Es Dhammo Sanantano #50

First sutra—
Atha pāpāni kammāni karaṃ bālo na bujjhati.
'While committing sinful acts the dull-witted does not perceive them; but later, because of his own deeds, the ill-minded burns with remorse like one scorched by fire.'

This is important. Worth understanding word by word. It looks simple, it is not. The words of the Buddhas always look simple. They come from an inner simplicity, so there is no complexity in their utterance. But when you set out to live them, you will find obstacles. To understand the Buddha-words is simple; to live them is hard. When you try to live them you will discover that those seemingly simple sayings pass, at every step, through a thousand difficulties. The difficulties come from you. The tangle is yours. The stones on the path are your own making. And what else can you do—you are you.

If you too were awake you would fly in the sky of Buddha-words the way birds fly in the sky. For birds, how simple it is to fly! They do not even need to learn; they bring it as their nature. But if man wants to fly in the sky, complexity arises—arises because of man.

All these sayings are very simple. Sometimes you may even feel—as someone asked earlier—that when I read the sutra it seems very simple; when I explain it, it becomes harder. That happens. The sutra may seem simple, but when I explain it I bring your difficulties up to the surface. You may not attune with the sutra at all; you will meet it only when you die. You have to dissolve. This rock that you are has to melt, flow; only then will you have the realization of es dhammo—this law.

So when I speak, I am not attentive only to the Buddha-word; that would be incomplete—I am attentive to you as well. More than the Buddha-word, I am attentive to you.

I have heard a Sufi story. A young man came to a fakir and said, I want to seek the Divine. I have been living in darkness, now light my lamp. The fakir said, Look, the inner lamp will take a little time; evening has fallen, the sun has set. There is a lamp placed on the wall-shelf; bring it down and light that first.

The youth went. He tried in many ways; the lamp would not catch. He said, This is a strange lamp! It seems there is water mixed in the oil; the wick has drunk water; there is only smoke. Sometimes a small spark flickers, but the flame does not take. The Sufi said, Then separate the water from the oil. Strain the oil. The wick has soaked water; wring it out. Dry the wick; then light it. The youth said, Then the whole night will pass in this rigmarole.

The Sufi said, Leave it! Come here instead. Your inner lamp is in just such a tangle. Lighting a lamp is very simple, but the oil has water in it. The wick is soaked. Now merely striking matches and ruining the matches will not help. The whole situation must be changed. The lamp can be lit. But as you are, you are the hindrance.

When I speak on the Buddha’s words, my attention is on the word and on your lamp as well. Because ultimately, merely talking about lighting will not light anything. That is the difference.

Many commentaries have been written on the Dhammapada. What I am saying is altogether different. Those commentaries have only polished the Buddha’s words. They are already clear; there is nothing to polish. The tangle is in man. And to me you are more important, for ultimately, only the cleansing of your lamp will become the basis for the flame to be kindled. Lighting the lamp has always been easy. What obstacle is there! But the obstacle is within you.

Therefore, when I set out to explain the Buddha’s words I bring you along in-between. Because when you walk on those words, then the Dhammapada will not come to your aid—you will come in-between. You will have to remove yourself from the way every day. Neither the Gita helps, nor the Koran. Yes, from them you may take inspiration, a morning hint. From them take the remembrance to light the lamp. Then the lamp has to be lit by you—in your own lamp, in your oil mixed with water, with your own damp wick.

'While committing sinful acts the foolish one does not perceive them.'

While committing them! After committing the act, everyone becomes wise. You too have become wise thousands of times—after the act! The one who awakens in the very moment of doing—that one is liberated. The one who awakens afterwards is filled only with repentance, not with freedom. First sin, on top of that repentance—thin with two monsoons. You were dying as it was—sin was killing you, then repentance kills as well. First anger struck you; then somehow you got free of anger and repentance caught hold: That was bad, that was sin. First lust shattered your chest; before you could even get free, repentance arrived: Again you did the same.

If you look at your life you will find it divided between sin and repentance. You get tired of carrying the load on one shoulder, you put it on the other. Sin is one shoulder, repentance the other.

In my view, if you want to be free of sin, you will also have to be free of repentance. This will seem very difficult to you. Because ordinarily the religious teachers tell you to be filled with repentance. If you want to be freed of sin, then repent. But what does the word repentance mean? After-ness—when the sin is gone, then. Repentance means: when the sin is gone, then you heat up, then you are filled with remorse. That is the whole sutra.

Buddha says, 'While committing sinful acts the foolish one does not perceive them, but later, because of his own deeds, he burns with regret like one scorched by fire.'

Remorse means repentance. Later! When fire burns the hand, if only you could see it right then, the hand would withdraw! It is your hand; you put it there; you can pull it back. Do not blame the fire, for the fire neither called you nor forced you; you did it entirely of your own will.

I have heard, a drunkard used to reel past an old lady’s house daily, a lady vehemently against alcohol. She would see him wobble, fall in the gutters. At last she could not bear it. One day, when he was wallowing in filth in the ditch, she went to him, sprinkled water on his eyes and said, Son! Who is forcing you to drink? He said, Forcing! I drink of my own free will. Voluntarily. No one forces me.

Perhaps in unconsciousness the truth slipped out. Had he been in his senses he would have said, My wife forces me. At home there is only sorrow. What to do, I take refuge in drink. Or, my business forces me—all day worry, worry, worry. No relief. For a little while I rest in drink and get free of business. Or, the world forces me—misery—the thousand alibis. In the state of drink the truth slipped out: voluntarily.

All sins are voluntary. If, at the very moment of sinning, you awaken, then no one is stopping you—draw the hand back. You put it in, you pull it out; it is your hand.

This is what the Buddha-word says: here the mistake happens, foolish one! This is the definition of foolishness—that it becomes wise only afterwards. The foolish always become wise later. This is the only difference between the wise and the foolish: the wise is wise in the present; the foolish is always wise after it has passed. Concerning what passed yesterday, the foolish becomes wise today. The wise had become wise yesterday. The gap is small, perhaps an inch. Between buddhu and Buddha there is just an inch. What you will do a little later, the Buddha does instantly.

