Es Dhammo Sanantano #58

The fundamental sutra behind the revolutionary vision Buddha gave is this: man is singly responsible. Not to anyone else—only to himself. If there is sin, man is responsible. If there is virtue, man is responsible. There is no way to shift it onto another. Buddha snatched from your hands the entire arrangement of postponement and excuse.
Buddha said: you shall not be able to say, “I did wrong because what else could I do—fate made me do it!” Nor will you be able to say, “When Paramatma wills the auspicious, then I shall do it; without His will nothing happens. Not even a leaf stirs.”
No—Buddha said—even a leaf stirs by its own will. These are evasions, pretexts. They belong to man’s dishonesty.
Look closely at what you call religion: is there not darkness hidden behind it? Is there not darkness under the lamp? Is it not that under the cover of religion you have hidden irreligion itself—so that even you cannot find it? Others will be deceived, of course; but you too are deceived.
You do the wrong and invoke destiny and fate. The good, you say, will be done when Paramatma makes it happen—“What occurs without His will?”
Buddha hurled you back upon yourself and said: your will is destiny. Your decision is fate. And God is hidden within you. Do not assemble conveniences to postpone Him elsewhere. This is how you have wandered birth after birth—how long will you keep wandering?
Is prayer perhaps an escape from Paramatma? By prayer are you trying to settle accounts cheaply—tangle gone, religion done—looking for simple tricks? You commit the sin and then go to the Ganga for a bath. You sinned—will the Ganga wash it? Whom are you deceiving? The Ganga? You are deceiving yourself. You did it—how will the Ganga wash it? You will have to wash it yourself.
It is your grime; you alone will wash it. There is no one else to do it. And so long as you say “Let someone else wash it, let someone else wash it,” you will go on increasing the grime. What is the final outcome? You return from bathing in the Ganga; the sins do not cease—you set to sinning again with a light heart, as if now there is more room to do more. As if you have been freed of old sins and are now free to make new ones—and a trick is learned: when they pile up again—well, the Ganga is not far; we shall bathe again.
Christians go to their priest to confess, to acknowledge their sins, then imagine they are forgiven. “We said it, we told it, we asked pardon!” The sin was done elsewhere, the apology sought elsewhere—what a deception! You abused someone else, you hurt someone else, you left wounds elsewhere—then you go to a church for forgiveness. Then the church too becomes a pretext—like the Ganga. You return home lighter, cheerful—the whole trouble is over.
You want to get off so cheaply! Think a little of those upon whom you left the wounds! If your body is dirty, will merely telling a priest “I have not bathed for days” make you clean? By telling a priest—how will bathing happen? Yes, your mind may feel lighter—“there was a thorn in the heart; I have spoken, I feel unburdened.” But unburdened—what will you do then? The same sin again. The same load you will gather again.
Buddha took away all of it. His revolution is radical—at the root. He cut the root. Hence people were angry with Buddha: “You will snatch away all our dreams! You will leave no illusion!”
Understand well: Buddha does not merely say the world is maya; he says your God is maya. Your shop is false—and your temple is false. Your sin is false—and your virtue is false. You are false. For you have not accepted the foundational truth: I am responsible. The revolution of life begins the day a person takes the reins into his own hands and says: good or bad, as I am—I am responsible.
Reflect a little: let this thought sink once—“I am responsible.” Let this arrow lodge in your life-breath—“I am responsible.” Let it be unforgettable; let it surround you waking and sleeping; let it saturate your air and your atmosphere; let it become a lamp burning within your mind—“I am responsible.” Will you still be able to sin as easily as before? “I am responsible”—you will place each step as if upon embers. They say, the one scalded by milk blows even upon buttermilk.
If once it comes alive in remembrance that “I have sinned—who will free me? Whom am I awaiting? No one will come. No one has ever come; no one ever will.” Close that door; end the waiting. Only you are. You alone came; you alone went. No one else came. You did it; you alone will undo it. You did the good; you did the bad. Responsibility is absolute—ultimate. No one can share it. Do not fire your guns from some God’s shoulder, and do not sin under the cover of pilgrimages.
Today’s sutras are in this very regard.
“Self-born, self-produced, and self-done sin destroys the foolish just as the vajra-jewel born of stone cuts the stone itself.”
“Self-born”—
Sin arises from you.
“Self-produced”—
It manifests through you; it lives by your support. You give it energy, you give it strength, you lend it company.
“Self-done sin”—
And upon whom are you doing it? Round and round, it all returns to you. Even when, in another’s name, you do what you do, you are doing it to yourself. Hurl an abuse at someone—it returns. Heavier, keener, more honed—its edge polished—and with a little poison upon it, it returns. Love someone—showers of rewards return.
Whatever you do with another—Buddha says—the other is only an excuse. All these letters you wrote in others’ names carry your own address. Post them, sealed and stamped—the postman will bring them back to your own door. In this world whatever you do—ultimately you do it to yourself.
“Self-done sin”—
Done only to yourself. Understand this deep thing—taste it. Whatever you have done has returned and returned. You criticized—criticism returned. You hated—hatred returned. This world is an echo. Hum a song—the whole world begins to hum. Laugh—the world laughs. Smile at the sky—and the sky seems to smile back. Look sadly at moon and stars—they too grow sad; tears seem to fall from their eyes. Your world is an expansion of your own mind.
