Es Dhammo Sanantano #48

Before the sutra, a few absolutely essential things must be understood.
First: all Enlightened ones teach self-interest. This will be difficult—because we have taken very wrong meanings of self-interest. What we call self-interest is not self-interest at all. In the name of self-interest we commit self-destruction. In the name of nectar we drink only poison. In the name of flowers we have gathered no treasure except thorns.
The Enlightened teach only what is truly in your interest. They teach self-interest. The meaning of self-interest is—recognizing the destiny of the Self, recognizing Svabhava. The meaning of self-interest is—recognizing one’s own welfare. To live in such a way that day by day happiness goes on becoming oceanic bliss.
Whoever lives in accord with himself will live in joy. Whoever lives against himself will live in suffering. Take this as the definition of suffering: if there is suffering in life, know that you are living contrary to Svabhava. Suffering is only a pointer, only a message that somewhere some mistake is happening.
Where you are not in accord with Dharma, there is suffering. Where you are in accord with Dharma, there is joy. Esa dhammo sanantano. This is the eternal law.
Therefore I say to you again: the Enlightened teach self-interest, they teach the meaning of the Self, the destiny of the Self, the recognition of the Self. And the day you understand yourself, that day you have understood all—because the Svabhava that is yours is everyone’s Svabhava. There will be differences of form and color, not of Svabhava. The Svabhava that is mine is the same as yours. The Svabhava that is yours is the same as that of the bird flying in the sky. The Svabhava that is yours is the same for the tree, the same for the rock. The differences are of color and form, they are superficial, of shape. But the one who has taken up residence in the form has no difference at all.
Svabhava is one—understand this as the second point. Whoever has recognized the Self has instantly recognized that Svabhava is one. There, there is no mine and thine. What you want is exactly what all want. How blind must we be, that even such a profound truth does not become visible! You want happiness; everyone wants happiness. You want to be free of suffering; everyone wants to be free of suffering.
The tiniest insect wants to avoid suffering—just as you want to avoid it. The tree standing rooted in the earth also has the very same longing for joy as you have. It becomes thirsty, it becomes hungry, it writhes. It becomes exuberant, fulfilled—and then it sings. Birds too dance; birds too wither. Where the rain of joy descends, there is dance. Where joy is snatched away, there stand suffering and hell. That even such a deep truth does not appear to us means our blindness must be very deep.
The Enlightened say only this: look rightly within, and you have looked within all. If the Atman is recognized, the Paramatman is recognized. If the Self is known, all is known. By knowing that One, all is known. Then do not move against that knowing.
Here deep questions arise. You too know that others want happiness just as you do. And yet you do not live in accord with this law. You begin to think: for my happiness, if I must give another suffering, I will. The other also wants happiness—exactly as you do. But you begin making a separate rule for yourself. Now you say: even if the whole world suffers for my happiness, still I will seek my happiness.
This means you have begun to move against Svabhava. You will give suffering to another for your own happiness. But your being and the other’s being are not separate. In giving suffering to the other, you will have arranged your own suffering. Dig a pit for someone else—one day you will find yourself fallen into it. Because that other is not beyond you, not far, not different. He is linked to you, joined with you.
If you have hurt another, the hurt will strike you. You are behaving like small children. A little child bumps into a table. In anger he slaps the table. His reasoning is clear: this table misbehaved—hit it. But when the table is slapped, it is one’s own hand that is hurt. You even agree to bear that hurt, because you think you have struck the other, punished him. Whoever gave pain, we will give him pain—this seems perfectly logical to you.
But give suffering to anyone, and it will return to you. Because there are no fortress walls between you and the other. There is a place where we mingle and merge. As when you pour dye into a river, it spreads across the whole breast of the river; the waves will carry it to distant shores. In the same way, if you inject suffering anywhere, it will begin to spread far and wide. And you are included in it. And if the same mistake is being made by everyone—wanting to give oneself happiness and to give others suffering—then if the world becomes hell, what surprise is there? If suffering multiplies without end, what surprise is there?
The Enlightened say exactly this: happiness can multiply without end. Let this eternal law be understood—what you want for yourself, do not do otherwise for the other. This is the golden rule. The whole Vedas, the whole Koran and the Bible and the Dhammapada can be pressed into this one rule.
Someone once asked Jesus, “What should we do?” The man who asked was in a hurry—and he was very simple. He said, “I’m not very clever; I don’t know the scriptures. Don’t tell me anything complicated or convoluted. Say it straight. And say it in full, so that there’s never any need to ask again.” Jesus said, “Whatever you wish for yourself, do that for others—this alone is the whole of religion.”
All of today’s sutras are Buddha’s echoes of that same fundamental sutra. One more thing: you must feel a lot of difficulty, because the expressions are so very different.