Buddha’s word for the foolish is—Atha pāpāni kammāni karaṃ bālo na bujjhati—bālo, childish man! Child-mind! Bālo!

Buddha does not even say foolish; the word is a little harsh, there is a bit of a wound in it. Buddha fills even that with sweetness. He says, bālo—forgivable, a child. Wherever he might have wanted to say foolish, he says child. Compassion. He says, The mistake is happening because you have a child-mind. And such is your childishness that if I call you foolish you may be angered; perhaps you had put your hand halfway in and will put it all the way. Your foolishness is such that if someone calls you foolish, you will become even more blind in your foolishness.

Buddha says, child-mind, innocent, not alert, not awake.

Understand one quality of the child. A small child does not see the difference between day and night, dream and waking. Many times a little child gets up in the morning and cries. He had seen a dream in which there were beautiful toys with him—and they were all snatched away. He cries, Where are my toys? The mother explains, It was only a dream. But the mother does not understand why one would cry for a dream! But the child has not yet drawn a line between dream and truth. Dream and truth are still mixed. Both are still muddled into each other. The division has not happened.

The child-mind cannot divide dream from truth. He needs awakening, awareness. Only then will you know what is true, what is false.

The wise person is one who is awake while acting. Whatever he does, he does with complete wakefulness. Therefore the wise never repents; he cannot repent. For what he did, he did in awareness. If he wanted to do it, he did it—there is no reason for repentance. If he did not want to, he did not—no reason for repentance. Repentance is part of foolishness.

People come to me. They say, We get angry, then we feel very sorry. What to do now? I tell them, First drop the repentance. If anger does not leave you, at least drop repentance. They say, What will happen by dropping repentance? Even while repenting we still get angry; if we drop repentance then we will be utterly given to anger. I say, Experiment a little. If you drop repentance, the energy saved from repentance will become your awakening. What happens now is this: in the moment you sleep; while acting you sleep; you awaken only afterwards—your awakening does not meet your life. A small slip. When you act you are asleep; when you wake the act is gone. You call that repentance.

Drop repentance. Anger happened—no problem. Do not now say, I will never do it again. You have said that many times. Stop this lie. This lie has destroyed your self-respect. You yourself know you are lying. How many times have you said it! Now whom are you telling, whom are you deceiving, that you will not do it again? You said it yesterday too, the day before as well.

A young woman came to me two days ago and said, I have fallen in love with a young man. But I have doubts. He said to me he was waiting only for me—through lifetimes he has been waiting for me—and now I have met him. But from his behavior I doubt; what should I do? I told her, You are at least the tenth woman who has brought me this news about that young man. He has said it to ten—perhaps more, only ten have come to me.

That youth too perhaps does not know what he is saying! We neither know what we are saying, nor what we are doing. We keep doing, we keep saying—an unseeing rush.

How many times have you said, I will not be angry. Have a little shame at least—do not repeat it now; those words have become false. They have lost all authenticity. At least gather that much awareness; do not renounce anger, at least drop this false repentance. But with repentance you decorate your image. You say, I am a good man; anger happened, never mind—see how much I repent! You go to saints and swear vows—Now I will never be angry. You take the vow of brahmacharya. How many times have you vowed—think a little!

An elderly, very significant and precious person told me—he was my host at his home—I have in my life... He is a follower of Acharya Tulsi, a Terapanthi Jain. And Acharya Tulsi’s business is precisely this: take small vows—anuvrata—swear and renounce... So I asked him, What have you renounced? You are his special follower. He said, What is there to hide from you! I have taken the vow of brahmacharya four times.

Four times! For brahmacharya one vow should be enough; why take it again? Then I asked, Why not a fifth time? He said, I am tired; four times I took it and each time I broke it. So I have at least understood this much—that it will not happen of itself; therefore I have not taken it the fifth time.

The total result of four vows of brahmacharya was that the man is filled with self-condemnation. He has no trust left that he can fulfil a vow. He did not become virtuous; he has accepted the power of sin. This is a calamity.

Therefore I am against vows. I say, Do not take vows in forgetfulness. If understanding has arisen, then without vows, use understanding. If understanding has not arisen, what will a vow do? Today in a surge you take a vow; tomorrow when the old current grips you, the vow will break. Then either you will hide it from others—that the vow has not broken, it continues... At least that old man was honest. He said, I have taken it four times; the fifth time I did not, because I understood it is not possible for me.

Just think—when it feels impossible to you, how fallen you have become. You have fallen in your own eyes. You have lost your inner pride. Therefore the so-called religious gurus destroy your soul, they do not build it. Your vows and rules kill you, they do not awaken you. If you force things you will become hypocrites; inside the juices will continue, outside the vow. If you do not force, the vow will break; you will be filled with guilt.

I tell you, do not repent. If anger happens, keep only this much in mind: It happened this time; next time when it comes, we will do it with awareness. I do not say to you, Do not do it next time. I say, Do it with awareness.

This is exactly what Buddha is saying. He says, When you act, act with awareness. First, shake yourself awake. When the moment of anger arrives, see—an important moment is arriving, a moment of swoon is coming—shake yourself awake! The hour of a house on fire is coming; the time to drink poison is coming—shake yourself awake! Be consciously angry. If you must take a vow, take this vow—that you will be conscious in anger. And you will be surprised: if you keep awareness, anger will not happen. If anger happens, you will not be able to keep awareness.

Therefore the real key is awareness. And then you will understand another secret: that lust, greed, delusion, anger, pride, jealousy—there are a thousand diseases. If you keep dropping them one by one, taking vows, even in infinite births you will not finish. Each disease will take infinite births and still not be dropped. The diseases are many, you are alone. If you set out to find a separate key for each lock, this palace will never be available; there are many doors and many locks. You need a key that is one and opens all locks.

