Es Dhammo Sanantano #46

Today's first sutra: "Just as a small caravan-leader, carrying great wealth, leaves a fear-ridden road; or as a man who wants to live leaves poison—so too, leave sins."
Before we understand the sutra, a few things about sin must be taken to heart. All the awakened ones say: sin is like poison, like death, like burning in fire—yet people go on committing sin. If it is like burning in fire, you do not see so many rushing to throw themselves into flames. If it is like poison, you do not see so many willingly drinking it. Then what is the attraction in sin?
The awakened ones say—and they are right—that sin is like fire, like poison; but man does not see that it is like fire and poison. Even after hearing the awakened ones, people keep doing the same things. A thousand times they find, through their own experience, that perhaps the awakened ones are right—and still they deny their experience and go on repeating the old. So it has to be understood.
Such a powerful attraction! No one is so attracted to burning in fire. Once in a while someone dies in fire—by mistake, or because he is suicidal—but those are exceptions. With sin the situation is reversed: only once in a while does someone escape.
If ninety-nine out of a hundred died by burning, it would not be an exception; it would be the rule. The one who escaped would not violate the rule; he would only prove it—he escaped by accident. But when one burns and ninety-nine escape, then that one burned by accident.
With sin the statistics are reversed. Something basic is slipping out of our awareness; it must be brought into awareness.
First thing: when the awakened say sin is like fire, they are not saying you will also see it as fire. They are saying they, having awakened, have known it to be fire. In sleep it appeared to them as flowers blooming. In sleep, even for them, sin was a great attraction, a great invitation. The call was so intense that the burn of the fire and the wounds from the flames were covered by the garland of flowers. The awakened are saying: the one who woke up knew sin to be fire; the sleeping one does not have this experience.
Therefore do not sit and go on repeating: sin is like fire, like poison. Repetition will be of no use. Man has been repeating it for centuries. Like parrots, it gets memorized; but when the decisive hour comes in life, all memory, all rote learning proves futile. Whenever an active moment arrives, sin takes hold. In our passive moments we think of virtue; in our impotent moments we plan virtue. In moments of energy and power, sin happens. It seems our plans for virtue are toys to fill empty time. When there is nothing to do, we play with them. When there is no opportunity for sin, we talk of virtue and console ourselves. When it comes to doing, sin happens. When it remains in the realm of thinking, we think of virtue. Even the greatest sinner, in his thoughts, thinks of virtue.
So do not be deceived by thoughts. If you often think of virtue, do not conclude you have become virtuous. And do not think that by repeating the words of the awakened you have understood what they said. Their words will be understood only when you awaken.
So when they say, sin is like fire, do not accept this on loan. Know that sin does not yet appear to you as fire. For you there is a great invitation in sin, a taste, a juice. For you sin is a call to enjoyment—not poison, but nectar. Do not falsify your own experience. Do not cloak yourself in the statements of the awakened; otherwise you will go astray. Keep saying simply: my experience is that sin is very pleasing. You say it is poison—you may be right—but I do not see it.
If you keep remembering that you do not yet have eyes to see, then a transformation will begin in the process of your life. The change will be this: you will stop worrying about abandoning sin, and you will begin to worry about giving birth to eyes. Everything depends there. If you preoccupy yourself with abandoning sin, you will wander and be lost. If you strive to change your eyes, a revolution will take place in your life.
When you listen to the words of the Buddhas, keep weighing: do they tally with your experience? And never keep anyone above your own awareness, for borrowed knowledge does not bring revolution. Scriptures may be beautiful—beautiful they remain, they do not become creative. Their words may sound sweet to the mind, but they cannot transform your facticity.
So remember your own. The greatest danger in hearing the words of Buddhas is that their words are logical, true, verified in experience; they are not mere theories—they arise from the process of their lives; they will impact you. But do not make their impact the basis of your life. Let there be inspiration, but do not mistake inspiration for direction. The wrong direction is to assume, "Yes, sin is bad," and then start making efforts to avoid it. You have not yet known that sin is bad. For knowing, first the eyes must open. That is the first thing.
Second: when the awakened say sin is like fire, like poison, do not think they are condemning sin. Religious preachers do that. The words of both seem similar; hence the great confusion. When a religious preacher says, sin is poison, he is condemning. When the Buddha says, sin is poison, he is simply stating a fact. He takes no pleasure in calling sin poison; no repressed desire is hiding in it. When the preacher says sin is poison, he is not stating a fact; he is revealing that he has a strong attraction to sin, which he is somehow holding back by shouting "poison, poison."
Look closely into a preacher’s eyes when he calls sin poison; you will not find the same expression as when he says two and two are four. There is a difference. Saying two and two are four does not excite him—what is there to be excited about? But when he says, sin is fire, poison, you will see excitement in his eyes. The very word sin shakes something within him; it stirs some juice. When he tells you sin is bad, he is telling himself: sin is bad—beware! The louder he condemns, the louder he declares his inner attraction.
