Es Dhammo Sanantano #52

Before the sutra—

There are two ways to attain the truth of life. Only two can be. Either you grasp the truth of life by drowning in life, or you grasp it by drowning in death. Two doors only: life and death. Either by being, or by non-being. Either through light, or through darkness. Either with eyes open, or with eyes closed. Either plunge so deeply into life that you are no more, or plunge so deeply into death that you are no more. The essential point is that you are not. By what pretext you dissolve is secondary.

Where you are not, there truth is. If, in the festival of life, in the dance of life, you are lost, truth is found. Meera found it by dancing, by celebration. Chaitanya found it by singing. The flute poised on Krishna’s lips is the doorway of life.

Buddha took the plunge into death. Mahavira too found there. That is why a flute does not suit at Buddha’s door. You cannot connect dance with his knowing. What song, what dance, at Buddha’s feet! To Buddha, song and dance would appear unholy. The talk of song and dance does not accord with Buddha’s vision of life—because he attained by diving into death.

In Greek mythology the division is very clear. Two gods are spoken of: Apollo and Dionysus. Apollo is the god of austerity; Dionysus, of dance, song, celebration. Epicurus is a follower of Dionysus. He named his ashram the Garden. Beneath trees, beside flowers, absorbed in birdsong, by the edge of lakes, festivals of dance would unfold on moonlit nights. There Epicurus had a glimpse. No austerity. Celebration! Not tormenting, not breaking, not erasing—just as if death does not exist. The meaning of Epicurus is: as though death does not exist, never did. Death is untrue. Live as though death is untrue—and even then truth is found.

Buddha found from precisely the opposite side. Live as though life does not exist, as though death alone is true. Suffering alone is true. Buddha spoke of the Four Noble Truths; all four are tied to suffering. Suffering is—this is the first Noble Truth. There is a method to be free of suffering—this is the second Noble Truth. There is a possibility of release from suffering—this is the third Noble Truth. The state beyond suffering—this is the fourth Noble Truth. That is all. But all four are bound to suffering. The first great enlightenment that happened to Buddha—the first ray that descended—was a ray of darkness.

He was going along the road, to take part in a festival—understand it like this—going to the very place where Epicurus would go. It was a youth festival. Young men and women from all over the land had gathered. The prince was to inaugurate the festival. Buddha rode in his chariot, bound for where Epicurus ought to go. The chariot was decked with flowers. But on the way a sick man appeared. The tone broke. Startled, Buddha asked the charioteer, What has happened to this man? They say that until then Buddha had never seen a sick man.

It so happened that when Buddha was born, astrologers had said, If in youth he comes to know suffering, he will become a sannyasin. As if the astrologers already had a glimpse that through suffering itself this person is to be freed; it is to become the doorway. So they told the father, If you want to save him, if you want him not to renounce, do not let him have the vision of suffering. Let no sickness come near him. Let no ugly person approach him. Even from Buddha’s garden, flowers should be removed before the moment of wilting; do not let them wilt. No dry leaf should remain in the garden; let it be removed at night. Let Buddha know only fresh flowers. Let him know only youth; let no news of old age reach him. If even the thorn of withering were to prick him slightly, this consciousness could not be contained in palaces.

So Buddha’s father made great arrangements. They say that till then Buddha had not seen a sick man. He had not seen a wilted flower. He had not seen dry leaves. As for death—far from it—he had not even heard its footfall. Old age—meaning the footfall of death, the approaching steps—had not reached his ears. From nowhere had any news arrived. Buddha lived as Epicurus lives. But he was not Epicurus. That was not his current of life. That was not the mode of his being. It did not fit. It did not link to him anywhere.

Had Epicurus been given such facilities in Buddha’s place, there, in dance and dancing, drowned in music, absorbed in beauty, he would have attained truth. The most beautiful women had been assembled. As many beautiful women as there were in the kingdom, as many beautiful maidens—were gathered together.

Arnold, in his celebrated poem The Light of Asia, has given a most enchanting description of them. But even among them Buddha discovered suffering. One night the maidens, after dancing, fell asleep—dropped with fatigue. Buddha himself had dozed. At midnight his eyes opened; he lifted his gaze. Bodies like marble, golden forms, lay unconscious. Someone’s mouth had fallen open—the beautiful face had become ugly. In someone’s eye the crust had gathered—the gold had become soiled. Someone’s saliva was flowing. Someone muttered in sleep. Ornament and adornment, the careful arrangements, had come undone. The beauties lying all around suddenly appeared ugly to Buddha. From within beauty, the vision of ugliness flashed. Epicurus would find beauty even in the ugly. It is a matter of vision. And these are the only two visions.

That morning, as Buddha was riding to the festival in his chariot, he asked the charioteer, What has happened to this man? He walks leaning on a stick. Is he sick, is he old—what has happened? The story is very sweet. They say the charioteer wanted to lie, but the gods held his tongue. He wanted to say, Nothing has happened—an accident, an exception; sometimes such a thing occurs. But the story says, the gods held his tongue—and the gods spoke through his mouth: This happens to all; it will happen to you as well. The charioteer started—What am I saying? The father had strictly forbidden it. But the words had slipped out, inexorable. The gods had made use of the charioteer’s mouth.

And just behind there came a bier—people were on their way to the cremation ground. Buddha asked, What is this? Again the charioteer wanted to lie, but he could not. And what should not have been said, he said: It happens to all; it will happen to you. One has to die. Buddha said, Turn the chariot back. There is no longer any need to go to the festival. When there is death, then I am already dead. Now I shall seek that life which has no death.

Buddha turned back. That very night he left home. Twelve years later, when he returned home… Rabindranath wrote a poem. Rabindranath was Epicurean. This needs a little understanding. The division is very deep. And all men are divided into these two.

