Es Dhammo Sanantano #61

Whenever earth breaks into shards
into dead heaviness, into sins,
whenever the sky’s dignity falls
under the curses of the unwise,
whenever eyes go blind
and begin to weep for themselves,
whenever the very mind melts down
in smoldering agonies,
then someone sings a honeyed song:
Asato ma sadgamaya.

Whenever soot is smeared
on Diwali’s forehead,
night descends over every direction,
paths are lost turn after turn;
lanes are plundered,
robbers fall upon the roads,
house to house goes bankrupt,
whole towns go to auction—
then someone sings a song:
Tamaso ma jyotirgamaya.

When life becomes a desert,
dying of thirst, thirsting;
when poor, virgin longing
remains unwed;
when bangles of glass and bracelets
turn into fetters of iron;
when mehndi fades from the hands,
and hope abandons hope—
then someone sings a song:
Mrityor ma amritam gamaya.

Buddha is unique. The pole star. Stars are many, but the pole star is one. Buddha is like the pole star. With him, a fresh chapter began in the history of human consciousness. What Krishna said had been said before. Nothing new was in it. What Christ said was but a new commentary on the old. The commentary was new, but the truths were ancient, most ancient. What Mahavira said had already been repeated by twenty-three Tirthankaras before him. Much was added—yes—but no birth of the new. With Buddha, something new was born. With Buddha, a revolution descended into human consciousness. To understand that revolution is essential; only then will we understand Buddha’s utterances.

These utterances are not ordinary; they are proclamations of revolution.

Do not count Buddha among others. Hindus have counted Buddha among their ten Avatars. Buddhists think this is a great honor Hindus have shown him. I do not think so. To count Buddha among ten Avatars is to strike at the pole star that he is. Of the other nine Avatars of the Hindus, none initiated the new; no revolution begins with them. They repeated the eternal truths. They were precious men, but not unique. Tradition gained strength from them, but no revolution was born.

Therefore to join Buddha with any ten is an insult, not an honor. Buddha stands alone—none like him before, none like him after. His very aloneness is his beauty. That is his distinctiveness.

What revolution did Buddha bring into human consciousness? Understand this.

First: with Buddha, religion gathered the capacity to become scientific. With Buddha, religion became scientific. With Buddha, religion received the dignity of science. It is not an accident that in this age of science—when Rama has faded, when even those who follow Christ take his name only formally, when Mahavira is worshiped but merely in name, perfunctory—Buddha’s prestige has continued to rise. As science has become honored in the eyes of humanity, so has Buddha’s glory increased. Not for a single moment has his stature diminished. Others seem to have grown old; Buddha seems to have his era arriving now—or perhaps not yet arrived, but approaching. The footsteps can be heard—Buddha’s age is near. Whether it is Albert Einstein, or Bertrand Russell, or Jean-Paul Sartre, or Karl Jaspers—the greatest thinkers of the West, who feel unease in bowing before Christ—their heads bow before Buddha.

Bertrand Russell wrote: I was born in a Christian home and raised in Christian beliefs, but I freed myself from them. He wrote a unique book—Why I Am Not a Christian—giving every argument: the personality of Jesus is unscientific, therefore I cannot be a Christian. But even Bertrand Russell said, with Buddha the matter is different. It is difficult to deny Buddha. Because Buddha never uttered a single unscientific word. Not a word that you could refute by reason. Not a single statement that would fail at the touchstone of intelligence.

This does not mean Buddha is exhausted by intellect. Buddha goes beyond intellect. But he goes beyond using the support of intellect—not against it, not in opposition to it. This is Buddha’s first revolution.

Buddha says: we will even make a ladder of intellect. We will climb upon it. Truth is beyond intellect, but it is not anti-intellectual. It is super-intellectual. Therefore, there is no need to abandon intellect to attain truth; there is a need to refine and polish intellect, to purify it. If intellect is impure, it is poison; if purified, it is nectar. Buddha is an intellectual—though his intelligence points beyond intelligence. Therefore, no intellectual can truly deny Buddha.

Know this: Buddha did not talk of God at all, did not speak of Ishwar, did not even take the name of Paramatma. Not that Buddha did not know. If Buddha wouldn’t know—who would? But to take the name felt un-intellectual. There is no way to provide proof. If someone asks, where is God—how will you gather proof? So Buddha left the matter of God aside; he did not commit the mistake of speaking the un-verifiable. He remained silent about God. He spoke of meditation. Because he knew: one who descends into meditation will one day know God—what need to talk of God? He will taste, and that day he will be shaken, intoxicated. But until the taste comes, let it not happen that by talking of God we put a hurdle in the way.

Have you noticed—many people are prevented from becoming religious precisely because of God? Since trust does not arise regarding God—how to be religious? Buddha opened the path of religion even for the atheist—an unprecedented revolution.

Buddha said: be an atheist—fine, good, come. For what obstacle can there be to meditation for an atheist? And remember: when Buddha says meditation, he does not mean what others mean. When Meera says meditation, she means meditation on Krishna—on someone. When Buddha says meditation, he says: as long as any object remains in your mind, there is no meditation. Neither Krishna, nor Rama, nor Allah. So long as someone is in your mind, mind remains—how can there be meditation then? Meditation means becoming empty of mind, empty of thought. On whom to meditate?—the very phrasing is wrong. Meditation is a state of no-thought. A state where you are utterly alone, solitary. Only your consciousness remains. Unstained. Not a wisp of cloud—only sky remains, bare sky, cloudless sky—that is meditation. This meditation even an atheist can do. For this meditation, no belief is required.

Buddha introduced a new word—research. Not faith, but research. Inquiry. Faith means: accept before you search. Faith means: believing first, searching later. But Buddha says: if you have already believed, how will you search? Belief becomes a barrier. Searching means: eyes empty, no pre-conception—neither for nor against. Searching means this much awareness: I do not know, and I want to know.

Ask a theist—he says: God is; it is my faith. Ask an atheist—he says: God is not; that is my faith. Theist and atheist—both are believers. One believes in God’s being; the other believes in God’s non-being. Buddha says: neither remains religious. Religious means one will say: I do not know; I stand in darkness. I must search. Until the search is complete, how can I say whether God is or is not? When the inquiry is complete, then I will say. The conclusion comes later. This is the method of science. Its stages are: impartiality, freedom from assumption, observation.

But observation is impossible if you have already assumed. Then you will keep seeing only what you want to see. Your eyes will keep showing you what you wish to see. Impossible otherwise.

