Es Dhammo Sanantano #60

The first sutra; and utterly revolutionary.
All of Buddha’s utterances are revolutionary. For Buddha, dharma is no social convention; it is the alchemy of life-transformation. Dharma is not a tradition. Dharma has no tie with the past. Dharma is a new birth.
Therefore, all that you have ordinarily come to know as 'religion'—Buddha calls it 'heen-dharma,' a low religion. It is not a noble dharma, not an arya-dharma.
The first sutra is—
Heenam dhammam na sevayya.
'One should not partake of a base dharma.'
What is base dharma? That which you have borrowed, that which you have received by hearing, that which has come to you from others—family, society, sect—what you have not discovered on your own, that is base dharma. It looks like religion, but it is not religion.
And it will not take you anywhere; at best it will lead you astray. You will get entangled in further knots. More coils will surround you. The dark serpent will curl still tighter around you. For dharma has no relation with tradition. Dharma relates to you. To your own discovery. To search for oneself. Not to the Vedas, not to the Upanishads, not to the Koran or the Bible.
Your life itself is that scripture which could be called Veda, which could be called Koran. If you do not read this and keep reading other things, you will fall into base dharma. You have brought that book with you; it is hidden within you. Now beware of other books. Do not clutch and sit holding other scriptures. Lest the diamond be in your pocket and you keep gathering pebbles.
Buddha calls the religion that has descended through tradition base dharma. The religion of the crowd, he calls base dharma. And rightly so. For from the crowd you may take politics, but how will you take religion? From the crowd you may take madness, but how will you take health? That which the crowd does not possess—how will you receive it from the crowd? From the crowd you can learn sin; virtue will not be sown. The crowd has no seed of it.
Ordinarily, society and politics desire that you become part of a crowd. Do not search for footpaths. For the man who walks alone irks society. Society does not like lions; it likes sheep. Sheep can be owned, possessed. Politicians can never possess lions; nor can the contractors of society, nor pundits and priests. No one can control lions.
Therefore, before your lion’s roar arises, before your individuality awakens—you are killed, you are cut. Someone remains a Hindu, someone a Muslim, someone a Jain, someone a Buddhist. The man never gets to be born. Before your intrinsic nature sprouts, fences are raised all around you, restrictions put on every branch, so much dependency forced upon your roots that you become something else altogether—other than what you had come to be, not your destiny. Then if you are miserable, it is no surprise. Base dharma has made you miserable.
Until you become that which you are meant to be, until your nature blossoms, flowers, you will go on weeping. The tears in your eyes say only this: that what you had come to become, you could not become. The song that was hidden in your breath, you could not sing. It still writhes within. But you sold yourself for cheap things. You sought convenience, not truth. You sought consolation, not truth. You sought contentment, not truth.
Base dharma gives consolation. Noble dharma gives truth. And the contentment born of truth is of a totally different order! But if you sit contented by believing contentment to be truth, you have clasped a lie. Hence you have clutched so many lies—because they console. Someone dies; there is pain, anguish, you sink into a darkness. You want someone to say: the Atman is immortal. You want that the one who has died, has not died. You want to believe: only the body has changed; my beloved will live. People come to console you. It soothes. They place a poultice over your wounds. The wound does not heal. Nor does any wisdom arise in life. Nor do you come to know that truly the Atman is immortal. For this can only be known by going within. It will not be known by someone else’s dying. Only when you yourself live and die will it be known.
Base dharma is the search for consolation. You ask: it is dark, I am alone; someone meets you and says, sing the Lord’s songs, hum the bhajans, chant mantras, the fear will vanish. In this way you acquire false amulets and talismans. You tie them on. For a little while the loneliness seems to fade; again and again it will rise, again and again it will return. Falsehood cannot serve for long.
Heenam dhammam na sevayya pamadena na samvase.
Micchaditthim na sevayya na siya lokavaddhano.
'Do not partake of base dharma. Do not dwell in heedlessness. Do not keep wrong view. Do not increase the wheel of becoming.'
Understand each word with care.
From the quarter whence the wave is coming,
turn your face
in that direction.
The bosom of the ocean is not a royal highway:
if you cling to beaten tracks and move upon them
treading them with slow feet,
abandon this false hope.
There is no royal road over the sea of life. Here there are footpaths. Even to call them footpaths is not right. It is as if birds fly in the sky and leave no footprints. If there were prepared roads, things would be very smooth—you would walk upon them. There are no prepared roads. The path has to be created by your very walking. The path of dharma exists nowhere ready-made that you could simply walk upon it. That you might walk whenever you wished; that a royal road awaits you. You will build it, and you will walk upon it.
Have you ever gone into a jungle? Ever lost your way among thickets and undergrowth where even getting through becomes difficult? What do you do there? There is no ready path. With your hands you push aside the bushes, you place your feet carefully. Before walking you make a way. Or say it this way: by walking you make a path. Such is life. And it is good that it is so. If there were fixed royal roads, if trains were departing toward God, if buses of S.T.C. were running there—everything would be ruined. God, too, would become cheap. Truth would no longer be worthy of attaining. If it were so easily available, it could not liberate.
Good that there is no royal road; good that Buddhas walk and their path is lost—so that others must become Buddhas again. If you could simply take the path of the Buddhas and walk, you would never become a Buddha.
Yet this is what you have done. This is what the whole world is doing. Someone is taking Mahavira’s path—which is not, which cannot be. Mahavira did walk, yes, but now no one can determine where his feet fell. Those footprints are erased; they were never meant to harden. Their nature is like the flight of birds across the sky. People surmise and construct.
People are walking behind Buddha, Krishna, Rama, Jesus—these are constructions of people. They are people’s assumptions, their interpretations. The Buddhas have nothing to do with these.
Therefore do not mistake a sect for dharma. A sect is your conjecture that perhaps the Buddha walked from here. A sect is the blind man’s guess about where the seeing one might have walked. A sect is the deaf man’s guess as to what the knower might have said. A sect is the notion of those lost in darkness about how those who held the lamp might have moved. But all your notions are in vain. Better to drop notions. Better to accept your darkness. Then perhaps the path may be found—because then you will search for it yourself.