Rabindranath never took to Buddha—he could not. His language is the language of life—of anklets and bells, of the moon and stars. The language of the poet. A poet does not sing the songs of death; he sings the songs of life. His devotion is to life. Rabindranath never quite accepted this—though there was reverence for Buddha; there must be. How could it be otherwise? But there is no harmony.

So he wrote a poem in which, when after twelve years Buddha returned home, Yashodhara asked him: I ask you—what you found by leaving home, could it not have been found here? Buddha stood silent. Buddha—who had never remained silent before a question, who had always answered—stood bewildered before Yashodhara. Rabindranath left the poem there. The hint is enough.

Rabindranath is saying that even Buddha understood that what he found by going into the forest could have been found at home; what he found by descending into death could have been found in life as well. But he could not bring himself to say it. To say it would be to deny his entire life-order, his scripture. Buddha remained silent. He could not lie; to speak the truth was not possible. To remain silent was fitting.
The question Yashodhara has asked is Epicurean. Epicurus asks exactly this: Why do you leave life? Where are you running? You will find it right here.
But Buddha says: If it could be found here as you are, then so many people are living life—why don’t they find it? If it were found here, is there any shortage of pleasures and festivity? People have been celebrating for lifetimes—yet they don’t find it.
He is also right. Festivity does not give it. It requires such a celebration that you disappear—only then it is found.

If you ask Epicurus that Buddha says it is found through death, Epicurus will reply: People keep dying all the time—who has found it? If death leads to it, then everyone would have found it, because everyone dies. And if it is attained through dying, then everyone will get it anyway—why worry? If it is attained through suffering, is there any lack of suffering? There is suffering everywhere.
He too is right. It is not found through suffering, nor through death—only by dissolving deeply.

What I wish to say is: whether it is Apollonian or Dionysian, Epicurean or Buddhist; whether you seek it through life or through death—it is found through depth. Dive anywhere. If you dive into death, you will find it; then diving into life you will certainly find it. And if it is found by diving into life, why would it not be found by diving into death?

Take this to heart first, and Buddha’s sutras will become very clear. Then the usual misunderstanding about Buddha will not arise in you. Buddha is not a pessimist. He used suffering as a method. What he realized is that same sat-chit-ananda—truth, consciousness, bliss—but he used suffering as a means, as a path. Suffering is Buddha’s way—not his destination, not his end. He has no relish for suffering. One must go beyond suffering. Hence the fourth noble truth: there is a state beyond suffering.

Yet his language is of suffering. He does not even call that state the state of bliss; he says, it is beyond suffering. In the very word bliss he smells life; in the word bliss he hears the rumor of celebration. In bliss, dance and song appear; the instruments of life begin to resound. Buddha does not use the word bliss. He says: it is the state of cessation of suffering. For the same reason he does not use the word God. He leads you to that—but he does not use that word; to him it does not fit. That word belongs to the celebrants of life.

Have you ever thought about the meaning of the word Ishwar (God)? It comes from the same root as aishwarya—opulence, sovereignty. Mahaaishwarya—supreme opulence—is Ishwar.

That is why, if there is a temple of God and there is no color, no fragrance, no flowers, no incense and lamps, no dance, no anklets ringing, no voices of hymn and kirtan, no bell sounding with wonder—then it is not a temple.
That is why the mosque feels so austere—no instruments may be played. That is why the church is so grave. They are on the way to being temples but do not become them. A temple is only when there is celebration—when fountains of laughter burst, when people are ecstatic and intoxicated. A temple is when it is the tavern of the Divine. That is one path.

Buddha is not a pessimist. If he wished, he too would go and take you toward that bliss—but his language is very restrained. He will not use any word that might, even by mistake, support your illusions about life. Keep this in mind and his sutras will become clear.

The first sutra is: “Ko nu haso—What laughter? Kimanando—What delight? Niccam pajjalite sati—When everything is perpetually burning, what laughter, what delight? You are drowned in darkness and you do not seek a lamp!”

What you call life is darkness. What you call death is a lamp—for Buddha. And once this lands within you, the path becomes one hundred percent clear.

“When everything is perpetually burning...”

On the night Buddha left home, the poet Edwin Arnold described the incident in his song. Arnold’s “The Light of Asia” is the finest poem written on Buddha—even Buddhists have not written what Arnold wrote. Great Buddhist scholars composed great scriptures on Buddha, but Arnold’s Light of Asia is unique.

He is leaving home at night. His charioteer drives him to the boundary of the kingdom. Then he dismounts and asks the humble, poor charioteer for his clothes. He gives him his own garments, his diamond necklaces, his precious ornaments. He says, “This is my gift; give me your clothes.”

The charioteer begins to weep. “What are you doing? Where are you going?” He weeps; Buddha even cuts his hair and gives it to him. His hair was very beautiful. The charioteer pleads, “What are you doing? You have a beautiful palace, an empire, a wife, and a newborn child. Where are you going, leaving all this joy? People seek this very joy; all their lives they long for it, dream of it, and never attain it and weep. You have everything—where are you going? Listen to me, an old man. I have seen life; you are young, inexperienced. Come back.”

Buddha says, “Return—to where? To where there are only flames! You see a palace; I see only flames. You see an empire; I see pyres blazing. Your vision and mine are different. Let me go.”

The charioteer argues, “This is escape, this is running away.” Buddha replies, “When the house is on fire, a man runs. If the house is on fire and you saw someone escaping, would you call him a coward and say, ‘Stay inside’? No—there is no palace there.”

Yesterday I was reading a song—

There is none, there is none.
This earth is brimming with wine,
the cup brimming with the wine-maiden.
Such a thirst-quencher for my heart—
there is none, there is none.

The sky listens, understands
the birds of the forest,
someone who could understand
the heaving of my heart—
there is none, there is none.

Spring breezes blow,
the forest stands with new leaves,
someone who could bring back
my lost faith—
there is none, there is none.