Just now we were reading Narada’s aphorisms—there was deep discourse on love, gestures toward the Beloved, praise of the Dear One. And now we are talking about Buddha—an entirely different terrain begins. Nowhere is love discussed, nowhere is the Dear One praised. You will not find devotion here, however hard you look. Here the sutras move in another key. And yet I tell you, the sutra is the same.

This is Buddha’s way. Buddha will not speak of devotion, will not speak of God, will not speak of love—and yet he speaks only of love. What else could he possibly speak of? Where is the other?

I was once sitting in Mulla Nasruddin’s house. His young son came in and said, “Papa, the essay you had me write on the dog—Masterji says it’s the exact same essay my older brother wrote last year: commas, periods, everything. He says it’s pure copying!” Mulla thought for a moment and said, “Go tell your teacher it isn’t copying; it’s compulsion. The dog is the same—how am I supposed to write a different essay?”

I say to you, the day you have eyes you will not be able to find even the difference of a comma or a period in the words of Buddha and Mahavira, Narada, Krishna, Christ, Mohammed. The dog is the same. The truth being spoken of is the same. If you see differences, it is due to a lack of understanding. And if there are differences, they are very superficial.

Buddha’s way of saying things is his own—as it should be. But the finger points to the same One. My arrow is colored my way, your arrow is colored yours—what difference does that make? What has the target to do with the arrow’s color? Mine may be of gold, yours studded with gems, someone else’s iron—what does it matter? Once you know how to aim, all arrows strike the mark—the mark is one.

So in these sutras, try to catch that glimpse. Otherwise you can become very confused: Now what should we do? What not do? These talks are not meant to increase your confusion but to lessen it. With Buddha’s sutras alongside, try to see that even though he never raises the word “love,” he is speaking only of love—only, in a different tongue.

The first sutra:
“All tremble at the rod; all fear death. Knowing others as yourself, do not kill, nor cause to kill.”

“Knowing all as yourself...”

That is the whole scripture of love. What does love mean? To know the other as yourself. Whomever you have known as yourself—that is the one you love. Where you have dropped the distinction, the duality; where you have thrown away your apartness; where you have let the courtyard of your life merge with another’s; where you have said, “We are not two; here we are one. We will raise no line of separation between us. Our courtyards are no longer separate. Our beings join, mingle, melt, enter one another”—that is love. Love means: to know the other as oneself. It can mean nothing else.

But Buddha does not use the word love. It is not his style. It is not the way his essay is written; it is not his language. He is a supremely pure thinker. He does not even let a glimmer of feeling show. If he speaks of love, the tone becomes tinged with feeling, with the heart. Buddha’s prajna—his wisdom—is utterly pure. He speaks from the summit of thought.

That is why no scientist need find any difficulty in understanding Buddha. No mathematician will find difficulty, no logician, no rationalist, no intellectual.

So Buddha’s influence has grown in proportion to the growth of thought in the world—because he does not speak of feeling. With feeling, a twilight haze sets in; with feeling, a dawn-dimness. Thought is clear sunshine, fresh, bright midday—things are cleanly defined.

Bertrand Russell wrote that although he was born in a Christian home and reverence for Jesus was instilled in him from childhood, when he thought and examined for himself, Jesus’ sayings did not feel right to him; they seemed too emotional, lacking in logic. So he freed himself from Jesus. But as soon as he did, Buddha’s words began to feel right.

Russell had no trust in religion, but he had great reverence for Buddha. Mira would be incomprehensible to Russell; Chaitanya would seem mad. He even suspected Jesus must have had a touch of insanity. But to doubt Buddha is impossible—Buddha is one hundred percent clear.

With the word “love,” poetry enters—therefore Buddha will not even employ the word. Yet he is saying the same thing, in his own way:

“All fear death; all wish to avoid suffering; all shrink from punishment. Therefore, knowing all as yourself, do not kill, nor urge another to kill.”

Mark this well: love is affirmative, thought is negative. Thought’s mode is “no.” Love’s mode is “yes.” So Buddha says simply: do not kill, do not incite to kill.

For this reason the entire scriptures of Buddha and Mahavira are called ahimsa—nonviolence. Ahimsa is a profoundly negative word. It means only this: no violence.

Jesus says love; Narada says devotion; Mira says feeling. Buddha and Mahavira say: no violence. Negative. They say, just do not give suffering to another—that is enough. If you do not give suffering, joy will arise of itself. You need not drag it in, nor arrange for it.

Buddha says: even if you want to give happiness to others, you will not be able. Have at least this much kindness: do not give pain. Do not sow thorns; flowers will bloom by themselves. They need no forcing. It is human nature. Do not put obstacles in the way. Don’t kill; life will blossom of itself.

