summit; let the golden, radiant spire never slip from your eyes. However many thorns lie along the path, never deny the flowers of possibility. Thorns do not stop you; but if you deny the flowers, you will stop. And wherever you are, there is still far to go. Wherever you are can be a halt—but since there is a road, do not stop there.

O fish, stranded at the shore,
what kind of love is this for the bank
that you have let go of the midstream?
To which beggar do you ascribe the giver’s grace,
forgetting the memory of the deep waters?
Listen—the wave, shaking you, says:
if you stay stuck here,
in a moment the tide will ebb
as soon as the breath of the breeze turns.

The tide comes in. A fish, riding the swell of the sea, reaches the shore. But hardly has the tide arrived when the ebb begins. If the fish clings to the bank, its bond with the midstream is broken. And in a little while, as the wind shifts, the sea recedes; it will writhe in the desert of sand. Such is the condition of man.

O fish, stranded at the shore,
what kind of love is this for the bank
that you have let go of the midstream?
To which beggar do you ascribe the giver’s grace,
forgetting the memory of the deep waters?
Listen—the wave, shaking you, says:
if you stay stuck here,
in a moment the tide will ebb
as soon as the breath of the breeze turns.

The words of the awakened ones shake you only to say this—do not clutch at the shore; the midstream is your destination.
Enough for today.