Es Dhammo Sanantano #56

The first sutra—
Attānaṁ ce piyaṁ aññaṁ rakkheyya taṁ surakkhitaṁ.
‘If one regards oneself as dear, let one keep oneself well-guarded. The wise must surely remain awake in at least one of the three watches of the night.’
A significant sutra. Guard it like a diamond. So many knots of life can be untied through this one small sutra.
‘If one regards oneself as dear.’
Ordinarily we suppose that we all love ourselves. There is no greater delusion. You will be startled to hear this. For your religious teachers say the same, your pundits say the same: Love others. Love your neighbor. Love God. They have taken one thing for granted—that you love yourself. Now, love others. The error is there. You have not yet loved yourself.
Jesus’ famous saying is: Love your neighbor as yourself.
As yourself! Which means: love the neighbor—but first you must love yourself. And you have been taught the opposite. You have been told: to love oneself is selfish. To love oneself is almost sin. But the one who has not loved himself will never be able to love another. If in your own life the lamp of love has not been lit, how will its light reach the neighbor? What you do not have, you cannot give.
We give only what we have. We may proclaim a thousand times that we give love—but we will give hatred. If that is what is in us, what can you do? Names do not change realities. Sticking a label doesn’t make it love. You may shout, “We give love,” yet you will hand out anger. If anger is there, anger is what you will give.
Buddha’s sutra is revolutionary. Jesus’ sutra seems to assume that you already love yourself—love your neighbor as yourself. But Buddha weighs every word.
He says, ‘If one regards oneself as dear…’
This is not yet a certainty; it is an “if.” It is not so; it could be so. But then your whole outlook on life will have to change. Love yourself—be “selfish”—only then will you be able to realize the Atman. And the wonder, the paradox is this: if you love yourself, you will necessarily love the other; otherwise you cannot. What you are, that alone will you share.
There is a famous incident in Rabia’s life. Somewhere in the Quran there is a saying: Hate Satan. She cut it out. A fakir, Hasan, was her guest. Early morning, reading the Quran, he saw the amendment and was shocked. A Muslim cannot even conceive it! To amend the Quran? It is the final book, just as Hindus insist theirs is the first book—before it there was none—so Muslims insist theirs is the last book—after it there will be none. Mohammed is the last prophet. God has sent His last message; no revision or amendment is needed nor allowed.
Hasan was alarmed. This is blasphemy! Who drew the line through it? Who corrected it? He ran and said to Rabia, “Look! Someone has desecrated your book.” Rabia said, “No one else—I did it. And I have not defiled it; it was defiled, I have made it pure. That sentence became intolerable to me. When I came to know love, then even if I had to give hatred to Satan, from where would I bring it? It no longer fits me. Having known love, living in love, soaked in love—now I have only love. Whether Satan stands before me or God stands before me, I am helpless—I can only give love. I can no longer even recognize who is Satan and who is God. For when has the eye of love discriminated? When has love known duality? You too should correct your book.”
If you love yourself, the beginning may look like self-interest, but the flowers of compassion will bloom from it. That is why I teach you “self-interest”; compassion arises from your own being. The error happened because you didn’t learn self-love, and began talking about altruism. Altruism has tortured the world severely. You did not change yourself, yet you set out to change others. You were not yet capable, no fragrance had blossomed in your life, and you began distributing. You filled the world with stench. You must have thought it was fragrance, but you had never known fragrance. You took what was inside you and called it fragrance.
Look around the world! People talk of peace and wars are born. They talk of love and the poison of hatred spreads. They talk of beauty and become more and more ugly. In temples, mosques, gurudwaras there are discussions of compassion and non-violence—and the earth is flooded with hatred and violence. And these are the very people who spread it.
Just look, observe humanity a little! In the mouths of those who speak of peace, swords are in the hands. Though they are clever: “for the protection of peace.” Now if peace too needs a sword for its protection, if war is needed to protect peace, drop this nonsense about peace. Then war alone is true. Then stop dreaming. At least know that you want war. Let war be the sole language of life. At least there will be consistency. Perhaps consistency may wake you someday.
This deception does not allow awakening. You remain deceived. The hand keeps swinging the sword, cutting throats, while the tongue speaks of love and peace. With one hand you release doves of peace, and with the other you cut human throats. From the same hand that lets doves fly, bombs are made. At least see this contradiction!
We all preach—we sow seeds of poison from the very beginning. A child is born; the mother says, “Love me, I am your mother.” First, to the unknowing child, someone should have taught: Love yourself. Then he will love the mother too. The mother is far. Attānaṁ ce piyaṁ—first, love yourself.
No one teaches the child to love himself. Everyone is teaching—mother: “Love me, I am your mother”; father: “Love me, I am your father”; brother: “Love me, I am your brother”; guru: “Love me”—the whole world begs love from him. The very first step goes wrong. No one sees that he has not yet loved himself; this house is still dark, the lamp unlit—and you demand light from him! The flower has not yet bloomed and you insist on fragrance. Let it bloom first.
In a better world, we would first teach the child: Love yourself. Forget all else for now. First strengthen your legs, spread your roots in the soil of love, let the flowers of love bloom—then you will distribute; you will become burdened, you will have to share.
Remember: we do not love another out of pity. We love because we are burdened with love; then we love. As in the monsoon, the clouds gather, heavy with rain, burdened. Do not think they rain to heal the cracks of the earth, to quench the land’s thirst. No, they cannot contain themselves—so they rain. They are too full—so they rain. Without sharing they cannot remain. If they do not rain, the burden persists; they must rain.
The sun does not share its rays so that your dark night may end. What has the sun to do with your darkness? How has the sun ever known darkness? Has it ever met it? When did the sun come to know darkness? It has no news of darkness. What concern is the sun’s with you? What relation?
No—the sun is overflowing with light, so it shares. If it does not share, it will be crushed under its own weight. If the cloud does not rain, what then? Pain becomes intense, anguish, anxiety. It will go mad. If the cloud is to remain healthy, it must rain.