If you learn about sin from preachers, you will go wrong. Their words will seem correct to you, and yet you will never be able to fulfill them. The journey began on the wrong foot.
I have heard... Churchill wrote his memoirs of the Second World War—thousands of pages, in six volumes. Rarely has any war been recorded so extensively, and Churchill stood in the very midst of it. Usually those who fight and those who write are different; here the maker of history wrote the history.
In those thousands of pages he writes much about Roosevelt, Stalin, and himself. Roosevelt and Churchill were theists; Stalin was an atheist. Yet all three fought Hitler.
Search through those thousands of pages—you will be surprised: only Stalin sometimes takes God’s name. Neither Roosevelt nor Churchill do. Stalin repeatedly says, "If God wills, we shall win the war." It should have been the other way—Roosevelt and Churchill, being theists, should have invoked God; Stalin, the atheist, does so. Roosevelt and Churchill do not mention God at all.
There is a psychological reason. Stalin is suppressing something. What you suppress will surface and claim you in crisis. Suppression binds you to it more.
Lenin wrote much against God. But in 1917, when the revolution came to a critical point—this way or that, victory or defeat uncertain—Lenin, in the speech he gave then, invoked God’s grace three times: "If God’s grace is with us, we shall be victorious." Before that he never took the name, nor after. But in that accident of crisis, as if he lost his senses, the suppressed rose up.
Mao, in 1936, fell ill. One of the greatest atheists alive. When faced with death he panicked, instantly said, "I want initiation from someone," called a nun and took initiation. When he recovered, he forgot both nun and initiation. But in the hour of death—initiation!
The leading atheist of Russia, head of their society of atheists—when he died, Stalin was at his bedside. At the moment of death he opened his eyes and said, "Stalin, listen—He is! God is! He is standing before me; I see Him. Burn all my books. Remember, this is my last word: God is. He stands before me saying, ‘I was waiting for you.’"
It is not necessary that God was standing there. God does not so easily appear even before great theists at the moment of death—would he stand before this atheist? No—the repressed feeling within. All his life he had fought some inner longing. What you fight, you strengthen.
If you have learned about sin from preachers, your sin will grow stronger. Preachers have not freed the earth from sin; they have filled it with sin.
This may sound upside down to you. This world would be less sinful if temples and mosques disappeared. This world would be less sinful if priests did not condemn sin. For condemnation brings repression; repression increases juice. Whatever you are told, "Don’t do," creates a deep urge to do it. You think: there must be something in it; otherwise who would forbid it? When the whole world says don’t, all temples, mosques, gurudwaras say don’t, all priests say don’t—there must be something in doing it! Otherwise, who would be so concerned?
When the awakened say sin is fire, poison, they merely declare a fact. There is no opposition in their statement, no condemnation. If I tell you, fire burns, I am simply informing you. If you want to burn, put your hand in; if you do not want to, don’t. I do not say, "Do not put your hand in." I only say, fire burns. Now it is up to you: if you want a burned hand, put it in; if not, refrain.
The awakened only declare facts. There is no emotional frenzy in their declaration. Keep this in mind when the Buddha speaks these words.
Do not think he is trying to frighten you, saying sin is fire. Has anyone ever become free through fear? Has anyone attained virtue through fear? Has anyone reached God through fear? He is not condemning; he is not even "against" sin. What in sin is there to be against?
He is merely saying: here is a pit. If you do not walk carefully, you will fall. If you want to fall, walk carelessly. If you do not want to fall, walk carefully. There is no command in him.
In the Jain scriptures there is a sweet statement: in a Tirthankara’s words there is upadesh, not aadesh.
This is very endearing. Upadesh means: they only say, "It is so." Aadesh means: "Do this." The preacher’s words command; the Tirthankara’s words only indicate. A command means: the preacher has a plan, and you must follow it—"Obey me." Both use the same language, hence the confusion.
So take these Dhammapada verses as statements of fact. They are upadesh, not aadesh. Just think: the moment I say, "There is no command in them," something drops from within you. If there is no insistence on not-doing, the thrill of doing disappears too.
"A small caravan-leader, with little defense but carrying great wealth, avoids a fear-ridden road; and as one who wishes to live avoids poison—so too, leave sins."
Remember, the emphasis is not on "leaving." The whole point is simply this: if you want to live, then poison is not for you. If you want to die, then poison is just the thing. If you do not want to be looted, avoid perilous roads. If you want the thrill of being looted, then by all means, do not avoid perilous roads.
And the Buddha is only saying this much: your defense is small and your wealth is great. Time is little and treasure abundant. Means of safety are meager, yet within you are great gems.
Every child is born carrying the treasure of the Divine. The treasure is so vast it is difficult to guard; and there is no outer way to guard it. It is such a treasure that no watchman can be posted around it; such that no armed soldier can save it. It is such a treasure that only your awareness can be its guard; otherwise you will lose it.
Sin takes away something that was already yours. It gives you nothing; it leaves you empty. After moments of sin, if you reflect even a little, you will find you have been emptied, impoverished. Something was there—you lost it.