Buddha is in such a state: all trust in life has slipped from his hands. He saw the death hidden in life; the skeleton hidden in the dance. He saw the palaces burning to ashes; a glittering surface above, and inside the preparation for death. Outwardly smiles, joy, flowers—within deep darkness. There is adornment and ornamentation, but no truth. No one can restore that trust in him now.

When trust in life collapses, it cannot be restored. Only one way remains: to peer into death. Once one turns from life, the only door left is to enter through death.

So Buddha says, “When everything is perpetually burning, what laughter?”

Have you ever seen a laughing image of Buddha? There is neither a statue nor a painting, nor any mention that anyone ever saw Buddha laugh—there is not even any note that anyone saw his teeth.

“When life is burning, what laughter? What delight? You are drowned in darkness and you do not seek a lamp!”

In Buddha’s eyes, what you call life is mere deception—deception of dreams. What is, you do not see; what you want to see, you go on seeing. You do not meet what is; you spin dreams in between. You look through your dreams; you populate your surroundings with dreams. There is a yearning for beauty in your life—but beauty is nowhere. Your own longing deceives you.

You want wealth—but wealth, as a reality of life, is nowhere. Because of desire you believe it must be there. You want fame, position. Where all things end at a grave, what fame can there be? Where even the famous man is lying face down in dust today or tomorrow, what fame is that?

They say that when Alexander was dying he told the physicians, “I must meet my mother. Hold me back a little—my mother is not far. Either bring her here, or let me reach home. I want to take leave after meeting the one who gave me birth.” The physicians said, “Impossible. Not even a moment can be delayed.” Alexander said, “I will give half my empire.” They said, “Even if you give all of it, death will not wait even for a moment.”

Alexander died with tears in his eyes, and he said, “When my bier is carried, let my hands hang outside.” His ministers asked, “We have never heard of such a custom.” He said, “Let them hang so that people will ask why, and you can tell them that Alexander too is dying empty-handed. Even his hands are not full. He ran much; he gained nothing. If even by giving the whole kingdom I cannot get a single extra breath, had I known this earlier, why would I have wasted my life in this race? If one breath cannot be bought with an entire kingdom, then I wasted all my breaths for that kingdom. I could have saved my breaths for something else.”

That is exactly what Buddha is saying: “When everything is perpetually burning, what laughter? What delight? You are drowned in darkness and you do not seek a lamp!”

Now, even if I wish, friend, I cannot stop!
For the destination itself keeps edging closer,
and the more I try to plant my feet,
the more the ground gives way.
Black poison is dissolved on my lips,
and naked death stands smiling in my eyes.
Only the name of Ram is true—everything else is false:
this is the only sound striking my ears.

In this country, when we carry a bier, we say: “The name of Ram alone is true.” After a whole life, when you die, only then do you realize that the name of Ram is true? All life long you took other things as true—money, power, fame—you never repeated, all life long, “Only the name of Ram is true.” Only after death you repeat it!

Buddha says, look carefully: what you call life is fleeting. It is gone—gone. You cannot clench a fist around it. It is like quicksilver—the more you try to hold, the more it scatters. What you call life will not stay. Why spend your time on what cannot stay? Buddha says, if you are laughing, it is clear that you have not yet recognized the truth of life. If you appear joyful, you are deceiving yourself—deluded, innocent, ignorant, foolish.

“You are drowned in darkness and you do not seek a lamp!”
Are you going to waste your time in the pleasures of color and sound? All this will pass. Then you will scream, you will weep.

Before darkness truly surrounds you completely, light the lamp. Before night falls—before the sun sets—protect the lamp.

“Just look at this painted body!”
Painted—Buddha says: painted. Nature has colored it well.

“Just look at this painted body! It is full of wounds and is cobbled together from limbs. It is filled with thoughts and fancies, and its state is most impermanent.”
“Just look at this painted body!”

Nature has moved her brush magnificently. Arrangements are such that you are easily deceived. Upon a hideous pile of bone, flesh, and marrow a beautiful skin has been draped. Inside there is only filth. Have you ever seen inside a human body? You should visit a morgue, a postmortem.

Buddha used to send his monks to the cremation ground. Go there. There you will remember meditation. Sit and watch the burning pyres. Keep watching until you can see that it is you who is burning on that pyre. Do not return before that. He would send them for months—sit there. People would come, weeping, place a corpse, light the fire; the body would blaze like hay, only ashes remain, bones remain, wild animals drag them away, dogs and wolves come—keep watching.

At first you will see: someone else died, then someone else. But how long will you deny that this is your death too? The same will happen to you. And what is bound to happen—what is unavoidably going to happen—has in truth already happened. Only a day or two separate you. You are standing in line. Today someone’s number came; tomorrow yours will. How long will death take to arrive?

Now, even if I wish, friend, I cannot stop!
For the destination itself keeps edging closer,
and the more I try to plant my feet,
the more the ground gives way.

Who does not try to escape? But who escapes? Who does not fight? People fight until the last breath—fight death. But has anyone ever won? And when death wins in every case, life must be a deception. This is Buddha’s logic.

There is a famous Sufi tale. King Solomon had just risen in the morning when one of his ministers rushed in, panic-stricken. The cool morning air blew gently, but the minister was drenched in sweat. Solomon asked, “What happened? Why this panic? What is the matter?” He said, “I have no time to lose. Give me your fastest horse. Last night I saw Death in my dream. Death said, ‘Be ready; tomorrow evening I am coming.’” Solomon asked, “What will you do with the fast horse?” He replied, “I must flee from here. It is not safe to remain. I want to go to Damascus—hundreds of miles away. Give me your fastest horse. Don’t waste time in talk—I have no time. If I am saved, I will return.”

