Es Dhammo Sanantano #54

Today’s sutras are very unique and priceless—unparalleled even among Buddha’s utterances. The essence of his life’s austerity is condensed in them. Let us try to understand them rightly. The first sutra—

“This ill-informed man grows like an ox. His flesh grows, but his prajna does not grow.”

To discover this, psychology took twenty-five centuries. In the West the credit went to Alfred Binet. He had no idea that Buddha had said it twenty-five hundred years earlier, nor do Western psychologists even now suspect that the point is not new.

Alfred Binet made a first discovery—at least to the Western eye—that a human being’s physical age and mental age are different. Ordinarily we assume that if a man is twenty years old, his body is twenty and his mind is twenty; it is not so. A twenty-year-old may have a mind of ten. It is also possible that his mental age is thirty.

Thus it has happened at times that someone like Shankaracharya attained, by thirty, such understanding and experience as an ordinary man would not attain even in three hundred years. Shankaracharya wrote all his foremost treatises by the age of thirty-three—and at thirty-three he died. His commentaries on the Brahmasutras, on the Upanishads, on the Gita—are priceless, peerless. None has done such work again. And he was utterly young.

At nine, Shankaracharya asked permission to take sannyas. There are people who do not even desire sannyas at ninety. The urge for sannyas is a sign of great maturity—ultimate maturity. That is why, after centuries of inquiry, Hindus recognized sannyas as the final stage. Yet how many become sannyasins even at that final stage!

An old man came to me, perhaps seventy-eight. He began to weep: “You have given sannyas to my son. You have created trouble. Is this an age for sannyas? He is young; these are days for song, color, indulgence.” I said, “Leave that. Is your age right for sannyas? If you agree to take sannyas, I will take back your son’s.” He panicked—he had not come prepared for that. I asked, “How old are you?” He said, “Granted I am seventy-eight, but not yet. Let me think.” Seventy-eight years and still not thought? “Too many complications,” he said, “family needs.” How long will you fulfill them? Any day the moment of departure will arrive—family will remain, needs will remain—when will you complete it? He forgot entirely that he had come to reclaim his son’s sannyas. He was so frightened he said, “Let me go, I will come another time.” I waited for two years—he never came. A short while ago news came that he died. He will never come now.

Even at eighty the feeling for sannyas rarely arises. Till the last breath man clutches at life. Till the final moment he holds on. Even as death presses the throat, his hands still reach for life.

Shankaracharya, at nine, sought permission for sannyas. The mother must have wept—it is natural. Is this an age! The story is delightful: Shankara stepped into the river to bathe; a crocodile seized his leg. The timing was auspicious—even the crocodile showered grace! Survival seemed impossible. Mother stood on the bank, a crowd gathered. Shankara shouted from the water, “Now grant me sannyas—at least to the dying grant permission. There will be no more life left—this is the last hour.” Seeing that her son was indeed dying—he who is dying is already old—and what reason remains to prevent sannyas? Let him die in peace, sannyast. She said, “All right.” By coincidence, the crocodile let go.

A story is a story, yet it points. The indication is this: death can come even to a nine-year-old. Why assume death will wait till ninety? The crocodile can seize now. What guarantee is there that mercy will last till tomorrow? And if death can strike this very moment, then when will sannyas be?

Shankara took sannyas at nine. At thirty-three he departed forever—he will not return again; no re-arrival for him.

Such maturity at such a young age! Surely Shankara’s mental age cannot be measured at thirty or thirty-three. At thirty-three you find people in taverns and brothels. Sannyas! At thirty-three you find men engaged in all kinds of foolishness—almost unhinged. Understanding sannyas?

Buddha’s sutra says what Alfred Binet discovered at the dawn of this century: people’s mental age and physical age are different. Do not be deceived by your physical age—it has no intrinsic relation to your wisdom. Oxen also grow like that.

Understand this a little. An ox’s physical and mental age are always the same. A buffalo’s physical and mental age are the same. Only in man can there be a gap between the two. You will be surprised when you consider your own mental age.

In the last world war, for the first time, before soldiers entered the army, their mental age was tested—for the first time—because before that the exact tools were not available. IQ—Intelligence Quotient—had not been devised. With what scale to measure intelligence? But some scientists developed tools. So in the Second World War, in America, those who were recruited had their IQ measured. A shocking finding: the average did not rise beyond twelve or thirteen. Some were thirty-five, some thirty, but the average mental age was twelve. A deeply disturbing fact.

Now psychologists say a child, by the age of four, has learned fifty percent of all he will ever learn in his life. By four, half the mental age is over. Thereafter you live as if on loan. By twelve you have learned everything you will go on repeating all your life. You will certainly live—you will not learn. Around twelve your intelligence plateaus—the camp is reached. The body keeps growing.

Buddha’s sutra says, “This ill-informed man grows like an ox.”

Ill-informed—alpa-shruta—means: one who has not yet learned the art of listening. The flowering of wisdom begins with the art of listening. Wisdom is not lying somewhere to be picked up, nor is it a commodity to buy in the marketplace. It is received where it lives—from the satsang of a wise one. But satsang implies the art of listening. One must learn to hear.

Krishnamurti keeps saying: right listening—listening precisely. Mahavira called his lay disciples shravak—those who have learned to listen. He even said that those who listen rightly are liberated by listening alone. Therefore he spoke of four tirthas—two for shravak and shravika—through which one can also cross—and two for sadhus and sadhvis.

Since all commentaries on Mahavira were written by Jain monks, they did not raise this matter—being a little contrary to their trade. But I ask: Mahavira named the first tirtha—shravak and shravika. First he counted them, and only then sadhu and sadhvi. The meaning is clear: one who attains by listening, needs not to do. One who does not attain by listening, will have to do. Sadhana is for those who could not do satsang. Sadhana is number two, not number one.

You may be startled. For the layman touches the feet of the monk—really, the monk should touch the layman’s feet. For the one who has attained by listening, doing is no longer needed. Doing only means the understanding was incomplete; you will complete it by doing. Someone said, “If you put your hand in fire, it burns.” You understood by hearing—you are a shravak. Another goes, tests with his hand, burns it, then understands, then withdraws the hand and vows in the temple never to put it in fire again—you are a sadhu. Sadhu means: understanding alone did not suffice; a vow had to be taken. If understanding is complete, why would you take a vow? Against whom will you vow?