Right now you fancy that the road is ready. You were born in a Jain home—the road is ready. You were born upon the royal highway itself. Not in a house, but on a super-highway. From birth, the eye opens and you find yourself upon the royal road. These so-called highways are false.
Buddha calls sects base dharma. The meaning of sect is: what the crowd hands to you, what others tell you. The meaning of dharma is: what you have discovered.
Search is by nature arduous, difficult, hard. Therefore people have agreed upon the cheap. The real flower is difficult; people have bought paper flowers. To change one’s life is hard; people have draped Rama’s shawl on the outside. They think: this will do. To invite Rama within is very difficult—stitching him into every breath, settling him into every heartbeat, very difficult. Rama’s shawl is cheap; it is available in the market. Put it on. But whom are you deceiving? A sect is Rama’s shawl. Dharma is the inner discovery of Rama. The path is difficult. Therefore dharma is only for the courageous. Sects are for the timid.
The bosom of the ocean is not a royal highway:
if you cling to beaten tracks and move upon them
treading them with slow feet,
abandon this false hope.
A jolt will come. This is the very jolt of the Buddhas. You will be startled. You will say: Not through tradition? Not through scripture? Not through transmitted doctrine? I must search upon my own, with my own hands, by my own being? Then it is impossible. Will I be able to search? You have no trust in yourself—how would you? You have always been taught: have faith in another. Born in a Jain home—have faith in Mahavira. Born in a Hindu home—have faith in Krishna. Do not seek your own song; the Gita is enough. Do not light the lamp of your own life; the Veda carries ample light—why waste your time? Why attempt to light your own lamps? The rishis already lit the lamps. You simply walk along their blind track.
You have always been taught to have faith in someone else: in a God sitting in a faraway sky, in the rishis of the Vedas from ages ago, in the Puranas, in stories. Only one thing has not been taught—trust in yourself. That has not been told to you because the whole edifice of sects is afraid of it.
If you trust yourself, what will happen to the Vedas? What will become of the pundits who live off the Vedas? What will become of temples and mosques? What will become of this whole net of base dharma? If you find your own flame, why would you borrow lights? What will happen to this vast marketplace? What will happen to the merchants behind their ancient counters? They have deep vested interests. They teach you every kind of faith—except faith in yourself.
And the irony is: after all their kinds of faith, no faith happens in man. How could it? For they never teach the fundamental faith. The foundation is self-trust. Buddha raises his entire house upon that foundation.
'Do not partake of base dharma.'
Base dharma means you learned from those who themselves do not know. Your mother, your father told you of God—while they themselves did not know. Ask them and they will say: our parents told us. Ask them, and they will say: their parents told them. All is borrowed. Perhaps in this chain you will never find a single person who came upon it firsthand, who knew for himself. It seems a rumor. This is not religion. It does not seem experiential. It seems rootless. Buddha calls this base dharma.
Tumhara waj raj-e-ishq kya kholega waiz
Zaban ki ye nahin hazrat, ye chashm-o-dil ki baaten hain.
The pundit who is instructing you in temple and mosque—his sermon will not open the mysteries of the heart’s love.
Tumhara waj raj-e-ishq kya kholega waiz,
O venerable preacher! Your sermons will not open this deep, secret matter of the heart.
Zaban ki ye nahin hazrat, ye chashm-o-dil ki baaten hain—
These are matters of seeing, of the heart; by tongue alone nothing happens.
But have you ever asked whether those you learned from had themselves received? Out of fear you do not ask. For then you would have to search for someone with eyes. You would have to search for a satguru. To avoid this—you say: that’s a long search. How will I find? Where? I would have to risk something as well. You are not ready to risk. You say: let me remain as I am, and let someone come to me. Very well—someone will come to your house.
The 'religious teacher' who gives you religion without knowing it himself—he too received it from someone. Well-schooled—but not initiated. He has heard, he has not understood. What he is explaining to you, you will not find in his life either. The priest who comes to your house to perform worship—have you seen him worship? Have you seen him in prayer? When he comes at your convenience to intone mantras—go to his home and see: has he ever intoned mantras himself?
Nietzsche has said—and quite rightly—if you want to be free of religion, live for a few days with the 'religious teachers'. If you want to be rid of religion, live for a while among the gurus of religion. You will see that it is all deception. All talk. What they tell others 'ought to be' has not happened in their own lives. You will not find it there either. This is base dharma.
'Do not partake of base dharma.'
The word 'partake' is wondrous. It means: do not take it in as food. Do not carry base dharma inside. For what you take in becomes your blood, your flesh, your marrow. What you ingest as nourishment—that is what you become. If you partake of base dharma you will become base. If you learn from the pundits—parrots themselves—you too will become parrots.
Have you observed—parrots are great traitors. Keep a parrot in the house, in a cage—even make it of gold, stud it with gems, serve him—so long as he is in the cage he will repeat your words. Whatever you teach he will repeat. You teach 'Jai Ramji'—he will repeat it. You teach him Allah’s name—he will repeat it. Whatever you say he will say. Leave the cage door open one day; he will fly away. Then you may shout—he will sit on a tree and never repeat your words. Call as much as you like—he will never return. A great deceiver.
Hence a deceiver is called 'totachashm'—parrot-eyed. And a loyal one is called 'dog-like'. Even if you push him away once, get angry, he will not forget; he will remember your love. His trust will not break. Leave him in a distant jungle—many times it has happened that a man went to abandon a dog there and then lost his own way, and had to return home following his dog—but the dog will reach home. Meet him after years—he will recognize you. From afar he will recognize your scent. He never forgets; it is as if memory sits in his heart.
As long as you pay the pundit, he will go on repeating religious talk. Stop paying, and he will descend into irreligion. Then begins the grabbing and the brawling.
Buddha said: what you have taken from the pundits is base dharma. Naturally the pundits stood opposed to Buddha, and did not allow Buddha to take root in this land—no surprise. For if Buddha took root, what would become of the pundits?
Hence the pundits have always been against the awakened ones. They must be—because the awakened ones shake the very foundations of their business. They tell people: this is something that will not be found in any temple or mosque; only by searching within will it be found.
'Do not partake of base dharma.'