If you are full of love, to remain healthy you will have to give love. This is not pity upon another. It is compassion toward oneself. It is understanding. It has nothing to do with sentimental kindness. Therefore Buddha says: where there is prajna, karuna follows like a shadow. Where there is understanding, compassion follows like a shadow. Understanding is the real thing; compassion and the rest are adornments—they happen by themselves.
‘If one regards oneself as dear.’
But who regards himself as dear? This “if” is immense. It sits upon your chest like a rock. After observing thousands of people, examining them closely, trying to resolve their life-problems, I have seen that people hate themselves; love is far away. People are filled with hard dislike. People are fed up with themselves, harassed by themselves. People want to escape themselves. You can see this urge to escape in many ways, if you become alert.
Understand. Whenever you stand before a mirror, haven’t you wished your nose were a little longer? That your eyes were more fish-shaped? That your lips were more rosy? That there were more blush upon your face? What kind of face has God given! No complaint arises? Even the most beautiful feels complaint. Even the most beautiful cannot accept, “Yes, this is exactly my capacity, this is my deserving.” “What have You made me? There must be some mistake somewhere.”
And the mind is fond of finding faults. Break a tooth, then watch—your tongue keeps going there. A thousand exhortations will not help; when the tooth was there, the tongue never went! Now the tooth is missing; the empty place pulls the tongue. The mind relishes the lack.
So the mind looks at what is not, and does not see what is. You do not see that you have two eyes. You could have been blind. You do not overflow with gratitude: Lord, You gave me eyes! I did nothing to deserve them; I did no virtue to earn eyes. If You had not given, what could I have done? Had You not given, whom would I complain to? Where would I bang my head? Those to whom You have not given—what are they doing? What can they do? Who sits there in the empty sky to hear? You gave eyes!
But no, gratitude does not arise. You did not give the fish-shaped curve to the eye—and poets sing of fish-shaped eyes! You gave teeth—uneven, coarse. Not a string of pearls. Pearls that shine in the dark! So the poets say. What are these dirty, yellow, uneven teeth that make one ashamed to laugh? One is afraid the teeth may show. People call laughter “baring one’s teeth.” But that You gave teeth—there is no thank you. You did not give according to my fantasy—there is complaint.
This is not only before the mirror; this is the story of your whole life. Someone taller appears, and you suddenly shrink within. What has been done? Only five feet? Five feet six? And there are people walking around at six feet! Why so small? Whatever you have, you do not see it.
I have heard, a little dwarf of a man went to a circus office. He wanted to meet the manager. They let him in, for circuses are curious about such people. And in the note he had sent he had written, “I am the largest small man in the world.” The manager was surprised—the largest small man! “Call him.” He saw a dwarfish man standing—barely four feet. “Who gave you the idea you are the largest?” He said, “Read carefully: among small men, I am the largest. The largest small man. There are dwarfs smaller than I. If you gather all the dwarfs together, I am the largest among them.”
This man must be very religious. Look at his vision. Learn something from him. He found greatness even within his smallness. He will be able to love himself. You have found smallness even within your greatness, so you will hate. There must be some worthiness for love. How will you love? You have only condemned yourself. Not only the body, but the mind, the intellect—everything. And from all sides you have received condemnation.
Mother said, “Do not do this; that is wrong.” Father said, “Do not go there; that is wrong.” But you wanted to go there. What will you do now? If you go, you break with those upon whom your life depends. The price seems too high. You felt like going to the cinema and had no desire to go to the temple. But going to the cinema did not seem valuable enough to break with those upon whom you depend—upon whom your breath moves, who fill your stomach, whose roof shelters you. To anger them is too costly. You wanted to go to the cinema; you went to the temple.
Now you will blame yourself, burn within, “What dirty desires arise in me—to go to the cinema. In me arise such filthy urges, and to go to the temple—no urge arises; even when I go there, no urge arises; even there, I feel like escaping. What else will you do but condemn yourself!”
Condemnation will arise within. You will say, “I am bad. The whole world seems good. Look—people sit in temples and pray. And I, a sinner, wanted to go to the cinema.”
You do not know that most of those sitting in the temple are in the same state. They too wanted to go. But they too had parents who trained them. And to this day they are writhing within. They wanted to go somewhere else, and have arrived somewhere else.
Now the difficulty is: if you go to the temple while you wanted to go to the cinema, a sense of guilt is born in you. Self-condemnation arises: “Some evil voice is in me, some voice of Satan; there is no call of God in me; I am a sinner.” If you go to the cinema, you will not be able to watch peacefully. Even there, the inner voice will go on condemning: “What have I done? What kind of impulse is mine? Why did I not go to the temple? I have made an expensive mistake.”
The whole education of life is such that it produces self-condemnation. Love can hardly be born. Love becomes possible only when you are accepted as you are. When you are accepted for what you are. When your family takes you to heart as you are. No talk of transforming you. No question of changing you. No longing that you should be otherwise.
But such a world has not yet been born. Such a family has not yet arisen. Others’ ambitions still run you. Then it goes on the whole life: wife runs the husband, husband runs the wife. When you were a son, the father ran you. When you become a father, by then you have learned the tricks, you will run your son. People repeat—trace the same lines again.
Sometimes watch carefully: when you are scolding your son, look within—could it be that your father is speaking through you? You will find him speaking. You are only a computer. Your father inserted that tape into your mind; you are repeating it. You are merely repeating—mechanically. You did not love yourself, nor will you allow another to love himself.
This world’s sickness is collective. If only a person here and there were sick, it would be all right. Here, all are sick. The miracle is that someone here and there becomes healthy. Thus Buddha says, “if.” This “if” is big, not small. Not of grammar—of existence.
‘If one regards oneself as dear.’
If you love yourself, your life will change. There will be a beginning of dharma—religion—in your life. You will pass through a revolution. The greatest revolution is to love oneself. For then you will walk differently, sit differently. Then you will remain aware in the smallest things.
One who loves himself takes care of himself. One who loves himself guards himself well. One who loves himself keeps watch over himself.
Your watch is elsewhere. I see people whose attention is on wealth, not on themselves. They must be loving wealth. For wealth they will die, lay down life.