Have you ever sworn never to put your hand in fire? You know—what need for an oath? Yet you go to the temple and swear, “I will never be angry.” You do not know—you have not understood. If you had, you would not swear. The dull-witted swear and take vows; those whose prajna is sharp understand. Understanding alone is their boat.

“This ill-informed man grows like an ox.”

He goes on growing—the flesh grows, the weight grows, the body grows—but prajna does not grow. The lamp’s bowl grows larger, the flame does not. And the flame is what you are; the lamp is not you. Death will take the lamp. The flame will soar beyond death—only that is you. Often the lamp’s weight smothers and kills the flame—the lamp becomes heavy upon it.

The art of listening will stir your prajna—like a hand that gently teases the wick so the flame rises; so does satsang awaken.

Keep the notion of psychological age in mind. A few more things are necessary here to help with the sutras ahead.

As yet psychologists have not asked why mental age stops around twelve. Why not ten? Why not sixteen? They will ask one day—but have not yet. But in this land we asked it thousands of years ago: why does it stop there? Our discovery is that the day brahmacharya is destroyed, mental age also stops. In America, brahmacharya is destroyed around twelve; in the world, around fourteen. In America sexual desire is awakening earlier. Girls begin menstruating at twelve, not fourteen. Those are bygone days.

So much sexual stimulation everywhere—films, television, radio, posters—so many devices to kindle sexuality out of season. As if a fruit has not ripened in the sun but is cooked by an electric heat—like a mango growing near an electric pole, ripened by its warmth—ripened out of time. The taste won’t be there—yellow it may be.

As the saying goes, hair has turned white in the sun. If one ripens through the heat of life-experience, that is one thing; to be bleached in the sun is no glory. In America the age of sexual desire is sliding downward—at twelve; psychologists say soon it will be eleven.

Commonly mental age halts at fourteen. If anyone studies the tribals, what I say will be seen as true: their mental age stops at fourteen. We realized this in ancient times. The reason is: when a child is born, energy accumulates; that gathered energy strengthens prajna. Prajna is like fresh-churned butter within you—the final cream of your remaining energies. That brightness of intelligence, that sharpness, is the ultimate distillate of all your energies. Understand it so: you eat food—out of it flesh and bone are made; of these the finest becomes blood; of that the finest becomes virya, semen; and of that the finest becomes prajna. Prajna is the last summit.

Therefore, as soon as semen-shedding begins, the climb toward the peak of prajna stops—this is a direct and scientific truth. If energy is not gathered, how will prajna crystallize? Up to whatever line you touched while energy was gathering, there you remain stuck. Around fourteen most people’s mental age stops.

So we made unique experiments—experiments in brahmacharya. We said: if brahmacharya can be carried to twenty-five, mental age can be carried to twenty-five. And if sexualized environment can lower the age, then a desire-free environment can push it back.

If America can fall from fourteen to twelve, why should a gurukul not move from fourteen to sixteen? No hindrance. The matter is clear—clean like mathematics. If electric heat can ripen a mango early, by placing it on ice one can prevent ripening for years. The longer brahmacharya continues, the more prajna polishes.

From these unique experiments, this land concluded: if brahmacharya lasts to twenty-eight, prajna touches its last stage. Beyond that there is no going further. Then we say to the world: fear not—now squander; you have reached a state from which there is no falling. Hence we set—first step: brahmacharya; second: the householder.

If a human lifespan is taken as a hundred years, then roughly four quarters of twenty-five. Yet our endeavor was for twenty-eight. Normally sexual desire matures at fourteen. At fourteen a youth is capable of fathering, a maiden of mothering. If one drops into sex at fourteen, by twenty-eight sexuality touches its peak. After twenty-eight begins decline. At forty-two—another fourteen added—the circle completes, a frame changes. At forty-two people begin to turn toward religion.

Carl Gustav Jung, after a lifetime of psychological study and observation, said: of the patients who come to me, those past forty do not need psychotherapy; they need religion. From a psychologist’s mouth this is worth pondering. Those after forty, suffering mental illness—they do not need therapy; they need religion. Therapy is needed only because the doors of religion are shut.

Consider it so: at fourteen the child’s sexuality ripens—and if no outlet is provided, he will fall ill. Likewise, at forty-two a new longing arises—call it the longing for dharma. If it does not get right space—no temple, no mosque, no gurdwara, no exit—sex at least has the convenience: if male, he can find a woman; the numbers equal. If female, she can find a man. But at forty-two, a new energy rises whose object is very vague: the search for the Divine, for Truth. Where to place the hand? What direction? No clear form.

If no supportive hand is found—or if all your life you believed there is no God, no religion, no prayer, no worship, no meditation—if by forty you cement this view, then when the new world’s genesis begins at forty-two, you will have collected counter-conditioning; you yourself become the obstruction. Even if the temple door stands before you, your back will be turned to it; your neck will be stiff, paralyzed. Having never looked toward the temple till forty-five, how will you suddenly look? The eyes will have lost the power.

Jung’s conclusion is worth deep reflection—and a man like Jung does not speak lightly. It is the crystallization of thousands of cases across a lifetime.

But in this land we always knew: hence first—brahmacharya; second—householder, artha; third—dharma; fourth—moksha.

No psychologist has yet asked: after forty-two, when another fourteen pass—at fifty-six—what happens? Every fourteen years a revolution arises in life; new steps begin. What Hindus called moksha arises at fifty-six—an astounding discovery—going even beyond religion. For religion still has forms, rites, temple and mosque; it can be grasped—fluid though it is. Sexuality is like a stone of ice—you can hold it in the fist. Religion is like water—hold it and it slips, yet the palm is wet—you can still feel it. Moksha is like water turned to vapor—neither seen nor caught; no news of where it is.

We divided human life into four: kama, artha, dharma, moksha. When you understand Buddha’s sutras, you will be amazed—perhaps you never thought Buddha would speak thus.

“This ill-informed man grows like an ox. His flesh grows, but his prajna does not grow.”