Hence Buddha says: do not think you have sinned against another—for the moment you think so, you feel there will be a way to escape—some arrangement, some apology, some prayer, some worship—turn sin into merit. You stole a hundred thousand; give a little charity.
All thieves give alms. The theft grows heavy; by charity they feel lighter. All day they hate and rage; in the evening they do a little love—as if to balance.
“They who got lost in the tavern came back to prayers—
Thus now and then we arranged the afterworld too.”
When too much was drunk at the madhushala and the head spun, they ran to the mosque for namaz—thus handled this world also, and the other world too.
“They who got lost in the tavern came back to prayers—
Thus now and then we arranged the afterworld too.”
They kept arranging that other world as well. Clever people—skilled—good at business—good at arithmetic. They drink in the tavern and offer namaz in the mosque. They please the world and also keep God appeased. They steal—and then donate. Thieves have deities too. Before a theft they go to Hanuman and offer a coconut: “Please see to it we are not caught. If the theft succeeds, we’ll offer one more.” That the coconuts are rotten is another matter—but they offer them.
Buddha says: the deed is yours; it will return to you. There may be delay; the circle may be large or small. Sometimes it takes births to return—such a vast circle. If you shout and the echo must come from the moon and stars, it will take ages—but return it will—return from the last edges of the universe. You will not be here; you will be elsewhere. But it will return.
Hence often you are startled: “I never did wrong, why so much suffering?” You must have. Certainly. Nothing happens without cause.
Buddha’s vision is of a profoundly scientific logic. Whatever you get, you must have given. Whatever you reap, you must have sown. Whatever you experience, you must have created. We live in houses built by our own hands.
“Self-born, self-produced, and self-done sin destroys the foolish, just as the vajra-jewel born of stone cuts the stone.”
The diamond is born of stone—yet it cuts stone. So do not think: how can what cuts me be born of me? What cuts you will arise from you; what cuts the other will arise from the other.
We live in our own separate worlds. The one who accepts this truth comes of age. With this acceptance, transformation begins—because if you do not want suffering, do not give suffering. Prayer will not avert it. Worship will not avert it. If you want no suffering—do not give suffering. If you want joy—give joy. But here lies a great difficulty.
And the difficulty is this—if you miss it, you’ll be lost: you have only suffering to give. You are miserable. A chain surrounds you. What you did in the past has made you wretched. The harvest you reaped is poison. The house is filled with poison. Now what can you do? Whatever you give bears your fingerprints. You go to do good—and it turns bad.
People come to me and say, “What is happening? Even when we set out to do good, it turns out bad. We touch gold, and it becomes mud.” Your hands have long practiced turning gold to mud. They have learned the art. Do not be angry—recognize this too.
You keep giving sorrow to people—because you are sorrowful. Then a vicious cycle is complete: you are sorrowful, so you give sorrow; giving sorrow brings further sorrow; you become more sorrowful. How will the sequence break? There is an art to breaking it—that is dharma. Esa dhammo sanantano—such is the eternal law.
What is the art? When sorrow comes, suffer it. Do not distribute it. Close the doors—cry if you must, beat your chest, weep—burn in the sorrow, be reduced to ash—but do not hand it to another. However heavy it feels—let the back break, let the neck fall—endure it. Do not escape sorrow. The debt must be paid. It is your obligation—pay it. Endure sorrow in solitude.
This is why the sadhu goes into solitude. He does not go into solitude only for Samadhi—for Samadhi, to my understanding, is found in the marketplace. I tell you: people went into solitude for this reason—to suffer their sorrow alone, so that no one else would be given it. If no one is there, you cannot throw it upon anyone; you will bear it—and that bearing purifies—like fire refines gold. From such bearing you will emerge kundan—pure gold—your form will be refined; an incomparable beauty will be yours.
Thus one day Buddha returned from the forest. Those six years were the years of suffering alone. This is what is called tapascharya. Tapascharya does not mean you must lie on thorns. But you will have to lie on thorns—because you have sown thorns for births upon births. Who should lie on them? Should you make someone else lie there? If someone were there, you would. Tapas means: you yourself lie—so that accounts are settled and the chain does not go on. Tapas does not mean you should starve—but starving will happen—because you have starved others. Tapas does not mean you must stand in the sun—but you will have to stand—because you gave so many the sun! When did you give shade? Can you recall? To whom did you offer shade? You sought shade for yourself—but gave sunlight to all. He who gave sun to all will receive sun—how will he find shade?
Keep this process in view: the process of tapascharya is—no more distributing the sorrows of the past; now accept what you have done. Make no one a partner in it—otherwise the chain will continue.
A man spat on Buddha. Buddha said, “Good—settlement done. I had been awaiting this. Otherwise being a Buddha would be difficult. Once I had spat upon this man; I was waiting—he should come, spit, and the matter ends.”
The man did not understand—and even Buddha’s disciples did not. Ananda said, “This is beyond my tolerance. Because of you we keep silent—otherwise we would teach this man a lesson.” They were Kshatriyas; the habit of the sword does not leave so quickly. Ananda boiled with anger.