Solomon gave him his fastest horse. Solomon was puzzled. He closed his eyes and remembered Death. Death appeared. He asked, “What manners are these? Why did you frighten that poor minister? If you must take him, take him—but what new arithmetic is this, telling him in advance? Everyone dies, but Death gives no notice—that is why people live happily and die easily. If Death began to give notice, life would become impossible. What kind of new method is this?”

Death said, “I myself was in trouble. He has to be in Damascus by evening—but here he was! There are hundreds of miles between. I myself was anxious: how will it happen? I must take him in Damascus this evening. That is why I startled him. Where is he?” Solomon said, “He has gone toward Damascus.”

They say that when the minister reached Damascus at dusk, he felt relieved. The sun was setting; he tied his horse in a garden and patted its back: “Bravo—you are truly Solomon’s horse; you brought me hundreds of miles!” Just then a hand fell on his shoulder. “Do not thank the horse,” said a voice behind him, “you should thank me.” He turned and saw Death standing there. He trembled. Death said, “Don’t panic—the horse is indeed swift. I myself was worried: the arrangement was that I must take you in Damascus at sunset. Had you not fled that village, how would you have reached Damascus? But the horse brought you to the right place at the right time. Here you must die.”

Go where you will—rich or poor, fakir or king—everyone ends up at the cremation ground. All roads lead there. People say all roads lead to Rome—who knows? But all roads surely lead to the cremation ground. Rome is also a kind of cremation ground—very old; nothing remains but ancient ruins—and there too all roads end.

Buddha says, “You are drowned in darkness and you do not seek a lamp!”
Whom are you waiting for? None but death will come. In what dreams are you lost!

Understand this. We have not seen life; we have decked out a grand wedding procession of dreams. We are waiting for a bride. We have great plans for a marriage. We are brimming with imagination: let it be like this, like this, like this. Because of this, we cannot see how it actually is. Your romance—your web of imagination—does not allow truth to reveal itself.

Empty your eyes—see alertly, set aside the dreams. See only what is. Then, in a newborn child you will see a dying man. In the most beautiful body, you will see the supremely ugly hidden within. Inside the youth you will sense old age stepping closer. Whoever looks deeply will see death within life.

This is Buddha: look deeper—do not be deceived by the skin. Go further in—have a vision of the inside.

“When everything is perpetually burning, what laughter?”
Ko nu haso kimanando niccam pajjalite sati.
Andhakarena onaddha padipam na gavesatha.

Now seek—make a search for the lamp! Darkness keeps growing; it grows day by day. On what assurance do you sit idle? No one but you can light the lamp. Then the dark night will close around you and you will struggle and regret that you did not use the day—because in the light of day you could have lit the lamp. Buddha says, only this much use can life be put to: while living, light the lamp—light the lamp of meditation. That is the only use of life.

You strove for position, wealth, fame, renown, love—but you did not make the one effort to light the lamp of meditation. That alone will be of use. Death cannot extinguish that lamp. Buddha says: meditation alone is the formula of immortality.

Yet talk to people of death and they become angry. People were very angry with Buddha, because he spoke of death. Someone going to a wedding—if you talk to him about death! Someone traveling to Delhi—if you talk to him about death! He will say, “Stop—don’t talk of such things now. You make my feet falter.”

Wherever Buddha spoke of death, people took offense. Death-talk is not considered etiquette. Anywhere you mention death, people hush you: “Quiet—what kind of talk is that!” We avoid death—even the word. We keep death at a distance. That is why cremation grounds and cemeteries are built outside the village—so we needn’t go there unless compelled. If a friend or loved one dies, we go—but do you even notice there?

Since childhood I was curious. If someone died, I went—known or unknown, related or unrelated. In my home they knew: if I was late returning, they guessed someone must have died—I had gone! But I was astonished to see that even there people sit with their backs to the pyre and talk of other things. Even there they deny death. There too it is worldly chatter—gossip of the village: whose wife eloped, who was caught gambling, who stole, where a murder happened—the same talk goes on. I thought at least at the cremation ground people would remember death. No. They make little clusters and talk of everything except death. The mere remembrance of death makes them tremble.

When Buddha began to talk of death and suffering, people were offended. They were alarmed: this man pulls the ground from under our feet. And he did. He pulled the ground out from under many. He made young people see old age. Those who were in the intoxication of life—he pulled the ground and pushed them into the pit of death.

But those who agreed to walk with him, who had the courage to confront suffering, who did not turn their faces away from pain—those people gained immensely. They lit lamps—not just lamps, but torches. They lit a light that never goes out. They attained real life.

This seems paradoxical: through the means of death they attained true life. How does it happen? It happens thus: as death becomes clear, your dreams begin to shatter. Keep death in view—keep remembering it, pondering it, humming it in your meditation—probe it, Buddha says—and you will find you cannot weave dreams. A surge arises—“Let me amass a hundred thousand”—and immediately the thought of death appears; you relax: what is the point?

“What laughter? What delight?”
You set out with a wedding procession to bring the bride home—and on the way the thought of death comes. The palanquin was to be lifted—but a bier was raised instead! If you keep death in remembrance, you will find your dreams breaking at many points. And dreams are such that, once they begin to break, you cannot patch them up again. They are so delicate.

If my dreams had been made of flowers
and had withered and fallen upon the earth,
I would have smiled at a poet’s innocence
and kept my heart at peace.
In every flower is a seed,
in every seed a forest’s bloom—
what if it withered today?
It will sprout again,
it will bloom again,
if my dreams had been made of flowers.

If my dreams had been made of gold,
had broken or become misshapen,
why would I lament?
Gold is so true to its own element,
that by the knocks of time
nothing of it is harmed.
I would myself have thrown it into fire,
melted it, and shaped it anew—
if my dreams had been made of gold.

If my dreams had been made of clay,
had broken back into earth,
my heart would have remained calm.
In the life-giving creativity of clay
I have much faith:
it never sits idle—not for a moment.
It will rise again, rise again, rise again—
if my dreams had been made of clay.