Do not ingest it. Words that you hear are also food. For your bodily food you consider carefully—whether it is pure or not. If you drink water, you check whether it is clean. But you drink 'religion' without looking—without seeing whether it comes from a pristine spring or from the stagnant pond where the sewage of the town flows. The religion you have taken from the crowd—you have drunk from the drain flowing through the city. Buddha calls it base—and rightly so.
Within your inner Himalayas a spring is hidden from which you will receive a religion pure as crystal. No dust has ever fallen upon it. It has never been adulterated. Its source is fresh. There you will find your own Gangotri within. If you go seeking outside, any ghat you reach will be stale. Many have already trampled there. Many have drunk there. You do not even see it anymore—for habit has settled.
Physicians tell those who come from the West: keep one thing in mind—do not drink water in India. Drink soda, drink coca-cola, drink Fanta—drink what you like—even alcohol—but do not drink water. Why? We drink from rivers and streams here with ease; nothing hinders us. Habit.
We do not notice that the same rivers, the same pools—buffaloes are bathing there, horses are drinking there, men are bathing there. People defecate on the riverbanks; all of it flows into the rivers. We drink blissfully—we no longer remember; it has become an old habit. A man from the West panics: what are you doing? The buffaloes stand here, the horses here, the bullock-carts pass here—and there you are happily doing surya-namaskar, ready to drink and bathe.
At the ghat where we live long, we forget. So has it happened with 'religion'.
Just reflect: from where have you drunk the water of religion? From whom? Did you see any glow in their life, any light? Did you see any aura about them? Did you hear the footfall of the Divine at their feet? Did you catch any fragrance of the beyond in their breath? Did any dream of heaven arise near them? From where did you receive, from whom?
You never thought. You were born in that pond; you kept drinking, kept drinking—became a Jain, a Hindu, a Buddhist, a Christian, a Muslim. What did you become? You never thought. You never made a resolve. You never decided. And this is nourishment—not for the body but for the soul.
For the body you are so careful. You buy from the clean shop; where flies do not swarm. Those who want to be even more clean do not buy from shops; they prepare at home. Those who want to be cleaner still will not even let their wife touch it—they will prepare it with their own hands. For the body you keep such accounts—of that body which today or tomorrow will go.
But religion is food for the soul. About that you keep no account. You take from whoever comes along. Wherever you happen by chance, you take. For you, religion is accident—not a deliberate choice of life.
Therefore, as I see it, if arya-dharma—the noble dharma Buddha speaks of—is to be re-established in the world, it can only mean that each person choose his religion consciously. Search for himself. Then wherever his search takes him, he be free to go. From being born into a home let no one be Hindu or Muslim.
Yes, if by his own search someone feels that the Koran resonates with him, that while reading the Koran, while chanting its ayats, some string within him begins to vibrate—something that never happened on reading the Vedas—then let him be a Muslim. Or if a Muslim finds that by reading the Gita the song within him awakens, his slumbering life stirs—as if stretching, as if sleep drops away, the haze dissolves—then let him be a devotee of the Gita. Let him follow Krishna. But the search must be his own. Your Krishna should come through your self-trust. Your Buddha too should come through your self-trust. Let your self-trust be primary—then anything may be.
'Do not dwell in heedlessness.'
The life you are living now is a swoon. Hence you are entangled in base dharma. You are asleep. You are being pushed around. Wherever you find yourself, you think you were sent for this. Wherever the current takes you, you go. There is no destination, no sense of direction. No heartfelt urgency to reach somewhere, to become something.
'Do not dwell in heedlessness.'
Drop the swoon. Be filled with awareness.
'Do not hold wrong view.'
What is wrong view? Which view does Buddha call right, and which wrong? Whoever’s view is not his own—that is wrong view. What is private, one’s own—that is right view. If the eyes are one’s own, only then are they right—how can another’s eyes be right for you?
Long years ago I went to study at Benares Hindu University. I never studied there. Benares did not suit me. I did not like the heat, nor the dryness there. I returned. But when I went, I was a guest at someone’s home. At five in the morning I rose and thought: let me have a round of the university before dawn, let me get familiar with the place I am choosing to live in.
I set off. It was early, twilight. I asked an old gentleman—he seemed to be out for a walk—'Where is the university?' We stood at a crossroads. He said: 'If you go by this left road you will come upon a bridge, after the bridge a cinema hall...' I said: 'Enough, I will ask further ahead.' He said: 'You did not understand—do not go by this road; this is the road you should not go by.' I was a bit startled: I am asking how to go to the university!
Then he said: 'And this road in front...' I said: 'Should I go by this?' He said: 'Do not go by this either.' I thought: a strange man! I said: 'Then tell me only the way by which to go.' Now I began to doubt even the road he would point out. He said: 'You must go by this road, but since I myself am going that way, I will walk with you a bit. No need to explain.' Out of courtesy I did not refuse. But it seemed meaningless to go with him.
After fifteen or twenty minutes I asked: 'When shall we arrive?' He said: 'If you ask truly—I am myself a stranger here.' I said: 'Good man, why did you not say so at the start?' He said: 'As far as I could help, I did. There was no one else for you to ask.' I had to admit: that is also true.
I said: 'Now what shall I do? Should I ask someone else, or follow you?' He said: 'If you wish, ask now that the road has begun, but I say—what will you do going to the university anyway?' He then said a delightful thing: 'What benefit is there? What have those who reached there gained?' Then he seemed not a madman at all—but a paramahansa. He was right.
Later I stayed in other universities. But whenever I arrived at a new academic year, and when the year ended and I returned, I never forgot that man. Because every year he was proven right: those who have reached—what have they obtained? When all the examinations were over, and I loaded my trunk on a tonga and headed for the station to return, again I remembered him. Six years earlier he had said it. Then I felt sorry that I had even for a moment thought him mad.
No, he was not mad; he was a paramahansa. Where you are going—if others who reached there got nothing, why are you going—his point is sound. And there is a kind of knowledge you get at a university that is not true; it is bookish, scriptural. It provides information, but does not light the inner lamp. It does not break the stupor; perhaps it densifies it, adds arrogance.
Last night I was reading a song—
Yes, there is still something more that has not been said;
I have drenched my unperturbed head—
so what?
I have drawn water from rivers, streams, ponds, wells—
so what?