Buddha said, “This man does not surprise me—you do. With this man I have something to settle—what was given has been returned. He is a good man. Why do you boil for nothing? If you do something to him, remember—you too will have to settle as I am settling. Do not be caught in this net. I have been caught and only just come out—do not walk in as I walk out. I wonder at you, Ananda! He did not spit on you; he spat on me. Why are you upset—when I am not?”
But those who must be upset get upset even on account of others. Those who must fall into sin will go by others’ pretexts. They say, “A friend was going to the brothel; what could I do? I could not refuse. The friend pleaded; so I drank—the liquor—what could I do?”
People come and say, “What to do? In business we must drink. Dealings with foreigners—what to do? We must drink and make drink.” I tell them, “Drink water; drink sherbet; if you must sin greatly—drink Coca-Cola! Drink anything! Why hunt excuses? Who forces the glass to your lips? Who forces anyone?”
It may be that if you do not drink, the other too will pause—perhaps a question mark will stand before him. Perhaps if you do not go to the brothel, your friend will also hesitate.
But people say, “What to do!” Why become so impotent? Why be swept away—someone pulls you here, someone there. Why be a boat without oars, without a helmsman—tossed here and there?
These are excuses. The friend is a pretext. You do not want to take full responsibility even for your sin. “What to do—the friend took me. Someone said so; we went for a meal—he served meat.” Who has ever eaten what he did not wish to eat? No one is taking you anywhere—you want to go, so you find company that goes.
Those who must be miserable even take others’ misery onto themselves. Those who must be happy do not extend the chain of their own misery; they daily thin it out, they dissolve it. Each day they rejoice—“One more settlement done. One entanglement freed.”
What does Buddhahood mean? What is moksha? Moksha means: not a single peg remains tied to the shore—your boat is free. Where is the shore? These people are the shore—you have driven your pegs into them. You hammered them in—else they would not be there. They begged you not to—they said, “Do not drive pegs into our chests; it hurts; it is painful; what are you doing?” But you kept hammering. You thought, “On pegs I shall raise tents, build a house, decorate a palace—pegs are necessary.” But the pegs you have driven into another’s chest—those are your bondage.
Tapas means—the science of tapas means—suffer this sorrow in solitude; spread no more. Suffer sorrow alone; enjoy joy together. When sorrow comes, slip away into solitude, into darkness, into silence; when joy comes, dance in the marketplace. Share joy—you will receive joy. Share sorrow—you will receive sorrow. Do not hide joy.
But things are inverted. People are ashamed to laugh; hesitant to dance; afraid to hum a song. Ask someone to hum—he says, “I can’t; my throat is not good.” But when he abuses, his throat is perfectly fine—such cadence and relish! Even abuse has its music—some are masters of it.
I have heard: in America there was a great humorist—Mark Twain. He relished abuse and was very skillful at it. When he began, he would not stop—the flow would glide from one to the next as if his tongue were oiled. His wife was troubled; the family was troubled—it became obscene. A little drink—and off he went.
All persuasion failed. At last his wife found another way. One morning—Mark Twain had just picked up the newspaper—something happened—and the wife burst into a torrent of abuse—his own style. He was startled. “You are abusing!” He listened and said, “Everything else is fine—but you will need practice; there is no music! The words are there, but not the music!”
People savor abuse, relish it. But to sing they say, “No—my throat won’t do.” For evil, their hands are strong; for the good, they shrink.
Share joy. What you share grows—it spreads; it rains back upon you. Do not share sorrow. You do the reverse: when sorrow strikes, you begin to inflict it—or at least you begin to narrate it. People recite long epics of their sorrow—exaggerated, amplified. Avoid this.
Tapas means: sorrow comes from past relations, chains, sanskaras—I shall experience it. I did it; why tell another? The tapasvin suffers his sorrow—burns in that fire. That is his sun; those are his thorns; that is his fast. He withdraws into solitude lest a mistake be made; lest someone hear the noise and come with sympathy. No—he goes alone. This face is not to show another—it is hideous, distorted. He will return when a new radiance arises on the face, when the throat is filled with some song, when the feet have dance, when anklets chime, when the vina begins to sing—then he returns. When there is something to give, to share—then he returns. Why show this ill-shaped state? Why to whom? What gain? People are already miserable enough.
He who awakens to this withdraws silently. I am not telling you to run to the jungle—no need. The jungles are gone. But find a solitude—a room, a corner—in your house, outside the village, in a temple, in a mosque—where you can be alone. There live through your sorrow. And you will find—by living it through, by catharsis—you become clean.
This cleanliness is not the cleanliness of bathing in the Ganga; not the cleanliness of confessing to a priest. It is real. You suffered the sorrow—you were refined by it. Then do not inflict sorrow again. Then from you a stream of joy will flow.
“Self-born, self-produced and self-done sin destroys the foolish just as the vajra-jewel born of stone cuts the stone.”
Treasure this in the casket of your heart. Do not say, “How could I give sorrow to myself?” The diamond cuts the stone—and is born of the stone. Look attentively: your own hands are giving you pain.
Have you noticed? An itch arises. You know that if you scratch too much you will bleed, you will hurt—yet you go on scratching. There is a certain intoxication to it—an unstoppable relish. Knowing, aware, you go on scratching; soon blood appears, the skin splits, there is pain; you decide never again. Has itching ever ended by scratching? Has sorrow ever ended by inflicting it? You have scratched your very soul raw with wounds. These hands are yours. This soul is yours. If even now your sorrow is not complete—then continue. Otherwise—stop.