If life is natural, mental age of fourteen will be attained—that too is fine, at least do not fall below. If mental age reaches fourteen, then at twenty-eight sexuality’s arc will descend; at forty-two the longing for dharma will arise—just as naturally as the longing for sex did.

Religion is as natural as sex. Samadhi is as natural as intercourse. It is intercourse stepped further—the embrace with the Infinite. First, the person is removed; now the totality is taken in one’s arms. But the last height is moksha: first, the person is dropped; then the totality too is dropped. Self-delight is moksha—now the union is within oneself; not even the slightest need of other remains. The lover needs the beloved; the devotee needs God; the pilgrim of moksha needs not even God.

That is why Buddha does not speak of God; why Mahavira does not speak of God. Not that they are “against” God—they are one step beyond.

Moksha—understand the word: freedom from the other. In sex you must be bound to the other. This is the pain of love—the solution lies in another; and upon whom you depend, you grow angry. That is why husband and wife quarrel—and will go on quarreling. It cannot be avoided.

Do not think therefore that the wife is bad or the husband is bad—no, it is the nature of sex, of love: one has to depend on the other; yet we crave freedom—no one wants dependence. In the very breath of life hides the longing for moksha.

We wish to become so complete that we are enough unto ourselves—no situation remains where we need another. Aptakama—fulfilled in one’s own desire. Only then is there rejoicing, only then is there fun—for no boundary remains. When you wish, you will be blissful; you will not have to depend on anyone; there will be no cause.

As it is, if you want the pleasure of love and the wife is not willing—and often she will not be when you want it; and when she wants it, you will not be willing.

People come daily and say, “How strange! When we ask for love, the wife shrinks; when she asks, we shrink. What happens?” Whenever anyone begs, it feels like exploitation. When anyone asks, stiffness arises—“So, you are dependent on me, eh!” Saying “No” becomes delicious. To stop, to withhold, gives pleasure. It is enjoyable to see the other pleading—only then do we feel our power, our ego’s strength.

Thus husband and wife remain in struggle. Even if they do not, being very understanding, still deep down a thorn persists: that I am dependent on another—how can pleasure be pleasure if it depends on another? If your joy depends on the other, sorrow is already hidden in it. Tomorrow the wife will die—you loved her dearly; as much joy as you knew, so much sorrow will come. Tomorrow the son will die—sorrow. Today the wife falls ill—sorrow. She becomes ugly—sorrow. The house catches fire—she is burned—sorrow. If not accident, then old age—the body grows decrepit. Joy can at best be imagined; in truth it cannot be, for too many opposing events keep happening.

Joy is joy only when all possibility of sorrow is void. For such joy, it must be causeless—and not dependent on anyone. That will be self-delight. Moksha is self-delight.

When one loosens from the lover, one holds God—because to drop dependence on the other is very difficult. So one leaves the lover or the beloved and begins to speak of God. God is sufficiently greater than the lover—the beloved—he neither dies nor ages; pray whenever you wish, he will not refuse, “Not now.” Dance in his ecstasy whenever you wish—he will never obstruct. In one sense he is not there to obstruct. His presence is like absence.

So, whatever you do, you are doing alone. But delighting alone does not feel tasty. You bow at God’s feet—there is a certain flavor in it: his feet. But you are bowing alone—there are no feet—so a flatness enters bowing. No one is there before whom you bow.

You sit in the temple and speak to God—there is relish, because you think someone on that side is listening. Not only listening—if the devotee truly sinks, answers start coming. They too are from the devotee—arising from his own deep unconscious. There is no one there. Yet he feels they come. And they are so true that he cannot believe they come from himself. But if you talk alone with yourself, you will think yourself mad.

If in a temple a devotee stands, hands folded, saying, “O purifier of the fallen!” you do not call him mad. But if in the garden someone stands—no beloved near—and says, “O goddess, I am dust at your feet!” you will say, “He has gone mad.” Both are doing the same, but one is a devotee. We have accepted that God is invisible, unseen.

In those countries where the notion of God has been lost, the number of madmen is higher. Because one outlet of their madness is closed. Now they all stand in gardens and speak to their beloveds. Were they in India, they would be in temples speaking to God—no one would call them mad. Nor were they mad—for the very notion that God is there lightened them, relaxed them—the notion itself drained their insanity.

So when one becomes free of the lover, one holds God. But Buddha and Mahavira say: you are free, but not wholly—something you still carry; let even that go. You have dropped form, not feeling. Let feeling go too.

Therefore devotees—Sufis—take God as the beloved. Their descriptions of God are like those of a supremely beautiful woman, a Cleopatra. A Surdas takes God as a little child—the love of motherliness. Hence Krishna’s childhood stories, songs—his toddling steps, the jingle of anklets—just as a mother delights in her child. What mother is there who has not tasted such delight? All mothers do. Surdas is doing nothing new—he is projecting the feeling of motherly love upon Krishna.

Then there are Krishna-bhaktas. In Bengal one sect takes itself as the bride and Krishna as the husband—they wear women’s clothes. Their numbers are decreasing as the times are unfavorable. They fill their parting with vermilion, dress as women, walk like women; at night they clasp Krishna’s image to their chest and sleep. All this belongs to the world of love—only half the field has been changed: on that side there is no solid lover now; on this side the solid feeling of love remains. The beloved has become vast, but the feeling is still bound to the other.

Buddha says: let even that go—for dependency remains. Sometimes you will call and he will not answer; sometimes you will cry out and he will not come. He is not there either. Sometimes within you such a harmony will be that an answer arrives; sometimes not—dependency again. Be wholly free.

The notion of moksha arose in India because the notion of freedom even from God arose here. It is the ultimate form of religion. Freedom from the world is religion’s first step; freedom even from religion is the last. So long as religion does not carry you beyond religion, it becomes a new bondage. Christians, Jews, Muslims—they got stuck on God. They have no notion of moksha.

For moksha there is no exact word in other languages. For there was never any reflection on it—whence the word? The word is uniquely ours. Try translating moksha, nirvana, kaivalya—it is difficult. If you choose “freedom” for moksha, a political smell clings to the word. There is no politics in moksha. Whatever word you choose—there is no synonym. For in the lands of Christians, Muslims, Jews, religion did not go beyond God; they climbed the ladder and clung to it—could not leave it; yet the purpose of the ladder is to climb and leave, else you cannot reach the roof.