I have heard: Mulla Nasruddin’s wife was fed up with him—drink, drink, and drink. No way seemed to free him of wine. She had an idea. At night he returns drunk; the shortcut home passes through a graveyard. In that drunkenness, fear disappears—who can be aware in drink of what is a graveyard and what is not? He comes by the near path. By day he never goes through the graveyard; by day he takes the long way to the tavern. But at night, after drinking, he staggers, collides with graves, falls over them, and comes home. So a plan dawned on the wife—no other way remained—some trick might be tried.

One night she hid behind a grave. She wore black cloth, smeared soot on her face, hid like a ghost, thinking: he may get frightened, get shaken, and in that fear, in that condition of panic, I will extract a promise. When Mulla came reeling, she leapt from the top of a grave and stood before him. For a moment he started, then said: Ah! The wife screamed loudly to terrify him. But he said: shout if you must—but have you not recognized who I am? Mulla said to her. His wife asked: who are you? He said: I am Mulla Nasruddin, and you are my brother-in-law. Have you forgotten your sister? My marriage is with your sister. The voice sounded familiar, so he thought: must be my wife’s brother. Come, shake hands and come home—your sister will be so pleased.

If a preconception is already there—an image pre-formed—you will see by means of it. That scream and cry was the wife’s own, familiar—she had screamed many times, called many times; she sometimes took such a ferocious form at home—wives at home can take very ferocious forms; that is why when going out they take long to adorn themselves. At home they are chandi. He had seen that form many times—familiar. Though the place was new, the cremation ground; though soot was on the face, hair disheveled, black clothes—still, it made no difference. He recognized.

When an image is lodged in your eye, you will find it. We hear only what our belief is. We see only what our belief is. The essential step of science is to go un-prejudiced. Do not carry notions beforehand. Go with an empty mind, a naked mind. Then observation happens.

Then test. Observation alone is not enough. What is understood the first time—test it in many ways, experiment much. If in every experiment the same result comes and no exception occurs, then there is some path—experience will arise. From experience, conclusion. Faith later. Faith is not the first step in science. The first step is doubt; the last step is trust.

What you ordinarily call religion—there faith is the first step, and there is no place at all for doubt. Therefore very intelligent people are compelled to remain irreligious. It doesn’t fit them. Where to put doubt? It is there! And if Paramatma has given doubt, how to cut it off and throw it away? It must have some use.

So I say, Buddha uttered something unique. Buddha said: doubt can be used. Doubt can be put in the service of trust. Doubt is not the opposite of trust. By the very support of doubt, trust can be discovered.

This is what science does—by the support of doubt it finds trust. And when a scientist reaches a conclusion, doubt has no reason to remain. All tests are done, observation completed, all manner of checking—thus found. Fact. Not a belief—fact.

Buddha has a name—Tathagata. It means: the one by whom fact came into the world; by whom thusness entered the world. Before this there were imaginations, beliefs, faiths. Tathagata is a beloved word with many meanings. One meaning is this: aga-ta—come; tatha—suchness, fact—the one by whom the tatha, the fact, descended into the world. The one who said: seek truth through the medium of fact. The one who said: research into faith by means of doubt. This is a great alchemy—that we use doubt to attain trust.

Saffron and musk cannot
purify
dirty ash can
the soiled bowls
of gold and silver

Have you seen—if you want to clean a soiled vessel—
not saffron, not musk—
dirty ash
can purify
the soiled bowls
of gold and silver.

When soiled bowls of gold and silver have to be cleaned, you have to take the help of ash. Not saffron and musk—vessels are purified by ash. And you will say: what can ash purify? It is itself impure. Such is doubt. From above it looks like ash, but if you use it, your silver-and-gold bowl of the soul is cleansed by it.

Buddha used doubt for purification. And the artist is the one who can make a meaningful use of the seemingly useless. The truly capable is the one who can turn even the thorn into a flower. To cut off is no virtue; to use, creatively use—that is the virtue.

Science says: remain impartial; go to truth with no expectation. Let the eyes be empty—so that you can see what is. As it is. As-is. If you have assumed already, you will see only that. Your imagination will be projected.

I had a friend—an old man, now gone—Mahatma Bhagwandin. An unusual person. He went to a big city to collect some money—he was building an ashram somewhere. Simple, straightforward man. He wore only an underwear; sometimes in the cold a blanket on his shoulders. In that underwear he went to the shops. Someone gave four annas, someone eight, someone a rupee. In the evening when he met me, he said: such a big city—altogether twenty rupees collected!

I said: you are crazy—is this any way? You do not know how to be a Mahatma. You should have asked me. This is no way to go. Now wait two-three days, do not go; let people forget. He said: why—then what will happen? I said: we’ll see.

After four days I had a notice placed in the newspaper: a great Mahatma has come to town—Mahatma Bhagwandin. And I told four-six friends: beat the drum, make announcements in the town. Then I gathered fifteen-twenty friends and said: now take him along—go to the same shops from where you got four annas and eight annas and twelve annas.

He went to those same shops; people rose and touched his feet: Mahatmaji, please come, sit—great grace. We read in the paper that you have come. And a crowd of twenty-five behind! The one who gave four annas gave five hundred rupees; the one who gave eight annas gave a thousand. That evening when he returned, not twenty rupees—twenty thousand rupees collected.

I asked: how was it? People give to publicity, to advertisement. They don’t give to you—you went in your underwear! They gave you four annas—too much! They didn’t strip you of your underwear—good people! Otherwise they would have pushed you out and snatched the underwear too.

But he said: the amazing thing is I went to the same shops, and the fools didn’t even see that I had already taken four annas from them!

Who looks? Those four annas were not given to you—just to get rid of you: here, go! Who has time? Belief! When the belief is in the mind that someone is a Mahatma, then a Mahatma appears. If a thief, then thief is seen.

A man lost his hoe while working in his garden. He looked around—saw a neighbor’s boy passing by—looked exactly like a thief. He said: must be that devil who took the hoe. For two-three days he examined him; whenever the boy appeared, he watched—looked exactly like a thief: walk like a thief, eyes like a thief, everything like a thief. On the third or fourth day, while working in the garden, he found the hoe lying under a bush. Ah!—he said—the hoe was here! That day when he saw the boy, he seemed a complete gentleman. He had neither taken the hoe nor knew what happened—but belief.

When your belief is that someone is a thief, you will see him as a thief. If your belief is that someone is a saint, you will see him as a saint. These are not ways to find truth. If you form belief beforehand, you have sworn to live in untruth.

So Buddha said: no belief. Do not take any scripture to truth. Go to truth naked, empty; go like a mirror—so that what is, is reflected. Only then will you know.

Now the second thing I want to say is that Buddha did something even more difficult than science. Science says: toward objects remain impartial. That is simple enough. But to be impartial toward oneself—very difficult. Buddha said precisely that. Science is extrovert; Buddha’s science is introvert. Religion means an inward science. Buddha said: just as you see others without preconception, see yourself also without preconception.