Then, to avoid seeing that your own hands give you pain, you raise temples and mosques. You say, “What lila is God showing?” You are showing lila to God! “O God, what lila you show!” What business has God to show you lila? And what does He gain by showing you lila? And is this lila beautiful? It is hideous, full of suffering—like a nightmare.
People say: God is doing lila. Buddha cannot accept it. He says—better that there be no God than this. If there is a God who does such lila, where people writhe like worms, live in hell, steeped in pain and keep spreading pain, and darkness thickens on all sides—if that is God, what then is the definition of the devil?
You will be amazed: Buddha said—there is no God. For he saw only two options: if God is, you must accept He is pleasure-in-pain—a sadist, taking delight in torment—playing lila. Better to say: there is no God. At least there is no accusation then, no complaint, no crime.
Religion has always faced this question: if you accept God, how do you explain so much suffering in the world? If God is the source of day, He is also the source of the dark night. If flowers come from Him, so must thorns.
Try to understand: Buddha cuts this question at the root. He says: there is no God; only you are. And if lila is shown, you are showing it. Enough—close it now. Here are the sutras! Buddha says: here are the keys—shut the theatre; go home!
“From birth you have flown through this boundless blue sky;
Yet the cool shade of the goal has never fallen upon your eyes.
If you die before reaching the aim of life—
The world will laugh much at your piteous, futile death.
O man! do not live as a bird—live as the sky itself!
Do not be a worshipper—become God yourself!”
Enough of worship. Stop it. Understand. Awaken. See—you have done it. There is no one else present in between to change it. What you have done—you alone can transform.
“Like a sal tree enveloped by the maluva vine, the man whose vice surrounds him and spreads acts exactly as his enemies would desire.”
A lovely saying. You are doing precisely what your enemies would wish you to do. You are your own enemy. In your own hands you have made your life a hell. This your enemies wanted.
Someone abused Buddha. Buddha said, “If you are finished, I would like to go—we must reach the next village.” The man said, “We are abusing—this is not ‘finished’!”
Buddha said, “For me it is over; for you it is abuse. You should have come ten years earlier. Then for me too it was abuse. Then I was so mad I punished myself for others’ mistakes. Then I was so mad. You abused—and I suffered. Now you abuse—you know it. I have nothing to do with it. In the last village some brought sweets; my stomach was full; I said, ‘Take them back.’ What do you think they did?”
The abuser said, “What else—they must have distributed them in the village, or eaten them at home, as prasad.”
“You too—take your abuses back. Distribute them in the village; eat them at home; consider them prasad. My stomach is full—ten years ago it filled. You have come a little late, friend! I no longer punish myself for others’ mistakes. I am no longer my own enemy.”
Have you noticed? Someone abuses—why do you get angry? It is you who will burn; the fire will rise in you; the wounds will be in your life. You say, “He abused.” Granted. Why did you take it? Up to giving, the matter was ended. Without your taking, no one can give. The awakened one does not take. He says, “Great kindness—you gave; now take it back. I do not accept.” Notice—abuse depends on your taking, not on the other’s giving. The giver may hammer his head—a thousand times—but if you do not take, what can he do? He will tire, grow weary—perhaps awaken and return.
Seeing Buddha, that man must have understood—“I have met some new kind of consciousness.” Buddha startled him. He will not have slept that night; his abuse returned to him; he tossed and turned. They say he came running in the morning to ask forgiveness. Buddha said, “Leave it. Since we did not accept, how can we grant forgiveness? It is yours; your affair. This is your accounting. A monologue—not a dialogue. The other did not speak. We did not say anything.”
Have you seen a monologue? Some artists perform a monologue—they enact all the characters alone. The tonga driver is he; the passenger is he; the people on the road are he. He shouts as the driver, urges the horse; he calls out as the customer; he creates the street noise—all alone, behind a screen.
You have done all of it. You are the doer, and all has happened to you. Your life is a monologue; it is not a dialogue.
That is why this happens daily: you say something to your wife; she takes a different meaning. You bang your head: “That is not what I meant.” She says, “That is exactly what you meant.” You say yourself, “That is not what I meant”—yet she will not hear. “That is what you meant.” A monologue is going on. Come out of it—become silent.
“Enveloped by the maluva vine”—
As a creeper encircles a tree, so vice encircles and spreads.
“He acts toward himself exactly as his enemies would wish.”
You are playing into your enemies’ hands. What a conspiracy you have set up! You are not your own friend. To my eye—if you choose to be happy—no one can obstruct your happiness. If you choose to be miserable—no one can obstruct that either. But this truth is so hard the mind hesitates to accept it. “I myself give sorrow? Never. Others give it.” The moment you say “others give it,” you are dependent; you become a beggar. Then only if others give joy will you have it.
Understand this arithmetic—if you say “others give sorrow,” then it means “only when others give joy will I have it.” You are a beggar; you are not the master.
Buddha wants you to be the master—to declare sovereignty. “I give myself joy; I give myself sorrow; what I will, I do.” Free yourself from the other.