Awareness is that key. Apply it to lust—it unlocks lust; to anger—it unlocks anger; to greed—greed opens; to delusion—delusion opens. No concern with the locks—the matter is the master-key. Before it, no lock can stand. In truth, the key does not even need to enter the lock: bring the key near and the lock opens!

This is a miraculous sutra. There is no greater sutra. With it you are saved; with your other tricks, nothing will help. Your boat has a thousand holes. You plug one hole; by then water is entering from others. You wrestle with anger; lust arises by then.

Have you noticed? If not, notice. If you suppress anger, lust will increase. If you indulge in lust, anger will lessen. That is why your so-called sadhus and sannyasins become angry. Your rishis, your Durvasa—no one has psychoanalyzed them; someone like Freud should chase them. Durvasa! So wrathful! From where such great anger? For a trifle he would ruin your lifetimes! From a rishi there should be showers of blessings. Curses! Surely lust has been suppressed. He must have been a holder of brahmacharya—imposed it. Then energy gathered on one side—where to go? That very energy becomes anger; its steam comes out; its heat radiates.

Look closely. If you see a lustful man, you will not find him angry. If you see a so-called continent man, you will find him angry. Let one man in the house become continent—uproar arises; his anger begins to burn. The religious man is angry—that is astonishing! It should not be so; yet it is. Why? Old people become angry—why?

As age increases, going toward sexuality begins to feel shameful. There are children in the house, their children; to descend into lust feels ugly, indecent. The grandchildren are now young and romancing; if these old ones play the game, it will not look good—will look crude! So the old become angry. You have noticed—it becomes hard to live with the old.

If you suppress anger, or lust—greed will catch you. Therefore you will observe: the greedy are not lustful. The greedy can remain unmarried all life—let wealth increase! To the miser, marriage itself seems expensive. The miser is always against marriage. To bring a woman home is an expense; a nuisance. And if somehow he marries, he will avoid his wife.

I lived long in a friend’s house. I never saw him sit near his wife, never saw him speak to her. I observed he kept slipping away from her. I asked, What is the matter? You are always on the run. He said, If I sit a little near the wife, no sooner do I sit than she says she has seen a necklace in the market, or a sari. If I place my hand in hers, it goes straight into my pocket—and never comes back! If I even smile at the children, their hands go into my pocket! If I look at the servant, he says, Increase my wages.

This is a miser. He has built fortifications on all sides. He does not even smile, because every smile has to be paid for. He does not talk to the wife, because in the end the talk will arrive at jewelry. How long can you circle around! Women have no interest in Vietnam, Korea, Israel. Start any talk; they will bring you somehow to ornaments, saris, clothes. So it is expensive to begin the talk.

The miser avoids sex. The miser also avoids anger, because anger is expensive—quarrels, cases, courts—who wants trouble? The miser displays great politeness. Quarrels are expensive. So he avoids that too. But notice—his whole energy flows into greed. His lust and anger all become greed.

Press down one side, it will gush from the other. This spring must flow. Awareness absorbs this entire energy.

Understand it thus: in unconsciousness, the streams flow downward; in awareness, they begin to flow upward. Lust carries you downward, anger downward, greed downward. Whether you climb down by the steps of lust or greed or anger—what difference does it make! The stairs differ; the descent is the same.

Awareness carries you upward. As you fill with awareness, your energy moves upward—you become urdhvaretas. In that upward movement, all your energy begins to travel toward the Divine, toward Truth, toward Nirvana.

Only after that journey do you find: neither anger holds you, nor greed, nor delusion, nor lust. Not that you have renounced them—now you are moving on a journey so great, who will stoop to such smallness! Now diamonds shower in your life—who will gather pebbles! Now such flowers, such lotuses bloom—who will collect grass and weeds!

'While committing sinful acts the foolish one does not perceive them.'

Even the word perceiving—bujhna—is to be pondered.

Bālo na bujjhati.

To perceive does not mean to think. Because thinking is always about what has gone by. Thought is always behind. Perceiving means: inspection. Perceiving means: seeing. What you call thinking is like this—you did not see when the flower bloomed; when it withered and fell, then you came to see. When spring was, you did not open your eyes; when fall came you opened your eyes with great cleverness and began to think what spring is. Perceiving means witnessing what is; seeing what is, with a witness-mind.

Therefore I say, do not think about my words, perceive. Perceiving happens spontaneously, here-now. Thinking happens afterwards.

All of you think. You do, then you think—I should have done this, not that. If only it had happened so! What are you doing? The play has ended and now you rehearse? There are people who always rehearse after the play. You must have caught yourself many times—if not, catch it—something was said, someone abused you, you said something back; later you think, I should not have said that—why did it not occur to me to say this instead! Now a thousand replies occur. But now the time has passed. The arrow has been released. Released arrows do not return. It is no longer in your hands; what is done is done.

Some rehearse after the play, and some rehearse for years before the play. They rehearse so much that when the day of the play comes, they are nearly mortgaged. As if you have fixed everything. You went to give an interview; you wanted a job. Naturally, you imagine a thousand ways—what will they ask, how will I answer. You strengthen your answers—repeat them again and again, as students cram before exams.

I taught for years, and was astonished to see that the students answer questions that were never asked. Where do these answers come from? I called such students and asked, What are you doing! This question was not asked at all. When I explained it was not the question, they understood. They said, Oh! We thought it was something else. We just wrote the answer we had prepared.

Often you write what you have prepared. The answer you bring ready-made, you think that is what was asked. You are so full of your answer there is no room to hear the question. Something is asked, but only if you are present when you are asked can you hear. You come back having heard something else.

Often people come to me and say, You said this yesterday. I too am startled. I never said it. They heard—that is certain; otherwise why would they bring it? But the question is: is it necessary that what they heard I said? Not necessary. From my experience I have seen: you hear what you want to hear. You hear what you are ready to hear. That for which you are not ready slips past you; you choose. Then you add your color. Later you come to me and say, You had said... I did not. To hear what I said you must be utterly silent within; otherwise your thoughts will get mixed in. What you hear is a khichdi of what I said and what you thought. From such khichdi no revolution in life can happen; you will be more entangled.