This is a bit difficult, almost impossible. Because we do not see ourselves without preconception. We have made our own idols. We have assumed what we are, how we are, who we are. Knowing nothing, we have assumed everything. This is why we suffer daily. Someone abuses us—we feel hurt. Because we had assumed people would worship us—and people are abusing. Someone throws a stone—we become angry. We had assumed people would place garlands—and they throw stones. Our notions! We have built a golden statue of ourselves in our minds—of imagination, of dreams, of rainbows.

Buddha says: drop these idols. Otherwise you will not arrive at self-realization. Drop the belief of who you are. Hindu, Muslim, Christian, Jain? Who are you—Brahmin, Shudra, Kshatriya? Who are you—virtuous, unvirtuous? Drop these beliefs. Go within un-prejudiced. As yet you know nothing of who you are. And these beliefs are very small. The belief of being unvirtuous is useless—so is the belief of being virtuous. Because whom you will find seated within is Paramatma himself. What tiny beliefs have you carried! Because of these little boundaries the Vast is not seen. Eyes so small—how will the Vast fit? You have set such narrow limits—how will the great descend? So even when you grope within, you remain entangled in beliefs.

Buddha said: go within as if you know nothing at all. Silent, still, carrying your ignorance, go within. Then only what is will be seen. And what is seen will open your eyes. The meditator sits with eyes closed—but when meditation happens, the eyes open in such a way that they never close again. They remain open forever.

Those ideas you have assumed as your own—have you ever thought what they are? I am Hindu, Muslim; Brahmin, Shudra; good, bad; such, such—are these your thoughts? All borrowed. Mind is a crossroads across which the travelers of thought are forever passing. Nothing of it is yours.

I was a guest in a home. Two children were quarreling on the steps. I asked: what’s the matter? When it came to blows I got up and went out: wait—what is it? A moment ago you were playing well. They said: he took my car. I asked: which car? They said: you don’t understand—you don’t know the game. Teach us the game, I said. They said: as the cars pass on the road—whoever spots one first, it’s his. A black car passed just now—I saw it first, and he says it was his! So we are fighting.

Cars are passing on the road; two children are fighting over whose they are, dividing them. The car owners have no idea that here it’s come to lawsuit and blows!

Thoughts are just like that. They pass along the road of your mind—don’t assume they are yours. Which thought is yours? Born in a Jain home, parents tell you you are Jain—one car passes—you grab it: mine. Had you been placed in a Muslim home—you’d be Muslim. In a Hindu home—you’d be Hindu. It was a coincidence you stood by the roadside and a car passed. A coincidence you were born in a Jain home or a Hindu home. It is mere coincidence—by that you are neither Hindu nor Jain. But you became one—you grabbed the idea.

Someone told you you’re a Brahmin—a tilak placed, a sacred thread hung. What devices to make fools—so simple you became one! And you assumed: I am a Brahmin. You began to look upon the Shudra with contempt. You grew pride. And then likewise you read the Gita, the Koran, the Bible—and a procession of thoughts began to float within you; the traffic on the road increased—and you became owner of the whole traffic. What is yours in this? Not a single thought. And then you saw—how quickly thoughts change. Thoughts are great opportunists, great politicians. It takes no time to change party—according to the occasion.

Mulla Nasruddin tied his horse and went into a shop to buy goods. When he returned, someone had painted the horse red. He was furious: who did this mischief? Someone said: a man came from that tavern there and smeared it—must have been drunk.

Mulla, in rage, went inside: which rascal painted my horse red? I’ll pull out every bone of yours—stand up! The man who stood up—six and a half feet, a Sardarji—Mulla shrank: pulling bones is far off—saving my own would be much! The Sardar said: speak—what’s on your mind? Why have you come? Mulla said: O Sardarji! I have come to say—the first coat on the horse is dry—when will you do the second? Great kindness you painted the horse, but the first coat is quite dry now.

Thoughts change like that. They are opportunists. Don’t trust them; mind is a politician. And where the mind is, there is politics. Therefore I say: a religious man cannot be a politician. Because to be religious means to go beyond mind. To abide in the consciousness behind mind. Move away from this crowd of thoughts. But so long as you cling, how will you move away? This crowd has made you dishonest, a hypocrite, opportunistic.

Mind is a disease. Wash your hands of it. Be mindless. Samadhi means only this; meditation means only this: in some way your identification with mind falls away. And you see daily how this mind deceives you in so many ways—and through it you deceive others, and it deceives you.

I have heard: a disease of men once gripped the forest animals. Jeeps running through the forest, flags, elections! The animals said: we too should have elections. We too need democracy. Great unrest spread. The lion saw that if he did not side with democracy, his throne would wobble. He said: we have always been democrats—end the emergency, there will be elections. Elections began. The poor lion had to stand at every doorway with folded hands—calling donkeys father.

A fox walked with him as an advisor, as in Delhi. The fox said: one thing is difficult. You have just returned from meeting the sheep and told them: I stand for your interests—your development. You have always been exploited, dear sheep; for you alone I stand. And yesterday you went to the wolves, enemies of the sheep, and said to them: dear wolves, I stand for your interests. Let your well-being be—fresh young sheep to eat daily—that is our goal. The fox said: it is good you have managed the sheep and you have managed the wolves—but if both ever gather together, what will you do?

He said: have you heard of Gandhi Baba? I have, said the fox. Gandhi Baba left all devices. When both come together I say: I am a Sarvodayi—I desire the uplift of all. Let the sheep rise, and the wolves too—let all rise. When I meet them alone, I speak their part; when I meet all together, I talk Sarvodaya.

This word Sarvodaya is worth thinking about. In the West there was a great thinker, John Ruskin. He wrote a book—Unto This Last. In Africa, someone presented that book to Mahatma Gandhi; he was greatly influenced. He translated it into Gujarati. What to name the book? If one were to translate exactly, it would be Antyodaya. He gave the name—Sarvodaya. Unto This Last—let the uplift of the last man be—so Antyodaya. If I translate, I will say Antyodaya—not Sarvodaya. Sarvodaya is a dishonest word.

And Unto This Last does not mean Sarvodaya. Because if those ahead and those behind all rise together, the ones ahead will remain ahead, those behind will remain behind—the gap will remain the same. The one ahead must be held back a little so the one behind can come forward and be together. Antyodaya is the correct translation, but Gandhi chose Sarvodaya. Because he must have felt that if you speak of Antyodaya, you speak of sheep—what of the wolves then? What of Birla and Jamnalal Bajaj? Sarvodaya sounds more political.