Try this a little—you will laugh. Your wife says things—keep smiling. Say, “I have decided to remain joyous today. Do as you please—that is your mind, your choice. If you wish to be miserable—be. As for me, I decided when I woke that I shall be happy today.” You will find that with your decision a current of joy begins to flow. You will be astonished—you stand outside the disturbance, as if the wife is talking to someone else—you become a witness.
Swami Ram Tirtha was in America. Some people surrounded him—abused, mocked. He began laughing. One asked, “You laugh? Are you mad? We are abusing and mocking.” He said, “We also laugh for the same reason—‘Look, Ram! What a spectacle is being made of you!’ You enjoy it; we too are enjoying it.”
I have a childhood memory I cannot forget. A wrestler came to our village—there was a big bout; he lost—to the village wrestler. Winning and losing was not the point; when the whole crowd began to clap and laugh at his loss, he too clapped and laughed. A hush fell. There he stood—defeated—clapping and laughing. People stopped laughing—what is this? He laughed louder—only his laughter echoed. Someone asked, “Have you gone mad?” He said, “No—see! We boasted so much—now look how thoroughly we were beaten!”
I cannot forget him—he was unique. He turned defeat into victory. The “victor” stood sullen. The crowd grew silent. The defeated one won. He was no mere wrestler—there was deep fakiri in him—no bondage to the body. I cannot forget his laughter—it burst from the heart—not forced—like flowers falling. His laughter created silence.
Stand a little apart and watch life this way. This is what Buddha says. But we go on playing into others’ hands. We have given our keys away. We have distributed our sovereignty. Someone is miserable—ask why: “What to do—by misfortune I got a shrewish wife.”
A young man went to Socrates… He had a shrewish wife—Xanthippe. They say such a woman is rare—even shrews cannot match her. Socrates—such a sweet man! Yet the wife would not let him sit in peace—beat him too. Once she poured boiling tea water on his face; half his face burned—was black the rest of his life. The young man went to ask—certainly he did not wish to marry—why else ask Socrates? If you want to marry, ask someone who found a good wife. He asked, “Should I marry or not? You are experienced.” Socrates said, “Marry. If you get a beautiful wife—good fortune! You will live in comfort. If you get a wife like mine—you will become a philosopher like me. You will have to awaken witnessing. If daily you are beaten and boiling water is poured—you will become a witness—there is no other way. Marry—you will gain either way.”
We have distributed our keys—some in the son’s hands, some in the wife’s, some in the husband’s, some in the father’s—and even that does not satisfy us: then to temples, mosques, priests and pundits—we go on distributing.
“All I saw were brides locked in locks—
One is imprisoned in the mosque, another trapped in the shrine.”
Whose hand shall I give my hand to? To whom shall I give my mind?
“One robs in the dark, another swindles in the light.”
Everywhere. In truth, the moment you placed your hand in another’s—you were cheated. Keep your hand in your own hand—free, independent. Give your hand away—and slavery arrives. How cheaply you sell yourself! Someone pats your back—you are his. Someone says, “How handsome!”—you are his. Someone praises your intelligence—you are his. What intelligence remains, proved a fool—you are bought by praise.
“Why did your mind soar to the skies?
Ask the question of free applause.”
Why did you start flying to the heavens? Ask of the free applause.
People all around are ready to buy you cheap. The world is a marketplace—you stand upon the auction block—bids are called—you are sold for trinkets. Have you noticed how cheaply you sell yourself? You cannot refuse. Someone claps—someone praises a little. Your self-regard is feeble. The sense of the Self is faint. You have sold yourself like rubbish.
Then you writhe, you weep—“I am a slave, bound in a thousand places.” Even now you can pull your hands back. Giving-and-taking is in your hands. Do not be happy or miserable because of others—you are free. If you are, you are enslaved.
“It is very easy to do what is unwholesome and harmful to oneself, and supremely difficult to do what is wholesome and beneficial.”
A strange statement, says Buddha.
“It is very easy to do what is unwholesome and harmful.”
Why easy? Because the whole world does not want you living in your own good. The world wants to exploit you. Those who want to exploit you, who want to reach into your pocket, awaken in you those feelings by which you can be bought. No one greets you for nothing.
Think: when you held office, had status—people saluted. Once off the chair, who asks after you? People turn aside as if they did not see you. See with awareness: those who praised you came to take something—to buy you.
“Why did your mind soar to the skies?
Ask the question of free applause.”
Why is it difficult to live in one’s own good? Because if you live in your own good, you cannot live in others’ good—and everyone wants you to live in their good. The wife wants the husband to live for her. The husband wants the wife to live for him. The father wants the son to live for him; the son wants the father to live for him. A fierce conflict of “goods.”
“In everything there is bustle, cunning, speed—
The title of the world’s tale is trickery and intrigue.
Alas, in such a world—
You are drunk on the wine of selfhood.
Look at the temper of the times.”
Cut the root of imitation—
Lay the foundation of authenticity—
Keep hope for true confirmation—
Look well at the temper of the times.
On all sides there is a deep struggle—everyone wants to possess you. The world is a great bazaar. Everyone wants to own you. Mother pulls to her side; wife to hers; temple pulls, mosque pulls. Buyers are many; you stand alone for sale. Without awareness you will be lost.