The way to listen is: put aside all you know. Listen as if you know nothing. Then there will be no deception.

So there are some who keep rehearsing before life; when the day of the play arrives, they miss. The rehearsal becomes so strong they lose the state of instantaneous discrimination.

There are only two kinds of people—some are fore-thinkers, some are repenters. Between them lies the moment of the present; to be there is the real art, there is religion.

'While committing sinful acts the foolish one does not perceive them.'

We are living where even we
get no news of ourselves.

And when you are not even aware of your acts, how will you be aware of the doer? The doer is very deep. The act is on the surface, clear. The doer is hidden in much darkness. If you are not awake to the act, how will you awaken to the doer? And if not to the doer, how to the witness? The witness then is very far from you.

We are living where even we
get no news of ourselves.

From that sakshi you have drifted far away—thousands upon thousands of miles. Return toward home! Set out on the inner journey!

The sutras of the journey are: awaken to the act—first sutra. When awareness is established toward the act, then awaken to the doer. Turn the lamp of awareness a little inward. When the lamp gives clear light upon the doer, then awaken to the one who is awake—the sakshi. Now awaken to awakening. Awaken to pure consciousness. That alone will carry you to Paramatma.

Understand thus: the ordinary person is asleep. The seeker awakens to the world, awakens to action. He is still outward, but now awake outward. The ordinary man is asleep outward. The one on the path of Dharma is outward, but awake outward.

Then he turns the same process of awakening toward himself. Once the art of awakening arises toward action, the man turns it toward the doer. If there is a torch in your hand, how long does it take to turn it toward your own face? The torch must be in your hand, the light there. Then your face begins to be seen.

The ordinary person is asleep in the world; the seeker is awake in the world; the siddha has turned within, become inward—awake to himself. Now he is not outer, he is inner—and awake. And the maha-siddha, whom Buddha called Mahaparinirvana, is awake even to awakening. Now he is neither outside nor inside; the gap of in-out is gone. The process of awakening is beyond both; it transcends. He is awake to pure Chaitanya.

From the outer come in; from the inner, go beyond both outer and inner. But we awaken a little late—

We take for truth those that daily new
bloom in the garden, thorn and flower.
But autumn laughs aloud and says to us—
Look there whose dust is flying on the pyre?

We awaken later: Oh! it was a dream. In the morning we awaken: Oh! what we saw at night was a dream. But when the dream is running at night, we take it for truth.

If you begin to awaken toward your acts—walk awake while walking, speak awake while speaking, listen awake while listening, eat awake while eating, lie down awake while lying—soon you will find dreams begin to drop. Because suddenly, many times even in sleep, you will awaken: Oh! this is a dream! And the moment you know it is a dream, the dream goes. The power of dream rests on your stupor. The right of the dream is on your stupor. The dream’s claim is upon your unconsciousness. The dream has no claim upon your awareness.

And this is why the Buddhas have called this world maya. Because for one who awakens, it is not. Do not take it to mean that a Buddha walks through walls—if there are no walls what difficulty is there in passing through? Or that a Buddha eats stones, for when all is a dream, food or stone is the same. That is not the meaning.

Maya means: the world you have seen through your sleeping eyes, the world you have woven around yourself—false, imagined. There is a woman there; you saw a wife—wife is the world. Woman is not the world; the woman is real. Husband, wife; mine, thine; friend, enemy—these are the world. Out there, people are like blank screens; you run your film upon them. There is a woman; you say, She is my wife. There is a man; you say, He is my husband. This my-husband is your projection. This is your film. Though the other is willing to let this film run upon him, for he too is running his film upon you. It is mutual courtesy. We become screens for each other. Let’s play peekaboo! Naturally, if you will help us make our dream true, we will help you. The day one says, I will not cooperate, the game ends. If even one says, I will not cooperate, the game is over.

This game is like cards. There are rules; both players must observe them. If even one says, I do not accept the king of spades as king—the game ends! The king of spades is nothing—just a picture on paper. The recognition of two people makes it a king. Husband-wife are all kings of spades. One says, I do not accept—divorce! It is a game of recognition.

Have you seen chess pieces? Elephants and horses move. People stake their lives, draw swords, put their life on the line and die—and there is nothing there; wooden elephants and horses. Man’s lust for fighting is such! Real elephants and horses are gone. Fighting real elephants and horses became expensive and foolish; so he invented imaginary ones.

You will be astonished—rubber images of women and men are sold in America. Real elephants and horses are expensive. Now to keep a real woman is trouble. Being real, it will be trouble. One goes and buys a rubber woman; now whatever you want—say anything to her—she keeps smiling. Do what you wish—reject her, put her on your head, make her queen, or throw her out on the street—she smiles in every case. She is rubber. Man attaches dreams even to that.

You must have seen people, perhaps found such a person within you, who collects pictures. Lines of color on paper—men collect pictures of beautiful women.

Maya means: the web of your pictures. There, nothing is real. And if something is, you have used it as a screen.

'While committing sinful acts the foolish one does not perceive them; but later, because of his own deeds, the dull-witted burns with remorse like one scorched by fire.'

All of you have done this. Therefore the sutra is not hard to understand. Now drop remorse. Enough is enough. Drop remorse and begin to awaken. It will be difficult—the opposite of old habits. It is the habit of lifetimes, but the habit breaks. If you persist, then as the current of a river breaks even the hardest rock, so habits too break. Habit is like stone. Awareness is a stream—very gentle—but in the end it wins.

Raise storms, let lightnings fall,
once the lamp is lit, darkness must recede.
Even a little flicker, never mind; the sun is not far.
Raise storms, let lightnings fall,
once the lamp is lit, darkness must recede.
Do not hinder the rising flame, do not stop the chariot of light—
this herald of dawn will devour every night.
Once the lamp is lit, darkness must recede.
Time has erased those who did not understand time;
if they were spared the sword, they were cut by the flower.
However big, however hard,
from the river’s path every rock must move.
Raise storms, let lightnings fall,
once the lamp is lit, darkness must recede.