The word is not new. A Jain philosopher, Samantabhadra Acharya, used it thousands of years ago—Sarvodaya—but in a very different sense. Then the meaning was right, a religious meaning. He said to Mahavira: you are a Sarvodaya Tirth—you are a ford for all—for at your ghat the Brahmin may descend, the Shudra may descend, the Kshatriya, the Vaishya—your ford is for all. That was right. But Gandhi gave it a political meaning and changed Antyodaya into Sarvodaya.

But you will notice a funny thing: whichever party—Congress, old or new, Janata Party—even socialists—any party—but all say: we are followers of Mahatma Gandhi. There is something in Gandhi Baba—useful at the right time. A device—convenient for opportunism. So the lion says: when I meet both together I talk of Sarvodaya.

Examine your mind. You will find great politics. You will be astonished: how opportunistic your mind is. Whatever suits you, you accept. Whatever exploitation is possible by whatever means, you employ. Whatever masquerade suits the moment, you don.

If this game of masquerade continues, self-knowing will never be. How many masks you have worn! Once wild animal, once tree, once bird or beast; once this, once that; once woman, once man—how many masks! On an endless road of journeys. How many thoughts have whirled you into how many disguises. How many wombs you have descended into—and the whirl still continues.

Buddha says: one who is free of mind is free of coming and going. Mind runs, and makes you run. If the running of mind stops, your running stops. The first step of this journey is to break identity with mind. I am not the mind—then what relation with mind’s thoughts? Carry no thought regarding God, nor regarding the soul, nor regarding good and bad. The one who carries thought cannot reach no-thought. Drop thought and be established in no-thought. This is the great revolution Buddha brought into the world.

One more thing, then we will enter the sutras.

A great Western thinker is Carl Gustav Jung. He discovered an important fact—not new; rather, rediscovered. For this land and Eastern wisdom have known it for thousands of years. Jung discovered: no man is only man—within him a woman is hidden. And no woman is only woman—within her a man is hidden.

This is natural, scientific. Every birth is from the meeting of two—man and woman. From the union of your mother and father you were born. Something of your father has come in you, something of your mother. You can be neither one-hundred-percent man nor one-hundred-percent woman. The difference is such that sixty percent man, forty percent woman—then you are male. Or sixty percent woman, forty percent man—then you are female. But the difference is slight.

Within every person a woman is hidden; within every person a man is hidden. Man is bi-sexual. Why do I tell you this? Because with this key some things become clear.

First: the man hidden in you has certain traits—logic, activity, aggression, attack. The woman hidden in you has certain traits—love, acceptance, feeling, imagination, surrender. The man’s mark is resolve; the woman’s mark is surrender. The man’s is knowledge; the woman’s is devotion. The man’s is to go in search of truth; the woman’s is to await truth’s coming. Both are hidden within you.

If your inner man becomes very active and seeks the male even in the world of objects—if your masculine seeks the masculine—you become a scientist. The scientist lives by hard logic and searches for hard truth. A beautiful flower blooms—if a scientist comes, he will not see beauty; he will see of what chemical substances the flower is composed. He will miss the soft element in the flower; he will grasp the hard.

Science is the meeting of man with man. In that sense science is a kind of homosexuality—male seeking the male. By this, search happens, but not much creation—for what creation is possible with man and man?

A second, opposite state: your inner woman seeks the feminine element pervading the world—your softness seeks the world’s softness—poetry is born, art is born. The poet becomes effeminate—long hair, loose garments, colorful clothes. Show him a flower—no chemical substances will he see; the beauty of the flower, its color, its fragrance—the soft will appear.

Show the moon—a scientist sees rock, mountains, lakes. Show a poet—the face of his beloved appears, a blooming lotus, poetry is born. The poet is the feminine searching the feminine. That too is a kind of homosexuality—two women in love—again, what creation can be?

Religion is heterosexuality—the meeting of a woman and a man. Religion can be of two kinds. Your inner man seeks the feminine hidden in existence—one kind of religion. Or your inner woman seeks the masculine hidden in existence—another kind. Hence the difference between bhakti and jnana. Bhakti means: your inner woman seeks the masculine—Radha seeks Krishna. Jnana means: your inner man seeks the feminine hidden in existence.

Buddha’s religion is of knowledge—your inner man seeking the feminine hidden in existence. Buddha’s is the religion of jnana and dhyana. Narada, Meera, Chaitanya—their religion is of bhakti, of love.

Have you noticed? Hindus never say Krishna-Radha; they say Radha-Krishna. They put Radha first, Krishna after. They say Sita-Ram. Sita first, Ram after. Why? Not without reason—choice. It shows that our inner feminine seeks the masculine hidden in existence. So the feminine first—Radha first, Krishna behind.

The knower searches in another way. Ask the Sufis: what is the form of Parmatma? They say: the Beloved—Parmatma is the Beloved. Ask Hindu bhaktas—they say: Parmatma is male, we are the beloved; we are his companions, he the man. Sufis say: we are the man, she is our Beloved. Therefore Sufi poetry describes Parmatma not as male but as the dear one, the beloved, the priyatama.

Note the difference. Two possibilities of religion: your man seeks the woman, or your woman seeks the man. Buddha’s religion is to employ your inner man—your thought, knowledge, discrimination; your logic, your doubt—toward the search for truth.

Until yesterday I was speaking of compassion—that was the opposite—there the woman was seeking the man. Then your love, your imagination, your feeling, your heart will be used.

With Buddha, your intellect will work. Your heart is not needed; it can be kept aside. Feeling, surrender—no need. The religion of feeling and surrender is easy, much popularized. Buddha gave religion a new dimension so that the man hidden in you not be deprived.

So consider: if you have the capacity for doubt, do not get entangled in belief. If you find yourself skillful in doubt, forget belief. If you feel the power of resolve in you, drop surrender. If you feel you have a razor-sharp intellect—use it. By that too you will arrive. Recognize what you have, and use it rightly.

Now the sutras.

Krishna spoke the Gita to one disciple; these sutras of the Dhammapada were spoken to different disciples at different times. They were spoken to many disciples in many differing situations. And today’s sutras all have little stories behind them—when they were spoken. I will remind you of those stories, for only in context will you understand rightly.

First sutra—

Yo ca pubbe pamajjitvā pacchā so nappamajjati.
So imaṃ lokaṃ pabhāseti, abbhā mutto va candimā.

He who first lives in heedlessness and later is heedless no more, illuminates this world like the moon freed from clouds.

You have heard a saying—the Christian mystics say: every saint has a past, and every sinner a future. Every saint has a past and every sinner has a future.