“In everything there is bustle, cunning, speed—
The title of the world’s tale is trickery and intrigue.
Alas, in such a world—
You are drunk on the wine of ego.”
You are lost in the wine of the ego. All around are a thousand bids for you—and you are unconscious. You will be sold, cut into pieces, scattered. Rejoining will be hard.
“Look at the temper of the times—
Cut the root of imitation;
Lay the foundation for verification;
Keep hope for affirmation—
Look at the temper of the times.”
What difficulty has beset man? Why is it hard to be in one’s own good? A small child is born—modern psychologists have labored greatly these fifty years; never before in human history were such inquiries made. The child has become the cause of inquiry. Children’s research has made Buddha’s words plainly mathematical today.
A small child is born—helpless, dependent. From the first moment, others begin to exploit him. If the child does not drink milk when the mother wishes, the mother is angry. Who cares for the child’s hunger? The mother wants to go to a cinema—so the child should drink milk. Whether the child is hungry or not—who asks? If the child refuses, the mother is annoyed. When the child is hungry, the mother may not be ready—guests are in the house. The child knows nothing of guests—what are they? Why do they not leave? Why did they come just when hunger arose? The child cries—and is beaten.
When hungry, he may not receive milk; when not hungry, he is given milk. Slowly, the child learns: my good is not the question. He watches the mother’s face—when she wishes, he drinks; when she does not, he lies quietly—curled up. He wants to cry—but he does not—else he will be beaten; he has tried that.
Thus the foundation is laid. The child wants to do one thing—parents want another. Everywhere he finds: between my good and theirs there is conflict. And to fulfill my good is impossible because I am helpless; I must fulfill theirs. They have the power, the house, the bread. Slowly he begins to sell himself.
Have you seen? I have watched closely: if the child smiles, it is not necessary that the mother smile then. But when the mother smiles, the child should smile back—this is expected. If the child does not, there is annoyance—unbearable for the child. But if the child smiles, there is no necessity the mother smile—she has a thousand tasks. She will smile when it is convenient.
Gradually the child learns: to live in this world, do not speak of your own good. He becomes a politician now—a diplomat. He laughs when mother thinks he should—though inside are tears. When laughter arises, he suppresses it; he looks around—“Is the occasion proper? Or I will be beaten.” Slowly, growing up, he loses himself. He forgets what his own good is.
All instruct him: do not be selfish; serve others. “Do the mother’s will if you are a true son.” Strange! Should the son fulfill his own will, or the mother’s? The father says, “Fulfill my will.”
I asked a small boy, “What will you become?” He said, “Mad—there is no question of becoming anything. Mother wants me to be a doctor; father wants me to be an engineer; brother wants me to be an actor; sister wants something else; aunts and uncles have their wishes. I will go mad! I do not even know what I want—but they are eager to make me. All pull and tug.”
Soon the child loses his relation with himself—this is the greatest calamity in human life. He loses the sense of his feelings; his inner clock goes awry. When it is time, hunger; when hunger comes, it is not time. He forgets when he is hungry and eats by the clock. Thus the whole life becomes false.
“She is a wife, so there should be love.” It should be that because there is love, there is a wife. But we make it—“Since she is a wife, love must be”—like eating by the clock. Love should be—and someone becomes a wife. But society does not permit this. “Since she is mother, you must love—fulfill your duty!” From all sides one is removed from oneself. All want to pull you into their interests.
A friend of mine had two sons—one was a minister. He himself had wanted to be a minister but could not. He went to jail many times—but the coin did not fall in place; others made the move—even those who hardly went to jail. He was a straight fellow. Somehow he made the boy a minister. The boy died. He was very unhappy—thought of suicide.
I asked, “You have another son—if he had died, would you think of suicide?” “Never,” he blurted—“he never fulfilled any ambition; he is no minister, no leader.” I said, “Both are your sons. One dies—and you want to die. If the other died?”—“Never,” he said. “Think—what are you saying!”
It means: the first son fulfilled your desire—he lent his shoulder to your ambition. What you wanted to be—he became. Your first son was false. The second is a little true—he lives from his own center. Perhaps the elder died because he was false—under great tension, turmoil, restlessness.
My words pierced him—“At such a time you raise philosophical issues!” “When else? In happiness, people say, ‘Not now!’ In unhappiness, people say, ‘Not now!’ When then? Will you ever be apart from pleasure and pain? He who has gone beyond does not need my words—he is a witness and knows.”
“It is very easy to do what is unwholesome and harmful to oneself—
And supremely difficult to do what is wholesome and beneficial.”
Buddha’s words deserve to be written on the heart.
“Supremely difficult to do what is in one’s own good and wholesome.”
Because the world fashions you for the service of others.
A priest was teaching little children: “Serve others. God made you to serve others.” A child stood up: “We understand He made us to serve others—but what did He make others for?” The priest was embarrassed—children sometimes raise questions old men cannot answer. Old men are dishonest.
If he says, “He made others to serve you,” the child—sharp as he seemed—would say, “Then why this fuss? Let each serve himself. Why should we press each other’s feet—let each press his own—end the bother.” If he says, “He made you to serve them”—the child will say, “This is injustice—made us to serve, them to be served—what is our fault?”
Remember, the Buddhas have taught swarth—self-interest. A later sutra will make it plain.