Therefore Buddha does not say, “Give life, grant life.” He only says, “Do not kill; do not encourage killing. If someone kills, do not support it—step aside.” Let no sorrow come to another through you—that is enough. Why? Because joy is everyone’s nature. If you do not give suffering, you have given the other the opportunity to let the lotuses of his own joy open.

When Jesus, Chaitanya, Mira, or Mohammed say, “Give love, give life,” an affirmative tone enters. They do not stop at “do not cause suffering,” because to them that feels too negative. How will life’s poetry be born out of a no? Has a poem ever been born out of a negation? On the foundation of “no,” has any temple been raised, any worship been evoked? Who ever danced around a “no”? Will you deck a platter of worship around a “no”? Where will you bow before an idol of negation, of neti-neti? “No” has no legs; “no” has no heart.

So the devotees say, a no will not do. They harbor a fear: that your “no” may become indifference. And so it has happened. Look at a Jain monk—you feel his whole sadhana has become indifference. No stream of rasa flows there. His effort ends with this much: that no one should suffer on his account. The matter is over. He withdraws from other people’s path.

Understand the difference. You will not find a Jain monk massaging the legs of a patient. Yes, you will not find him beating someone on the head with a club—that’s true. But a Christian you will find pressing someone’s feet, serving the sick, arranging bread for the hungry, digging a well for the thirsty. You will not find a Jain monk digging wells. He will not spread thorns in anyone’s path—that much is true. But to devote the whole of life only to not spreading thorns—worship has been offered to a “no.” Somewhere a mistake crept in. Perhaps he did not understand the words of Buddha and Mahavira rightly; the interpretation went awry.

When Buddha and Mahavira say, “Do not give suffering,” they are not saying your entire life should be constructed around this “not giving suffering.” They are saying: if you do not give suffering, you will find flowers begin to bloom all around. If flowers do not bloom, know that your ahimsa is not real ahimsa; it is indifference. If the stream of bliss does not begin to flow, know that you have only withdrawn from life; you have not been transformed. There is a difference.

You may refrain from hurting someone because you do not deem him even worthy of being hurt—or you may refrain because you see him as your very own self—how could you hurt him? Someone insults you. You’ve heard the saying: the elephant walks on, dogs bark. Someone abused you—you passed on like an elephant. You took him for a dog: let him bark. That is not religion—that is irreligion. Better you had abused him; at least you would have acknowledged him as a man, not a dog.

Nietzsche says it is insulting. At least return my slap with a slap—grant me the dignity of being your equal. Jesus said, “If someone strikes you on one cheek, offer the other.” Nietzsche says, “Don’t do this—what greater insult could there be? You have regarded him as a worm. Grant him at least the honor of a man. He slapped you; slap him back and say, we are equals. You, an elephant, and he, a dog—that would be a great insult.”

Now see the difference. You can abstain from violence because you despise the other—“let the dogs be”; that is indifference, not ahimsa. Or you can abstain because the other is your own form—how could you strike yourself? He erred; his error needs correction, needs compassion. His fault is not to be magnified! If the other is wrong, must you be wrong as well? A mistake answered by another mistake only doubles the mistake.

But if you stand aside thinking the other is petty, worthless, a dog—outwardly both cases may look like the same indifference, but inwardly the difference is vast.

Even Jains and Buddhists did not understand Buddha and Mahavira fully, for it was almost inevitable that ahimsa should turn into indifference; contempt is easier than compassion. And then, in the name of nonviolence, violence continued.

Buddha and Mahavira, even with their negative indication, point only toward love. There are reasons for the negative.

Why did Buddha choose a negative indication? Was there some problem in simply saying “love”? Was his mouth padlocked? He could have just said, “Love”—as Jesus did: “God is love.” What difficulty was there? What chains bound his tongue?

There were reasons. One: if we tell you, “Give happiness to others,” you begin to give suffering in the name of happiness. You have given much pain in the name of welfare. And when you do it in the name of happiness, no one can stop you, for you are doing a great favor. You scold your child, berate him, beat him—and say, “It’s for your happiness, your reform, your salvation.”

Psychologists say that parents have done more violence to children than any other class to anyone else. The greatest violence on earth has been by parents toward children.

We can hardly believe this, because parents?—and violence? Parents are trying with all their heart to make the child’s life happy. But no one’s life becomes happy by your aspirations! There’s a saying: the road to hell is paved with good intentions. Many are rotting in hell because they were shoved down the path of good intentions.

Beware: man’s violence is so deep that he can torment another even in the name of his good. And this torment is easy, because the other cannot defend himself. When you press someone’s throat for his own good, he cannot even cry out, “Let go!” He cannot complain, for you are doing it for his sake. Even if he dies, you were killing him for his welfare.