But what shall I do—
my dreams were made of glass.
My dreams were made of glass:
a celestial heat had molded them,
a magic had shaped and colored them;
in the rays of imagination they glittered,
they were not made to break at all—
but if they break,
then the razor-sharp, harsh reality
must be swallowed by the eye.
Nothing can be done with them,
nothing can be done with them,
nothing can be done with them.

Once dreams begin to break, you cannot mend them. Once you start to awaken, you cannot go back to sleep. Once even a little taste of truth comes, you cannot reinstall the false. When the sun rises, darkness dissolves. In the same way, when a ray of awareness about life begins to dawn within you, dreams scatter. They were not made to break—yet if they break, they cannot be joined again. They are of glass—more delicate than glass; even glass can be glued.

That is why we fear that the grim truth of death might shatter the glitter of our dreams. So we avoid looking at death; we postpone it. We have arranged it so that death does not happen in life—it happens after life. We do not die in life; death happens after life ends. We have pushed death outside life. We have separated life over here and death over there.

Know this rightly: death happens in life. It happens every day—it is happening now. It is not that one day, at seventy, you suddenly die; you die seventy years to be able to die. It is a long process. You die every day, every moment; only then can you die. Dying is not an event; it is a process. How could it be that one day you were alive and then suddenly died? How could that even be? If you were truly alive, how could you die? You had been dying—and therefore you died.

Ask Buddha and he will say: with birth, death begins. The day of birth is the day of death. No sooner is the child born than he begins to die. He takes a few breaths—that means he has died a few breaths. He lives a few days—that means he has died a few days. Death has advanced. It arrives hidden within birth. It comes cloaked in the form of birth: birth is the veil of death.

Naturally, people were offended. They could not forgive Buddha. They uprooted him from this soil: “This man disturbs us. If he spoke of life, sang songs of God, we would accept it; those songs would match our dreams and would even strengthen them; we would honor him greatly. But this man tries to shake us awake with a shove. He spoils our melody. We were absorbed in song—and he startles us, saying, ‘What song? What laughter? What delight?’”

As long as we were crazy, we babbled, and everyone loved us.
The moment we spoke sense, did we act foolishly?

If you too go on with empty chatter, people will be pleased. Talk of dreams—be a vendor of dreams—people will be happy.

As long as we were crazy, we babbled, and everyone loved us.
The moment we spoke sense, did we act foolishly?

But do not speak sense—people are enemies of sense. They want to hear not what is true, but what is pleasing. They care not for what is good (shreyas), but for what is pleasant (preyas). They wish only to hear what pleases them.

Decorate their dreams. Give them materials to embellish their dreams. Tell them, this is not a prison—it is your abode. Give them ways to hide death. Tell them, keep living; if beauty does not happen today, it will happen tomorrow; if hope does not fill today, it will fill tomorrow; if clouds of fame, wealth, and splendor do not rain today, they will rain tomorrow—if not in this world, then in the next; if not here, then in heaven. Give momentum to their dreams. Tell them: ride your dream-horses; keep going; someday you will surely arrive. Then they will be pleased with you.

That is why the world is pleased with poets. It worships saints, but it is not pleased with them—because a saint will pull you somewhere, will awaken you. You want to sleep; the saint will set off an alarm. He will break your sleep. And you had only just fallen asleep, immersed in sweet dreams.

I have heard: one morning Mulla Nasruddin’s wife woke him. He was startled; as soon as he opened his eyes, he quickly closed them and said, “All right, no harm—it’s fine, I will take ninety-nine.” His wife asked, “What is going on? With whom are you speaking?” Mulla opened his eyes angrily and said, “Stupid! I was in a sweet dream. An angel was standing there and saying, ‘Ask for anything you want.’ I was insisting on a hundred rupees; he was saying, ‘Ninety-nine I will give.’ And you woke me at the wrong time—spoiled everything. Now when I close my eyes, he is gone—no sign of him. Now I am ready to take ninety-nine—eighty-eight will also do—give me whatever you like. But there is no one here now.”

To be with saints means to have the courage to break your dreams. Even when you go to saints, you go so that the dreams you cannot fulfill might be fulfilled by their blessing.

People come to me—at the wrong place—and say, “Just give your blessings.” I ask, “For what?” They say, “You know everything—just bless.” I say, “I must know what you intend.” They say, “We are standing for election.” They are standing for election—and intend to entangle me too. I tell them, “If you want my blessings, you will lose. If you have that courage, I shall bless. A blessing to win an election? Am I your enemy? That would be like someone coming and saying, ‘I am going mad—please bless me.’”

But people ask blessings to go mad. Wherever such blessings are given, they are pleased. There they bow their heads with devotion.

Buddha startled and alarmed people. No one has ever pulled death to the middle of the marketplace and set it before life with such intensity. That is why he gave his monks saffron-yellow robes—the color of death. Just as ochre is the symbol of life, yellow is the symbol of death. Yellowing—when the leaf dies, it turns yellow; it dries up; death has come.

Buddha gave yellow robes—he draped his monks in death. Make death your shawl, make it your bedding—so that the deception of life may break. He called his renunciates bhikkhus—beggars. In this land, sannyasins were always called swamis—lords. Buddha said, “What lordship in this life? Here everyone is a beggar. Remember that this is the truth. All carry begging bowls—do not forget it; let it remain in your remembrance.” In every way Buddha negated life, because death is his door.

“Look at this painted body. It is full of sores; it is constructed by joining parts.”

Buddha said: whatever is assembled by joining parts will break. Seek the unjoined. Do not cling to what is joined. Whatever is constructed by joining will fall apart; for how long can the joints hold? A house is built by joining bricks; it will collapse. A chariot is assembled; it will break. Seek that which is not made by joining two things. The indivisible—only that never breaks. How can the indivisible break? Where there are no parts, how can there be dissolution?