But lit it must be! Reciting this song in darkness will not help. Many have begun to recite songs. Someone reads the Dhammapada. Someone repeats the Gita. Someone sings the Koran. Light the lamp! These are scriptures for lighting the lamp—do not just recite them; use them! Learn from them and transform your life. Do not carry them as a burden.

And all the blows that life gives are auspicious. Without them, how will you awaken? Anger, lust, greed—one day you will thank them too. If you cannot, you are not truly religious.

Therefore, recognize only that one as a saint, that one as a siddha, who has begun to thank even his inner tangles. If your saint still breathes fire against anger, still lunges with the sword at lust, still insists on sending sinners to hell and tempts the virtuous with heaven—he has known nothing. He is just like you. He has crafted new deceptions. Your illusions are worldly; his illusions are of temple and mosque—but there is no difference.

Only by being wounded does a human being get made.
The heart would be worthless had pain not arisen.

All wounds are ultimately creative; all wounds are formative. Through all of them you will be made, refined, blossomed. Rise beyond them, not as enemies—use them as friends.

'For the one whose doubts have not ceased, purity cannot come by nakedness, by matted hair, by smearing with filth, by fasting, by sleeping on hard ground, by dusting oneself with earth, or by squatting.'

'Whose doubts have not ceased...'

Buddha has a great love for the via negativa. What difficulty would there have been to say: Whoever has awakened to shraddha. But he will not say that. That word does not suit him. The circumstances too were not favorable. A precious word like shraddha he uses sparingly. But what he says is the same. Keep this in mind.

'Whose doubts have not ceased...'

He must walk the reverse way—grasp the ear from the other side. Shraddha is a straight word, but he says, whose doubts have not ceased. He says, doubts must cease. The zero-state of doubtlessness—where there is no doubt—is shraddha. But Buddha does not speak of it positively. He proceeds by the no. He defines and explains with negations. Neti-neti is his scripture.

I was sitting at Mulla Nasruddin’s house. A young man came carrying a huge manuscript. Mulla grew very restless. The youth said, I have written a novel, and you are an elder—you write poems and stories—if you choose a title for it I will be blessed. Perhaps two thousand pages! Mulla looked intently at the manuscript and said, Fine. Is there any mention of drums in it? He said, No. The youth was startled—what need to ask about drums! Mulla asked, Any mention of kettledrums? He said, No, not at all. Then Mulla said, That’s it—the title is chosen: No drums, no kettledrums. Take your tome and go.

I said, Mulla, are you a Muslim or a Buddhist? You seem pure Buddhist. You have found a fine trick to choose a title—no drums, no kettledrums! No one can call it wrong because neither is mentioned.

Buddha does not talk of shraddha. He says, Where there is no doubt; whose doubts have ceased. He walks by the no. But those who live by reason and thought will find this appealing; they will understand it. Those whose lives are in feeling and faith will feel it strange. It is like bringing in darkness to define light. It can be done. We can say: Light is the absence of darkness. Where there is no darkness at all. Buddha says that—where there is no darkness at all. But he does not take the word light.

His hesitation and fear too are clear. In the name of light much nuisance has happened. In the name of shraddha, blind faith has spread. In the name of shraddha, far from faith, only webs of superstition have gathered. Therefore Buddha was compelled to say: For one whose doubts have not ceased, purity is impossible.

Where doubt is, impurity will remain. Doubt pricks like a thorn. Life cannot be at rest. Then whatever you do... So Buddha enumerates all that so-called ascetics have done. By nakedness nothing will happen. By matted locks nothing will happen. By smearing dust and ash nothing will happen. By fasting nothing will happen. By sleeping on hard ground nothing will happen. By squatting nothing will happen. Because Mahavira attained Samadhi while squatting, many foolish ones are still squatting: Mahavira attained by squatting—so will we. It still goes on.

The basic revolution happens within; the outer has nothing to do with it. Yes, it is possible someone is squatting and the inner event happens. It is also possible someone is in headstand and the inner event happens. Possible while sitting, walking—the inner event happens. These outer things are coincidental; they have no value.

Buddha sat beneath a banyan tree, the event happened. Since then Buddhists sit beneath banyans—perhaps... What has a tree to do with it? People have made pilgrim places where someone had the event. They go sit there—perhaps... Look to the essential. Look within.

Buddha’s indication is: doubts must cease; within, the tumult of doubt must end.

If even a little doubt remains within, whatever you do will be half-hearted. If you remain naked it will be an incomplete nakedness. Doubt will be there within—Who knows! If you fast, it will be an incomplete fast; within someone will say, Why starve? Does starving help? Smear dust—you can, but the hands will remain incomplete. Do worship, do prayer—but all will be half. Wholeness is needed. When the heart is wholly absorbed in a deed, there prayer blossoms.

So Buddha says: until you act with totality, free of doubt, nothing will happen.

Stretch the nets of imagination—yet dreams remain.
Raise ladders of logic—yet questions remain.

However many steps of logic you place, nothing will be solved. Questions will be pushed a little backward—then they will stand again. An answer is needed; what will ladders of logic do? Conjecture does not help.

God is not a conjecture. Reason is at most conjecture. God is experience. Sitting in darkness, you are guessing, thinking, churning—but what will thinking do? Your thought cannot yield water—the thirst will not quench. Build palaces of thought, think of lakes and ponds—there will be no rain. Hungry—remain hungry. Think to your heart’s content about feasts; arrange plates in imagination...

Stretch the nets of imagination—yet dreams remain.
Raise ladders of logic—yet questions remain.

Nothing is solved. Experience resolves. And experience can happen only when you put doubts aside. Doubt prevents experience. That is why so many are praying in temples, mosques, gurudwaras—who knows where the prayers are lost. From that prayer no radiance of life is born. From that prayer it does not appear that life has become fresh, luminous. The man returning from the temple looks tired; he does not seem to be dancing with energy. He has done the prayer and returned. Bowed?