Seeing this danger—that “give happiness” has been preached for centuries, and in its name people have been tortured—Buddha and Mahavira chose otherwise. And there is no remedy for such torture, because “happiness” was the label. People have shoved people into hell in the name of heaven. Look honestly at your life and you will understand. Man is very cunning.

But whether you say, “Do not give suffering,” or you say, “Give happiness”—man finds a way to cheat the Buddhas.

So it often happens that when one aspect of religion has been thoroughly corrupted, the other aspect appears. The Vedas and Upanishads were affirmative; people ruined that affirmative religion, so Buddha and Mahavira arose—negative. Then people ruined their negative religion, so Ramanuja, Vallabha, Chaitanya, Mira arose—the devotees—restoring the affirmative. Like day and night, religion shifts: from affirmative to negation, from negation to affirmative. But man finds a trick everywhere. Be alert to this.

“All tremble at punishment; all fear death. Therefore, knowing all as yourself, do not kill, nor cause to kill.”

The longing for life is universal. Sometimes you see a contrary event—that too is not contrary. Someone commits suicide. Consider it carefully. Buddha says: no one wants to die, no one wants punishment, no one wants suffering—and yet some commit suicide. What of them? And they are not few. Many attempt; few succeed. One in ten, perhaps.

Does Buddha’s word not apply to suicides?

It seems not to apply—on the surface. But look within: people kill themselves not against life, but for life. Ask a suicide—and sometimes you too have felt an urge to kill yourself. It is hard to find a person in whom it has not arisen at some time—in bad days, dark nights, pain and anguish—the thought grips the mind: end it. What’s the use of such a life? Let it go.

But even in that urge, notice, there is a longing for a better life. This life does not fit, because your aspiration was for a larger life. You wanted life with such-and-such a person, and that did not happen; or with such-and-such success, and it didn’t happen. You had conditions, and life didn’t meet them—so now you want to end it. It is anger. Hidden in the urge to destroy this life is love for life itself.

It’s like when a neighbor scolds a mother’s child; the mother cannot bear anyone else’s scolding, though she herself may beat the child. Or like a child passionately attached to a toy—if you urge him too much to let go, he throws it to the ground and breaks it. That is not detachment; that is an announcement of attachment. Attachment can even break things.

Psychologists say suicides are people more attached to life than ordinary people. Their attachment to a certain kind of life was so great that they said, “We will not live anyhow; we will choose only pearls, not pebbles. If we get pebbles, we prefer death with our dream of pearls.” “We will not eat grass; we are lion-cubs.” They set conditions upon life; they were very attached. They were not ready to live just any way, because they had big notions of living—big dreams.

Understand this rightly: the one who commits suicide is not saying he has no attachment to life. He is saying he had so much attachment that he could not compromise. If life did not meet his demands, he smashed it.

And this explains another important fact: ten attempt suicide; nine fail. Why fail at such a simple thing? Who is stopping you? No one.

But deep research shows: they want to fail. Women take pills, but just enough to reach the hospital and return—no more. People drink poison, but only enough to be saved in time. Even when they tie the noose, they hope neighbors will hear and come. So nine fail; one succeeds—perhaps by mistake. He wanted to fail, too—he overdid it in the heat of the moment. That’s why people keep talking about dying.

Many come to me and say, “I want to die.” Who is stopping you? I am not. Why come to tell me? Who can stop someone set on dying? What law can stop him? It’s laughable that in some places the law says: if you attempt suicide and fail, we’ll hang you. If you fail, the government won’t let you live!

But even such a simple thing—jump off a cliff, lie on the tracks—is not easily successful. Something in you doesn’t let it succeed. And of those who do die, if their souls could be called back and asked, they would say, “We overdid it. Took twenty pills—should’ve taken ten. Had no previous experience. Thought the neighbors would show up, but they were out. Thought my husband would return at night, but he didn’t. An accident—and it succeeded.”

Even suicide does not show anyone wants to die. People threaten to die out of a longing to live. They are so eager to live that they are ready to die. But this does not change the life-instinct.

Look by the roadside: a beggar is crawling, legless, armless, blind, body eaten by leprosy—sometimes you wonder, why does he want to live? What is there worth living for? To beg every day? Each day will worsen; what hope is there? Everything is lost. Ten more years—he will crawl and beg, cry and groan, and each day get worse. Death is certain. Then why live?

But don’t go ask a beggar this, because it has no bearing. Man’s life-instinct is so deep that he agrees to live in any condition. No hands? He agrees. No eyes? He agrees. No legs? He agrees. No love? He agrees. No house? He agrees—even the street will do. Man’s capacity to adjust is infinite. He agrees to live—just let him live. Living itself seems the goal.