So Buddha says: this body is full of sores—wounds. It is a miracle that it functions at all! It is full of disease.

Just think—how many diseases are possible in one body! Do not think that when someone falls ill, a disease comes to him—then you know nothing of medicine. All diseases are in everyone. In some they manifest; in others they do not. Given the occasion, they appear. Given favorable conditions, they sprout.

You hear that someone has cancer. You think, how fortunate I am—I didn’t get it. The cancerous potential is in you as well. The possibility is in you too. All diseases are in you. Given favorable conditions, one disease will activate; another will remain dormant.

Buddha said: the body is a house of diseases. The diseases wait, like seeds covered in soil, watching for the favorable season and time, and then they will sprout.

Certainly. Modern medicine too says: that man exists at all is a miracle. There are so many pathogens that the existence of man is beyond imagination—how can he even be? If one were asked theoretically, given so many diseases in a body, can a man live to seventy, no medical scholar would agree that he could. Man is a miracle—he lives, he drags along. Somehow he manages. He survives because the will-to-live is so strong.

Let me tell you one thing. Latest medical research says: when the will-to-live departs, diseases attack more fiercely. Those who retire from work and life die ten years early—the will-to-live ebbs away.

Once a deputy collector, or a collector, or a superintendent of police, or something of that foolishness—people used to salute. Then he retires—no one even looks. Those who saluted yesterday no longer recognize him—they now salute someone else who has become deputy collector. If they kept saluting the retired fellow, there are limits to hands and salutes. Hands now bend elsewhere—because power has shifted. How long to salute the “ex-” ones?

I travel the country; I know at least three hundred people who are ex-ministers—like ghosts. Who will salute them now? Who will care? Living ghosts sit in their places; salutes go to them.

A retired man is thrown out of life as you throw garbage on the dump in the morning. Suddenly he becomes useless. Children have grown up; they have their own worlds and have left. The work has gone and the prestige tied to it too. Even at home the children, if any, think, “The old man has lost his wits.” No one listens. Suddenly the urge to live slackens—“What is the point now?” As the will-to-live fades, diseases attack.

No medicine can save the man in whom the urge to live has died. That is why, with the same illness, same constitution, same conditions—one survives, the other not. The one whose urge to live is strong survives; the one whose urge is weak simply sinks.

It is the will-to-live that stretches your seventy years. It is a thin thread—but you hang by it. Somehow you pass.

Buddha’s entire scripture is this: the will-to-live is the foundation of your suffering. Let it go. Since death is certain, accept it. In the acceptance of your death, for the first time you will glimpse your own nature. You will experience who you are. As long as you are filled with ambition for life, you will not know the deepest nature of life.

“Look at this painted body!”
It will be hard—but it must be accepted.

And steeling my chest like a thunderbolt,
this sharp truth
I have accepted today:
all my dreams
are shattered.

Whoever knows this—steels his chest—for it is hard. But whoever sees his dreams fallen, the rainbow trampled underfoot into dust—he must have a strong chest. Only then can one see one’s dreams fallen.

We do this: before one dream punctures, we prepare another—we keep a spare ready. The moment one dream goes flat, we pull out the spare from the trunk and fit it—the vehicle runs again.

When dreams puncture—let them. Let the vehicle stop. Only when you are free of dreams will your connection with truth be made.

“This body is old and frail, a house of disease, extremely fragile. It is a heap of rot, destined for destruction. And surely, life ends in death.”

Only one thing is certain in life. It is astonishing: life is not certain—death is. Everything else is uncertain—may be, may not be. If it happens, it is a coincidence; if it does not, it is a coincidence. Position may come—or not; wealth may come—or not; fame may come—or not. Death will surely come. Everything else is uncertain. Therefore do not stake yourself on the uncertain. And if you gain the uncertain, what will you do with it? That certainty—death—will arrive and scatter whatever arrangements you managed to accumulate.

“This body is old and frail, a house of disease, extremely fragile.”
Fragile like a bubble of water. Until it breaks, it hasn’t broken. Have you seen a water bubble? Until it breaks, it is unbroken. Let the sun’s ray fall upon it and it flashes with a brilliance; colors dance; it becomes beautiful. For a moment it deceives like a diamond. But no one can preserve this diamond. Touch it, and it bursts. Do not touch—it will still burst. There is no way to save it.

“…A house of disease, most old and fragile. This heap of rot must perish. And surely, life ends in death.”

I read a Sufi story. A young man came to his master and said, “I have had enough—I want to renounce life. But I have a wife, children, a home.” The master said, “Can they not manage without you?” He replied, “There is no such problem; they have all they need. But I feel that if I die, my wife will not survive; my children will die. They love me so much.”

The fakir said, “Then do one thing—practice this breathing technique for a few days; then we will see.” He taught a technique by which, if you regulate your breath and lie down, you appear dead.

Then the fakir sent him home: “Go in the morning, lie down, and die; afterward we will see. I am coming behind.” The man went, lay down, controlled his breath and looked dead. Beating of chests began, wailing; children cried; the wife cried, “I will die!”

At that moment the fakir arrived. He rang his bell at the door, came in, and said, “Ah, this young man has died? He can still be saved—if someone agrees to die in his place.”

Silence fell. Neither son nor daughter, neither mother nor father agreed to die. The wife who a moment ago was crying, “I will die,” also fell silent. She did not cry, “I will die.”

The fakir asked, “If any of you agree to go in his place, he will be saved. He is not gone yet; he can be brought back. He has not gone far; we can call him. But someone must go.” The wife said, “He is already dead. Why do you kill us too? What has happened, has happened.”

The master said to the young man, “Now drop your breath-control and get up.” He released the control and rose. “What do you think now?” asked the master. He said, “When they say I am as good as dead, and none of them agreed to die in my place—then I am dead. I am coming with you.”