“This ill-informed man grows like an ox. His flesh grows, but his prajna does not grow.”

What is the final craft of prajna? Liberation—moksha. What is its last form? The experience of the supremely unmodified, the infinite—where no boundary remains—where you are the sky. To stop at anything less is to stop. For anything less, Buddha will say: your flesh is growing; your prajna is not. We have taken the great summit as our goal—Everest-high. Anything smaller is unworthy of man.

But this does not mean we denied the other goals of life. This is India’s unique art of harmony and synthesis—we have included all the goals within moksha; we made them steps; we did not oppose them.

You will be surprised—for ordinarily it seems Buddha is life-negative—but these sutras will show you that that impression is a wrong interpretation—born of wrong hands.

“Without stopping, through countless births I ran through the world seeking the house-builder. Again and again birth is great suffering.”

“Without stopping, through countless births I ran through the world seeking the house-builder—the house-builder—gahakarakaṃ gavesanto.”

Who builds this house of life? Why does life arise? Why does it exist? On what support does it run? What is its basic cause? This fire burns—what is the fuel? For this burning is great sorrow. Those who have seen life have found—

Worse than death it seemed to me—
what I had taken as life, as life.

Whoever takes life as life will, today or tomorrow, weep and repent.

Worse than death it seemed to me—
what I had taken as life, as life.

What are you doing here but dying? All else is play—do not be deceived because the toys are big. Small children marry their dolls—what are you doing?

A German thinker, Herrigel, was a guest in Japan at an elderly friend’s house. The friend said, “This evening we must attend a wedding—will you come?” He was pleased: “Good—I shall see how a Japanese wedding is.” Westerners are very curious about such trivialities.

He went along, but was startled—the wedding was of dolls. Children of two families were marrying their dolls; yet the village elders too had gathered. He was amazed: “Children, yes—but the elders attending with such seriousness!” He restrained himself—well-bred man. Back home he asked, “Forgive me if I hurt you—but I was astonished. This is children’s work. A little procession, fine—but why did the elders attend?” The old man laughed: “And if it had been a real boy and girl?” “Then no harm,” said Herrigel. The old man laughed again: “We believe the two are the same—hence we attended. What difference? The same noise, band and bustle. Look not at the dolls—look at the joy of the parents. Where will you find greater joy than this? The same joy occurs at the real wedding you call ‘real.’ That too is the same color and song, the same dream.”

Here everything falls to dust. What you call real is also counterfeit. Here the fake coins are fake, and the real coins too are fake; but because of the real, you don’t notice. A counterfeit note is caught—how do you judge it fake? Because you have taken something else as real. But what you call real—what is real in it? If the government changes tomorrow, it will be fake. If the government changes its mind today, fake. It is convention. Your real is also fake; fake is fake. But what are you calling real?

Buddha says:
Anek jāti saṃsāraṃ sandhāvissaṃ anibbisaṃ.
Gahākārakaṃ gavesanto dukkha jāti punappunaṃ.

Through many births, through many lives I have sought one thing—who builds this house of life? Who creates this play?

Here is Buddha’s deep inquiry. The ordinary man says, “God’s leela!”—that is no answer; it is to avoid the answer. You know neither God nor leela. Such answers are like: someone asks where you came from; you say, “God knows.” Do you grasp its meaning? No one knows. Do not assume that God knows; you are covering your ignorance in a knowing tone. You do not dare say, “I do not know.” Man is a great deceiver. Wherever he should say “I do not know,” he says it in a way that seems he knows. “God knows”—more honest would be to say, “I don’t know—no one knows.” But then how will the ego stand? Saying “God knows,” you imply that God knows, and you know God—thus all is settled. Where nothing is known, you create the illusion of knowing.

No, Buddha—he went to many gurus who said, “God created”—that did not satisfy him. “Then who created God?”—no answer. “And why would God create? What is his motive?” No foundation-stone is found there. Buddha’s search took him to an altogether unique place—the essence of all religions.

I had staked hope of spring on wastelands;
of cool breeze on the furnace of summer.
Mirages seemed , to me, nectar-filled;
On embers I had staked hope of frost.

If you look closely, wherever you dreamt of joy, you found sorrow—nothing else. Yet you do not say—
I had staked hope of spring on wastelands;
you go on laying the same hope again and again. You learn nothing from experience. He who does not learn repeats. Learn—and something new happens; repetition ends.

Buddha says: I looked deeply—peered into birth after birth, again and again—what is happening? Who is building my house again and again? Who gives me new birth? He did not seek outside, for the search is not possible outside; the key lies within—some foundation of illusion within.

“Without stopping, through countless births I ran through the world seeking the house-builder. Again and again birth is great suffering.”

But there was no way, for until we know how the house is built—how it rises—how to demolish it? Until we find the seed, how to stop the tree? If the seed is in hand, burn it in fire—then no sprout will arise—seedless samadhi—no new sprout in life. But where is the seed? Who makes us run?

Some say fate runs us. Some say God runs us. Some say nature runs us. Some say accident—mere chance. Buddha says it cannot be mere chance. So many people running, across so many births—this cannot be mere accident. There must be a law behind it.

Buddha’s gaze is deeply scientific. He says: upon looking it began to dawn on me: whatever is happening, somewhere my hand is in it. What happens in my life can only happen by my hand—though it may be I do not know.

Freud made a great discovery in this century—very ancient for the East. In the last days of his life Freud added something that went contrary to all his earlier discoveries. He was honest—he cared not for inconsistency: “What my experience shows, I will say—even if it contradicts me. What can I do—the facts say so.” All his life he proposed a theory—libido, eros—sexual desire: the whole of life is the race of sex. But in his final hours, he observed within himself a new stir: the race was tiring; at times the wish to die; at times the longing for peace—quiet—drowning. He met patients who did not want to live; try as you might, you cannot make them live—when the urge to live drains from within, no outer prop can hold. The foundation has fallen, the center broken—whatever you support on the surface will be uprooted today or tomorrow.