I have flown, I have run, I have swum, I have become skilled—
struck by this very arrogance
I stood hesitating at the ocean’s dark shore,
bowed down—
into that vastness I could not be carried.
Yes, there is still something more that has not been said;
I have drenched my unperturbed head—
so what?
I filled the head, filled it well, brim-full—so what?
I have drawn water from rivers, streams, ponds, wells—
so what?
I have flown, I have run, I have swum, I am adept—
so what?
But as the mind is filled, an arrogance arises: I know.
Struck by this very arrogance
I stood at the ocean’s dark shore,
hesitating, bowed—
into that vastness I could not be carried.
Knowledge does not free you from ignorance; it only frees you from simplicity. Knowledge does not make you a knower; it gives you the stiffness of 'being a knower'. And because of that stiffness, entering the Infinite becomes difficult.
Struck by this very arrogance,
at the ocean’s dark shore
I stood hesitating, bowed—
into that vastness I could not be carried.
And thus what remains—remains unsaid.
Words—truly—are futile,
and just because beyond-words dwell meanings,
perhaps only this much: the pain
is bigger than I,
I could not bear it.
That is why what remains still—remains unsaid.
What the pundit says—what he says on the basis of knowledge, of scripture—misses the essential, the unsaid. He speaks of garments and of bodies; the life-force is left out. He has not known the life-force either.
Buddha calls it wrong view. If your knowing is only information—it is wrong view. If your knowing is knowing—if it is awakening—if you have experienced it, if you have tasted it, only then is it right view. Your seeing is cleared; your eyes are cleansed. Otherwise more veils settle on your sight. This is why wrong view.
Understand this: Buddha does not call the ignorant man 'wrong view'. Many understand it that way. In many commentaries on the Dhammapada you will find: wrong view means the ignorant.
No—the child is not wrong view. The child is ignorant, but not wrong view. Wrong view is the one who has no vision yet believes that he has. Ignorance has a different form: 'I do not know.' A man says: 'I do not know.' You cannot call this wrong view. He says: 'I have no vision; I am blind.'
No—wrong view is the one who is blind, who gropes with a stick, and if you call him blind he gets angry, filled with rage, and begins to prove that he has eyes. That is wrong view. Wrong view means: one who has no right seeing but still is deluded that he has, who claims he has right sight.
'Do not hold wrong view.'
Micchaditthim na sevayya—do not partake of wrong view either. Otherwise it will grow. What you support will take root. If you support wrong view, slowly it will root itself, and suck you dry—impoverish your life—for then even to be rid will be difficult.
Have you seen trees rooting into ruined walls? Pull the tree out and the wall collapses. It becomes difficult to remove.
Do not partake at all. Better to stay a little hungry. If pure water is not found, remain thirsty a while—no harm. Thirst will only deepen—no harm. But do not drink dirty water. Lest by drinking dirty water you acquire a taste for it—and then pure water will seem smelly, insipid, because you have acquired a taste for filth.
People drink alcohol—at first it tastes bitter, unpleasant; it does not bring joy. Slowly, with practice, sweetness comes. People eat fish; those who do not cannot even think of it—a dead fish gives such a stench—but those who do, their sense of smell goes; perhaps great pleasure arises.
Bengalis say 'jal-dandi'—they do not call it fish. The word 'fish' is wrong! Jal-dandi, like the stem of a lotus. Without eating fish, a man cannot be a man! They make ponds in every house to raise their own fish. Even the Bengali body begins to reek of fish. A Bengali is not hard to recognize. Blindfold yourself and walk—if a Bengali comes by you will immediately know. The odor of jal-dandi will come. But he does not smell it; he is soaked in it.
Do not cultivate the habit of filth. Do not cultivate the habit of stench.
Hence Buddha says: 'Do not hold wrong view.'
For with all these, the cycle of becoming increases. Borrowed religion, base dharma, a life of swoon, trust in wrong view—this will increase return. You will come again and again. Caught upon the potter’s wheel, you will be spun, tormented; you will be born again—die again—born again.
Wake up, O wake up,
on every horizon light is falling;
dawn has come, dawn has come.
A new golden morn has arrived:
let your mind be clean, your body clean;
leave sleep now—the night is gone.
Let your mind be clean, your body clean.
If the mind is clean—meaning, if you have not gathered what is futile, if you have not hoarded garbage. If the body is clean—if you have taken only that nourishment which is worthy, the purest, the noblest.
Buddha and Mahavira, both denied animal slaughter—not only because animals suffer, but even more because what you eat constructs you. The lower the food, the lower your life becomes.
When you eat, be aware. If you have eaten the flesh of a dead animal, be aware—this dead creature’s flesh, in a little while, will become part of your flesh. This corpse lying outside will soon live inside you. It will course through your blood. It will circulate through your prana. From it your brain too will be built. For your food builds you. You are sinking lower. You are gathering stones around your neck.
Then you eat a clean fruit. Mahavira and Buddha said: eat the fruit that has ripened and fallen by itself—neither plucked nor raw—which the tree itself has donated, saying: now it is ready, let someone take it. That fruit which the tree has released. By taking this light food you too will become light. Gravity will have less effect upon you. You will be able to fly in the sky. The vast sky of consciousness—there the lighter you are the better.
Let your mind be clean, your body clean;
leave sleep now—the night is gone.
'Rise'—the second sutra—'Do not be heedless. Practice the dharma of right conduct. The dharma-practitioner sleeps in happiness in this world and in the beyond.'
'Uttitthae—rise.'
What kind of rising? The Upanishads say: Uttishthata, jagrata, varan nibodhata—Arise, awake, be enlightened by the wise.
'Rise.'
This is not about physically getting up. Let your consciousness rise. Let your soul rise. Do not remain asleep within. Shake off, clean out, put down the burdens. Rise within.
'Rise. Do not be heedless.'
Not to be heedless is the sutra for rising. Understand 'pramada'—heedlessness. It is a most precious word of Buddha—also of Mahavira. Pramada means: to live as if drunk. Watch a drunkard walking—he stumbles. His feet fall amiss.
I saw a drunkard. For some days I lived in a neighborhood in Jabalpur. Nearby there was a drunkard—very wealthy, prosperous. Nothing to do—much money—the only thing left to do was to drink.