This is very significant. All saints have been sinners in their past. And more significant: every sinner has a future. However much you sin, the day you choose you can be a saint. It is your decision—your choice. To be what you are is not fate—it is your decision. You can change it. So every sinner has a future, and every saint a past.

This sutra says: he who first in heedlessness, and later no longer heedless.

At first he made great mistakes, lived in sleep, remained somnambulant; was heedless, lazy, unconscious, in a swoon.

He who first in heedlessness, and later no longer heedless—

who awakens, comes to awareness—

he illuminates this world like the moon freed from clouds.

That one is a saint. A saint is not one who has never erred. Don’t go searching for such a saint—none exists, cannot exist. A saint means one who has made many mistakes—made them wholeheartedly—and only then did he awaken; otherwise one doesn’t awaken so easily. So many were made that their pain could no longer be borne. The thorn reached the heart. Every fiber filled with pain—because if you err, you must suffer.

Therefore I tell you—listen well—if you must sin, do not sin lukewarm. Otherwise you will go on doing it sparsely. As water boils at a hundred degrees and becomes vapor, so at a hundred degrees the sinner becomes a saint. If you must sin, do it with total energy. Don’t be miserly—do not do it by retail—do it wholesale. Then perhaps one day you will awaken. Otherwise you may never; because if you sin wholesale, repentance will be wholesale; a mountain of pain will fall—under the breaking of that mountain one awakens; otherwise not.

Have you noticed? At night you suffer nightmares; they go on. You are being beaten, tortured; evil sits on your chest; you are thrown from a mountain, you are falling—it continues. You even want to awaken but cannot; you try to turn over but cannot move your hand; you want to open your eyes but they won’t open—such a nightmare! But it breaks—when? When the last moment comes—when the Himalaya falls on your chest—then it breaks. There is a limit, after which the nightmare breaks. If it goes on mildly, homeopathic dose—sin needs an allopathic dose—then someone awakens. Therefore great sinners often become saints in a moment.

You have heard the story of Valmiki—within a moment Balia the Bhil became Valmiki. He seized a Rishi, going with his veena, singing hymns. Balia was a robber. He tied him to a tree: give whatever you have. The Rishi had nothing—he said: here is this veena, if you want it take it. And here am I—if you can use me, use me—but what is the matter? Balia said: what?—I have to feed my children; wife and children, old parents. The Rishi said: good—go ask them this much—when you receive the fruits of these sins, will they share your lot? Will they be partners?

Balia was startled. He said: Master, do not think up tricks to escape; if I go that way you will vanish! The Rishi said: tie me well and go—or I will come home with you if you wish. He looked into the Rishi’s eyes—the man was steadfast, straightforward. He tied him and said: I will be back after asking.

He went home. Asked his wife: daily I steal, plunder, hurt, sometimes kill—this I do for you. When its fruit comes to me, when I am burned in hell—will you share it? The wife said: share in this? This is your work—being husband you do it, but there is no sharing. It is your matter; how do I know whence you bring what you bring? And what has a woman to do with whether you earn by merit or sin—you know. Balia was shocked.

He asked his old father. The father said: I am old and suffering—why do you bring worries? And you will die when you will—I will die sooner—my death is near—there will be no partnership; we will reach hell earlier. It makes no difference to us—whether you earn by merit or sin—serve your old father and you will gain the merit due to that; the rest you know. He asked all—none agreed to share. He said: this is good indeed!

He returned, freed the Rishi, fell at his feet: give me a meditation. Enough! But I am a great sinner; I do not hope to realize Parmatma soon—but no worry. With the same stubbornness with which I sinned, I will now do virtue. With the same stubbornness with which I hurt, I will now remember. I am obstinate—that is my only virtue: whatever I do, I do totally. Show me.

He was illiterate. The Rishi said: what else can you do—repeat Ram-Ram. He repeated, but soon forgot Ram-Ram—and went on repeating mara-mara. Chant Ram-Ram fast and it becomes mara-mara—sometimes like freight cars climbing over each other—the ra and ma climb over each other. He repeated mara-mara.

When the Rishi returned, he saw that the man had attained—his aura was unique. Even the Rishi had not reached such. What did you do, madman? You have arrived. A fragrance surrounds you, a light surrounds you. What did you do? He said: nothing—the mantra you gave, to repeat mara-mara—I repeated. But I repeated with my heart. It happened.

Tears came to the Rishi’s eyes. He had been repeating Ram-Ram all his life—but lukewarm; playing veena, keeping melody—counted chant. This one chanted beyond measure. He arrived.

Great sinners often become revolutionized in a moment. The lukewarm—those are the unfortunate ones. Either live intensely as a sinner or live intensely as a virtuous one—only then will you know the meaning of life. The heat of sin will burn you to ash—and from that ash a new life arises.

Buddha says: he who first heedless, later no longer heedless—

who has sinned much—but one day the burden became too heavy; he drops it.

He illuminates this world like the moon freed from clouds.

See—sometimes clouds gather in the sky and the moon is pressed down. So is your condition. You are not lost—your moon is encircled by clouds. The moon remains the moon—just as pure as ever. You are yet virgin. Your innermost cannot be sinful; sin cannot reach there. However many clouds encircle the moon—no difference; the moon remains untouched.

This is a fundamental declaration: you are pure and sacred like the moon. If clouds have gathered, they are of thoughts and desires. And they have gathered because you live in deep sleep. Pramāda is the Buddhists’ own word. Pramāda means: a man lives as if in sleep. Or as if intoxicated. He walks—not knowing why. He walks—not knowing where. He walks—not knowing whence or whither. He just goes.

A drunkard left the tavern, came to the road. By chance one foot fell onto the road, the other onto the raised edge. He was amazed—what is the matter? Have I become lame? One foot low, one high? He thought he had become lame; carefully he began to walk. But he kept to the edge—one foot on the kerb and one on the road. A policeman saw him, wondered: what has happened? Slowly he was sliding along with great difficulty. The policeman asked: what’s the matter? He said: I don’t know; feels like I’ve suddenly become lame. One leg small, one leg big.

This is a man in a swoon. Facts do not appear. The Buddhists call this state pramāda.

Buddha spoke this sutra at a particular event. That too is worth understanding.

Among Buddha’s disciples there was a monk named Samanjani. He had a mania for cleanliness. Buddha had said: be clean, be tidy. It became an obsession with him. A madman takes even the right to wrong. He caught the fixation so strongly that twenty-four hours a day he carried a broom. A cobweb here, a speck there—only cleaning, cleaning.

Many women have this disease—cleaning and cleaning. For whom they clean—even that is not clear.