It is said, Mulla Nasruddin was caught by thieves. They said, “Hand over all you have—keys, bank accounts—or we will take your life. Speak—what will you do?” He said, “Brothers, at least let me think!” “There are only two choices,” they said. “Either give the money, or we take your life.” He said, “Let me think.” He stalled. The thieves said, “Hurry, what is there to think?” He said, “Then you had better take my life, because money has been earned with great difficulty, and it will be useful in old age. Life—after all—came free. Not earned. And if the money goes but the life is saved, what will I do with it? If life goes and money remains, all is well.”
Do not laugh. This is exactly your condition. You sell your life, and collect money. You sell your breath in the marketplace, your very soul, for a few coins. Then, having collected money, you die. What else do you do all your life? You only collect. You go on losing yourself. You collect things, build a big house, fill a strongbox, have acres of land registered in your name. You call this love? You are murderers—you are suicidal.
Those who swallow poison and die and you—there is no fundamental difference. They die swallowing poison; you die swallowing wealth. They die swallowing poison; you die swallowing houses. If there is a difference, it is only this: they are a bit courageous; you are cowards. You die slowly; they die all at once. You die in small coins—one sixteenth one day, another day a little—this is how you die. To complete the full rupee you take seventy or eighty years. They die one full rupee at once, straight and direct. The difference between you and them is only of cowardice and courage; it cannot be of quality. You also die.
Remember: if you had loved yourself, when the opportunity came, you would have lost wealth, but saved yourself. That is what Buddha is saying. Attānaṁ ce piyaṁ—one who loves himself will protect himself.
Reconsider your life—what have you been doing up to now? What sort of bargain have you been running?
Jesus said: Whoever seeks to save his life will lose it.
It will seem the opposite of Buddha, but it is not. The meaning is the same; the modes of speaking differ. Jesus says: whoever seeks to save himself…
Why do you collect wealth? Your logic is: to save ourselves. Why build a big house? To be safe. Even the one who destroys his life in filling the safe, his reason is the same: “I am arranging security.”
Jesus says: Whoever saves himself shall lose himself.
This is not a way of saving; it is a way of losing. This safety is false. What is real safety? What you call safety is not safety, because it stands on self-hatred. And what Buddha calls safety is of an altogether different order.
The day he left home, the charioteer said, “What madness are you doing? Such a home, such wealth, wife, father, mother, a full house—where are you running? And you are the heir! The only son of the king. Leaving this wealth, where are you going? Have you gone mad?” Buddha said, “I go in search of wealth.” “Leaving security, where are you going?” Buddha said, “I go in search of security.”
The old man must have thought him mad. Who could be more secure than this? In palaces, in an empire—who is more safe than the only son of the king? Flowers are spread upon his path. Luxury all around. He has never known thorns. Where is he running? But Buddha says, “In search of security. Back there, what you call ‘palace,’ I see only flames of fire. In the end there will only be the pyre. The preparations for the pyre are underway—run! The sooner you leave, the better!”
So what you call safety, Buddha calls foolishness. What Buddha calls safety—you have to understand what that is.
‘If one regards oneself as dear, let one keep oneself well-guarded.’
This safety is not of bank balance. This safety is of the wealth of the Self. Become possessed of yourself. Ownership by another is false, for death will snatch it away. Measures against death are futile, for death will shatter your every measure.
I have heard, a certain emperor, out of fear of death, built a palace. He built it such that there was not a single window in it. Only one door for going in and out. He put guard upon guard at the door. Guards upon guards had to be placed, for a single guard—who knows? He might betray you, conspire with the enemy. So a guard upon the guard, and another upon that one, in rows.
Then he took his neighboring emperor to show the palace. The neighbor was astonished. “Security is excellent. I will also build such a palace. Send me your craftsmen.” When they stood at the door talking, a beggar sitting nearby began to laugh at their conversation. When the visiting emperor said, “You have arranged excellent security. There is no danger now in this palace—no one can enter within—no question of peril,” the beggar laughed. Both turned and asked, “Why did you laugh? It is discourteous.”
The beggar said, “Let it be discourtesy, but I could not help laughing—and cannot remain silent either.” “What do you want to say?” He said, “I sit here daily—this is where I beg—I have watched this palace rise. I see one danger: since there is one door, through this door death will enter. No one else may enter. Do one thing: go inside and have this door also closed. Then no one can come in.”
The king said, “You are mad! If I go inside and have the door closed, I will be dead while alive. It will be a tomb.” “Now you understand why I laughed,” said the beggar. “It is already a tomb—it has only one door.”
Make as many securities as you like—how will you escape death? And if you make too many securities, this itself becomes death. What you have so far called safety—what is it but death? In the name of safety you have not saved life—you have squandered it.
What does Buddha call safety? He says, there is safety in knowing the inner truth. There is safety in recognizing who you are. There is safety in becoming aware of your nature, in awakening. For the one who awakens to That has no more death. Death is because of your unconsciousness. It only seems you die.
‘The wise must keep vigil in at least one of the three watches of the night.’
Buddha defines “pundit” as prajnavan—the one who is awakened. Not as one who knows the scriptures, a knower of the Veda. For Buddha, the pundit is the awakened.
At least in one of the three watches—be awake. Which three? Human consciousness is divided in three parts—jagrat, swapna, sushupti. Eight hours you are awake; eight hours you dream; eight hours you sleep. It is not necessary that when you say you are awake, you are awake. It should be so, but it is not so. What you call waking is almost no waking—the dream goes on within, sleep holds you.
You sit, someone suddenly asks, “What are you doing?” You say, “Nothing.” But is this answer true? You were dreaming. You should have said, “I had fallen into a daydream.” Or, “I was dreaming while awake.” You say, “Nothing.” In saying “nothing,” you are protecting yourself. To speak of dreaming seems silly, so you say “nothing.” But what are you hiding in that “nothing”?
Have you ever found yourself empty when you are “free”? The moment you are free, dreams gather, the crowd comes, the marketplace fills. How many times have you not seen yourself become the President in your dreams! How many times a great emperor! How many times have you not married empresses! How many times have you not become whatnot—while awake! Leave aside sleep; that is yet harder to account. Even while “awake,” you are asleep.