After anger, have you not felt that some energy you had has been lost? Some power you had, you threw into the trash? A diamond was in your hand—you flung it away in rage. Like walking with a diamond, someone hurls an abuse, and you throw the diamond at him. After anger, do you not feel you lost something and gained nothing? After hatred, enmity, violence, jealousy, envy—do you not feel you gained nothing and, on the contrary, what you had slipped away?
Sin means only this: you were unconscious, and what could have been saved in awareness was lost. Awareness is security.
The Buddha has said: when a lamp burns in a house, thieves do not come near—they think someone is at home. If a guard sits at the door, thieves keep their distance. But if there is no guard, no lamp—darkness pervades—thieves come quietly. How can they miss it! No guard, no light; the owner is away; the house is alone. This is the moment to loot.
The Buddha says: sins surround you in moments of unconsciousness. When you are full of awareness, no sin comes near. Sin is like thieves.
But always remember: from the language do not conclude that the Buddha is condemning; he is only informing—"It is so." This is a declaration of fact, an upadesh. He is not saying you must do thus and thus. Because the Buddha has said: Who am I to tell you what to do? I can only tell you what mistakes I made and what sufferings I earned—and how I dropped those mistakes and attained great bliss. I can only speak what happened within me. I can tell you my story.
All that the awakened have said is self-statement. They have passed through where you are—and they have reached where you can someday reach. Their experience is double; yours is single.
You know only the world; they have known also what lies beyond the world. They have known the world more than you—more deeply—and only then could they rise beyond it. Had they known only as much as you—half-baked, incomplete, lukewarm—they would still be hanging there. They knew swiftly; they suffered the world’s pain totally, so totally that no possibility of pleasure remained in that pain—the whole thing turned to ash. They went beyond. Where you walk, there they walked; and where someday, in a moment of great fortune, you may walk—there too they walked. Their word is deeper than yours; it is grounded in a vaster experience.
The Buddha says: we can at least tell you—do not think only you are making these mistakes; we made them too. You are not committing any new sin—these are ancient; they have always been. Do not fall into the illusion that your sin is novel; all sins are old. Can you even imagine a new sin that has never been done? Everything is stale, done many times. The world has tried every path, repeated everything.
The awakened say only this: we have walked. We know the tears in your eyes, because thorns are in your feet. Those very thorns were in ours. But we discovered the connection. You are unable to connect the tears in your eyes with the thorns in your feet. You think someone is harassing you—so you weep. You do not think you are walking a wrong path where thorns prick and eyes fill with tears. You think it is the perversity of fate; that suffering abounds in the world; that the script of destiny is wrong. "We do everything right; everything happens wrong."
The awakened say: never was it so, nor is it the rule. When you do right, right happens. When you do wrong, wrong happens. Recognize the seed by the fruit.
"Just as a small caravan-leader carrying great wealth avoids a perilous road; or as one who wants to live avoids poison—so, leave sins."
But remember, the condition is clear. If you want to attain and guard the great wealth of life; if you want to safeguard what you already have and not squander it; if you do not wish to distort the existence that has been given to you; if the flower that can bloom—the fragrance that fills your being and can spread to the farthest worlds—if you do not want to let it rot, then protect it; do not walk wrong paths.
Now, see the difference.
The preacher says: if you sin, you will suffer. The awakened say: if you sin, you will be deprived of bliss. Note this difference. It is deep. The preacher threatens: sin, and you will rot in hell—he tries to frighten you, erecting a fear greater than the attraction of sin, so that fear might stop you. Like a mother telling a child who wants an ice-cream: "If you eat it, you will get a fever, cold and cough"—she frightens him. The pleasure is small; she paints a greater pain.
The awakened are not frightening you. They are only indicating the mathematics of life. They do not say you will suffer; they say: bliss that should have been yours, that had already come near your hands—you will lose it. The loss of bliss is suffering.
Let me repeat it. Suffering has no positive existence; it is only the absence of bliss. Just as darkness has no positive existence; it is only the absence of light.
The preacher says: if you sin, you will wander in darkness. The awakened say: if you sin, you will lose the light. You will say: both are the same.
No—there is a profound difference. The preacher says: something called suffering, which you did not have, will be given to you—as if existence will punish you. The awakened say: something you already had, you will lose through your own unfitness. Existence is not punishing you. Existence had made you blessed; it had given you much unasked; it had given with open hands—your bowl was full. You lost it through your unawareness.
The preacher says: perfection is at the end of life. The awakened say: perfection is your nature. At the very outset you were given Moksha—you yourself built fences and boundaries. A great music could have happened—you yourself broke the strings of the sitar; no one else did.
This is the message of the benediction of existence—its supremely auspicious nature. Existence is not against you; you are an expansion of existence itself. It does not "push you into" darkness; you fall into darkness when light is lost. But no one pushes you.