One night, around eleven, I was returning from a friend’s house. I saw this man: one foot in the gutter and the other on the curb; he was walking. It was difficult to walk—one foot high, one low—and he was drunk. I asked: 'Why not walk on the road?' He said: 'I am thinking the same—what happened to the road? Why has it become so zig-zag? It is very difficult to walk.'
Pramada means: you are walking but you do not quite know where, nor what the path is, who you are, where you go, why you go, from where you go—whether going is even needed. You keep going. A jostling crowd. All are going, so you go. All are doing, so you do. An imitation—blind imitation.
To drop pramada means: shake yourself a little awake. Whatever you do—do it consciously. Even when you lift your foot, lift it consciously. Buddha said: even the breath that goes in—remain aware that the breath has entered. Now it has reached inside. It stays a moment. Now it goes out. Now it has gone out completely. It stayed a moment. Now again it begins to enter.
Buddha said: the bhikkhu is he who does not let even breath move unknown; who even on so subtle a process as breathing sets his awareness, seats it firmly. When you walk on the path—Buddha says—let there be awareness within: the left foot rises; it falls; the right rises.
It does not mean you say inside: 'left rose, right rose'—you will go mad. Let there be a wordless knowing. Do not form words like: now left rose, now right rose. Otherwise soon you will begin speaking aloud: now left rose, now right rose. Then it will be very difficult—life is complex. What all will you manage? Left foot rising, breath entering, hand moving here—what all will you keep aware of?
To be aware simply means this: remain awake to whatever is happening. Whatever is happening. Do not let it be that you later say: I do not know when it happened. If you live with this much wakefulness, how will you be able to be angry? How will you descend into lust? How will you hate? How will you be jealous? It becomes impossible.
Buddha has given a profound key. If you live awake, the sins of your life fall off by themselves. For Buddha, sin means: to live asleep. And virtue means: to live awake. Virtue has no relation to the act; it is related to the doer’s wakefulness. And sin is not related to the act; it is related to the doer’s sleep. If you begin to awaken within—you will begin to rise within—uttitthae.
'Practice the dharma of right conduct.'
Dhammam sucaritam chare.
Sucarita—go near one in whose presence dharma seems to be descending into form. Scriptures are dead. Beautiful words are written in them, but they are like flowers pressed between pages—long dried, their fragrance gone, their beauty lost. Words preserved in scriptures are like flowers pressed in books—dead. Long dead. Go to a garden, ask a gardener; see a living flower.
Sucarita means: if you want to know the rose, go to the blossoming rose. Seek a living Buddha—a place where you can find fragrance, a meeting with the living. Where you can see your own future standing in the present. Where you find a lamp aflame—so that your trust grows, courage grows: what happened to this person can happen to me.
This alone is the meaning of satguru. The satguru does not carry you—who can carry whom! By seeing the satguru your trust arises, your self-confidence: then we are not wandering in vain! It can happen! It has happened! It is before the eyes. Sucarita is present. Touch and see; live near and see; do satsang and see—somewhere it has happened.
On this earth dharma has gradually been destroyed because we began to worry about books; we abandoned the search for Buddhas. It is not that Buddhas stopped being; Buddhas have always been, are, and will be. The earth is vast. But we have stopped seeking them.
The result: we no longer have trust that God might be. If one had been seen who is godly, only then could trust arise. How will trust arise? Doubt persists: perhaps it is all imagination.
How can trust arise in Krishna? Doubt will remain: perhaps it is only a story. For unless, in your own life, you meet a living person in whose flute the same music plays—not exactly like Krishna, for Krishna will not be again—but the flavor the same, the tune the same; unless you sit at someone’s feet and the same shower of peace falls upon you as once fell at Buddha’s feet—how will trust arise? Trust in yourself, and trust in godliness. Then you will know: this Atman is Paramatman. It can happen; it can happen within me as well.
When the chicks of birds see their mother flying in the sky, courage comes. Then they sit on the edges of the nest—afraid, hesitant—they spread their little wings. Sometimes the mother even has to push them. There are all kinds: some courageous—fly at once; some timid, delicate—cling to the nest, do not fly. Then the mother has to give a push. But before pushing she flies around the nest—circling—giving them the news that the sky is. Look. And wings like mine you too have. Granted you are small and new; what harm? Your small wings are enough to bear your small weight. They will grow too. If you use them, they will grow. What is used grows; what is unused shrinks and is lost.
You have not used your godliness—it has shrunk, been lost. Godliness is like wings. If you do not use your legs, they slowly become inert; one day you cannot walk. Walk daily, you remain able to walk. Run, you remain able to run.
In the presence of a Buddha you gain trust in yourself—remember this. Do not make the mistake of gaining trust in the Buddha. In the presence of a Buddha, if trust arises in yourself—it is fulfilled. The reverence you feel for the Buddha should transform into reverence for your own self. Let not the little bird say: 'Alright, mother, I trust you—you can fly. But I? I cannot. Where are you, where am I!' Then the mother’s flying is of no use. But if the chick flutters, looks at his wings—'Ah, I have them too!'—and the mother is flying—'Let me fly under her care a little.'
First the chick flies alongside the mother. Not too far—circles one or two trees and sits. He tires—he is small. Then he undertakes longer journeys—from one tree to another. Yet he stays behind the mother. Watch birds teaching their little ones to fly—you should see.
As a small child clings to his mother’s sari and walks about the house—he knows he has legs, he walks, yet he still holds the sari. Mother goes to the kitchen—he goes to the kitchen. Mother goes to the bathroom—he tries to get in there too. He holds the sari—he cannot yet accept that he can walk alone. Slowly he begins to walk. Then if you ask him to hold the sari, he will shrug it off: what is this! Leave me!
Just yesterday a mother came to me. She said: my son has taken sannyas with you. Now he wants to be free of us. He will want to—every son must one day. The mother is wise. She understands. She said: it is right. He had to leave your womb one day. One day he left your lap. One day he left the house. One day he will fall in love with another woman—and begin to forget you. This is natural. And if he falls in love with someone like me, you will yourself say: go. Now you say to him yourself: go—do not be miserly. In your saying is the fragrance, the juice. And the mother is courageous. She said: alright. Perhaps if you release him with your own hands and say: go, you are free—he may not be able to get free of you! For who is freed from one who is ready to set you free? It is impossible to be free of the bondage of one who gives you freedom.