I stayed in a house some days—so tidy I’ve never seen. It shouldn’t be called a home—it was so tidy there was no convenience to live. The lady wouldn’t let even her husband sit in the sitting room: get up! Read the paper inside! Sit an hour here and the cushion will be spoiled. She disliked guests—lest anyone come—because cleanliness! Children could not enter the sitting room—cleanliness!

I watched two-three days. I told her the story I am telling you of Buddha. I said: cleanliness you are doing marvelously—but for whom? Guests cannot come, the husband cannot sit, children cannot enter; I have never seen you sit—you are only cleaning. All day with a cloth and bucket, scrubbing everywhere. Cleanliness is not a bad thing, she said. I said: no, it is not. But if you only keep cleaning...what is the purpose? To live in a clean house—but you need the leisure to live.

This monk Samanjani heard Buddha’s word: be clean. It became an obsession. He must have been a bit touched. He said: fine! If Buddha has said—then he kept the broom in his hands all day; all day sweeping—this or that dirt. He had no time left for inner cleansing, for which he had become a monk.

One day an old monk, Revata, said to him: Avuso, a bhikshu should not go on only doing outer cleaning. Outer cleaning is fine—do it morning and evening—but to do it the whole day? You won’t reach heaven by broom! Do some meditation too; take up the inner broom. Sometimes sit still; sometimes go within in rest; peek within—only then the real cleansing occurs. When will you sweep within? asked the old fakir. Or will you live your whole life like this?

The words struck. Samanjani became aware. The matter seemed laughable—what have I been doing! Ten years with Buddha—doing only this—as if the trance broke. A film of stupor fell from the eyes. Not outside, an inner eye suddenly opened. As when the night sleeper wakes and dreams disappear.

The next day, seeing him not sweep, other monks were astonished. It was unbelievable that Samanjani would not sweep. And seeing the broom not in his hands, they could not believe, for he was famous as the sweeping monk—the baba with the broom. They asked: Avuso, Samanjani sthavira, where is the broom today? What is this change of nature? Are you in your senses? Is your health alright? Are you not sick? What a decline! What a fall of character! Look—garbage has collected here; there a spider’s web—people began to mock.

Samanjani smiled and said: Bhante, I did so while asleep. But now I have awakened. My heedlessness is gone; heedfulness has arisen in me. I will sweep morning and evening—that is enough. The remaining time is for inner cleansing. Saying this he again became absorbed in meditation.

The monks told Buddha. Buddha said: Yes, monks, my son did so while heedless. But he has awakened and is freed of that foolish, demented behavior. Then Buddha spoke this gatha.

This is today’s first sutra—

Yo ca pubbe pamajjitvā pacchā so nappamajjati.
So imaṃ lokaṃ pabhāseti, abbhā mutto va candimā.

He who first in heedlessness, and later no longer heedless, illuminates this world like the moon freed from clouds.

Buddha said: my son. The true father is the Guru—for from him the soul is born. Buddha said: my son has now awakened. While unconscious, such behavior ran—insane behavior. Now he has come to his senses. Go sit near him. Look well at him—he is not the same man. He is the moon freed from clouds. His heedlessness is gone.

Second sutra—

Yassa pāpaṃ kataṃ kammaṃ kusalena pithīyati.
So imaṃ lokaṃ pabhāseti, abbhā mutto va candimā.

He whose evil deed is covered by the virtue done after, illuminates this world like the moon freed from clouds.

Do not worry about sins. People come to me: we have committed many sins—how to undo them?

You cannot go back. What is gone is gone. Now pour your life-energy in such a direction that balance is restored. If you have stolen—give in charity. What else is the meaning of virtue? Have you ever thought of virtue so? Do not become egotistic in being virtuous—for virtue is only repentance. There is no glory in it.

Like a man who falls ill. He overeats, wakes late, is licentious—falls ill. Now he must take medicines, live by diet, sleep on time, exercise in the morning. Such a man does not go out and show his bottles of medicine: look what a virtuous man I am—what medicines I drink; I live by regimen!

No, he does not say so. Because what he does is to undo what he did before. It has no value of its own. If you did sin—then virtue. If you stole—then charity. If you were angry—then compassion. If you were greedy—then service.

Do something. What is done cannot be undone; time has passed; it is out of your hands. But you can now turn your energy in the opposite direction. Balance will come. Like a man weighing on scales—you piled on one pan until it touched the ground and the other went up. What to do? The past pan is out of your hands—past. You cannot remove from it. What is done is done. How to reduce? The meaning of the process of virtue is this: that pan is out of your hands, but the pan of the future is within your hands—pile virtue on it. Slowly this pan will grow heavy and come down, and the old will rise—balance will come. When the scale stands in the middle, when the pointer shows both equal—at that very moment is liberation.

Liberation—where the pointer stands in the middle. Where you are neither sinner nor saint. Where neither auspicious nor inauspicious. Neither good nor bad. Neither gentleman nor rogue. In that very moment you go beyond. The Buddhists have called this state samyaktva—equipoise has come.

The story behind the second sutra—

When the monk Angulimala left the body, other monks asked: Bhante, where might Angulimala be reborn?

The curiosity was natural—Angulimala was a great killer. He had killed a thousand people. He had vowed to kill a thousand and wear a garland of their fingers. Hence his name, Angulimala. He had killed a thousand. He was a dreadful murderer of Buddha’s time. Nine hundred and ninety-nine he had killed; he was waiting for the thousandth. But far and wide people were alert—no one went into the forest where he hid. None would go—not his own mother; people feared he would even kill his mother. He had to complete his vow of a thousand.

Buddha was to pass that way. People said: do not go, Bhante! He is dangerous. He will not think who you are—he is blind. He has killed 999; he needs one more. Kings tremble before him. Soldiers fear him. Armies do not pass that way. He kills anyone. He is utterly mad. Do not go.

Buddha said: had I not known, perhaps I would not go—but now I know—the poor fellow must be waiting for one! He has killed 999—he needs the thousandth; think of his vow too! I go.

Buddha went. His companions fell behind—at such a time who remains company? Buddha was left alone. Angulimala set his axe to the whetstone, seeing someone approaching. He too was surprised—no one walked that road for years. Who is this fool—he felt pity—who comes to die! He looked carefully—ochre robes—ah, a sannyasin. Poor fellow gone. He knows nothing. The villagers must not have told him, he thought. He sharpened the axe.

As Buddha came near his feeling changed—pity arose. Angulimala thought: what is happening to me? Such pity never arose; had my own mother come I was ready to cut—who is this, known or unknown! But something was happening—the presence of Buddha did something. Those waves of Buddha, that peace, that air, that fragrance.