Omar Khayyam has a saying: I trust the Quran, therefore I accept there must be a hell. But I also trust God’s compassion, therefore I accept hell will be empty. Because I trust the Quran, I accept there will be hell—the Quran says so. But trusting God’s compassion, I know hell will be empty; no one can be there.
Existence is auspicious, supremely benevolent. This benevolent nature is its Godliness. No one is sitting to punish you. Yes—your reward will be lost, and you yourself will be the cause. Bliss you can lose; in that loss is suffering. What could have been and does not become—that is hell. What could have been and becomes—that is heaven. When the seed reaches its flowering—heaven. If the seed remains seed, never reaching the flower—that is hell. What should have been does not happen—hell. What should have been happens—then the moment of supreme ecstasy arrives; fulfillment, contentment.
"Just as a small caravan-leader with great wealth avoids a perilous road, or as one who wants to live avoids poison—so, leave sins."
The Buddha is speaking of awakening. Wake, and see how much you have—and in how many ways you are squandering it. Wake, and see: how much water is in my pitcher—and through how many holes it is leaking away. Seal the holes.
"If there is no wound on the hand, you can take poison in your hand..."
This is a very important sutra!
"...if there is no wound, the poison does not enter the body. In the same way, sin does not touch the one who does not do."
If there is no wound on the hand, even if you hold poison there is no harm. If there is a wound, the poison enters through it, reaches the bloodstream.
If there is no swoon within you for committing sin, then even if you stand in the very midst of sin, it cannot touch you. You will remain untouched. Even if sin surrounds you from all sides, it will not be able to enter your life. A wound is needed.
Someone abuses you. If within you there is no wound to catch the abuse—no wound of ego—the abuse will circle around you and get tired. What can it do? It will come and go back by itself. Often it will return to the one who sent it—go back home, be absorbed again in its source.
Try this little experiment. Someone abuses you—remain silent, unagitated, unexcited. Watch what happens. You will find the abuse circling you, seeking a way in—looking for some wound. If there is a wound, it will show all kinds of excitement: "What are you doing? My food has arrived; you are letting it go—catch it." But if you remain awake for a moment, you will find the abuse gone. And after the storm, you will taste a peace deeper than before the abuse—because the peace after a storm has a unique flavor. And once there was a chance to hurl abuse and you did not; there was a chance to take in abuse and you did not—you will feel a new kind of mastery over yourself.
"If there is no wound on the hand, the hand does not take in poison; you can hold it."
Meaning: a virtuous, aware, awake person can stand even in the darkest night and the darkness does not touch him. This is exactly what Krishna tells Arjuna in the Gita: "Do not worry—if there is no wound on your hand, you can hold this poison. If there is no ego within, then enter this war. Then this Kurukshetra is also Dharmakshetra. There will be no harm to you. And if you have a wound, even if you run to the forest, take sannyas, hide in mountains—no difference; the poison will come searching for you and find you there." The real question is your inner awareness, your inner health.
Do not try to escape. People leave places where there is a fear of sin—like you fear to go where prostitutes live. But that fear only shows you have an attraction to prostitutes—and that you do not trust yourself.
In the Buddha’s life there is such an incident. A monk of the Buddha passed through a town; the town’s courtesan, a prostitute, saw him begging. She was surprised—monks did not go to beg in the red-light quarter. How had this monk come? And he looked so innocent and guileless.
Precisely for that reason he came. He did not think, "Where is the prostitute’s lane?" Otherwise, sadhus first inquire, "Where is the prostitute’s quarter?"—first make sure where not to go. Those who go inquire; those who don’t go also inquire. Both minds are stuck there.
The prostitute came down. She had never seen such beauty in a person. There can be no beauty greater than that of a renunciate. The beauty of sannyas is boundless—because one is settled within; all restlessness is gone; all fevers are gone; there is deep peace and coolness; the fragrance of meditation; the taste of non-attachment; the veena of dispassion plays.
Therefore the beauty of Buddhas cannot be forgotten for centuries. And more women are charmed by the beauty of sannyasins than by any other. Mahavira had ten thousand monks and thirty thousand nuns. The same proportion with the Buddha, and with Jesus too—where one man came, three women came. A threefold difference. Naturally, women perceive pure beauty more quickly and are more deeply moved.
The courtesan said to the monk, "Stay at my house this rainy season." For four months of the rains, Buddhist monks stayed in one place. She said, "Stay at my house; I will serve you in every way." The monk said, "I will go and ask my Master. If he permits, I will come tomorrow; if not, that is the end of it."
He asked the Buddha in the full assembly—ten thousand monks present: "In a certain town, a very beautiful woman has invited me." Another monk stood up: "Forgive me, she is not a beautiful woman—she is a prostitute." News had spread among the monks; they were agitated. The monk said, "How could I know if she is a prostitute? And what have I to do with that? She has invited me. If you permit, I will stay four months at her house; if not, finished."