The chicks first fly a little with the mother. Then one day they try themselves. Then the mother says: come this way; they say: you go where you like! We have our wings now. We want a direct encounter with the sky.
On that day the guru rejoices—when the disciple says: now I have wings—give your blessing that I meet the sky directly. I need not burden you—fly with me. I can fly. I go now toward the sun. I take my own flight—give your blessing.
When Buddha says, 'Practice the dharma of right conduct'—sucarita means: where dharma is in conduct now. Where dharma is being lived now. Where dharma has not become a dry flower pressed in a book, but is still on the tree—roots still spread in the earth—sap still flowing—spring still alive, not just a memory.
Therefore the search for a satguru is essential. Good books may lead you to a good guru—this is enough. But truth is reached at the feet of a satguru. Otherwise trust in your own legs does not arise—and the journey is long, the mountain is high, the climb is heavy. Until you see someone who has climbed, you will not climb.
When Hillary climbed Everest—before that hundreds had tried and failed. After Hillary, many climbed. Now every year someone goes. Now it is nothing special. Women have climbed too. What happened? Why before Hillary could none succeed? For fifty years people tried—hundreds died, fell, were lost—never returned—the mountain seemed more and more unassailable. Then one day Hillary climbed. One man climbed—and trust arose—the matter ended. Now even children will climb. Already women have climbed.
Watch—within a few years school children will climb. For the matter is done. Once one man ascends, all humanity ascends. Now whether anyone goes or not, every man knows: with some arrangement, some training, we will climb. If Hillary climbed—a man like us—why not us? There is no reason left. When one man climbed, humanity climbed. The day one man walked on the moon, humanity walked. No hindrance remains.
These are small mountains. The mountain of truth is supremely difficult. Its peak is not even visible to the eye. Stretch your neck as much as you like—the summit is far—lost in the haze. But when you see that someone has climbed…
In Japan the Zen monks have a saying: if you must go to the mountain, ask the man who goes there often. Precisely—ask the awakened. If you want to awaken. You sit poring over books. From them you will not climb. Yes—you will memorize the words of those who climbed—but not heart-remember—only by heart. Base dharma you will receive; where will you find noble dharma? Search for the living somewhere.
'Practice the dharma of right conduct. The dharma-practitioner sleeps in happiness in this world and the next.'
You do not awaken in happiness—let alone sleep in it. You do not live in happiness—let alone die in it. He who has practiced dharma—he lives happily, yes—Buddha does not even speak of that; he dies happily. He awakens happily—Buddha does not even speak of that; he sleeps happily. When he is not—sleeping—the stream of joy still flows; when he is—waking—it flows of course. In truth, one who has awakened remains awake even in sleep. One who has truly lived goes on living even after death.
Ordinary people—sleeping people—never happy. They may dream of happiness, they may hope, they may weave expectations—but happiness never happens to them. Look into people’s eyes—how withered they have become! The eyes have lost the calm of lakes—their depth. Look into people’s life-breath—how tired, burdened—as if only waiting to die—as if nothing else is left to do.
You will not find the humming of life in people. Nor will you hear the murmur of the inner spring. Sit near them and listen—however intently—nothing will be heard; perhaps the drip-drip of a tear. Perhaps their gloom will touch you. But nothing more.
I have heard—Mulla Nasruddin sat with his ear against a wall. A friend came. He asked: 'What are you listening to, sir?' Mulla said: 'You too listen.' The man put his ear to the wall. After five or seven minutes he heard nothing. He said: 'I hear nothing.' Mulla said: 'What will you hear! I have been listening for thirty years and have heard nothing! Will you hear it in five minutes!'
Put your ear against people—nothing will be heard. No music. Even whether they are alive—you will doubt.
Hence Jesus said—A disciple’s father died. Someone brought the news. The disciple said: 'Let me go, Master—to bury my father.' Jesus said: 'Leave it. In the village are many dead—they will bury the dead. For this task there is no need for a living man; the dead will do it well enough. Let the dead bury the dead. Why do you worry? Come behind me. Leave the matters of death. We go to seek the Ever-living.'
Jo na dekha tha aaj tak humne
Dil ki baaton mein aa ke dekh liya.
Zindagi har tarah bawal rahi
Sabr bhi aazma ke dekh liya.
Koi apna nahin yahan ai Arsh
Sabko apna bana ke dekh liya.
Life—look carefully—what is it but turmoil? There is no time to reflect—that is another matter. No leisure to look back: life is turmoil. We are carried by the current. There is no time—rise in the morning, run, hustle; evening, tired, sleep; again morning—again run. In this running one day we fall and vanish. But think a little—other than turmoil, what is there? These lines of Arsh are lovely—
Zindagi har tarah bawal rahi,
Sabr bhi aazma ke dekh liya—
Life remained turmoil in every way. I tried every kind of patience. I tried every kind of consolation—still turmoil.
Jo na dekha tha aaj tak humne,
Dil ki baaton mein aa ke dekh liya—
And whatever hopes the heart raised—I ran after them—whatever dreams it offered—I ran after them—whatever rainbows appeared—I ran after them. I have seen it all. One who has come to feel that in this life there is nothing but agitation and anxiety—no shade of any tree, a vast desert—there occurs revolution in his life. Then he begins to search within. He has seen outside—nothing is found. Now let me see inside. For there are only two dimensions. Lest it be that we are searching outside and it is within. And so it is. Those who searched within—found.
'He who sees this world as a water bubble and a mirage—such a seer is not seen by Yama, the lord of death.'
Buddha says a startling thing: If you take life to be death—if you have seen death in life—then death will not see you. You will become invisible to death. Right now death is invisible to you. A sweet saying: right now you do not see death—life, only life, appears. Everywhere you see greenery. You do not see death. You even lose yourself among thorns.
Yatha bubbulakam passe, yatha passe maricikam—
Right now you wander after mirages. From afar, the scenes appear delightful. Many times, going close, you have found nothing. Many times, even having come near, you found only this much—that the drums are sweet from a distance—nearby they are not so sweet. In truth, go nearer and you will find they are no drums at all. All is lost. Mere dreams. It was your projection. You yourself imagined. You yourself believed. Nothing falls into your hands—only ash.