So deep is the longing for life—not only in humans, but in animals and plants—everywhere life is seeking. Animals search; plants send roots into the soil seeking water and food. Life is aspiring on all sides.

Buddha says: where life is so longed for, where no one wants to die, at least do this—do not kill. At least do this—do not cause suffering. Do that much. Leave aside talk of giving happiness; at least do not give pain.

And it is my experience that if you truly do not give suffering, you will begin to give joy. Life is such that whoever does not dole out pain inevitably begins to shower bliss. You cannot hoard your life-treasure inside; it spills, it spreads.

If you do not give pain, you will give joy. If you stop hurling abuse, today or tomorrow you will start singing. What else will you do? The same energy that became abuse will become song. If you stop slander, somewhere a note of prayer will begin to arise in you.

So Buddha trusts that the rest will happen—he doesn’t even raise it. Just do this much. Let no wrong be done by you; the right will start happening by itself. The same energy that was being spent in the wrong, when freed, will create the good, the true, the beautiful. Do not let it flow wrongward; it will flow rightward of its own accord.

Love alone is the essence of human life.
Love—says Hari—is the All-capable.
Without love, life has no worth;
Without love, the mind cannot grasp the meaning of creation.

Buddha does not use the word love. He says: by knowing all as yourself, the meaning of existence will manifest in your life. But you may call this love; it may be easier for you. There is no need to insist on Buddha’s vocabulary. With me, you are free to use every language—just don’t smuggle your dishonesty into the middle.

No religion is higher than love.
No caste is higher than love.

But love means only this: what you have seen within yourself, you begin to see without as well; with whom you have made inner acquaintance, with the same you make outer acquaintance.

A hard condition stands in the way: you do not know yourself. You haven’t even met yourself yet. Therefore I say: the awakened ones teach “self-interest.” You think you know others, but you haven’t yet even recognized yourself. How will you know another, who does not know himself? If the meaning of the Self has not opened, how will the meaning of existence open? If you cannot descend into the I, how will you enter the thou? If you have not descended your own steps, touched your own depths, flown in your own heights—how will you fly in another’s?

And the wonder is: if you rise into the height of your own courtyard, your courtyard begins to disappear—the sky is everyone’s. Take off from anywhere; the start is in a yard, the end is in the sky.

As you rise in love, as you deepen in self-recognition, boundaries dissolve. “I” and “thou” are working words—necessary, useful, but not true. The truth is that within both there is something joined.

Since you entered my eyes,
Wherever I look, it is only You, You.

Once you recognize that nature, you will find it wherever you look. Behind every veil is the same One; behind every screen, the same One. He has taken on myriad colors, countless forms.

Buddha does not speak of Him, because by Buddha’s time the word “God” had created great mischief. Under compulsion he had to abandon that dear word. He arranged a journey to the Divine without using the word “God” at all—because the word itself had become the barrier; many were stuck on it and would not move. The word had become the obstacle.

“Whoever, desiring his own happiness, afflicts beings who also desire happiness, will not find happiness after death.”

If you give suffering to another out of desire for your own happiness, you are gathering suffering for yourself. Consider it the final rule of life’s arithmetic. There is no way to escape it—so don’t waste energy trying.

Whenever you give pain, you will receive pain. Let me put it simply: whatever you give, that you will receive. The world is an echo. Sing—and song will shower back upon you from all sides. The world is a mirror. You will see your own face again and again. If you desire happiness, then do not give suffering. If you desire happiness, cultivate the prayer to give happiness. If that feels too far, at least do not give pain.

Minimum religion: do not cause suffering.
Maximum religion: give happiness.

That is the alphabet primer—“do not cause suffering.” That is the end of language—“give happiness.” Begin where Buddha begins, and one day you will be complete where Jesus is complete. And whoever has this one rule clear needs no other lamp, no other light. He who understands this much has understood all. And he who masters it will not err in life.

Give to others only what you wish to receive yourself. Then you will not make mistakes, and you will never regret.

The wayfarer needs no lamp at night—
Every speck of dust is a sun on your path.
He who understands this sutra needs no lamp even in the darkest night, no other light on the journey to the Divine.
Every mote becomes a sun upon your way.

“Whoever, desiring happiness, does not afflict beings who desire happiness, finds happiness after death.”

Why “after death”? If you give happiness today, you will receive it today—life is cash. If you give suffering today, you’ll receive it today—life is very cash-down. Then why does Buddha say “after death”?

Because often you sow the seed today and it takes years before the fruit appears. He didn’t want you to cheat yourself when the fruit did not appear at once—“Look, no result! I gave pain, but no pain came back.”

Life often raises this question. You see a man who is wicked, violent, harsh—and enjoys comfort and success. And you see a man who is simple, straight, honest—and suffers. Confusion arises: Is life’s arithmetic true or false? Is it all just a soothing illusion? A ploy by the wicked to keep others from competing?