And the Buddha permitted: "Go and spend the rains at her house." Fire broke out among the monks: "This is injustice! He will be corrupted. Then you must give us the same permission." The Buddha said, "He did not demand permission; he left it to me. He did not say he needed it. And I know him. After four months we will see. Let him go. If a prostitute can drown his sannyas, then his sannyas was worthless. If he can bring the prostitute to the shore, only then does his sannyas have value. If your boat of sannyas cannot carry even one prostitute, what is its worth!"
The monk stayed four months at her house. When he returned, the prostitute came behind him; she took initiation—she became a sannyasin. The Buddha asked her, "What touched you?" She said, "Your monk’s constant unimpressibility. It seemed nothing could impress him. Whatever I said, he accepted. I said, ‘Listen to music’—he agreed. I said, ‘Watch the dance’—he agreed. As if nothing touched him."
When there is no wound within, nothing touches you.
If you take religion to mean change of place—leaving the prostitute’s quarter out of fear; leaving the market out of greed; running off to the Himalayas—granted, you may get away from situations, but what will you do with the wounds? The blows may not fall on the wound—it is true you will keep away from poison—but what about the wound? It will remain, oozing within, waiting. Whenever an opportunity comes to touch poison again, the wound will be poisoned once more.
The insistence of the Buddha, the insistence of Krishna, is: heal the wound. Become free of holes within; then wherever you are, you can remain. Then even hell is not hell for you, and the world is Nirvana.
Without meditation action is incomplete
It cannot become unwavering
The moment you turn inward, the scenery outside
No longer remains in front
Only he reached the goal who—while in the body—became bodiless
The moment you turn inward, the scenery outside
No longer remains in front
The moment you turn within, the world is gone.
The moment you turn inward, the scenery outside
No longer remains in front
Outside is lost; turn within—the world disappears.
Without meditation action is incomplete
And meditation means: to come to rest within. Do whatsoever you do, remain rested within. Let the storms rage outside, hurricanes and tempests—inside, do not tremble; remain unshaken there.
Only he reached the goal who—while in the body—became bodiless
And if you dive within, you will find—while living in the body you become bodiless. The moment you know the bodiless, you are free of wounds—for wounds can cling only to the body, not to the Atman. Poison can pervade only the body, not the Atman. Knowing "I am the Atman," the one who abides in that knowing stands among sins like a lotus. Water does not touch it.
"Whoever casts blame on a person who is pure, clear, and innocent—his blame returns to him, like fine dust thrown against the wind falls back on the thrower."
Do not worry. Someone may abuse you—there is no need to be troubled. The abuse will return to him. Your innocence is enough; the abuse will return by itself.
The Buddha says: as fine dust thrown against the wind returns to the thrower’s face; as one who spits at the sky finds the spittle falling back on himself. People will go on abusing. They do not abuse because of you; there is abuse within them—what else can they do? A high fever rages within them; they are full of pain and suffering; they keep throwing their pain out—to feel a little lighter.
Fingers rise from every side even at the new moon’s birth
Whoever came into the world has been slandered
Even at the newborn moon—who has done nothing yet—
Fingers rise from every side.
Whoever came into the world has been slandered.
And whoever comes into this world—people will throw dust at him. Not because he has given cause; no, because their hands hold dust. They have no flowers in their hands—only dust. They will throw it. Hence a guiltless heart has no cause to be disturbed.
In fact, a guiltless heart feels great compassion when someone abuses him—because the abuse will return to the abuser. Great compassion arises when he sees someone spitting at the sky—because that spit will fall back on him.
When you are disturbed by someone’s condemnation of you, you have accepted that the condemnation was true. Think: no one is hurt by a lie; people are hurt only by the truth. If someone says, "You are dishonest," you are disturbed only if you know you are dishonest. If you have a simple trust in your honesty, you laugh and pass by: either this person has misunderstood, or he is deliberately casting a net—what have you to do with it? You are pained only by those things you are hiding. You are dishonest and wearing a mask of honesty; if someone calls you dishonest, he touches the wound—the very wound you were concealing.
I have heard: in a church a priest was preaching on the Ten Commandments. A prankster played a joke—he sent a note: "Everything has been found out—run away quickly." The priest read it, quickly closed the Bible and said, "I have urgent business; I am going home," and vanished. People asked, "What happened?" When they went to his home, he had fled with his belongings.
They asked the prankster, "What did you write?" He said, "I am surprised myself—I only made a joke! He was talking such great wisdom—Commandments, don’t do this, don’t do that—I only joked; and he ran. I don’t even know what he has done."
Try it sometime: send ten friends a card, any ten—"Everything has been found out—run away quickly."
Everyone is up to something—hiding in some way. Even in darkness you can easily find their wounds. Wounds are there.
That is why sometimes your absolutely innocent statement wounds someone deeply. You are surprised: "I said nothing special—why is he so excited?" You said nothing special—but he had something special hidden. You may not know it; he does. You unknowingly touched a tender spot.
Make this an inner observation. Whenever someone’s words touch you, forget about him and look for your own wound. Healing that wound is sadhana.
If there is the hook, we mistake it for love
If there is nothing at all, how can we be deceived?