But Buddha says: he who has seen in life that all is a water bubble—now here, now gone—
Kya satya asatya nahin, maine kuchh bhi socha,
Man shant hua jisko pa, usko satya kaha.
Jo aakar jeevan mein aansu-sa chala gaya,
Meri aastha ne keval use asatya kaha.
Phir aur doosra bhi mera yah anubhav hai—
Jo satya, wohi jeevan mein thir reh pata hai.
Jo mithya hai, bhram hai, asatya hai, kshan-bhar mein
Halchal-sa aata hai, jal-sa bah jata hai.
Jo mithya hai, bhram hai, asatya hai, kshan-bhar mein
Halchal-sa aata hai, jal-sa bah jata hai.
Suraj se pran, dhara se paya hai sharir—
Rin liya vayu se humne in shwason ka.
Sagar ne daan diya hai aansu ka pravah,
Nabh ne soonapan vikla madhur uchchwason ka.
Jo jiska hai usko uska dhan lautakar
Mrityu ke bahaane hum rin yahi chukate hain.
Isko hi koi kehta hai abhishap-taap—
Vardan samajh kuchh is par khushi manate hain.
It is a matter of seeing. If in life you have seen death—then in death you will see life. If in life you have seen only life, then in death you will see only death. If you have taken the false to be true, then in the true you will go on seeing the false. If you have known the false as false, then you will see the true as true.
Krishnamurti says again and again: to know the false as false is to create the ground for knowing truth. To know the unreal as unreal—this is the ground for knowing the real. As long as you are wandering in illusion—as long as you decorate your hopes upon water bubbles, and swell with pride over what, on attaining, gives you nothing—you will wander; that which is will remain unseen.
Arsh kahaan tak aakhir ye purlutf suhani ummeedein—
Khush-fahmi par phool na itna, kaise hain asaar to dekh—
How long will you keep these pleasant delights of hope?
Do not blossom so much upon complacency—look at the signs!
Here, everything goes away—flows away.
Kaise hain asaar to dekh—look at the signs. Do not be intoxicated by your pleasing self-deceptions.
Today life is; tomorrow it will not be. Now flowers bloom; tomorrow they will fall. Now the vina plays; tomorrow it will break.
Kaise hain asaar to dekh—look at the portents.
Arsh kahaan tak aakhir ye purlutf suhani ummeedein—how long these sweet hopes?
Khush-fahmi par phool na itna, kaise hain asaar to dekh.
'He who sees this world as a water bubble and mirage—such a seer is not seen by Yama.'
Death will come and not be able to catch you. You will be beyond its reach. See death before death. Die before death. Then death cannot take you. Rarely it happens that death arrives and cannot see whom it is to take.
An ancient Greek tale I have loved. There was a great sculptor and painter. When death came near, he made ten statues of himself. He was so great that if he placed a statue next to the original, and the person held his breath and stood motionless, people could not tell who was real and who was stone—who the statue and who the original.
When the physicians said: your death is near, he said: Fine, I will give death a deceit. He made ten statues of himself and stood hidden among them.
Death came—entered through the door—and was troubled. There were eleven men—one to be taken. All looked exactly the same. Which was real? Death went and observed each closely—he held his breath and stood. When death passed by him, he felt secure.
Death, tired, returned. She said to God: There is great difficulty—there are eleven identical men; you have never made even two alike; there are eleven there. What mistake has occurred? Whom shall I bring? God laughed. He said: ten are false; one is real. She asked: how shall I know? God whispered a mantra into her ear: go and speak this in the room—he who is real will betray himself.
Death returned—stood in the room—looked around—and said: All is well, only one mistake remains. The man blurted: Which one? She said: That you have not yet forgotten yourself. Come, step out.
If you dissolve, death cannot take you. She may say: there is a mistake—one mistake remains—a thousand mistakes—but you stand. You stand means you are. Even if she pounds the false statue into speaking, she will take that—and miss you. You are not; how will she catch you? To be caught one must be. The sculptor forgot for a moment. You will forget. Breath-control will not help. Ego-dissolution will. Do all the pranayamas you want; all the yogasanas you wish—nothing will happen until surrender happens; until you accept death.
Evam lokam avekkhantam maccuraja na passati—
For one who thus beholds the world, the king of death does not see him. See death all around. Recognize it—then you are outside its hand. Until you recognize, you are within its grip. Do what you will, death will catch you today or tomorrow.
'Come...'
Today’s last sutra—
'Come, behold this world like a painted royal chariot, in which fools are entranced; but the wise are not attached.'
Esa passatha imam lokam citta-raj-rathupamam.
Yattha bala visidanti, natthi sango vijanatam.
Come, Buddha says, see this world—how it is decorated! What colors and music! What a Holi is going on! How the vermilion dust rises! Look—carefully. All this is a dream. Decorated as a king’s chariot. Soon these colors will fly off. Soon it will all be without color.
'Come, behold this world like a painted royal chariot, in which fools become attached, but the wise are not attached.'
This is the criterion of the wise. Are you so awake that attachment cannot play its tricks? So awake that attachment cannot infiltrate? So awake that a lamp burns such that darkness cannot enter—there is no entry for it.
This is Buddha’s invitation—see the world rightly. It seems colorful; it is not. It is only the deception of color.
Kya bataoon ke Khuda jaane jawani kya thi—
Jagte-jagte ek khwab magar dekha tha—
What shall I tell you—God knows what youth was—
awake, awake, I had seen but a dream.
When you look back, the entire life will seem no more than a dream.
Bertrand Russell wrote in a letter to a friend: many times I feel—was that past I have lived through actually there? Or was it that a dream was seen?
Think yourself. Do you have any solid proof that it was there? At night when you dream—it seems real. In the morning you wake and see: ah, it was a dream. Now looking back to yesterday—was it? How will you assert today whether it was dream or real? It could have been dream. All dreams seem true when they are being seen.
Chuang Tzu’s famed story—I have told it many times. At night he dreamt he had become a butterfly. In the morning he sat sad. Disciples asked: what happened? He said: I will never be happy again. Great trouble. At night I saw a dream that I had become a butterfly. Disciples laughed: such dreams we all see—what is the problem?