There have been thinkers who said religion is the invention of the dishonest—so that people remain simple and can be exploited.

In life you will see such questions again and again. It will seem hard to resolve. The dishonest prospers; the honest fails.

So that you don’t get tangled in this, Buddha says “after death.” I tell you: it happens every day. But he says “after death” to save you from needless argument. He says, “It will happen. It may be delayed—even till death. But you cannot deceive the law forever.”

Think of a drunkard who staggers—today he doesn’t fall, nor tomorrow, nor the day after—how long until he falls? When the quantity is complete, he will fall. The last straw makes the camel kneel. When the pot of sin fills, it breaks. Don’t be fooled.

Buddha is saying this so you won’t be fooled: “Look, this cheat is succeeding—what happened to Buddha’s rule? This honest man failed—what happened?” The mind seeks excuses to be dishonest, arguments to avoid honesty. It will say, “Open your eyes—don’t sit with eyes closed listening to Buddhas. Here, only the dishonest succeed. The honest fail. Those who give pain seem happy; those who try to give happiness seem to suffer. Look at life—not the scriptures.”

To prevent this tangle, out of compassion Buddha says, “after death.” But man’s cunning being what it is, whatever you say, he will find a way through it.

People found a way: “After death? Then no hurry. We’ll see. Who dies now, anyway? There must be some arrangement. There are bribes in every office; there must be some fix in God’s house too. We’ll manage. And the whole world is doing it; what happens to all will happen to me.”

A priest was preaching in church: on Judgment Day, everyone’s sins will be judged. A man stood up and asked, “Everyone? All who have lived, all who live now, and all who will live until Doomsday?” “Everyone,” said the priest. “Women too?” “Women too.” The man said, “Then no worry—how can judgment happen in one day? There will be such a commotion—men and women both shouting—nothing will be decided.” He relaxed.

Man finds ways. “After death!” Then he thinks: “Is there anyone after death? Has anyone returned to tell us? Who knows if anything remains? Half the world is atheistic anyway, believes the body is everything. And even if something remains, who knows the dishonest won’t find loopholes there too? If they found them here, why not there? And they will have lawyers! And if we are all in the same big boat—what happens to all will happen to me.”

So I say: Buddha said “after death” to prevent you from getting stuck in “but I don’t see it now!” But then man made that, too, into an excuse.

The mind has limits. That’s why man lives so easily. Death stands at every door, yet imagination is limited. If I say, “You will die tomorrow,” it’s a shock; “the day after,” less shock; “ten years,” you relax; “seventy years,” it’s as if the matter is finished—die or not, it’s the same.

Have you noticed? The mind’s arithmetic and imagery are limited. If someone says, “A man was shot,” an “ah!” escapes your lips. If someone says, “An atom bomb fell on Hiroshima and a hundred thousand died,” an “ah” a hundred thousand times greater does not escape. Why? You cannot imagine it; it’s beyond your grasp. If I say, “A hundred million died,” the matter is finished—how will you imagine the sorrow of a hundred million deaths?

One man’s death touches you more; millions’ deaths touch you less. That is why small sins are checked, big sins grow—because big sins are beyond our imagination; we lack sensitivity at that scale.

A war happens—no one is much troubled, though millions die. But a beggar dies hungry on the street and you feel pity. An earthquake kills hundreds of thousands—nothing touches you; famine kills millions—you are unmoved. The sorrow is so vast, your sensitivity fails. Thus great sins continue; small sinners are caught, great sinners are honored. A thief is jailed; a murderer is jailed—but Hitler, Napoleon, Alexander are worshiped. They killed millions, but that’s beyond your scale.

Hitler wrote in his autobiography: Don’t commit small crimes—people catch you; commit big ones.

I’d add: don’t tell small lies—you’ll be caught; tell big ones—so big they’re beyond people’s grasp. Then you won’t be caught. Small sinners are in prison; great sinners rest in history’s gilt-edged volumes, their names in golden letters. Be alert to this constant bent toward dishonesty.

“Do not speak harshly; if you speak harshly, harshness will be spoken back to you. Harsh words are painful; punishment will come to you in return.”

“Do not speak harshly; if you do, others will speak so to you.”

This is why I say the awakened ones teach “self-interest.” This is straightforward self-interest: do not speak harshly, or you invite harshness in return. Do not slander, or others will slander you. Do not abuse, or the abuse will return, weighted and poisonous. Buddha is only saying: have at least this much sense for your own good. Do only what you wish to have shower down on you. He is speaking from great experience—the distilled essence of a lifetime. It is your experience too, only you never extracted the principle.