So he proposed a second principle—Thanatos. The first urge—life-urge; the second—death-urge. He says—this will fit my whole scheme too—around forty-two the life-urge turns into death-urge. The man who ran to live begins to run to die—he tires. As day is followed by night—after the day’s labor, night’s rest. Having run all day, a man says at dusk: let me sleep—do not hinder me—let me rest. So for forty years man runs—that half-circle is life-urge; then he is tired; night begins—he says: let me rest now—let me die.

In the Indian tongue: artha and kama are the first half—life-urge; the second half is dharma and moksha—death-urge. We never saw contradiction—it is a full circle. First the line climbs; then it bends; the line descends; then it meets where it began—circle complete. Where birth happened, death returns you; then a new birth begins; then you start again on a new journey of death.

Where either is missing, life is incomplete. He who knows only day and not night’s rest—look at his madness—what misery he will fall into. Ask one who cannot sleep. One can live three months without food; without sleep—not three months. Sleep is more necessary than food. Without food one grows thin and weak; without sleep, one grows deranged.

He whom insomnia seizes—ask his pain. He works by day, but has no means to rest by night. He rises in the morning more tired than when he lay down; he tires by day, and by night. The fatigue accumulates—his whole life becomes a fatigue and a burden.

What is true of the night is true of death—death is rest after life’s run. And just as one makes ready for night—sun sets, lamps are lit, animals and birds return to their nests, making noise, holding their last conclaves, and fall silent—so religion is preparation. Evening has come—moksha—drowning willingly in death.

He who fears death will fear sleep; he who fears sleep will fear death—for sleep is the little daily death; and death is the great sleep at life’s end. And as sleep refreshes by morning, so death readies you for a new birth—fresh again. It takes your old age and gives you childhood.

He who goes today upon an untimely journey—
It is truly my own desire to go.
My breaths that refuse to stay—
It is my own desire not to remain.

No one dies—no one is being killed by force. We die—we begin to desire it. The same longing that once desired life, one day desires death. If we accept only the longing for life, then only two goals remain: artha and kama—sensuality, man-woman, wealth and position. Wealth and position are needed for indulgence—without wealth how will you enjoy? Without wealth you cannot even have a beautiful woman. If utterly destitute, you will have no woman—women generally are interested in wealth.

Have you noticed: a rich man gets the most beautiful woman—even if he is not handsome. Even if old, if he is rich, he gets a young wife. Onassis gets Jackie. Having wealth! Think a little: why is woman so keen on wealth?

Woman is kama—without wealth, the flowering of kama has no facility. Wealth is the manure in the plant; without it the flower will not bloom. Therefore woman’s natural urge is for wealth—she seeks the powerful, the ambitious, the rich, the high in rank. Woman does not go directly for the face—she does not weigh much by looks.

Hence the wonder: the most beautiful woman chooses an ugly man—but his pockets are full, he holds high office, is president or prime minister. A beautiful woman’s deep urge is for artha—for she knows: if there is wealth, she will flower; her beauty will shine. Wealth is convenience.

Man’s urge is for kama. Man is artha. Understand this. Man is ambition—artha—the race of ego, the journey of conquest. Man is aggression; woman is invitation. Woman is kama—the call. That is why man proposes love; a woman never does. She only waits—“Say it, now say it—say it and be caught!”—she waits.

Hence you can never accuse a woman, “You trapped me.” She was silent—never raised the matter. Far from raising it, she always said “No”—she moved further away—you kept running after her.

One morning at tea, Mulla Nasruddin and his wife were arguing—I was present. Things grew heated. His wife said, “Remember: I did not run after you. I never wanted you; never said so.” Nasruddin said, “I know that. Does a mousetrap run after the mouse? The mouse comes on its own. Clear—I came myself.”

Woman is passivity—a still lake; though because of her many lakes become turbulent—that is another matter. In herself she is calm—not excited. Woman is the energy of sex. By nature, man and woman meet only when opposite. Flavor is only when they are opposite. Man is ambition; woman is invitation. Man is the flaring will to touch distant peaks; woman is the distant, quiet peak calling. Woman and man are artha and kama. Therefore woman savors wealth; man savors beauty. The race goes on.

Until we enter this race and look closely—until a man peeks into his ambition, aggression, violence—he will not know who is building the house. Until a woman peers into her state of passive invitation—her silent beckoning. Often you do not know what you are doing—and when you come to know, you are offended.

Women step out of the home all decked out; then someone jostles them on the way. Ask: why so decked? Perhaps no clear answer—but if asked in deep psychology: dressing means you wanted someone to brush against you, to be drawn, to be intrigued. If no one bumps you, she will return home sad: “What happened today?” Imagine a beautiful woman goes out and no one looks—no one anywhere—no one even glances. The village decides: today, do not look at her—no pebble thrown, no jostle, not even a kiss blown from afar—forget that she exists. She will weep that night—“What happened?”

I was a college teacher, sitting in the principal’s room. A girl came, very upset—a boy had hit her with a pebble. The principal scolded severely: “Call the boy.” He came. “You say something to him,” the principal told me. I said, “Do not involve me—my understanding is they are both participants. Look at the girl—‘Love-in-Tokyo’ dangling in her hair—this is bound to invite pebbles. If no one threw one, she would be sad. Throw it—she is upset. The boy doesn’t look bad; if he doesn’t throw it now, shall he throw pebbles when he becomes principal? That would be truly awful—out of season. Nor do I see any real anger in the girl’s anger; look carefully—she is delighted. See—she smiles.” The girl smiled at my words.

If man looks within rightly, many things become clear. Here whatever is happening is according to our wanting. Perhaps we ourselves do not know what we want—perhaps our wanting is pushed into the dark unconscious—but whatever happens here happens by our wanting. Death too happens by our wanting; so does life. We are born by our own cause; we will die by our own cause. In the world we are by our own cause—and in moksha too we will be by our own cause. This is Buddha’s ultimate discovery—his final conclusion.

“O house-builder! I have seen you—now you shall not build my house again. All your rafters are broken; your ridge-pole shattered. With the mind free of formations, craving is exhausted.”

Trishna—thirst—is the house-builder. Tanha—what Freud calls libido—sexual desire.