So Buddha says: at least let your waking be waking; later we will see further. Display at least this much intelligence: in those eight hours you are awake—be awake. At least one watch—be awake. If your waking becomes true waking, if for eight hours you remain without dream, if for one watch you remain without dream—no thoughts in the mind, no fixed notions, no ripples arising—only awareness: walking—aware; sitting—aware; eating—aware; within, a clear light, no smoke at all—then you will be surprised; you will no longer be able to dream at night either. Night and day have nothing to do with dreams. Dreams relate to your unconsciousness. Then even while the body sleeps, you will be awake. Right now, even while the body seems awake, you are asleep.
You remember Krishna’s famous line; remember also its counterpart, though it is not in the Gita: yā niśā sarva-bhūtānām, tasyām jāgarti saṁyamī—when all are asleep, the man of restraint remains awake. Even at night. From outside you may see him sleeping; but only the body sleeps; consciousness does not sleep. The lamp of awareness goes on burning. The body rests; it needs rest, because only the body becomes tired.
Understand it this way: when you feel hunger, it is only the body that is hungry. Consciousness does not hunger. When you eat, only the body is fed. Consciousness is not fed. The body labors, is tired—needs rest. It is the body’s account. The body becomes ill—needs medicine. The medicine does not enter your consciousness.
Consciousness stands beyond—beyond labor and rest; beyond health and illness; in hunger, in thirst, in eating—beyond. Consciousness is that which sees. When you feel hunger, it is Consciousness that knows hunger has arisen; the body is that which is hungry. When satiety comes, it is Consciousness that knows. The body is that which is satisfied. Thirst burns the throat—the throat is the body. The knower of burning is Consciousness. You find a cool spring, you drink to contentment—the one satisfied is the body; the one who knows it is Consciousness.
That is why the dead feel no hunger—keep them for days, they remain “hungry,” yet the knower is absent. A man unconscious lies there—thirst burns, but he will not know. The throat burns, but the knower is absent—unconscious. Drunk—alcohol has broken the bridges between consciousness and body. Alcohol casts its darkness; the bridges that bind consciousness to body loosen. They cannot pass on the information. As when the telephone line is out of order—here you hold the phone, there your friend holds his—but no use. Alcohol has disturbed the bridges in-between.
Therefore, before an operation, one is made unconscious. Unconscious means simply that the bridges are numbed. Consciousness remains consciousness, body remains body, but the two are not connected. Cut the body—there will be pain, yes, but the one who could know it is absent.
The yogi remains awake even in deep sleep. And the converse is also true: you remain asleep even in the bright light of midday.
Catch yourself asleep-asleep. Shake yourself again and again. Remind yourself again and again—What are you doing? You will find, again and again, the nod overtakes you.
Gurdjieff told his disciples: keep a clock before you, fix your eyes on the second hand. Do only this: for one full minute—sixty seconds—do not forget the second hand. When it completes one circle, then relax. But for sixty seconds, do not forget—go on watching, go on remaining aware—without a gap, even for a moment. Disciples came and said, “Very difficult.”
Try it—you will find it very difficult. For two or three seconds it feels like awareness; then you are lost—reached the market, began buying things—then suddenly you remember, “Ah!” Two or three seconds already gone. Then somehow you pull yourself back, bind yourself; two or three seconds—and gone again.
You do not stay at home. You never stay here; always elsewhere, always elsewhere. Forever traveling. You never arrive home. You cannot remain aware even for one minute. The one who remains aware for one watch—Buddha calls him a pundit.
Mahavira has said: the one who remains aware for forty-eight minutes becomes a Buddha. Forty-eight minutes—it seems so simple. Try forty-eight seconds; then you will know. Forty-eight minutes! Mahavira said: if you remain aware for forty-eight minutes, nothing can hinder your Buddhahood—your liberation. But by awareness he means continuous—without missing for even one moment, without falling, forgetting, wandering. Forty-eight minutes will feel like forty-eight lifetimes. In those forty-eight minutes you will fall asleep more than forty-eight times. Again a nod—and then a jolt, “Ah!”
Gurdjieff gave this experiment to show you: drop your illusion that you are awake. Such a small thing you cannot do. We think we do so much work—so we must be awake. We drive the car home, we run the shop all day, we do our office work—could we do all this asleep? We must be awake.
No, the conclusion is wrong. You do so much like a robot. You have learned how to do it; you no longer need awareness for it. When you are driving, you are thinking of a thousand things—you are not driving. Driving is being done by your mechanical body. You have become skilled; awareness is not needed. People smoke, sing, listen to the radio in the car—and still drive. Have you noticed—the body, like a machine, turns where it should; goes left, goes right—you arrive home. Because of this you think you are very aware—you reach your house every day.
Do not mistake skill for awareness. Thus scientists say: sooner or later, airplanes will be flown without pilots. A machine will fly them.
I have heard—the first experiment was done to fly without a pilot. One passenger was fearful. With a pilot he was already anxious; without a pilot, who knows whether it will land or not! He went to the officer at the airport: “Reassure me. When the belts must be fastened, will someone say, ‘Fasten your belts’? When to unfasten them—will someone say so? When to start smoking, when to stop—will someone say?” The officer said, “Of course. But listen carefully—because if a voice says, ‘Unfasten your belts,’ and you say, ‘What?’—understand you are speaking to yourself. There is no one there—it is a tape. It will mechanically repeat everything.”
They say when machines fly, accidents will be fewer. You will be surprised. Where the machine comes in, efficiency increases—you know this. Man makes mistakes; machines do not. So merely because you do not make mistakes, do not think you are very aware. Machines do not make mistakes at all; machines only repeat what they know.
When you first learn to drive, the difficulty is not because of the car; the difficulty is because of awareness. To learn, you need a little awareness—otherwise how will you learn?
Therefore Krishnamurti says: one who would live in awareness must go on learning—learning, always learning. He should not, even for a moment, settle into “I have learned.” The moment you say, “I have learned,” awareness goes. “I have learned” means: now there is no need for awareness; the body will do it. Learned typing—finished. Learned driving—finished. Learned a language—finished. No need to keep account.