How many times you’ve abused someone—did garlands of flowers rain down on you in response? How many times you spoke harshly—did butter melt upon you in return? It is the same for the Buddhas as for you; the difference is only that they pried out the principle from countless events, strung the beads into a mala. You live amid countless events, but you do not weave the thread. That is why these deep utterances are called sutras—sutra means thread, essence: a small thread upon which a thousand beads of experience can be strung.

Mir’s famous lines: In old age someone asked him how he achieved such wondrous poetry. Mir said,
“In how many ways has life been spent, O Mir,
that at the very end this rekhta could be said.”

What Buddha says is not borrowed from some ethics textbook; it’s the pressing out of his own life.

“I know your whole story—because I too,
Long ago, passed along this very road.”

He understands man because he too was a man. He walked the same dusty road, was pricked by the same thorns of anger, greed, delusion, pain and pleasure. He lived through the same experiences.

“Do not speak harshly; if you do, others will speak so to you. Harsh words are painful; you will receive pain in exchange.”

It’s not only about words; it’s about understanding. It is not enough not to speak. If you speak harshly within, you will still suffer. When a state of anger arises in you, the waves around you are affected. You need not form words. Around an angry man, anger spreads; go near him and suddenly you find anger arising in you.

You have felt this many times, but you didn’t notice. Sit near a quiet man—you feel a cool breeze, something soothed inside. Sit near a silent one—your inner thoughts slacken, slow, the race eases.

This is the meaning of satsang: to be near one who has arrived. Just being near him is precious. Nothing to do—just to breathe the air around him, to take into yourself the breath that has touched his heart—changes your waves, changes your state of mind.

So it is not some cleverness Buddha is teaching: “Don’t speak harshly—harbor anything you like inside.” No—if you think it, you have spoken it. Once a thought is formed and experienced within you, it reaches the other by pathways unknown. We are all connected; our strings vibrate together. We are not separate.

So do not only refrain from harsh words—do not even mint harsh words inside. In fact, drop the view of life that hardens you. Leave the life-style that makes you harsh. Be humble, be meek. Make your heart tender. Let only tender tones arise within you. On that basis, the whole world around you will begin to be transformed. You can be in heaven here and now—only let your note be gentle.

He whose heart burns to die for truth,
Let him first awaken life in his earthen form.

If you yearn for righteous conduct—flowers in your life of action, fragrance—then first awaken the soul in your clay body.

As yet we are merely bodies of earth. Until you recognize your own soul, what does it matter whether there is a soul or not? Suppose treasure is buried under your house and you don’t know it—you are poor nonetheless. The treasure must be dug up.

Gurdjieff used to say: until you have known the soul, it is useless to believe it exists. The doctrine of soul has misled many—reading in the Gita or Upanishads that there is a soul, they assume it and leave it there. Search! Only through search is the soul found. Bring it forth. Awaken it.

“If you make yourself like a broken bronze gong—silent—then you have attained nirvana, for there is no one left in you to resist.”

A lovely sutra.

A bronze gong rings only as long as it is whole. When you buy a bronze pot in the market, you strike it to test it: if it rings, it is intact; if it doesn’t, it’s cracked.

Buddha says: if your ego breaks like a bronze pot, then no sound will arise in you.

First, do not let hard words arise—let soft ones arise. Then even soft words will seem hard. First, avoid thorns—grow flowers. Then, even flowers will prick. For there is another world—the void—where no tone at all remains. Beyond harsh words, beyond soft words—wordlessness. Become such that no words arise within you at all. Sitting, standing, walking—inside remains peace, silence. No cloud in the sky. Your vina sleeps utterly. This Buddha called the state of nirvana.

But we boil over at trifles. The tiniest things set us to a rolling boil. We are fragile earthen pots—slightest heat and we seethe.

Harivansh Rai Bachchan has a song:
Do not become so overheated.
The moment I sense an injustice to me,
My face turns fire-red,
Thunderous my voice, fierce my threats.
The world shakes its head and says:
Enough of this on earth—
Do not become so overheated.

So much of these petty things has already happened—how many have not hurled abuse? If someone abuses you, what is new?

Do not become so overheated.
People have always abused; no special arrangement has been made for you! People have always slandered; no special provision for you!

And remember, even if you were not here they would abuse—someone else. You are only a pretext.

Do not become so overheated.
The moment I sense an injustice to me,
My face turns fire-red,
Thunderous my voice, fierce my threats.
The world shakes its head and says:
Enough of this on earth—
Do not become so overheated.

This is how it has always been. People fight, quarrel, exchange insults. People are mad—and what else will they do? Some scientists harbor a suspicion—growing by the day. A great Russian scientist, Berylovsky, imagined that this earth is the madhouse of the universe; wherever souls go wrong, they are sent here.