Gahakaraka! ditthosi; puna gehaṃ na kahasi.

Look—O house-builder—behold rightly; you will not have to build again—I have grasped the key. I myself was building. With dark hands I laid the bricks. I decorated it—perhaps in sleep I decorated it, rising at night—but I did it.

Gahakaraka! ditthosi; puna gehaṃ na kahasi.

Henceforth—no more.

Sabbā te phāsukā—
Look, all your rafters fall.

Bhagga gahakūṭaṃ visankhitaṃ—
See, the ridge-pole too is broken; the roof is falling.

Vissankhārāgataṃ cittaṃ taṇhānaṃ khayamajjhagā—
The mind has gone beyond formations; the destruction of thirst has been attained.

I have caught the key—I have desired what has happened. Others say: God desired what happened; but ask them—why did he desire? Dig deeper than God, and you will find your desire—he too desired.

Thus the Puranic tales are significant—sometimes seemingly vulgar, yet very significant. The Purana says: Brahma created the earth—she was his daughter; he was smitten with her—his own daughter!—and ran after her. The daughter panicked—turned into a cow—he became a bull. Brahma! However uncouth or obscene it seems—it is of great value; and Hindus were courageous. They did not care what people would say—this is scripture!—what are you saying? But they had the courage to speak the truth. Today’s Hindus are weak and cowardly—once they were brave.

Think: God created the earth—surely he became the father; the earth, the daughter. He is attracted—so beautiful!—he chases her; the daughter is naturally afraid—seeing the father chase, she trembles. She changes form—becomes a cow; he becomes a bull. Not a castrated ox—those came much later. She changes again—becomes an elephant; he becomes an elephant. Hindus say: thus the whole creation was born—as the daughter kept changing in panic, the father changed accordingly, desire burning, chasing. Everywhere in the world societies have kept a strict taboo until now—until two weeks ago—against father-daughter relations—this was called the greatest sin. I say “two weeks ago” because two weeks ago the Swedish government passed a law that this cannot any longer be considered illegal; if a father relates with his daughter—or a daughter with her father—this cannot be brought to court, it is not a crime.

Why did societies make the ban of father-daughter or mother-son? There is danger there—if there were not an intense prohibition, the relation would happen. Fear exists—where there is fear, there is prohibition. Ordinarily we think this unthinkable—but when Brahma and his daughter, then Hindus know—it can happen. When the daughter grows, the father sees his wife in her—the way his wife was when he married her—the same desire re-ignites. It is only by accumulated conditioning that a barrier occurs—so deeply have we engraved “sin”—and the conditioning is ancient—that even if the thought arises in the father, he will loathe himself: “What have I thought! What has arisen in my mind! I am a great sinner.” He will repent, fast, go to the temple, do something to cleanse himself. But this can arise. In a purely natural state with no prohibition, as it arises in animals, so too in man.

When a mother sees her son become youth, she remembers the days when her husband was young—“He has returned.” He has indeed returned—the son is the form of the husband. There is danger. Fear. Sweden has removed this fear—this could be a revolutionary moment in human history. Today its history cannot be written; after thousands of years. After this law in Sweden, humanity will not be the same. History will be divided by this step—astonishing.

Buddha says: the Vedas say, God desired: “Let me create”—the desire to create arose. Buddha’s point is clear: then desire is greater than God—desire moved God; God too moved by desire. If desire animates even God, then desire is the greater. Therefore Buddha says: leave God—tackle that which moves even God—that is what moves you.

Thus in Buddhist lore, when Buddha attains enlightenment, Brahma, Vishnu, Mahesh come to his feet. Hindus were angered by this story—how could Brahma, Vishnu, Mahesh bow at Buddha’s feet!—Brahma places his head on Buddha’s feet and says, “You attained Buddhahood—give us wisdom too.” God asking at Buddha’s feet for wisdom! But the story is meaningful—exactly right. It should be so—Brahma too is afflicted by that same desire which afflicted Buddha; Buddha is free of that desire from which Brahma is not. Brahma should come—natural. The tale should not offend; it points.

“O house-builder! I have seen you—now you will not build again.”

He who has seen trishna is free. In seeing is liberation—in darshan is liberation—in becoming the witness is liberation. The whole question is: how to see within that root-key by which life is reconstructed again and again—again birth, again death. And to be born again and again is great suffering, says Buddha.

“All your rafters are broken.” He speaks to trishna: your rafters are broken; “Your ridge-pole is shattered; with the mind free of samskaras, craving has ended.”

The nest itself is no longer in the garden—
Now whether autumn comes or spring—what concern is that?

The nest itself is no longer in the garden—
Now whether autumn comes or spring.

This moment is called liberation. Therefore we call the worldly one a householder. Do not take ‘householder’ to mean only “he lives in a house,” or “he has a wife.” Its meaning is: one whose process of house-building is still on. Wife and house come later; prior to both is the process of house-making—grih-karaka—trishna still running.

We call the sannyasin a renouncer of the house—Buddha calls him agrihi, aniket, anagarika—one who has left the house. This does not mean Buddha’s bhikkhu never stays in houses; during the rains he stays in houses as a guest. But he has stopped building houses. He has seen trishna.

Ordinarily we grope blindly. Trishna drives; we run. We do not even know who is driving—why—where. Because of trishna we suffer greatly—for it only leads to sorrow—all running leads to sorrow.

There was shade plentiful in the world—
but in my fate only the sun beat down.
Even in moments when the season took up the flower-wand—
Thorns still remained in my hand.
Where shall I make complaint?
Time’s chariot rolls like this.
Where a wedding was seen yesterday—
A bier stood there today.
What debt I had to pay, I paid—
What I had to say, I said.
Now where shall I go and place this asking?
Where shall this begging-bowl be auctioned?
Now where shall evening be?

It goes like this. Where morning will be—unknown; where evening will be—unknown; where the house will rise—unknown; where the grave will be—unknown. But one thing is sure—
There was shade plentiful in the world—
but in my fate only the sun beat down.