People mutter even in sleep—can utter grammatically correct sentences in sleep. That doesn’t mean they are awake. Even in sleep you speak your own language—you do not begin speaking someone else’s. In unconsciousness you do not err that, since you are asleep, you start speaking anyone’s language. Your own language comes.
A friend of mine lived in Germany twenty years. He fell ill. German had become like his mother tongue. He had practically forgotten his own. During his illness, in delirium, he would mutter—but he would not speak German! The doctors were in trouble—what was he saying? They had to find an Indian. Even the language of twenty years back is preserved in the body’s mechanism; in unconsciousness it becomes active again.
That is why you do not forget—once having learned to swim, you have learned; learned to drive, learned. It has gone into the body, into the mechanism.
Only that person attains wisdom who is never “a knower,” who keeps learning. Only he is worthy to be a guru whose discipleship is total—who keeps learning, goes on learning—till his last breath. Because only by learning can you remain awake. Thus knowledge is not of value; learning is of value.
‘If one regards oneself as dear, let one keep oneself well-guarded. The wise must remain awake in at least one of the three watches.’
Only then is he a pundit. To understand the meaning of safety: safety is in awakening to oneself. Safety is in waking up the inner guard. Safety is in dissolving the inner darkness with the inner lamp. Safety is in awareness, in remembrance, in dhyana. But all this becomes possible only if you love yourself. And all around, people are pulling you: do not love yourself.
The wife says, “Love me—I am your wife. You took seven rounds around the fire, remember?” The wife says, “Now you do not seem to love as you seemed to before. Remember those old days!” The husband says, “Love me—I am your husband; and the husband is God!” All are saying to each other, “Love me.” No one looks to see whether there is any raincloud of love within or not. If there is no cloud, however much you try—how will you do it? At most, you can pretend.
Hence, in the world there is much pretending of love, advertisement of love—not love. What is not there must be concealed; so the advertisement must be loud. People shout only that which is not. In this way you deceive others—and there is danger you may deceive yourself too. Repeated lies begin to sound like truths. From all sides the demand upon you is: Give love! No one tells you: Be love. I tell you: Be love. Giving will happen by itself.
Koi nāsih koi dost hai koi ghamkhvār
Sabne mil ke mujhe dīvānā banā rakhā hai
One preacher, one friend, one sympathizer—each says, “Do this.” From all sides you are pulled—“Do this, do that.” No one says, “Become.” What they tell you to do serves their interest, not yours.
Koi nāsih koi dost hai koi ghamkhvār
Sabne mil ke mujhe dīvānā banā rakhā hai
Man is going mad. Almost all are mad. The pulling is too much. One pulls the hand, another pulls the leg. Man is torn to pieces.
Be alert. Love yourself. Shake off these hands. Say: First allow me to set my roots. I will give you shade—but first let me spread my roots. Let my leaves unfurl, let my flowers arrive, let my branches spread into the sky. I will certainly give you shade; wait, rest—when the fruits ripen, eat. But first let me take root.
You are like a seed, and someone asks for shade. You are like a seed, someone says, “Give fruit.” You are like a seed, someone says, “Where are the flowers? Bring flowers.” And in their prattle, their demands, you begin trying—“Where shall I bring flowers from? Let me go to the market and buy. On credit if needed. Let me put plastic flowers. Let me deceive with shade. I will talk of shade: ‘See how dense my shade is—come, rest.’”
Awaken from this deception. That is why Buddha says—
Attānaṁ ce piyaṁ…
‘If you regard yourself as dear, safeguard yourself.’
Often, seeds die as seeds—never bloom.
Āh un tāroñ kī khuṅgashta tamanna-e-numūd
Jo ubharthē hī ufaq se jhilmilā ke rah gaye
Alas, the starry longings for emergence that, just as they rose upon the horizon, only flickered and were gone.
This is man’s condition. Everyone arrives with great longing—to blossom, to flower, to spread, to fragrance the sky; to spread wings and fly. But it rarely happens. Sometimes, once in a while. The one in whom it happens we call a Buddha.
It could happen to all. But you did not safeguard yourself. You were not careful. You did not awaken. It is not that awareness never visits you. Many times in life you feel: Something must be done. What is happening? Where am I being wasted? On which dark road am I wandering? Why is life slipping out of my hands? Why is everything breaking? It is not that awareness never visits. Sometimes it does—but again you fall back into old habits.
Mind lives by habit. Awareness lives against habit. If you want to awaken awareness, rise above habit. There lies the difficulty, there lies tapas. Otherwise, at the time of death you will find yourself weeping. People often weep when dying. Eyes grow wet because in a life where so much could have been attained, they gathered only rubbish. And now—even if they want to throw the rubbish away—there is no meaning left. Life itself is going.
Huā eḥsās paidā mere dil meñ tark-e-dunyā kā
Magar kab jab ki dunyā ko zarūrat hī na thī merī
The feeling to renounce the world arose in my heart—but when? When the world had no need of me at all.
At death, who does not wish to sannyas? At death, everyone wants to renounce.
I have heard, a man was about to be hanged. Taken to the gallows. Placed upon the platform. The guards asked, “Any last wish? A cigarette?” He said, “No.” “A drink?” “No.” They said, “You seem very pure, very pious!” He said, “Do not be mistaken. I am making my last attempt to give up cigarettes and alcohol. So far, I have not succeeded—and now, only a moment remains and the rope will be around my neck. At least I can say, before God: I have left everything.”
You cannot deceive like this. What you clung to in life—do not talk of leaving it in death. For then it is only being snatched away. What you could not renounce—when it is snatched, you say, “I left it.” You deceive yourself—the grapes were sour.
‘First establish yourself well in what is right; then instruct others. Thus the wise will not fall into distress.’
Attānam eva paṭhamaṁ patirūpe nivesaye.
‘First establish yourself in the fitting; then instruct others.’
If your life is not itself instruction, then all instructions are vain. If I tell you something that has not blossomed in me, there is no possibility it will blossom in you. If I say something to you which I have not known, I waste your time and mine. Often the ego sets out to reform others. The ego has a great ambition to be a guru.