“Supremely difficult to do what is in one’s own good—”
Because the world says, live for others—not for yourself. The world does not want you to be a person—it wants a servant, a slave. It has woven many nets—built a whole world of pretty words—bait laid upon thorns so you will be caught. Naturally, everyone says, “Why be selfish?”
Notice what “why be selfish” means on the lips that utter it: it means “serve us.” “We are here—and you are selfish!” When someone says “selfish,” it means you are not serving his self.
A new world will be born the day the Buddhas’ word settles deep—then you will live in your self-interest. This does not mean you become the enemy of others, or that you will hurt others, or that pararth—others’ good—will vanish. In fact, pararth is nowhere—it is bombast. The day there is true self-interest, that very day there is true pararth—for your intrinsic good is in conflict with no one. And what is not your good can never be another’s good either.
If you love yourself, you will be able to love your wife. If your wife becomes jealous—“You love yourself more than me”—then you will not be able to love yourself—and you will not be able to love her either. He who has not sunk roots into his own swarth cannot serve anyone. He who has not learned to press his own feet—whose feet will he press? He who is not his own—whose will he be?
“You mended everyone’s wounds but not your own;
You stitched everyone’s collars but forgot your own.”
You cured everyone and forgot yourself—remained ill.
I have heard: a sick man went to a doctor—“I am troubled by a dry cough—no cure at many doctors—someone sent me to you, you are experienced.” “Yes,” he said, mixing medicine. The man thought and asked, “What do you mean ‘experienced’?” The doctor coughed twice—“Thirty years, I myself am caught by this very illness; I am very experienced—by experience I prescribe. You must have gone to those who do not even know the disease. Thirty years I myself have suffered.”
Reflect: if you yourself are miserable—whom will you make happy? If you are ill—whom will you heal?
“You mended everyone’s wounds but not your own;
You stitched everyone’s collars but forgot your own.”
First stitch your own clothes—first save your own garment from thorns—then go to save others. First light your own lamp—then another’s may be lit from it. With an unlit lamp—whose lamp will you light? Beware—lest someone’s lamp about to be lit—you blow it out.
Enough of pararth. Because your pararth has been against swarth, it has never been fulfilled—it is against human nature. We need a pararth harmonious with swarth, a companion to it, in rhythm with it. Buddha speaks of that swarth—therefore it is difficult.
Whoever would find Truth—find himself—must settle one thing: he must gather the courage to stand in his own personhood. It is difficult—it is to enter into conflict with the whole world. Sannyas is not easy. Sannyas means: you have chosen to be yourself. You will now walk from your own center. “I have been in the crowd long enough—now I become an individual.”
B. K. Sanghvi came last night—troubled—“Help me end all business.” I said, “Leave it—be a sannyasin.” “There is difficulty.” “What?” “In the everyday structure—there will be unrest.”
How long will you be part of that structure? If that structure is of such value, then you too will become only a structure—you will never find the soul. If you are not even free enough to take sannyas when you wish—how will you be a soul? Where the difficulty is—there is the challenge. He who accepts it reaps the harvest of bliss.
“That man is no man who is frightened by the bloody scene of circumstances—
One must live precisely where living is difficult.”
Where difficulty appears—accept the challenge.
“One must live precisely where living is difficult.”
Where there is difficulty—there is life. From there your buried fire will blaze—your ember will shrug off ash—flames will rise.
Yes, fear comes—wife will be angry; children will laugh; brothers will talk—how long will this last? Then deliverance before death is impossible. And death too is no deliverance—when you are dragged by force. Dare to be yourself—even at any cost.
The day you dare to be yourself—your wife will find you for the first time. For what is the gain in a man so weak he fears even to don the ochre robe? What manhood is this?
My understanding—after experimenting in thousands of lives—is that a wife is pleased only with that husband who has some strength. Else she thinks, “What a pale man! He cannot even wear ochre! I am saddled with a weakling.” No woman is pleased with a husband who bows to her—who wants a hanger-on? A wife desires such a husband who can make her bow—who stands like a peak—who no one can bend. The longing of every woman is to find such a man—a man.
But we think the opposite—bend, compromise, compromise. We have learned the merchant’s art—compromise at any cost. Slowly we become only compromise—the truth is lost from within.
“Because of his sin-filled wrong view, the foolish man who slanders the rule of the noble and the dharma of the Arhats blossoms only to destroy himself like a bamboo.”
Buddha says: those who have known are Arhats—Arhat means one who has conquered his enemies—not outer enemies—inner enemies. “Ari” means enemy; “hat” means slain—enemies slain: anger, hatred, enmity, jealousy—won over. Whoever slanders what such Arhat men have said is like a bamboo that flowers only to burst—the very flowering is self-destruction.
“Who slanders the noble and the Arhats—”
Buddha uses “arya” not in the racial sense; arya means noble, superior—“purushottam”—who has recognized the inner Self, the inner truth. Whoever slanders such is a self-destroyer.
So while condemning—consider—while criticizing—consider: is it not that wherever the possibility of revolution in your life arose—wherever the challenge was—you slandered and criticized?
Many will read my books—yet fear to come to me. They will speak of me in whispers—yet not come face to face. Why? I know—many will slander—criticize. But before you slander—know what I am doing here. They never come.