Trishna leads you into sorrow—there is ample shade here—but trishna takes you outward, where there is heat; inward lies shade. Peace is plentiful—but inward; outward is conflict. Bliss is abundant—even flowers of samadhi bloom—but only in the lives of those who turn within. Trishna takes you outward—away from yourself—that is sorrow. The farther from yourself, the more sorrowful; the nearer to yourself, the more joyful. Who drowns utterly in himself attains supreme bliss.

“Those who do not live brahmacharya in childhood…”

Buddha’s sutra asks: why is trishna unseen? Why are we blind? That which is so profound—the very base of life—why is it unseen?

“Those who do not live brahmacharya in childhood, who do not earn wealth in youth, in old age become anxious like an old heron sitting at the edge of a pond empty of fish.”

The phrase startles—one would not imagine it from Buddha: “Those who do not earn wealth in youth; those who do not attain brahmacharya in childhood.” Buddha says: those who miss the sequence of life. Childhood is for brahmacharya. The longer brahmacharya persists—the longer childhood persists—the sharper prajna becomes. The longer energy does not run outward, the more the inner is experienced. Once the inner is tasted, then go outward—then outside will not entangle or ensnare; you will live outside without forgetting the inner remembrance—you have known that joy.

This is worth deep pondering. Among the ultimate discoveries of India it is priceless: India says—first know inner joy, then go out; then all will taste flat. If, without knowing inner joy, you rush outward, you miss. Then the outer seems the only joy—and you get only sorrow. You have no measure for comparison from within. You never knew your home—unconscious you stumbled out.

You will then seek shade under others’ roofs—but they will drive you away. You do not even know you also have a home—carrying it within. To go there nothing need be done—just close your eyes. Nothing need be done—only a little non-doing. Nothing need be done—just close a few outer doors and allow energy to flow within.

Therefore we attempted in this land—an experiment unique, never performed elsewhere on earth—and India too performed and then forgot. A precious experiment: every child is to have the experience of brahmacharya. Up to fourteen it cannot be—children are brahmachari, but sexual desire has not yet arisen—no experience can happen. Experience is only against the opposite—you draw white on a blackboard to see it. Up to fourteen all are brahmachari—but unconscious. Between fourteen and twenty-eight, if brahmacharya happens, there will be experience—desire will pull outward; and the practice of keeping energy within will go on; then there will be knowing. Against the attraction of desire—on its blackboard—when the white line of brahmacharya appears, there will be conscious experience. Up to fourteen all children are brahmachari—there is no knowing—that brahmacharya is unconscious. The opposite is not yet born; the invitation has not yet come from outside—so the taste of remaining inside cannot come.

Experiences are in the opposite. Between fourteen and twenty-eight is the time of brahmacharya. If in that period brahmacharya is lived, the foundation of life is laid in the right place. That experience is so important, so deep, with such fragrance and wealth, that whatever the world offers thereafter, you will know it is nothing. You have a measure—you have known gold; now no one can deceive you with brass. You have known diamonds; colored pebbles will not fool you.

We made brahmacharya the first step. Then the second, Buddha says: those who do not earn wealth in youth—those who did not practice brahmacharya in childhood; who did not earn in youth. Youth is the moment of ambition—of seeing outside—of being acquainted with the outer.

Remember: if someone remains immersed within in brahmacharya, he will have much joy; but he will never understand that outside is sorrow. Until you know that outside is sorrow, the possibility of going out remains; any day you may go. You do not have inner experience to bar going out. It is necessary to go out so that you become free of the outer—then no one can take you out. To wander is necessary to arrive at the right path. To enter your own home, it is necessary to knock on others’ doors.

From the surface it appears reversed—but this is the scripture of life—so it is: Es dhammo sanantano—thus is the eternal law.

Go out—and remember home. Roam thoroughly—and do not forget the way home. Become rightly acquainted with the home—then go. Go in great joy—that too is needed—an essential education of life. To know joy within is necessary; to know sorrow without is also necessary—so that being inward becomes eternal; then neither outer imaginations nor dreams arise.

“Those who do not practice brahmacharya in childhood—and do not earn wealth in youth…”

Wealth means ambition, position—collecting what is ultimately useless is also necessary.

A poor man went to a Jewish rabbi: “Enough now—give me your blessing to die. Do not persuade me otherwise; many times I have come and you sent me back. I cannot live—it is hell. Think—one small room, ten by ten. It leaks; in it I live, my wife, my children; my mother-in-law and father-in-law; my mother and father—no space even to turn. Everyone is irritable and angry; a little solitude is needed. We cannot afford another house. Give me leave to die.”

The old rabbi said, “One more thing—this time I will not stop you; just stay seven more days. How many animals do you have?” “A dog, six goats, twelve sheep, a cow and a calf.” “Do this—take them all into the room.” “Are you mad? We are already dying—take them in? There will be no place even to stand!” “Only seven days—then die. Grant me this much—I am old; you always obeyed me—do not refuse me on your deathbed.” He said, “This is too much—think again. I panic imagining it—seven days I will not remain alive! Who cares—if we must die, what is the worry?” The rabbi insisted. The poor Jew went home. “The rabbi has said it—we must obey.” The family cried: “Enough! We are dying already! Goats, dog, cow, sheep—you…are you all right?” They too ran to the rabbi. “Yes,” he said, “I told him. Let him do it.”

All were brought inside. Those seven days were great hell—hell paled. After seven days the man came. “Before dying,” said the rabbi, “take them all out.” He did. Two or three days passed—the rabbi waited; he did not return. The rabbi went to him: “What happened—won’t you die?” “Oh, leave it—we are enjoying life as never before—such joy! Such love in the house! We are so close—and there is so much space! The room is the same—but such space! Great flavor. Who dies? Your kindness—if ever I start dying again, prescribe the same remedy.”

Life is such—experience arises through the opposite; hell too points the arrow to heaven.

“Those who do not practice brahmacharya in childhood; do not earn wealth in youth—become anxious like an old heron sitting beside a pond empty of fish.”

Their old age becomes hair bleached in the sun—those who knew not brahmacharya in childhood, and who did not know the fever of youth—whose childhood did not know inner peace—whose youth did not know raga-ranga—color and song—their old age is blank, empty. They sit by a pond with no fish, says Buddha—with the line dangling.

“Those who do not practice brahmacharya in childhood; do not earn wealth in youth—grow old chewing only old tales, like arrows spent from the bow.”