I have heard, a youth came to an ashram. “Accept me as a disciple,” he said to the guru. The guru said, “It is difficult. You will have to do tapas. You will have to live in discipline.” “What will I have to do? What is the work?” The guru said, “First, cut wood from the forest—the winter is near. Then there is much work in the kitchen; go there. Then the garden must be sown. There is work in the fields—you will be there.” He said, “All right, this I understand—what is the guru’s work here?” The guru said, “The guru sits and instructs people.” He replied, “Then do one thing—make me a guru too.”
The desire to be a guru is natural. That is why everyone goes on giving advice. Advice that has not even worked for oneself. Advice that one will not remember when trouble comes. Have you ever caught yourself giving advice to others which you yourself have never used? Someone gets angry—you say, “Why poison your life?” But when you get angry—do you remember? Often, the very ones you advise will advise you in the same words.
Someone died in a house. I went there. People were weeping; some were consoling. Those who were consoling surprised me. Only those who have understood death can console. I listened carefully. They said, “The Atman is immortal—why weep? This is but a change of clothes. The body is like worn-out garments.” They quoted the Gita, the Upanishads. I thought: these people are certainly wise.
A few months later, someone died in their house. I went there—they were weeping. And I was even more surprised: the ones they had consoled earlier were now consoling them, with the same words: “The Atman is immortal—why weep?”
We go on giving to one another what we do not have. Be a little cautious.
‘First establish yourself in what is right; then instruct others. Thus the wise will not fall into distress.’
Do not spend your time in trying to awaken others. If you leave without understanding, you will fall into great distress.
And the irony is: no one takes your advice anyway. What is given most in the world is advice. And what is taken least is also advice. Who takes anyone’s advice? People listen out of courtesy, decorum. Otherwise, who takes advice! Do not give it. No need. Do not waste time.
Tujhe kyūñ fikr hai ai gul dile-sad-chāke-bulbul kī
Tū apne pairahan ke chāk to pehle rafū kar le
Why worry, O rose, for the hundred-wounded heart of the nightingale?
First darn the tears of your own garment.
Mend your own tattered clothes first. Then go to advise others. Perhaps your mended garment will itself become instruction and message for others. There is no greater message than a life lived. From one who has lived, advice begins to flow by itself—and people take it only from such a one. No one takes it from one who has not lived.
‘Let a man make himself such as he instructs others to be. Well subdue himself. Self-subdual is difficult indeed.’
Become what you ask others to be. You want others to be truthful? Become truthful—others want the same. You want others not to be angry? Do not be angry. You want others to be loving? Become love. Take this as a sutra—a precious sutra. With it you can assay religion. Whatever you want others to do, to be—be that yourself. That alone is your scripture. Seek nowhere else. Just look within: What is my longing—how should people be? You do not want the neighbor to throw garbage into your yard—then do not throw into his.
Yesterday I read a story. A gentleman—a Lucknavi—was traveling by train. He sat with his feet stretched out on the opposite seat. All the while he chewed paan and spat on the floor. Two or three people said, “Brother, what are you doing?” But he was stubborn, quarrelsome. “What am I doing? Is it anyone’s father’s carriage? You do as you please. I have paid for my ticket!” People kept quiet to avoid a quarrel.
When Lucknow station came, he got down. He sent the porter to get his bedding. The porter dragged his brand new bedding across the same floor—and it became as modern-art colored as you can imagine. He was furious: “You worthless man!” Someone peeped from the coach and said, “This porter is not great—the great one was the man who spat on the floor. This one is a small culprit. Now you have nothing to say!”
Remember: whatever you want others to do to you, do that to them. This is the essence-sutra. And whatever you want others to be so that you would be pleased—be that yourself, so they may be pleased. So simple. No need to search in the Vedas, the Quran, the Bible. Engrave this small line upon your heart and walk accordingly. You will not go astray. Liberation will not be able to escape you. And wherever God hides, He will have to lift His veil.
‘Let a man make himself such as he instructs others to be. Well subdue himself.’
In Buddha’s time “subdual” (daman) was a highly esteemed word. After Freud, its meaning changed. Daman then did not mean repression or suppression. “Dam” meant calm. One who calms his passions—not one who represses them. Now “repression” means to push down. Buddha’s “daman” meant: attain to “dam”—to calmness.
There is a vast difference. Anger arises—if you repress it, you are not silent; you have merely not expressed your turmoil. You swallowed the poison—kept it in the chest. No one may know, not a whisper. On the surface you smiled—a painted, false smile—inside you pressed the anger down. But it will come out. It will come out somewhere. It will wait for a weak moment. It will erupt upon someone where the price seems less to pay. You repressed it before the boss—it will fall on the servant. You repressed it before the strong—it will fall on the weak.
But this is not Buddha’s daman. Buddha says: understand, awaken. When anger arises, hold awareness. Do not repress anger; do not bring a false smile—but hold awareness. As awareness is held, anger dissolves. There is nothing to repress. There is nothing left to push down.
One who sees with awareness finds this: it is as if I send you into a dark house with a lamp and say, “Go, search out the darkness—where it is.” If you obey me, you will return empty-handed. For if you go with a lamp to see the darkness, you will not find it. Darkness is found only if you go in darkness. If you go with a lamp—where is darkness?
Buddha’s daman means: if you go with awareness, there is nothing left to repress. It becomes calm. Try being angry with full awareness. Decide to be angry—be angry—and remain aware as you do it: “Look, I am being angry—here is anger.” Suddenly you will find the juice is gone; anger becomes impotent. Its legs give way; it falls flat, prostrate. You cannot lift it. The life of anger is in your unconsciousness.
So do not take Buddha’s “daman” as Freud’s repression. This is a language of twenty-five centuries ago. Word-meanings change with time. Words travel far. Words have long stories. They change as people change, as fashions change.
The other day I joked—speaking of a Sindhi guru—I said, “A Sindhi—and a guru!” Some Sindhi must have felt hurt. He wrote to me, “Are you against Sindhis?” I said, “I myself am Sindhi. Here, all are Sindhi.”