When Buddha was still a little distance, Angulimala shouted: stop right there—step further and there is danger. See this axe? See these fingers? I am Angulimala—heard my name? I will cut your neck and make a garland of your fingers. I must complete my vow, and after years you have appeared—none else comes. But I give you a chance. Perhaps it is a weak moment in me—I give you a chance—run away. Do not come closer. I am a bad man. Do not step further.

Buddha said: madman, my walking stopped years ago. The day the mind went, all movement went. Where to go now? I am stopped. I say to you—stop. Angulimala said: I was thinking a man must be mad—you are mad. You are walking, and say you are not; and I, who sit sharpening an axe—you say I am moving. Your mind is spoiled—now I understand how you come so far. Buddha said: fine. Still I say again—think—I am stopped; you are moving. Your mind runs here and there; therefore I say—you are moving.

Well—Buddha came near. Angulimala said: if you are obstinate, I too am obstinate. I suspect you are Gautama the Buddha of whom I have heard. For many whom I killed said to me: it seems only Gautama Buddha could change you. Perhaps you are he. But forget it—I am Angulimala. I will kill. Buddha said: prepare yourself; sharpen your axe. I am sitting. He sat in silence. Angulimala sharpened—since no one had come for years, the axe had rusted.

Again and again he looked at the man—what is it—his heart melted! Great love arose for this man; great attraction. He was afraid. He delayed the sharpening—let him live a little—this man’s company is so sweet. He will die; when will such a man come again? He delayed more.

Buddha said: I think you are delaying; sharpen your axe, Angulimala. Do your work; let me do mine. One does not come so quickly under someone’s influence. Angulimala said: what kind of man are you? You are ready to die, you intend suicide? But his heart had changed. He sharpened without heart.

When it was done he said: speak—what is your thought? Buddha said: there is no possibility of thought—I have dropped thought. And the one you will kill is not me. And the one I am—no one can kill. Which axe could pierce me?

Angulimala looked into his eyes. Killing this man is impossible. Yet the old obstinacy, the habit—he rose with his axe. He said: two obstinacies collide—you are Buddha, I am Angulimala. I will not be defeated so easily. But why does my heart go weak? Why does my chest sink? I ask you. Buddha said: there is a reason. There is no art in killing—children can do it. See—that tree—cut a branch and give me. He cut. Buddha said: now join it back. He said: how can that be? Buddha said: to cut and kill is easy. By joining, a man becomes great. Does anyone become great by cutting? Now cut my neck—the matter ends. But remember—necks you cannot join—you have no right to cut. Joining—that would be something—the world would remember you.

He threw the axe, fell at Buddha’s feet. Angulimala became a monk. His terror was such that when news spread—Buddha was not killed; instead Angulimala was killed—Emperor Ajatashatru himself came to see. His own life had trembled before Angulimala.

He came and said: Bhante, I heard Angulimala has become a monk—I cannot believe. If this is possible, anything is possible. There must be rumor—falsehood. Buddha said: whether you believe or not, this monk sitting near me—who is he? He sat by Buddha fanning him.

Just by thinking that this is Angulimala, Ajatashatru drew his sword: dangerous man! Perhaps he sits disguised and will attack. Buddha said: sheathe your sword—no need—Ajatashatru! This Angulimala is not that Angulimala—he has become other.

When Angulimala went begging as monks must, the villagers shut their doors; shops closed; people climbed onto roofs; they gathered stones; and as he stood in the street, they stoned him. Cowards, weaklings! And Angulimala stood in the middle; stones fell, blood flowed; and he kept repeating the mantra Taru recited now—Buddham sharanam gachchhami; Sangham sharanam gachchhami; Dhammam sharanam gachchhami. Repeating thus he fell.

Buddha heard, came. It was the last moment. Buddha asked: Angulimala, what is your state? He said: and you ask? What state of the one who is still? What state of the stopped? Did anything happen to your mind, Angulimala? He said: nothing happened; I watched—was the witness. What could happen? I am the seer—that is what you taught. Buddha said: Angulimala, you die a Brahmin—you die having attained Brahma-knowledge. You have become an Arhat.

When he died thus, monks asked: Bhante, where was he reborn? Buddha said: monks, my son has attained parinibbana—parinirvana. He will not be reborn. He has gone beyond birth and death—he will not return. But the monks said: after killing so many? They could not believe—a sinner attaining parinirvana! Yes, monks, Buddha said, asleep he did many sins; but awakened, by virtue he cut them. He drowned in emptiness and attained nirvana. The monks asked again: Bhagwan, he had not been a monk long; where did he do virtue? Buddha said: sometimes a small virtuous act, if done in totality, cuts all sins. He did not live long—but when people stoned him, he remained a witness—that is the greatest virtuous act. In being a doer is sin; in being a witness is virtue—Buddha said this unprecedented thing.

Then he spoke the second gatha—

Yassa pāpaṃ kataṃ kammaṃ kusalena pithīyati.
So imaṃ lokaṃ pabhāseti, abbhā mutto va candimā.

He whose evil deed is covered by the virtue done after, illuminates this world like the moon freed from clouds.

Third sutra—

Andho bhūto ayaṃ loko, tanuk’ettha vipassati;
Sakunto jālamutto va, appo saggāya gacchati.

This whole world has become blind. Here, one who truly sees is rare. Like a bird freed from the net, few go to heaven.

This whole world has become blind.

People have no eyes—because they have no meditation. Meditation is the eye. The eye of meditation is the real eye—call it the third eye, the Shiva eye, or any name—otherwise man is blind. Until the third eye opens—until the inner eye that sees opens—man is blind.

Buddha spoke this sutra thus—

The daughter of a weaver came for Buddha’s darshan. With great joy and wonder she placed her head at Buddha’s feet. Buddha asked her: daughter, where do you come from? Bhante, I do not know, she said. She was only eighteen. Buddha said: where will you go, daughter? Bhante, she said, I do not know. What do you not know? Buddha asked. She said: Bhante, I do know. You know? said Buddha. She said: where, Lord? I do not know at all.

Hearing this conversation, the people present were annoyed. Villagers knew the weaver’s daughter—what nonsense is she babbling? Is this any way to speak to the Lord? Is this courtesy? Villagers rebuked her: listen, crazy girl—what are you saying? Are you in your senses? To whom are you speaking?

But the Lord said: listen to her first—consider what she says. Buddha laughed: daughter, explain to them what you have said.

The young woman said: I come from the weaver’s house—this you know. And these villagers know. But from where do I come—whence this birth came—I do not know. I will return to the weaver’s house—this I know, you know, they know—what is there in it? But after this birth, when death comes—where I will go, I know nothing. So when you asked me where I come from, I thought you asked: from the weaver’s house?—I said I know. When you asked where I go, I thought you asked: back to the weaver’s house?—I said I know. But then I looked into your eyes and said: no—Buddha would not ask such questions. He is asking: from which realm do you come—what is your life-source? Then I said: Lord, I do not know. Then I thought when you ask where I go—you must be asking: where after death?—so I said I do not know. That is why.