It was naturally hard to stop him; the wife had no reason left to persuade him.

Buddha made people see: what you call your attachments to life, the many houses of clinging you have built—just look at them carefully: they are bubbles of water, ephemeral. No one here is anyone’s companion. You cannot rely on your own body—whom else will you rely on?

In the dawn hour,
from the eaves drip drops of dew,
on a lonely hill a crow’s
tired, tuneless call—
Haaak! Haaak! Haaak!
Do not hoard this tender, dreamy sleep—
all that will remain is a handful of dust!
Thak! Thak! Thak!

Buddha awakened many: You are dust—you will return to dust. Use the interval between rising from dust and falling back to dust—build a bridge. Practice meditation—light the lamp of samadhi. So that you may know that which is not the body; so that you may know that which is not a conjunction; so that you may know that which is not assembled; so that you may know that which has neither birth nor death. Buddha calls it nirvana.

“Like a shriveled gourd thrown away in autumn, or like pigeons’ gray-brown bones—seeing such bones, what lust remains?”
Buddha says, love, lust, sex—think a little: with whom are you making love?

“Like an out-of-season gourd thrown away...”
A gourd that sprouts out of season is inedible, rotten—it is thrown away.

“…or like the gray-brown bones of a pigeon—look at those bones. Seeing them, what excitement?”
The body’s indulgence goes on because we do not remember what the body is. When two people are absorbed in sex, in rapture—two skeletons, two aggregates of bone, flesh, and marrow—two deaths are meeting. Bones are striking bones. But we have made lovely words. We say “embrace.” Man has erected grand deceptions of words. Sheltered by words, we cannot see what is happening. If only you would open your eyes and look closely—you would see your beloved as a skeleton. Covered by skin—beautifully covered—but still bone, flesh, and marrow.

“This body is like a city built of bones, plastered with flesh and blood; inside it are concealed old age, death, pride, and burning.”

“As a king’s splendid chariot becomes old, so does this body become decrepit. But the dharma of the saints never becomes old. Thus saints have always spoken to saints.”
Seek that which never grows old. Eso dhammo sanantano—this is the eternal law. Seek that nature which is timeless. Do not waste yourself on what withers; do not become entangled in it; do not revel in it.

“As a king’s splendid chariot becomes old...”
Jiranti ve raja-ratha suchitta—
The emperors’ chariots—how much effort, craft, and art is poured into adorning them! Yet they too become decrepit.

Jiranti ve raja-ratha suchitta
atho sarīramp’ jaram upeyti—
Just so this body—however much you decorate, maintain, and paint it—today or tomorrow it becomes decrepit. Only one thing in this world does not grow old: what the saints have known and the saints have told to saints.

This is very important:

Sataṁ ca dhammo na jaraṁ upeti.
“The dharma of the saints never becomes old.”

Why did Buddha say “the saints’ dharma”? Would it not suffice to say “dharma”? To say just “dharma” invites confusion, because you too have raised many “dharmas”—Hindu, Muslim, Christian, Jain, Buddhist—these you have made. If Buddha returned and looked at “Buddhism,” he would laugh: “I never said this.”

In fact, what he said has turned into its opposite. Buddha said: do not make statues of me. Yet there are more statues of Buddha than of anyone. So many statues that the whole earth is covered with Buddhas. In Urdu, Arabic, and Persian, the very word for statue—“but”—is a corruption of “Buddha.” There were so many statues that “Buddha” itself became synonymous with “idol”—but.

In China there are temples with ten thousand Buddhas in a single hall. Buddha had said, “Do not make my image,” because the image you will make is of this perishable body—bone, flesh, and marrow. The image you can make is not what I am—how will you make an image of consciousness? It is formless, shapeless. Do not make statues of me. But no—the Buddhists made them.

What Buddha said has turned almost into its opposite. It will happen—because when a knower speaks and the ignorant hear, they do not hear what the knower says; the ignorant hear what suits them.

The ignorant are very clever. Ignorant—but oh so shrewd! Skillful and cunning. Even the knowers cannot unsettle them. The knowers come and go; the ignorant sit tight, rooted. They extract from the knowers what they wish. They do what they intend, regardless of what the knowers say. From their words too they derive their own scriptures, their own temples, their own idols.

What Jesus said has nothing to do with what Christianity became. Had Christianity done only what Jesus said, it could never look as it does. Jesus said, “If someone strikes you on one cheek, turn the other.” And Christians took up swords to fight. They said, “This is holy war.” Jesus said, “He who takes the sword will perish by the sword.” Yet in Christian hands the sword has been wielded like none other.

If somewhere news reached Jesus that the first atomic bomb was dropped by a Christian nation, he would beat his chest. Forget the sword! The president who authorized that bomb had sworn at his inauguration in Jesus’ name that he would govern according to the faith. And he ordered the dropping of atomic bombs on Hiroshima and Nagasaki. One bomb turned one hundred and twenty thousand people to ash in an instant. Where is Jesus’ saying, “He who takes the sword shall perish by it”? Where is his saying, “If someone strikes your cheek, turn the other”? And where is the atomic bomb over Hiroshima? Flaming infernos! How will you connect these?

Jesus said, “If someone compels you to go one mile, go two. If someone takes your coat, give your shirt also.” How many wars did Christianity wage?

Muhammad named his religion Islam. Islam means peace. Can you find anywhere people who have produced more unrest than Muslims? They have disturbed the entire history of humankind.

That is why Buddha says:
Sataṁ ca dhammo na jaraṁ upeti.
“The saints’ dharma never grows old.”

He is separating it from your religions. Your religion is your irreligion. Your temples, mosques, gurudwaras are ways to avoid religion—not to enter it. You have taken refuge there. You built images of God and hid the devil there. You have constructed beautiful scriptures to shelter your ignorance.