They have nothing to do; nothing to think—so they ruminate the past. Often you will see the old chewing the cud. When you see it, know: he is like the heron—sitting by a fishless pond with his line. When an old man says, “You know, I was a deputy collector”—then you understand: “I have seen days”—“Those days are gone.” Everyone feels so. Everyone says—

In every age each drinker deemed his wine unique,
in every age each cup seemed unmatched—
Yet when I asked the elders, only one reply:
Those drinkers are no more,
that tavern is no more.

Whoever looks back is telling you his hands are empty. For the one who lived rightly, in old age he lives in the present. The whole education of life—childhood’s brahmacharya; then the household—outer and inner both known; nothing remains to know; the useless known as useless; the meaningful as meaningful—then dignity appears in the old. Tagore has said: no beauty equals the beauty of old age. True—white hair like snowy peaks of Himalaya. Youth is beautiful but agitated; childhood beautiful but innocent. Old age is beautiful—neither innocent nor agitated.

But few old seem beautiful because childhood was missed—the base missed; youth also wasted; all went as it went. Old age remains empty.

Old age is great wealth—hence in this land we gave elders great respect—we knew elders who were enriched—we touched their feet. The matter went so deep that we later honored elders just for being old. In the West, the old have no honor—nor can they—because the Western old man is hollow—a dirty old man—rightly said. Life went like this; now what was fitting in youth becomes filth in old age. In youth it was proper to think of love—to sing, to dance, to go to the tavern, to savor man-woman—that was necessary. It was proper to know brahmacharya in childhood—the deep peace of being within, known to the seed—brahmacharya when even the sprout has not pierced; then in youth to flower; then autumn too becomes beautiful: the peace of fall—no spring can match it; the music of flying dry leaves—no spring’s birds can compete. But only if.

Ordinarily, seeing the old, it seems—
This longing remained—how many enjoyments of life we might have had.
If the garden were ours—the flowers ours—the gardener ours.

They only think of pleasures not lived; they never did. Strength is gone—only dreams remain.

Long since Ghalib died, yet he is remembered still—
for at each turn he said, “If it had been thus, what would have been?”

All the old do this—“If it had been thus…” The cartridge is spent—empty, already fired; now weep—“If it had been thus!”

Buddha—and all the awakened—say: if right on the mark you wish to reach, begin in childhood—step by step, rightly designed. Childhood for brahmacharya—knowing oneself. Then youth for house-making—recognizing the house-builder—spreading in trishna—but without forgetting—going far in desire but not uprooting the inner roots—remaining centered while expanding the periphery—letting ambition run far. Fly far like pigeons—but return to your home. Spread your net far, for it too is necessary—else later you will repent when strength is gone. When strength is, spread—so you also become free of spreading—so you know all is vain. Youth is the opportunity to know the vain.

Then vanaprastha—having known the vain, begin to gather up the net spread—as the fisherman gathers his net; as the shopkeeper gathers his shop at dusk—the market empties, people go. Vanaprastha is gathering. Then sannyas—coming back home—returning to the same place where you were in childhood. This is rebirth. Jesus said: only those who are like children will enter the kingdom of heaven. But Christians have not the complete formula—Jesus must have learned from this land; perhaps Buddha’s word entered his ear. Then brahmacharya again—sannyas—start with brahmacharya, end with brahmacharya—the circle complete; the journey whole.

But each step has its own meaning—none is useless. If a man is very gifted, he will take these steps quickly; not necessary they be twenty-five years each—this is the average. If highly intelligent, in thirty-three he may have taken all steps—Shankaracharya took sannyas at nine—what happens at seventy-five happened at nine. Mental age is profound; prajna very sharp.

Buddha was young when he took sannyas—his eyes must have been very keen. What takes us centuries, lifetimes, years to see—Buddha saw quickly. You too have seen people dying—daily someone goes to the cremation ground. But Buddha saw once—and the matter ended. It is said he saw a corpse once—and asked: “Shall I too die?” The reply: “None escapes; all must die.” Buddha said, “Turn the chariot home—the matter is finished. Where death is certain, to desire life is vain. I will seek that which remains beyond death; let me seek it now—why waste time? If death is to come—it has come.” His eyes were deep; his prajna keen.

Buddha does not say: take sannyas only at seventy-five. He says: at seventy-five at least do take it! Rather, he says: when your eyes open—take it. He who has sharp genius learns from few experiences: from one sexual union he learns sex is vain; from one position he learns rank is vain. Having made a lakh, he knows—enough; even with a thousand he sees the point—if prajna is very sharp, even holding one coin he understands: dust—the matter is finished.

It depends upon the sharpness of prajna—else collect even ten crores—what difference? The childish mind says, “A little more—who knows, perhaps joy lies at ten crores and one. One more step…” Trishna keeps driving. And when desire drives in this world, meeting the other is difficult—meeting oneself becomes impossible.

The lamp that burns by my pillow—
Laughing yesterday, I asked it:
Can you tell me, O my companion,
When did my eyes bestow love upon you?

Lowering its gaze, shyly it said:
I have seen myself go out at dawn and lit at dusk;
Perhaps I behold you for the first time—
Therefore I do not know your name or place.

Thus I asked the stone of the path
On which I have walked for years—
It said: many like you have come and gone—
How should I know which land you hail from?

When I said to a wave: stay a moment—
Listen to the sorrow-tale of my life—
She turned peevish: “Have I leisure to see
Your tearful, vacant, wistful eyes?”

Who can recognize you here? You yourself do not recognize yourself. He who tries to know by collecting objects—he wasted the moments of knowing. He who bound companionships with others—thinking friendship formed—he remained in the illusion of company and missed the one companion available—the witness within. Awaken that.

Life has two modes: trishna and witnessing. Either you live asleep—then trishna grips your neck—or you awaken, gather awareness, open your eyes, polish prajna, become the sakshi. Whatever you do, do it seeing—let even breath move under watchfulness; let even the hand move watched. He who grasps witnessing—his trishna dissolves. He who attains witnessing—attains Buddhahood.

You have lived long under trishna—many births. Turn a little toward witnessing—make an effort.

Enough for today.