Useless is the morning-evening bowing,
when the heart could not bow with the posture of worship.

Keep bowing your head; it will be drill. Whatever little benefit is there in exercise will be there.

Useless is the morning-evening bowing,
when the heart could not bow with the posture of worship.

If the head bows, let the heart bow too. If the heart bows, the head will bow. Bow wholly, not partially. Then wherever you bow is the temple. And whomever you bow before is God. You bow before a stone—it is God. And even before God you bow, it is stone—because you create God. He is built from your feeling. He is your height, your flight. If you crawl on the ground, whatever is before you is stone. When you fly, whatever is before you is God.

Buddha does not speak of shraddha—but the meaning is the same. Then go on doing upside-down things. How many efforts man has not made!

I have heard an old Chinese tale. Three young men went to a fakir, a siddha. All three were seekers of truth; they placed their heads at his feet and said, We are searching for truth. We have wandered far and wide; now we come to your refuge. Our prayer is that this be our destination, that we need not go elsewhere.

The fakir looked at them closely. From his pouch he took out three golden bowls, gave one to each and said, These matters will be dealt with later. First, clean these bowls—bring them back shining. The first examined the bowl; it seemed clean to him, for he was used to drinking from dirty bowls. In truth he had never seen such a clean bowl. The bowl was not clean, but all his experience was of filth; compared to that it seemed clean. Its gold dazzled him. He set it down and sat there.

The second looked carefully at his bowl, got up, went to the riverbank, scrubbed it hard with sand; still unsatisfied, he began to rub it with stones. He scrubbed it to death. It was no longer fit to hold water. He had cleaned it thoroughly—holes appeared. It was a delicate golden bowl; he treated it as if it were iron. He was stubborn. Since the guru had said it, he made it a matter of pride: I will return it clean. He cleaned it so well the bowl did not survive. When he returned it, it was unrecognizable.

The third took out a kerchief, moistened it, and gently wiped the bowl clean; brought it back and sat down.

The fakir looked at the three bowls. On the first, flies were buzzing. But he could not even see the flies, for he lived among flies; they were buzzing on his own face and he did not brush them away. The guru said, Look closely—you have not cleaned it. I had asked... He said, It is clean—what is there to clean! It is a beautiful bowl—what more to do! The guru said, Look—the flies are buzzing. He said, They buzz on flowers too; are flowers therefore dirty? They buzz because of the bowl’s sweetness.

He told the second, Fill it with water. The first was unfit to hold water—dirty. The second filled it, but it leaked. He had cleaned it too much. He had destroyed the bowl.

They say the guru dismissed the first two and accepted the third. The third asked, I do not understand. What happened? What kind of dealing is this? The guru said, The first is a sensualist; he is habituated to filth. His body buzzes with flies. He takes that to be sweetness and beauty. There is no possibility that the soul will awaken in his life yet. The second is a renouncer, a hatha-yogi—a breaker. Naked are they, fasting, squatting, standing on their heads, hungry, thirsty; burning the body in the sun; lying on thorns, smearing ash, in the blazing noon keeping a fire burning; in freezing nights sitting naked and shivering—destroying the bowl. The body is extremely delicate—more delicate than gold. Gold is not so delicate; it is metal. The body is very delicate—a golden temple. Two misuses can be made of it: one by the sensualist, the other by the renouncer.

He chose the third—he was worthy, for he had attained equanimity; he stood in the middle. He did not go to one extreme or the other. He looked and understood with awareness. The bowl was dirty, he cleaned it. Not so much that it is destroyed—for what use is such cleaning! What use is medicine that kills the patient!

Buddha’s entire message is of the Majjhima Nikāya, the Middle Path. Buddha says: neither indulgence nor renunciation—stand in the middle.

If you are unconscious you will be indulgent. If in unconsciousness you become very angry—in reaction—you do not drop unconsciousness; you run from the world. Then your unconsciousness will create a new calamity. The calamity changes. Now you become the body’s enemy. Earlier you were infatuated with it; now its foe. Earlier you thought the body gives heaven; now you think by torturing the body heaven will come. The language is reversed—but you are not awake. Stand somewhere in the middle.

Awakening brings you to the middle; it is not an extreme.

The renouncer is one who is eager for destruction, is angry. He did not attain through indulgence, so he is angry. He does not see his error; he thinks indulgence was the error. He did not understand that he was too attached to the body; now he becomes its enemy. He behaves like a small child. A child bumps into a door, he hits the door. Child-mind—bālo! He thinks the door is at fault. This is a dangerous friendship—with unconsciousness.

I read a story. A Sufi fakir had a bear. Passing through a forest he found a bear cub, very cute. He raised it. It grew up and served him. One afternoon, the fakir was very tired after a journey; no one was home; he arrived without notice; no disciple was present—only the bear. He told the bear, Sit by the door; let no one enter. I must rest. Do not let me be disturbed. I am very tired and need four to six hours of sleep. The bear sat to guard the door. The fakir slept.

A fly kept landing on his nose. The bear lifted his paw and shooed it away many times. But the bear was still a bear. He got angry! The fly, being stubborn—as flies are—the more he scared it off, the more it returned to sit on the nose. In a rage he struck such a blow that he separated the nose. When the fakir’s nose was cut, he told his disciples: Friendship with a bear is not right.

Friendship with unconsciousness is friendship with a bear. First it entangles you in indulgence; then, when you tire of indulgence, it breaks your nose. First it makes you wander behind the body; then it makes you wander in enmity with the body—but the wandering continues.

It is not the world to leave; it is unconsciousness to leave.

This is a new kind of escape if we
break the lamp and then talk of the moon’s light.

This too is a flight. What we call renunciation is escapism. As foolish as saying: I will break the lamp and then discuss radiance. Even in the lamp is the moon’s light. However different it be, it is the same light. However different the life in the body, it is your life; it is the feeling of Paramatma indwelling.

This is a new kind of escape if we
break the lamp and then talk of the moon’s light.