There seems a bit of truth in it—far-fetched, yet plausible. Villages have madhouses; we send the mad there. Astronomers say there are at least fifty thousand earth-like worlds where life may be. In such a vast spread of life, there will be at least one planet that is the madhouse or the prison. If anywhere, this earth fits the bill. People are mad. Don’t be disturbed. You are in a madhouse. Just wake up. Do not do madness because others are mad. At least you, leave madness.

Buddha says: if others abuse you and you feel pain, then at least you refrain from abuse. If others torment you and you feel pain, then at least you stop tormenting others.

Slowly, give birth to an ineffable, unperturbed silence. Only the silent man is outside insanity. Only the peaceful has gone beyond madness. The unpeaceful is within its bounds.

This alone is the truth, only this, friend!
We are all busy with our own identities;
We call our “own” only that
Which becomes an instrument in this acting and deception.

We know neither ourselves nor the other. In our commotion, our play, our madness, whoever sides with us we call “our own,” and whoever opposes we call “enemy.” But we don’t know what we are trying to gain, nor do we know who we are.

And you cannot know until you become like a broken bronze pot—no ripples of thought arise. There lies self-realization.

Buddha says: the one who has become wordless has attained nirvana; for him there is no resistance left. And where there is inner silence, not to mention harsh words—there is not even inner opposition. Even if someone abuses, there is no counter-blow within.

Here Buddha touches a great height. Jesus says: if someone strikes you on one cheek, offer the other. Ask Buddha, and he will say: that is still a response. You have done something. True, you did not return abuse for abuse, nor a blow for a blow—you rose above Moses’ rule. Moses said: if someone hits you with a brick, hit him with a stone; if he puts out one of your eyes, put out both of his. You rose above Moses. He struck your one cheek; you offered the other. Yet, you still did something—response continued.

Buddha says: in the final state of nirvana, no response remains. He slapped you—as if he did not. As if nothing happened. The wind came and went. No reaction at all.

Offering the other cheek is also a reaction—a saintly one. Someone else’s reaction is un-saintly: he grabs a club. You offer the other cheek—it is still a reaction. And how long will you keep offering cheeks?

I have heard: a Christian fakir was struck. He offered the other cheek, being a follower of Jesus. But that man was stubborn; he slapped the other cheek too. This the fakir had not foreseen, for it is tacit in the teaching that when you offer the other cheek, the other will fall at your feet and say, “You are a saint; I have erred.” But the man was obstinate; he slapped again. Now the fakir was in a fix—what next? No cheek left to offer. For a moment he was bewildered, then he sprang and pounced on the man. The man said, “Hey, hey! Just now you offered the other cheek—now what are you doing?” The fakir said, “Jesus said nothing beyond the second cheek. From here on, I am free to do as I like.”
Jesus, too, was asked by his disciples. Jesus said: If someone insults you, forgive. A disciple asked, How many times? The human mind counts—how many times? After all, there must be a limit. While Jesus was still thinking, another disciple said, At least seven times. Jesus said, No—seventy-seven times.
But even seventy-seven will be used up. How long will it take for the seventy-eighth to arrive?

That is why Buddha’s word is absolute. He says: no retaliation at all. Otherwise you are back in the race of numbers again. What will you do after seventy-seven? Even if you make it seven hundred seventy, then what? A limit will come. Then you will be back where you started; the “saint” will be exhausted. The difference between the unvirtuous and the virtuous, as ordinarily understood, is only of quantity, not of quality. Buddha says the difference between a saint and a non-saint is qualitative; it does not run out. It is sheer zero—pure emptiness. There is no countering in it.

And in the one whose mind holds no countering, who has no mind at all—nirvana means precisely this: one who has dropped the mind—no answers arise within, no reactions happen. He simply sees with empty, void eyes; he stays awake each moment; his lamp burns in the stainless sky. That one attains nirvana.

Live even a single day—but live as a crown.
Live as unwavering trust.
Do not become tomorrow to life—become today.
O human! Do not become a bird—become the sky.
O human! Do not become a bird—become the sky.

For an age you have been placing your very eyes upon the arati tray,
yet has this stone ever melted even for an instant?
Today the gaze of the world falls upon your helplessness;
the fair idol on the monastery wall laughs at your sentiment.
Do not be a worshiper—live as God yourself.
Live even a single day—but live as a crown.

Nirvana is the crown. Beyond it, nothing. Nirvana is the final possibility and imagination of being human—the last sky; beyond it there is no further sky. Nirvana means you are and you are not. You are wholly—and absolutely not. You are, but your being has no boundary. You are awareness without thought; sky without clouds—bare, empty from edge to edge.

Buddha called this the supreme state. He spoke not of God, but of godliness—a state.

Live as God!
Live as the sky!
Live as today!

That is all for today.