He was startled. He did not know the history of the word. “Hindu” comes from “Sindhu.” When the Persians first came to India, they could not pronounce “s,” in their tongue “s” is “h.” They called the Sindhu river “Hindu”—and those living around it “Hindis.” From this came “Hindustan.” When the word reached Greece, their tongue had no “h”—they said “Ind,” and from that “India.” But all are born of “Sindhi.”
I said, “We are all Sindhis—why be upset? And I was praising. I meant: a Sindhi—and a guru! Being Sindhi is already to be a ‘guru’ in one sense; why need to be a guru twice? That becomes a maha-guru—a guru-ghantal, as they say!”
Words travel far. Their stories are fascinating. With time, they change. What was once good becomes bad; what was bad becomes good.
“Devil” was once a beautiful word, from the Sanskrit root “div,” from which “deva” arises. The story is: the one they call “devil”—Beelzebub—was once a deva. He rebelled against God and was thrown down. He was a deva—hence “devil.” But now, call someone “devil,” he will be angry; call someone “deva,” he will be pleased. Both come from the same root. From the same “div” comes “divine.” No difference—and yet what a difference now. This happens again and again. Time’s river flows; words change.
When Buddha, Mahavira, Patanjali use “daman,” in their era it was a highly honored word. It meant: one whose passions are calmed—because he is awake. When you awaken, passions fall asleep. When passions awaken, you fall asleep. Both cannot be awake together; both cannot live in the same house together.
Freud’s meaning of repression relates to Christianity. Christianity learned repression. The sutras Jesus spoke—Christianity could not understand. Jesus brought those sutras from India. He planted the saplings—but they did not take root. It is difficult. Each culture is a climate. Carry a mango sapling from India to England—it will not grow well. If it somehow grows, the mangoes will not come. If they come, they will not have this taste. Sun is needed, heat is needed for the mango to ripen. Then the cuckoo is needed—without its call, the mango does not ripen. A special air is needed, a special ecology. Everything is interconnected.
Jesus took the seeds—but what was “daman” for Buddha, in Christianity became Freud’s “repression.” “Let anger be calmed”—this was forgotten. “Calm anger by force”—this remained. Push it down. Seemed simple. Awakening oneself is difficult; pushing down appears easy.
Then Freud’s birth became inevitable. For repression seated humanity upon a volcano. Whatever was repressed, seeped into blood, flesh, marrow. Christianity repressed sex so much, so much, that to Freud it began to appear that man is nothing but sex.
Think about it. In this, Freud is less to blame—Christianity more. It is as if you go on pressing pus here and there until it spreads throughout the body. Then a physician examines and finds pus everywhere; he says, “There is no blood at all—only pus.” This is exactly what happened to Freud. Wherever he touched man, he found sex enthroned. He was amazed: “Everywhere sex! The whole of life is sex.”
I read a Jewish joke: Human history has been dominated by five Jews. They are brilliant people. First—Moses: he said, all is in the head. Then—Jesus: he said, all is in the heart. Then—Karl Marx: he said, all is in the stomach. Then—Freud: he said, all is just a little lower than the stomach! And then came the fifth Jew—Albert Einstein: he said, all is relative.
Freud found everything just below the stomach—not his fault. Those who came to him were Christians—sex had been pressed into their blood, spread everywhere. He observed the sick. And whenever someone is mentally ill, he is full of sexual energy. He hardly ever saw a healthy man. Not his fault—a healthy man is hard to find.
If only he had encountered a Buddha! He would have found that in the blood, in every fiber, every thread—only Ram—only God—is. No sex anywhere. He would be astonished. Here, there is no sign of sex. Here sex has been transformed. He would not find anger; he would find compassion. All would be reversed. He would meet man on the highest peak of health. He would not meet man; he would meet Godhead.
Buddha means peace—deep peace. You awaken—passions fall asleep.
‘Let a man make himself such as he instructs others to be. Well subdue himself. Self-subdual is difficult indeed.’
It is difficult—very difficult. Why? Because habits are powerful—of many lifetimes. The mind says: move by habit, for it is easy. What you have always done is easy. How many times have you done anger? Compassion—did you ever do it? You have forgotten.
A beggar stood at a door. He shouted, “Give me something; if nothing else, give me bread—many ages have passed since I tasted bread; I have forgotten the taste.” It was Mulla Nasruddin’s house. He came out: “Bread tastes the same as before—do not worry.” But he did not give bread. “The taste is the same as before—do not worry.” The beggar said, “I have even forgotten the taste.”
Look within. Do you remember the taste of compassion? Since when have you not tasted it? Did you ever taste it—you don’t even remember. Do you remember the taste of love? Of sex—yes. But love? If you look back, you won’t find a foothold. Everywhere, darkness. No lamp burning anywhere. Did you ever do it? Nothing is remembered.
Naturally the mind says: Do what you have always done. Do not venture into unknown paths—you will get lost. It is easy to move like the bullock bound to the oil-press. The known track. The mind’s policy is minimal resistance. New paths are full of struggle.
If you leave the highway, descend onto the hill-trail—there will be thorn-bushes, shrubs, you will have to make your way; no cemented pathway. Walk where all walk, where the crowd walks, where milestones line the way—arrows point the direction—where all is mapped.
But that is exactly where you have always walked. There are anger, sex, hatred, enmity, jealousy, greed, attachment—but no sign of godliness. Therefore it is difficult. But do not fear the difficult—for only through the difficult does ascent happen.
Huā kartī haiñ dushvārī se hī āsāniyāñ paidā
Baṛe nādān haiñ mushkil ko mushkil samajhte haiñ
Do not be foolish. Yes, it is difficult—but do not take difficulty as difficulty. Accept the challenge. However much habit entangles, invites, tempts—accept the challenge of the difficult. Accept the challenge of the peak. Long have you lived in valleys and darkness—now it is time to rise toward sunlit summits, toward golden pinnacles.