If there is the hook, we mistake it for love—even enmity we take as friendship. If there is hatred, we take it as love.
If there is the hook, we mistake it for love—
Even this much is enough for us to pretend.
If there is nothing at all, how can we be deceived?
When there is not even hatred—leave love aside—even hatred is not there; not attachment, not even a hook; not friendship—even enmity is not there—how can deception happen?
As you awaken within and see your wounds, do not hide them—expose them to sun and winds; for wounds exposed to sun and wind heal; hidden wounds finally turn cancerous. But our entire method is to hide our mistakes—and by hiding we make them cancers. Expose them. Reveal them. Do not repress. Whom do you fear? And those you fear—nothing is hidden from them anyway.
This is astonishing, a kind of miracle: each person thinks he has hidden everything—though nothing is hidden from anyone. Only he thinks he has hidden it; everyone else knows. You can only deceive yourself—you cannot deceive anyone else. Whatever you hide is being broadcast through the very texture of your being.
Each person announces the inner state of his being through subtle vibrations. You are a broadcast. You cannot hide. You are unhappy—smile as much as you like—your smile will reveal the unhappiness. You are angry—pose as serene as you like—beneath the serenity the shadow of anger will be visible. The more you try to save yourself, the more you get entangled. No one has ever been saved by saving.
The scripture of life says: expose—so that wounds may heal. Say it yourself; all religions have emphasized confession. Whomever you can trust—open your heart before them. By opening, the heart heals. As soon as you speak your wound, you become light; nothing remains to hide—no burden.
This was the value of the Satguru—that you had such trust in him you could open everything. You could stand naked, utterly uncovered, before the Satguru. No worry that he would condemn you. No worry that when you said, "I am a sinner," he would say, "You are bad." No worry that if you confessed theft, you would see the desire in his eyes to cast you into hell. No worry at all.
Satguru means: one whose compassion is boundless. Say anything—he can forgive. Say anything—he understands human weakness. He knows such mistakes have happened to him too. Having known himself, he has known the total weakness of man—and whoever knows man’s weakness also knows man’s glory. For on one end is weakness, on the other, glory. On one side man can be the darkest of sinners; on the other he can be the holiest of the holy. If he falls, he drops into darkness, new moons upon new moons; if he rises, the full moon is his.
"After death some are born in a womb; some, the doers of evil, go to hell; some, doers of good, go to heaven; and some Anashrava—men without outflows—attain Parinirvana."
After death! Death happens to all. All must die. Death brings all to the same crossroads. But from death the paths diverge. Some return into wombs as before—their life is a repetition; nothing new has bloomed; they learned nothing new from life; they did not take a new lesson—so they are sent back to the same class. Some come carrying great possibilities of bliss—they saved themselves, guarded themselves, did not lose the treasure—for them there is heaven; meaning, doors of joy are open. Some lost everything—extinguished all lamps—bringing only dark new moons; for them there is hell.
Here note: the Buddha emphasizes that heaven and hell are not given to you by anyone—you earn them yourself. You are the master. It is your will, your choice. There is no God who throws you into hell. Therefore prayer will do nothing. Do not think you will go on sinning and then pray. Do not think you will sin and then ask forgiveness. Do not think "God is Ghafoor, the Forgiving." Do not think He is so compassionate that He will forgive. There is no one there to change your act—no one except you.
If you have sinned, prayer will not cut it; you will have to cut it by awareness. Hence in Buddha-Dharma there is no place for prayer; there is a place for meditation. Meditation means awareness. Prayer means calling upon God’s compassion. You will find no support from existence—you cannot bribe; no praise will work, no flattery will help.
The Buddha says: consider your act well before you do it—your act alone is ultimately decisive. No one can undo your act—except you. If you undo it, it is undone; if you make it, it is made.
On this path each traveler has a different trust
Everyone has his own cup and his own thirst
Life’s crossroads meet at the ruins
Everyone’s autumn is one, only the spring is different
Death is one for all, but life is different for each.
Everyone’s autumn is one; only the spring is different.
To the physician, a saint’s death and a sinner’s death look the same—the breath stops. But ask the awakened—there is a vast difference. For the sinner there are two possibilities: either he will repeat what he did—or he will fall even lower; demoted to a lower class. For the virtuous, who guarded their treasure—there is the door of supreme joy—spring arrives. And beyond all this is the awakened. For them there is neither heaven nor hell.
In the West this is difficult to understand. Western religions do not know any category beyond heaven and hell. But all Eastern religions do not take heaven and hell as final; they are still within samsara. There is a last category beyond them, where man goes beyond suffering—and beyond pleasure. Because as long as there is pleasure, there is the possibility of suffering. As long as there is treasure, there is the fear of losing it. A moment is needed where there is no pleasure either. Pain is far, but pleasure too is far. A supreme rest, a supremely pacified state where even pleasure does not obstruct.
We are not yet tired even of suffering; the awakened are weary even of pleasure. We are still content with suffering; the awakened call pleasure itself an excitement—for in it too there is only agitation. Waves arise, there are disturbances. Even if no storm comes, the breeze still moves—there are slight gusts—there is vibration.