The renouncer does just that. He talks of God—but breaks God’s gift.

'Even while adorned, if one lives the Dharma—peaceful, restrained, regulated in brahmacharya, and who has laid down the rod for all beings—he is the Brahmin, he the shramaṇa, he the bhikkhu.'

'Even while adorned...'

Seated on a royal throne one can gain the Divine.

'Even while adorned...'

Alankato cepi samaṃ careyya,
santo danto niyato brahmacārī;
sabbesu bhūtesu nidhāya daṇḍaṃ,
so brāhmaṇo so samaṇo sa bhikkhu.

This Buddha-word will startle even Buddhist bhikkhus. They read the Dhammapada daily, but perhaps not this. Even while adorned! Living right in the world! No need to smear dust, no need to squat, no need to fast. The real need is something else—to become peaceful, to bring about shaman, the quelling of inner storms; to dissolve the fever of lust, to discipline the energy wildly whirling within; that is what he calls brahmacharya.

Brahmacharya does not mean fighting lust. Brahmacharya means understanding lust. Shanti does not mean fighting unrest. Shanti means understanding unrest. Understanding makes it quiet.

'He is the Brahmin, he the shramaṇa, he the bhikkhu.'

Brahmin is India’s ancient culture-word. Shramaṇa is the word used for Jains—India’s second precious cultural stream. And bhikkhu is Buddha’s word for his sannyasins.

'In the world, seldom is there a man who, out of his own sense of shame, does not engage in the unskillful and the discursive. Just as a noble horse cannot endure the lash, so he cannot endure blame. Like a superior horse shown the whip—be diligent, energetic! Endowed with shraddha, vīrya, samādhi, dharma-viniścaya, vidyā, āchāra and smṛti, you will cross this great sorrow.'

In the world, Buddha says, only a rare man is such who is lājjaavān—who, seeing his own stupefied state, feels ashamed. Who perceives and, seeing his state, is startled, astonished: What am I doing! What is happening through me!

The one who begins to awaken to himself will begin to feel shame. Understand the difference. Ordinarily you feel guilt, not shame. Shame is very different from guilt.

Guilt means you are afraid of being caught. Guilt means you wanted to do it, but God, the state, law, society, religion are against it. Guilt means, if you had total freedom and no one to punish or condemn, you would do it and enjoy it. But it is difficult—there is punishment. And if you escape here, there is the fear of the other world. Guilt means you want to do it, but others do not let you. And there is the fear of being caught.

Understand this. When I was in school there was a very significant teacher—a Muslim—one of the most important among those close to me. He was always superintendent during exams—the eldest teacher. In my first exam with him as superintendent, I was astonished. He came in and said, Sons, if you must cheat, do; just do not get caught. We are against being caught. If you must copy someone, do it skillfully. If you are caught, no one worse than me; if you are not caught, good fortune! If you have no confidence and fear you will be caught, hand over whatever you brought hidden.

Many boys took out their slips and gave them—the man seemed dangerous. He was speaking straight, clear. We do not care if you do wrong; it is wrong only if caught. If you can get away, do so happily. But we will also do our best to catch you.

Guilt means exactly this: you are afraid of being caught. That is why society has made laws, police, courts, magistrates. And even that does not work, because you can deceive them too. After all, they are men and you are men. However skillful the judges, the thief can find equal skill. However skilled the police, the thief may be more skilled.

The truth is, what will you pay a policeman! You cannot get very skilled men. What will you pay a magistrate! If a man is truly capable, he will not like to be a magistrate—there are higher peaks for him. He can gain more in life. What a magistrate gains in a lifetime, he can gain in one throw.

So the truly clever stay out. How will you be saved from them? They will keep finding loopholes in the law. So society imagined God—that if you escape here, you cannot escape there. If you evade the policeman’s eye, you cannot evade God’s eye. Remember—He is always seeing. Wherever you are in darkness stealing—He is present. It is being written there.

So society created a conscience within you, so that even if you escape, you do not completely escape—inside, someone keeps saying: What if I get caught; what if this happens—if not today, tomorrow! And when death nears you will panic: now the time has come, now I must stand face to face. All that I did—what about its account! I will have to answer. So the man who escapes society still cannot escape his own eyes.

Guilt means: you wanted to do it; you did not even consider it bad, but society has forced you to call it bad.

Lajja—shame—is quite another thing. Shame means: even if the whole society says lying is acceptable, stealing is acceptable, sin is acceptable—you still feel the error. Not because someone will punish; not because you must answer to God; not because it is a crime; only because it is not worthy of your own being, not suitable to your own presence—against your own dignity. It lowers you in no one else’s eyes—it lowers you in your own eyes.

Therefore shame is a great religious quality. Guilt at most will keep you from being illegal—will make you moral, not religious. Shame will make you religious.

Buddha says, but rare is such a man in whom shame arises on doing the unworthy. Yet it should be so for all.

'Just as a superior horse cannot endure the lash.'

It is an insult to him. Do not lash the noble horse; there is no need. Buddha says, for the horse’s soul, even the shadow of the whip is enough. Do not lift the whip—the shadow suffices. A noble horse needs only a hint. If there is a little shame in you, a little sense of the majesty of man, a little self-respect, if you feel this life is a great opportunity, a great wealth, a prasad—let me not waste it in pettiness—then Buddha says, be like a noble horse, ashamed with the shadow of the whip.

I have heard—in Akbar’s life it is mentioned—four ministers committed a crime. They were caught. He called them one by one. To the first he said only, I had never imagined that you would do this! That was all. Go now. The man went home and killed himself. This was not said before anyone; it was in complete privacy. Only this much—that I had never imagined that you—you!—could do such a thing! The matter ended.

The second he threw in prison—for life. He went home and told his family, Do not panic. By evening I will be arrested, but until then let me make arrangements. There is a way out of everywhere; where there is a way in, there is a way out. Do not worry. Life imprisonment! But even in prison he kept trying to find a way out.