Thus Buddha must say specifically: “The saints’ dharma never grows old.” And then he adds, with a delightful twist: “The saints have always said this to the saints.”

He says this because when saints speak to you, you understand something else. Buddha said: whatever I say, do not tell anyone that you heard exactly that. You should only say, “Thus I heard”—what Buddha said, let Buddha know. A devotee protested, “But we hear what you say.” Buddha replied, “Tonight we shall see.”

That night among ten thousand monks, a thief and a courtesan came to listen. Every night when Buddha finished speaking, his last words were always: “Bhikshus! Go now; the time has come to complete the work of the night. Do the task of the night.”

The work of the night was meditation. The world sleeps—now you wake. All the noise is stilled—now you sink into silence. The commotion ends; the market is closed; people are gone—now use this priceless opportunity. There is no time more beautiful for meditation than the middle of the night. So instead of saying every day, “Meditate,” he would simply say, “It is night—go and do the work of the night.”

When Buddha said this, the thief was startled: “He is right—night is halfway. I must go do my work.” The courtesan thought, “Blessed—he recognized me in the crowd! Let me go and complete my work.”

In the morning Buddha said, “There was a thief here last night and a courtesan. When you monks went to meditate, the thief went to steal; the courtesan went to her work. And each left thinking I had told them to do so.”

You hear only what you can hear. You will hear only yourself. The word I speak—but you give the meaning. The word comes from me and strikes your ear—but the meaning that is gathered is yours, not mine. The meaning that resides in my being remains with me.

Hence he says, “The saints say this to the saints.”

What saints communicate to saints—that is dharma. Now this is difficult, because saints generally do not go to listen to other saints—and when they meet, often they do not even speak.

Farid and Kabir once met—both enlightened. It is said they stayed together for two days and never uttered a word. Farid’s disciples had hoped for a rich conversation—they would carry away some jewels. Kabir’s devotees were also waiting, sleepless, not going for food, sitting alert—lest they miss a single word. But those two were steadfastly silent. Two days felt like two lifetimes. The disciples sat in charged silence; a pin dropping would be heard. After two days they took leave. Kabir accompanied Farid to the village boundary. They smiled, embraced, looked into each other’s eyes—and said nothing. As soon as they parted, both groups of disciples pounced.

Kabir’s disciples said, “This is too much. We had longed for this—Farid would pass through. We begged you to invite him. You did—and we are grateful—but what happened? You sat silently.” Kabir said, “What there was to say did not require words. It was conveyed in the glance. Sitting by each other, it was done. There was nothing to say—everything happened in silence. If only you could hear silence—you would have heard what was said and what was heard. Now learn to hear silence. Lest another Farid come and you find yourself in the same difficulty. What is exchanged between knowers is exchanged in silence.”

Farid’s disciples asked him, “What happened? We begged you to accept the invitation and stay. Two great suns would meet; our darkness would lessen. Two days—our expectation wore us out. We were disappointed. Why didn’t you speak?”

Farid said, “Whosoever speaks would have proven himself ignorant. There, without words, we conversed. Had I spoken, I would have declared that I do not know the language of silence. Would you have me humiliate myself? I must speak to you, because you would not understand the unspoken. Even when I speak and speak, you scarcely understand. If I do not speak, you will not understand at all. There, the affair was such that only without speaking could we understand. If we had spoken, we would have fallen. We spoke a lot—but in another tongue—the language of the Divine.”

God is silence. His music is of the void. His vina has no strings. That is why we call his sound anahata—unstruck. The struck sound arises from impact: throat against air, finger against string, stone against stone, water against rock. But God’s sound is unstruck—speaking without speaking, singing without singing, dancing without dancing.

So Farid said, “We spoke plenty—now do one thing: enough of learning languages; learn the language of silence.”

The language of silence is universal. Speak, and it becomes Hindi, English, Japanese, German—bound to nation, caste, locality, limits. Do not speak—and it is neither German nor Japanese nor Hindi nor Gujarati nor Marathi—universal. In silence, trees understand, stones understand, animals understand, sky understands, man understands. Silence is the greatest language. Words are limited; silence is boundless.

So when Buddha says, “The saints say this to the saints,” he says that when saints communicate in emptiness, they say only this: the saints’ dharma never grows old. They say: your life grows old, but the saints’ death does not. You, even while living, die; the saints, even while dying, live. You clutch at life and lose it; saints descent into death and attain the supreme life.

But let me repeat once more in the end: Buddha is not a pessimist. This is his method—his way of pushing you toward death’s gate so that you awaken and enter into death. That is why he talks of the pains of the body, of diseases, of wounds, of impermanence. He is nudging you toward the door of death, so that you awaken and descend into death. Only by going down the steps of death does one attain nirvana. That is one path.

A few days ago we were speaking of Narada—that is the path of life. Bhakti—the way of life. Then the whole perspective changes. Then it is the beauty of everything that is spoken of—because you must be pushed toward life, toward celebration. Then there is talk of song and dance, of instruments and rhythms, of rasa—because you are being led toward life.

These two seemingly opposite paths lead to the same place. The Ganges flows to the east, the Narmada to the west—but both fall into the same ocean. The ocean is one. Choose any path—you will reach the ocean. Do not be stubborn about paths. Do not knock your head over their names. Choose what resonates with you—and walk.

If it suits you—suffering, the sense of suffering; death, the experience and direct seeing of death—wonderful. Seek by that. If it does not fit, if your strings don’t tune with it—leave it. Paths are only to be used. Whether by bullock cart or by airplane—what difference? Arrive. Upon arrival, neither bullock cart nor airplane remains. Both must be left behind.

At the destination, the paths fall away. At the destination, Buddha and Narada meet. At the destination, Dionysius and Apollo embrace.

That is all for today.