The unmoving state.
The Buddha calls that state Anashrava—one who is totally awakened; in whom nothing flows in and nothing flows out; one who has attained supreme stability, sthitaprajna—he attains Parinirvana. There is no return for him—not to hell, not to heaven, not to samsara.
Here is something very important to understand. You do not know virtue; you do not know bliss. You know suffering; you know sin. And you also know that sin brings suffering. Yet one thing sits deep in the mind: you do not want to be empty. If given a choice between emptiness and suffering, you choose suffering. Emptiness seems worse than suffering. The suffering person says, "At least leave me my suffering—at least it is something. It is some excuse to go on living—pain even, but some support." Something around which to jump and fuss—if even suffering is not there, what will you do?
Think a little: if all your sufferings were to fall away suddenly today, what would you do tomorrow? You would feel greatly empty. You would start praying for suffering to be returned—"Give it back; at least there was something. I was engaged, busy; there was something to do. This emptiness bites."
Most people keep on sinning because they are not ready to be empty. Most people hold on to suffering—even as they cry, "No more suffering"—with one hand they push it away, with the other they pull it back; with one hand they cut it, with the other they sow its seed.
I understand their trouble. Emptiness seems worse than suffering. Hell even—at least it is something; there will be work and engagement. Emptiness frightens—desolation.
Often when you are empty you will do anything—play cards, gamble, drink; drink and then fight; create a commotion—do something, anything.
Have you observed how restless you become when you are empty? You must learn to be empty; otherwise you will never be free of suffering. You do not know bliss, nor virtue. You know suffering—and sometimes the emptiness between two sufferings. Consent to emptiness. It is very hard. Yesterday I was reading a song:
Now no evening will extinguish, no darkness will fall
Now no night will pass, no dawn will come
The sky waits in hope that this spell may break
That the chains of silence be cut, the hem of time slip free
Let someone blow the conch, some anklet speak
Let some idol awaken, some dusky bride lift her veil
A moment comes in silence when fear arises: now what? What will happen if this silence does not break? How will this night pass? How will morning come? In silence, in emptiness, everything halts—time stops, the clock turns still.
Now no evening will extinguish, no darkness will fall
Now no night will pass, no dawn will come
The sky waits in hope that this spell may break
And panic begins: what is this? What magic? Who has stopped my breath?
The sky waits in hope that this spell may break
That the chains of silence be cut...
Even silence feels like a chain—let someone cut it.
That the chains of silence be cut, the hem of time slip free
Let time start again somehow.
Let someone blow the conch in supplication...
Anything will do.
Let someone blow the conch, some anklet speak
Let some idol awaken, some dusky bride lift her veil
Let anything happen—but let something happen. Sin and suffering are deep in human life because you refuse to be empty. He who does not agree to emptiness will never find meditation. Without meditation there is no possibility of virtue. And without virtue, Anashrava is very far! He who cannot even attain heaven—how will he reach Nirvana!
We go on running, repeating ourselves. The same old story repeats. Take a few things to heart.
First: save your life from repetition. Otherwise at death you will carry such a desire for repetition that you will repeat all over again. The same roads, the same shops, the same marketplace, the same house, wealth, wife, children, the same ledgers, the same illnesses, the same sufferings—everything repeats in full.
The Buddha and Mahavira both insisted that their seekers remember their past births. For one reason only: if remembrance of past births arises, you will see you are repeating. The same, the same—you have done it many times. Like going to see the same movie again.
I know a man—the father of a friend. In his village there is only one cinema. He has no work. There are three shows a day; he watches all three. A film runs for five to seven days; he watches it daily. Once he had a guest at home. I asked, "What are you doing! You watch the same film three times a day for a week!" He said, "There is nothing to do; at home I get nervous—so I go, sit in the cinema, watch."
Looking at his face I thought: this is man’s condition! The same film you have watched so many times. The same glory you have sought many times. The same lust, the same anger—you have done it many times; nothing is new.
Therefore the Buddha and Mahavira discovered processes through which one can remember past births. When remembrance arises, a terrible anxiety seizes you: what am I doing—again the same! We forget, and everything seems new. Again you fall in love—some anklet tinkles—and you think such love has never happened; there were Majnus and Farhads and Heers and Ranjhas—but never me. Such love has never happened—this is a unique event.
You have played this trick many times. Nothing is new. The world is very old; it is eternally ancient. There is nothing new under the sun; everything repeats.
Because of this recognition of repetition, a unique longing arose in this land: how to be free of the wheel of birth and death. Nowhere else did it arise, for nowhere else were the methods and psychology of remembering past births discovered.
Hence Islam says there is one life; Christianity says one life; Judaism says one life—these three were born outside India. All the rest were born here—and they say there is rebirth, an endless chain. From this endlessness India understood: this is mere repetition, the potter’s wheel turning—the same spokes come up, then go down, then up. Deep weariness arose; only the one who is weary of life is free of it.