To the third he gave a death sentence. He bribed his way out and fled. The fourth he had blackened and made to ride a donkey through the whole capital. But he sat on the donkey as if it were a procession!

Someone asked Akbar, The same crime committed by all four together—why such different treatment? He said, They were different men. About the first, even saying so much—I repent. I should not have said even that. Even the shadow of the whip fell too heavy upon him. He went home and killed himself—over. I repent; I erred. I did not assess rightly how precious this man was. I should not have raised it at all. Had I only summoned him, looked at him in silence, and sent him home—that would have sufficed. I called him, wanted to speak, and did not—enough. He was punished beyond measure. I regret it.

The second I sent for life—but I am hearing he is trying to bribe and escape; shameless. Even greater punishment would be little. The third I sentenced to death; he escaped. As if he has no self-respect. The fourth I paraded on a donkey—but I hear he returned home as if from a festival. He is delighted that the whole capital knows. He sat with pride; a huge crowd followed.

There are some who say, If infamous, still some fame!

Buddha says, be ashamed. Be like that first man, like the noble horse—the shadow of the whip suffices. Be thus—energetic, sensitive, like a superior horse shown the whip.

'Endowed with shraddha, shil, vīrya, samādhi, dharma-viniścaya, vidyā, āchāra and smṛti you will cross this great sorrow.'

Each word is precious. By shraddha Buddha means: a state of mind free of doubt. Do not take it as you have taken shraddha. When Buddha says shraddha he does not mean faith in someone. Not faith in God, nor faith even in Buddha. He means only this: a state free of doubt. If you understand it rightly it means: faith in oneself—atma-shraddha.

Shil! From this state of atma-shraddha, the conduct that arises—that is shil. From the sense of shame arises shil.

Vīrya! And if you shape your life by this shil—shraddha, atma-shraddha; shil rising from it—if you shape your life by this conduct, you will always find yourself full of energy. You will find infinite energy pours upon you—never less.

The man of misconduct is always defeated, tired. All cravings tire, agitate, lay waste. You never become full; you remain empty, as if your vessel has many holes. You draw water with great noise from the well, but the vessel returns empty. Water fills, but does not arrive full.

In whose life the useless, the unskillful, the unworthy has ended; who does only what is worthy and does it with awareness; who is awake in his action—vīrya arises in his life—energy. He becomes mighty. He has so much he can share. From his vessel, power flows, showers upon others. And only in such energy is Samadhi possible. Tired, defeated, broken—Samadhi is not possible.

Flowers come to a tree only when it has more energy than it needs. In your life too, medha—intelligence—blooms only when you have more energy than needed. Medha is like a flower; and Samadhi is the supreme flower, the final blossom.

If the Buddhas are against lust, anger, greed and delusion it is because through them your power dwindles; the supreme flower cannot bloom. You remain poor. Your soul becomes a begging bowl, not a lotus.

Samadhi. Dharma-viniścaya! And the one who attains Samadhi has the direct seeing of Dharma. Only he can determine what Dharma is. Es dhammo sanantano is the realization of that one.

Vidyā! Wisdom is not received from scriptures. He who has known that eternal law alone is vidyāvān, the knower.

And āchāra! There is a difference between shil and āchāra. Shil is what we call character as long as you are consciously cultivating it. Āchāra is when even the need to be conscious is no longer there—it has become natural. Therefore the one who has attained āchāra is called ācārya by the shastras. Ācārya means, one in whose life effort is no more. If he gives love, it is not out of effort; he cannot give anything else—only love flows. If he shares his attention, it is not out of effort; he is brimming with attention—it overflows.

Shil lasts as long as there is a little effort; āchāra is when even effort is gone. Just as now, without any effort, you become angry; just so, he becomes compassionate. As you, without any effort, are filled with lust; so, flowers of love blossom in him. As, without any effort, you take delight in hurting others; so he delights in giving joy.

'Endowed with āchāra and smṛti.'

Smṛti means what I told you as the third thing at the start. Awareness of the act—first stage. Awareness of the doer—second stage. Then awareness of the witness. That is smṛti—self-remembering. What Nanak, Kabir, Dadu call surati is Buddha’s word smṛti, which gradually became the people’s word—surati. It is the final hour. When the lamp within burns continuously, unbroken—whether you stand or sit, sleep or wake, whatever you do—no effort—the inner lamp keeps burning; its light spreads around you. The name of that light is smṛti.

'Endowed with these, you will cross this great sorrow.'

If it was destined that I be in this garden of existence,
then in the fist of buds I would have been the nightingale’s heart;
I would give a call to the lost traveler toward the goal—
in the dark desert night, I would have been the yogi’s lamp.

The only thing worthy is one—the yogi’s lamp!

A call to the lost traveler toward the goal—
in the dark desert night, to be the yogi’s lamp.

You can be. There is no other obstacle than you. Therefore there is no hindrance to becoming. If you want to be, you can be. What has been possible to one is possible to all. The lamp that has burned in one human being can burn in all. Yes—if you keep blowing it out...!

I tell you, the lamp tries hard to light; you keep blowing it out. You do not let it burn. Then you live full of sorrow and smoke, and you weep and complain.

Stop weeping and complaining. Drop complaints. Here there is no one to complain against. There is no one to blame. None other than you is responsible. Take responsibility. Awake! Take the thread of your life in your own hands! Little by little the light will increase. Today a few drops; tomorrow, the ocean. Drop your doubts about yourself. Remove the useless web of doubt. For full of doubt, you will do nothing; you will become nothing.

Many only live; few become. They live and they die; within them no glimpse of the supreme life appears. It could have. But no one can force it upon you. Only you can bring it—only you can.

So, do not waste time—in complaining about anyone, in blaming anyone, in shifting responsibility. Gather all your power on one thread: begin to awaken! Whatever you do, keep one thing in mind—do it awake. You will lose a thousand times—never mind; the thousand-and-first time you will win. Even rocks break. And this rock is only of your habits. Let the stream of light flow upon it.

Enough for today.