Surely then their criticism is self-deception. If you must criticize, first be acquainted—taste a little. Come to this madhushala—sway a little.
“In dry talk, O priest, where is the wine of life?
The joy that is in drinking—comes only from drinking.”
Come—drink. Stagger a little. If after tasting it does not suit you—refuse. But without tasting, there can be only one reason: you fear that if you come—you are gone; if you drink—you will drown.
“One’s own sin makes one impure; one’s own non-sin purifies oneself. Purity and impurity are of oneself; another cannot purify.”
“For the great good of others, one should not harm one’s own good.”
A unique utterance. You did not expect Buddha to say this! One of Buddha’s sayings has been made popular—“bahujan hitaya, bahujan sukhaya”—for the welfare, for the happiness of the many. It suited people—useful. But this saying was not publicized—yet it is precious. Perhaps the first is apocryphal; this is the word of a Buddha.
“Even for the great good of others, do not harm your own good. Understanding your own dharma, understanding your own meaning, devote yourself to your own meaning.”
Swarth! So when I say to you, “Self-interest is dharma,” do not be alarmed. I am not alone—Buddha says it too. But when Buddha says it—he says it with discernment—because from self-interest alone do the flowers of pararth bloom. He who seeks his own meaning will be unable to harm anyone. And he who has found his own joy—what will he do but share it? When a flower blooms, fragrance spreads of its own accord—can a flower restrain its scent? To bloom is to share. So Buddha says: first, be happy—then fragrance will pour. First fulfill your swarth.
But others teach the reverse: “Pararth—serve others.” “Others” means—“us.” They cannot say directly, “Serve me,” so they say, “Serve others.” Beggars sit by the road—“Give charity. Charity is great virtue. Greed is the father of sin.” They tell this to passersby. Do not think they are in favor of charity—they mean: give here. The beggar will not accost you when you are alone—he will seize you in the marketplace. Alone you would say, “Go—work!” But if he grabs your feet in public, he puts your prestige at stake. People look on. For two coins you do not want a scene; people will say, “How miserly.” You give against your will—and even pretend to be pleased—“free applause.”
People say, “Do your duty.” You do—because you are pressed by conditioning.
Hear Buddha’s word: “Even for the great good of others, do not harm your own good.”
On the surface it seems Buddha teaches swarth, against pararth—but he knows: true swarth is never against pararth. The miser does not give to others—but see—he does not even give to himself. Look closely—how the rich live like the poor. If they truly lived richly—sought their own joy—sharing would happen by itself.
They say the Nizam of Hyderabad, when he sat upon the throne, wore a particular cap; when he died forty years later, he wore the same. When it grew dirty he would not have it washed—for fear it would be spoiled—so it stank. When guests smoked and left cigarette stubs, he would take them from the ashtray—for his own smoking. You may not believe it—the Nizam was the wealthiest man on earth. His jewels defy calculation; all the Golconda mines had come to his palace. Once a year, when his jewels were aired in the sun, the roofs of seven palaces were covered—yet he picked cigarette ends.
The miser does not give others—this is step two. Step one: he does not give to himself. He lives poor though he is rich—dies poor.
I have seen many wealthy. I have not seen such poverty among the poor as among the wealthy. Sometimes the poor are rich; the rich remain poor. Not a paisa slips—not for themselves. And they create excuses—“simplicity.” The Nizam also said, “I am a simple man”—hence the cap for forty years. Throw such “simplicity” in the fire! It is not simplicity—it stinks—becomes pathology. Is simplicity picking others’ half-smoked cigarettes? If that is simplicity—then God save us from simplicity!
The miser calls it simplicity; he calls sharers “wastrels.” He does not give to himself. If the wealthy truly lived richly—sought their own delight—sharing would come of itself.
Buddha is right. But it is difficult—because all teaching is reversed.
“The stings of religion and politics are poisonous—
Hear the hiss of the serpents’ city!
The sword that cuts the neck of joy—
Look at the sword the world kisses—look at its edge!”
Religion and politics—both have deadly stings. Politics teaches: die for the nation, die for society. Religion teaches: Islam is in danger; Hindu dharma is in danger—die! All teach: die. Does anyone say: live? Live before you die! What death—when you are already dead? Life is needed. Have you ever heard anyone say: “Live for dharma”? Except me—no one says—“Live for the nation, live for humanity, live for God.”
No—they all say: die. God is in danger—what God is this—endangered, and you must die for Him? Let such a God die. “Die for the nation.” What is the nation? A sum of persons. Who dies for a sum? The reality is the person; the nation is a fiction—a politician’s myth. Have you met Bharat Mata? Pictures show her on a chariot with lions—the map of India behind—but have you met her? Mothers exist; Bharat Mata does not. Likewise the gods of temples and mosques—“danger”—and die! All teach you to die—to sacrifice. Is life only for sacrifice?
No—life is to taste the juice of life. Awaken—and live. And I tell you—if you live awake, your life will be flowers—and your death too will be flowers. For death only reveals what you have gathered in life.
“Even for the great good of others, do not harm your own good. Knowing your own meaning, devote yourself to your own meaning.”
Find yourself—your first treasure. Other treasures follow like a shadow. Know this One—and all is known. Attain this One—and all is attained.
Enough for today.