So do not repeat. Yesterday you were angry—enough; do not do it again. Yesterday you sought fame—you have sought enough; what did you gain? Do not seek again. Until yesterday you ran after wealth—now stop. Slowly free your hands from repetition. Free yourself before you die; otherwise after death you will repeat—because the desire at the last moment becomes the seed of the next birth.
"After death some are born again in a womb; some who have done evil go to hell; some of good conduct go to heaven."
Heaven and hell are states of mind. After death, the person who has practiced only pain and pain enters into a grand tragic dream of the mind—a dreadful suffering. That mind, which we can call a dream of sorrow, he passes through. Hell is nowhere else—it is your dream of suffering; the cumulative experience of suffering you gathered in life revisited.
The one who, with ahobhava—gratitude—lived, did not do wrong, did not think wrong, did not become wrong; who did not make wounds, who kept himself careful and alert—after death he passes through a great sweet dream. That sweet dream is heaven. It also appears endless.
But whether you go through hell or heaven—it is only a dream. Eventually you return. However long you dwell in bliss, you return to the world; both virtue and sin are exhausted.
Therefore a new insight arose here: go beyond pleasure itself—to that which never exhausts. Find such a state of consciousness that no fall is possible. An overstepping, a supreme state of consciousness from which one never descends—we may call it Brahman; the Buddha called it Nirvana; Mahavira, Kaivalya—or whatever name pleases us.
"Not in the sky, not in the depths of the ocean, not entering a mountain cave—there is no place in the world where one can escape the fruit of evil deeds."
If you have sinned, you cannot avoid the fruit. No prayer will save you. No place of worship will save you.
The Buddha says: "Not in the sky, not in the depths of the ocean, not entering mountain caves—there is no place in the world where one can escape the fruit of evil deeds."
Not in the sky, not in the depths, not in caves—there is nowhere one can hide from death. The fruit of sin will come—it has already come in the very doing. You may take time to recognize it. Then what to do?
The Buddha says: do not avoid the fruit of sin—bear it dispassionately. This is a precious sutra. You did something; now suffering has come—bear it with detachment. Do not complain. Do not seek to escape now—for you cannot. In trying to escape you prolong the process. Bear it, knowing: I sowed; now the harvest has come—let me reap. Even if hands are bloodied, even if there is pain—let it be. But be tatastha—neutral, equanimous. Keep this in mind: neutrality.
If you generate any reaction to the fruit—"I do not want it; why has it come to me? It is unjust, forced"—if you react, you sow fresh karma. Say nothing. Say only: I did it; the fruit came—account settled. I am fortunate—finished.
Someone spat on the Buddha. He wiped it off. Next day the man came to ask forgiveness. The Buddha said, "Do not worry. I was happy—settlement happened. In some birth I must have spat on you; I was waiting, for until you spat there would be no release. You came—your grace! Now I do not want to carry this chain forward. Do not bring it up again—the account is closed. Your great kindness."
Whatever comes, accept it calmly; let it pass through. Do not create any new connection, any new reaction—so that you are freed, so that you come out. Slowly, in this way, one comes out of karma one by one. A moment comes when all accounts are complete—you rise beyond, wings grow, you fly toward the supreme state. As long as karma’s net is there your wings are tied to the earth; you cannot travel toward the sky.
There is no way to escape death either—so give up trying to escape it. Do not try to avoid what cannot be avoided; accept it. Acceptance is revolutionary. The Buddha uses a special word—Tathata. Tathata means: what is, I accept. There is no denial from my side. Death is—let it be death. From my side not a whit of "no"—"May it not be," "Let it be otherwise"—none. As it is happening, so it had to happen, so it will happen. I accept. From me, no opposition, no resistance. From me, no judgment—no condemnation, no praise.
In such a silent state, whoever accepts life’s pleasures and pains, life and death—goes beyond life and death. The cycle can no longer pull him back. He belongs to the sky.
We had made this supremely dispassionate state our goal. The goal of life is to go beyond life and death. Only that bliss is bliss which is beyond both suffering and pleasure. That state is amrit—immortality—where neither death comes nor life comes.
This Indian discovery is unique. Other cultures have discovered thousands of human goals—but the goal of going beyond life itself is India’s gift. Reflect a little and you will see: the one who uses life as a ladder and goes even beyond life; who steps on death and on life; who goes beyond the dual—becomes non-dual.
From one side it will seem a state of zero—and it is. And when you experience it you will know it is also the state of Brahman. Zero and the Full are names of one. From your side, Brahman looks like zero; from the side of the awakened, zero looks like Brahman. For zero is the greatest truth in this world.
And if you would move toward this zero, cultivate silence. Silence will condense the zero within you. Infinite sky will descend within. You will melt away; boundaries will dissolve. You will remain a clean mirror. The name of that clean mirror is Buddhahood. And the path to that Buddhahood is what has been called: eṣa dhammo sanantano—this is the eternal law.
Enough for today.