It will be difficult, dangerous—but what is a man who does not accept the challenge of the difficult! What is a man who does not raise his eyes toward the peaks, who averts his eyes lest he may have to climb, and keeps looking down—he will slowly become a worm of the earth, crawl on all fours. He will lose the right to stand upright. The right to stand is for him alone who looks up.
Mansoor was on the gallows. Someone asked, “Why do you look so joyous?” He was hanging from a high platform. He said, “I am happy because at least for the sake of my gallows you raised your eyes to look up. My death is fine—at least for a moment you looked up. You have always crawled upon the earth, eyes fixed below.”
Accept the challenge once; then the difficult will not remain difficult.
Rukte haiñ kahīñ dīvāroñ se, thamte haiñ kahīñ zanjīroñ se
Ijhāre-junūñ par āmāda jab qaidiye-zindāñ hote haiñ
Walls stop somewhere, chains hold somewhere—only as long as the prisoner is not ready to declare his madness for freedom. Once he is ready, no chain can hold him. You are stopped because you want to stop. Chains do not stop you. The moment you decide to break them, none can halt you—for you forged them yourself. They are the chains of your habits, the prison of your own conditioning. Do not fear. What seems so difficult at first, walking-walking becomes easy.
And once you taste the joy of a footpath, the joy of walking alone—who would want the stench of the crowd? Once you taste the juice of aloneness, once you meet the open sky—you will wonder how you managed so long in the crowd’s jostle and sweat. How? How was it possible? You will not be able to believe it.
Buddha has said: When I awakened, I could not believe I had slept so long. How was it possible? Why did I not awaken earlier? Waking is so sweet.
Therefore, in the beginning, even if darkness appears, do not be afraid.
Ye tārīkī to ‘ārijī hai, mat daro—
Yahāñ se dūr, kuchh pare, pe subah kā maqām hai.
This darkness is only temporary—do not fear. Just a little beyond lies the abode of dawn.
And remember: when dawn approaches, the night becomes very dark, very black. Only when the night is at its densest does the dawn draw near. The dense night is not an enemy—it is the womb. Do not mistake difficulty for the foe.
Āshiyāñ fūñkā hai bijlī ne jahāñ sau martabā
Phir unhīñ shākhõñ pe tarhe-āshiyāñ rakhtā hūñ maiñ
Lightning has burned my nest a hundred times—yet I build my nest again on those same branches.
Habits will topple you again and again. Lightning will burn the nest again and again. Do not be afraid—place your nest again upon the same branch. Do not be defeated by lightning. Do not be frightened by difficulty.
Buddha only hints: ‘Self-subdual is difficult.’
He says: Do not presume it is easy. If you presume ease, you will return soon. Know beforehand it is difficult—then there is no reason to retreat.
‘Man is his own master…’
This is Buddha’s supreme utterance.
Attāhi attano nātho.
Buddha denied God. Because he gave man such majesty that he could not accept a God above. Try to understand this.
To Buddha it always appeared: man is ultimate. The majesty of man is ultimate. If man comes to know himself, that very knowing is God. There is no other God before whom to bow, to worship, to praise. Buddha gave man the highest glory.
‘Man is his own master…’
Attāhi attano nātho ko hi nātho paro siyā—
‘…how can another be his master?’
Freedom is man’s supreme nature. Above him—no owner.
‘By well subduing himself he attains that rare mastery.’
It is hidden within you. Call it Paramatma, call it Atman—or whatever you like—but it is hidden within. You awaken; the senses fall asleep; passions become quiescent. Rise beyond the darkness of the senses, as the sun rises beyond the horizon. You become your own master.
Man has fabricated God—this too is man’s deception.
Mi‘yār ek ghaṛā hawishe-ikhtiyār ne
Allāh keh ke usko lagī khud pukārne
Man not only makes the world—he makes God too. But that too is man’s own image. And behind it is the desire to possess—to have control.
Hawishe-ikhtiyār ne—
The lust to be master. The desire to possess God.
Buddha says: This desire to possess another is the world. Sometimes the wife, sometimes the husband, sometimes wealth, sometimes position—always the other. Now you have fabricated God—
Mi‘yār ek ghaṛā hawishe-ikhtiyār ne…
When you were exhausted from all else, you created God—and now you want to possess Him. When will you possess yourself? When will you attain the attainer? This running after the other continues—even in religion, as in the world.
Buddha says: Attain the very source that wants to attain. Attain the spring itself. Even if you attain God—what then? You will still be “other.” Two remains, and where two are, there is conflict.
No—Buddha says: This entire race to attain is wrong.
Motī banne se kyā hāsil jab apnī haqīqat hī kho dī
Qatre ke liye behtar thā yahi—kulzum na sahi, dariyā hotā
What is the gain of becoming a pearl if you lose your very truth? For a drop it would be better—if not the ocean, become a lake.
Do not become something else. Even if you become a pearl—if you become “other,” nothing is gained. Be your nature. If you are a drop of water—if not the ocean, become a lake; if not a lake, become a stream. But drown in your own suchness. Dive into yourself.
Attāhi attano nātho—ko hi nātho paro siyā.
No other alien master is yours.
Attanā’va sudantena nāthaṁ labhati dullabhaṁ.
That extremely rare lordship—becoming a sovereign, owning yourself—if you become truly calm, if passions are calmed and thinned—then within you is your empire. You need not beg from anyone, nor conquer anyone—no aggression. Only regression—returning to the source. Come back—to where you started. To attain the beginning is to attain the end.
To this truth of man, none has given the majesty that Buddha has. Therefore, if Buddha is so beloved to humanity, it is not without cause. For Jesus there is God to be attained. For Krishna, for Rama—God to be attained. Buddha made man himself the form of God. Buddha said: Only you are to be attained. The seeker must seek the seeker. The journey is in the traveler. The goal is not elsewhere, separate from you—it is hidden within you.
Ai dost! Merī sust-rawī kā gilā na kar
Mere liye to khud merī manzil safar meñ hai
O friend, do not complain of my slow gait; for me my very destination is in the journey.
Even if I walk slowly, do not complain—
For me, my destination is in the journey. My being is my truth. My being is my reality.
Attāhi attano nātho!
Enough for today.