He said: the problem is not the dream; it is what happens on waking. Now I suspect—if Chuang Tzu can dream he is a butterfly, might it not be that now a butterfly sleeps, dreaming she is Chuang Tzu? What certainty? Which is true? How shall I decide? When I was a butterfly—I was totally butterfly—flying flower to flower, leaf to leaf—not a moment’s doubt occurred in the dream that I was Chuang Tzu and butterfly. Now I am awake—this Chuang Tzu says I am awake—who knows: perhaps the butterfly fell asleep upon a tree and in deep slumber dreams she is Chuang Tzu. The one sitting here—am I truly sitting, or is the butterfly dreaming? Help me. But what way is there?
Zen masters made Chuang Tzu’s saying a koan. They give it to disciples: meditate upon this. Meditating upon it, a moment comes when what you call 'dream' and what you call 'real' appear to be of the same nature. And they are. Some dreams are of the night, with closed eyes; some are of the day, with open eyes—but all are dreams. This alone is the meaning of maya.
'Come, behold this world like a painted royal chariot, in which fools are attached.'
Who is a fool? One who does not learn from repeated experience. How many times you thought: 'If I get this, I will get all.' Then you got it—and sat rubbing your hands empty. And still you did not learn: I will not think thus again.
A young man came to me—about a year and a half ago. He said: I have had three marriages and three divorces. He was not very old—things move quickly in the West—everything has gained speed—not just planes fly faster—men fly faster too. He said: three divorces. Now bless me—I have fallen in love with a fourth. I said: we will talk of the fourth later; first let us talk of the three. He asked: what do you mean? I asked: what did you learn from the first? He said: let those things be—painful experiences. I said: before the experience you had great hopes. He said: of course—else why marry? Why get trapped?
Then in the second—what happened? Did you tie the same hopes again? He was surprised: yes—the same hopes. Then they broke? He said: they broke again. I asked: how did you get entangled in the third?
He became a bit sad: will you not give me your blessing? I said: what difficulty is there in blessing? Is there anything easier? That is why even those who have nothing, give blessings. I will bless you—but my blessing will not change the structure of life; it will not change its color. Then you will repent—and even abuse me, that I gave my blessing—as if my blessing failed. Why do you insist on making me fail? Suffer it yourself. Soon my blessing will seem a curse—what will you do then?
He said: what happened three times—must it happen a fourth time? Must what has been—be again? I said: this very delusion keeps man wandering. He falls a thousand times into the pit, yet says: perhaps on the thousand-and-first time I will cross safely. A bridge that breaks each time—he thinks: perhaps this time it will hold. And such men build stories to support themselves.
You have heard the story of Mahmud of Ghazni. He was defeated. He fled to the hills—worn out—defeated many times—he decided to kill himself—he hid in a cave—enemies pursued him. The story says he saw a spider weaving a web; it would break and she would fall. He had nothing else to do—so he watched and counted: how many times? Eighteen times she fell; the nineteenth time the web held. He too had been defeated eighteen times—he leapt out: if a spider can succeed the nineteenth time, so can I. And children are taught such stories—thus they are taught: do not be afraid; do not learn from experience; you will win the nineteenth time. It is to this nineteenth that everyone clings.
Life is such that here there is no victory. Even when there is victory, it is defeat. Even if Mahmud wins—what does he gain?
He who learns from experience is wise. He who does not learn is a fool. He goes on nurturing his attachment. And one who has learned; who has learned from his life that here there are only dreams—rainbows—beautiful from afar—near, there is nothing—one who understands this—his new journey begins. The name of that journey is dharma. Esa dhammo sanantano—the eternal law.
Tir par kaise rukun main—
Aaj lahron mein nimantran.
Raat ka antim prahar hai,
Jhilmilate hain sitare.
Vaksh par yug-bahu baandhe
Main khada sagar kinare.
Veg mein bahta prabhanjan,
Kesh-pat mere udata,
Shunya mein bharta udadhi
Ur ki rahasyamayi pukare.
In pukaron ki pratidhvani
Ho rahi mere hriday mein,
Hai praticchhayit jahan par
Sindhu ka hillol-kampan.
Tir par kaise rukun main—
Aaj lahron mein nimantran.
He who has known this world as dream—he receives a call—from the distant ocean. Then he cannot remain.
Tir par kaise rukun main—
Aaj lahron mein nimantran.
Here the dream has broken; the boat is ready, moored. The man sets out upon another quest. When dharma became futile, man got entangled in the world. When the world becomes futile, he sets out upon the pilgrimage of dharma. Wake and see.
'Rise. Do not be heedless—uttitthae.'
Awaken. Behold!
'Come, behold this world like a painted royal chariot. The fool becomes attached in it; the wise becomes free of it.'
Listen to that distant echo—the call from the far shore. But if this shore grips you too much, if the toys of this shore have too much entangled you—you will not hear. Let the toys of this shore become futile—let your hands be free—be a little empty—then certainly—
Tir par kaise rukun main—
Aaj lahron mein nimantran—
You will hear the invitation. You will not be able to remain upon the shore.
The world is the shore. The ocean is truth. And until the call of the Eternal, the Sanatan, seizes you, you will sit upon the sandy bank building sand-houses; the winds will erase them; you will build again and again.
Buddha said: I was passing a village. On the riverbank many children were building houses of sand. I stopped and watched. Great quarrels, fights—because someone’s house fell by a footfall. Houses! Or someone deliberately kicked another’s house to feel the thrill of breaking—pride, ego—and the children fought, tore each other’s clothes—sand houses! Yet when man plays, even sand houses become real. The chess elephants and horses become real—they draw swords—even elders draw swords; these were little children.
Then Buddha said: I saw a woman come to the bank. She called out loudly: 'Children! Your mothers are waiting at home. Come—it is evening. The sun is setting.' The children looked—the sun had set, night was coming—they ran—trampling their very own houses under their feet. No fight now, no quarrel. The call of home had come. Evening had fallen. The sun had set, night descended. Those very houses that moments earlier were causes of conflict—lawsuits—those very houses were trampled by the same feet.
Once you see that the world is maya, then the door opens to what is truth—Brahman. Esa dhammo sanantano—the eternal law.
That is all for today.