Then Buddha spoke this gatha—

This whole world has become blind. Here, a seer is rare. Like a bird freed from the net, rare indeed goes to heaven.

He said to the girl: you have eyes. You can see. These villagers are blind. When one with eyes speaks, the blind cannot understand—he will speak of things the blind cannot even believe are possible. He will say light; he will say color; he will say the rainbow—how will the blind understand?

Buddha, Krishna, Mahavira are those with eyes; the blind cannot understand—they understand something else entirely.

Hamsa sūrya-path se jate hain; by powers, yogis move in the sky. The steadfast, having conquered Mara with all his army, depart from the world into nirvana.

Haṃsādiccapathe yanti, ākāse yanti iddhiyā.
Nīyanti dhīrā lokamhā, jetvā māraṃ savāhiniṃ.

As swans go by the path of the sun across the sky, so by their powers yogis move in the inner sky. The steadfast, having conquered the Devil with all his host, depart from the world into nirvana.

Buddha spoke this gatha at a most unusual time—

One day thirty seekers came to Buddha—monks of his—returning from a long pilgrimage. Bhikshu Ananda was guarding the door while the thirty seekers were speaking inside with Buddha. To Ananda it seemed very long; they were troubling Buddha too long. Now they should come out. Finally his patience ended. He peeked in—was amazed: Buddha sat alone. Those thirty were not there. He rubbed his eyes—couldn’t believe it. The door was one; he was at the door—where could they go?

Ananda asked: Bhante, some people had come to see you—what miracle is this? Where are they? They did not go out—I am at the door. There is no other door. Where have they gone? Buddha said: they have gone, Ananda—they have gone by the sky path. Ananda said: do not entangle me in such sayings—no riddles. Tell me plainly—where did they go? I sat at the door, fully aware. Buddha said: Ananda, they entered the inner sky—into Samadhi. To enter this inner sky there is no need to go out of any door. One goes within oneself. At that time swans were flying in the sky. Buddha said: see outside the door—as swans fly—so they have flown. Ananda asked: then did they become swans? Where did they go? Buddha said: they became paramhansas, Ananda.

And then he spoke this gatha—

Haṃsādiccapathe yanti, ākāse yanti iddhiyā.
Nīyanti dhīrā lokamhā, jetvā māraṃ savāhiniṃ.

As swans go by the sun’s path in the sky, so do the steadfast depart from the world into nirvana, having conquered Mara with all his host.

This story is wondrous—Zen-like. It means only this: those thirty sitting with Buddha sank into meditation—entered Samadhi. They went into such deep Samadhi—not that their bodies were not there; Ananda must have seen the bodies—but they were gone; only the bodies remained—corpses lay there; the bird had flown. They had descended into Samadhi. And for one who descends into Samadhi, the eye opens.

Final sutra—

Pathaviyā ekarajjena, saggassa gamanena vā;
Sabbalokādhipaccena, sotāpattiphalaṃ varaṃ.

Better than sole sovereignty over the earth, better than going to heaven, better than lordship over all the worlds—is the fruit of entering the stream.

He who has entered the stream of meditation is called, in Buddhist language, sotāpanna—stream-enterer. He has set off toward the source. We stand on the bank; we do not enter the river; we stand on the shore. The river flows—we do not even drink, for to drink we must bend. We do not enter, out of fear we may dissolve. For the false image we have made will certainly dissolve. The idol we have assumed will be swept away—so we tremble. And we know nothing of the inner; thus we do not enter the current of meditation. He who enters the current is a sotāpanna.

There are two kinds of people. One—those who run toward goals in life. Goal means—wealth to be gained, position to be gained. Sotāpannas are the other kind—who go toward the source. They are not going toward a goal. Their whole search is: from where have we come? Seize the original source. If that is seized, all is seized. For whence we came—thither we must ultimately return. Ganga returns to Gangotri. The seed becomes the tree, and again the seed; the circle completes. Where we came from—thither to return—the source, the root-source.

Buddha spoke this gatha on a special occasion.

The occasions are all so lovely—hence I tell them.

There was a great donor, Anathapindika—support of orphans, gave with open heart. He had a son named Kala. Anathapindika would go to hear Buddha; Kala would never go.

Kala—what a good name! Anathapindika means: the giver, who gives alms, who makes the orphan supported. And Kala means time—or death. Neither time wants to go to hear Buddha, nor death—for both fear Buddha.

Time is transient—fears going before the Eternal. Death fears going before Life. You fear going before death; before the Buddha, death fears going. The names are symbolic.

The father wanted the son to go, to hear. The son would not listen. The father said: do this—I will give you a hundred gold coins if you go to hear Buddha. For this greed he went.

Remember, the first time you come toward religion, you come out of greed. Some greed or the other—that the mind might find peace, freedom from anxiety; that self-confidence might grow; that success might come; that the shop is not running—by meditation perhaps it will, for people say by meditation one gets the supreme wealth—then this small wealth will be certain; that health is bad—perhaps meditation will heal; that husband and wife do not get along—let’s meditate, perhaps it will work; such greed.

So the son went, heard Buddha, returned, and said as he entered: the hundred gold coins? I will eat later—for I trust no one. First count out the coins—then food. He had gone only for that. He had nothing to do with Buddha. Even while hearing he must have been counting coins—thinking: will father give or trick me—has he made a pretext to send me.

The next day the father said: now I will give a thousand—but with one condition: hearing is not enough. Remember what you hear and recite it before me. A thousand! The son went—but there he sank.

He had to remember—couldn’t afford to be careless. He had to hear attentively, hum along so as not to miss a single point; otherwise the father would deduct from the thousand—so much forgotten. He listened with such attention—so carefully—that in that mood he forgot the coins. He sank.

He did not come home. Evening fell. The father ran—what is the matter? He sat with eyes closed. Come home, said the father. He said: having heard—where to come, where to go? The father said: a thousand gold coins await you. He said: keep them—and take back these hundred of yesterday.

The father was astonished—for he had heard Buddha all his life, obeyed him by giving—but he had never heard as this boy had heard.

It often happens—what youth can hear, old age cannot. What a fresh mind can hear, a tired mind cannot—the layers of information are too many. A fresh mind can hear...

The father tried to persuade him. The boy said: let go, father—that is what you wanted—done. The father said: this is too much. I wanted him to hear, return, become sensible, religious, respectable—but this is too much. What is your intention? The son said: what intention—finished. We are Buddha’s now. The thing has descended.

The father said to Buddha: what is this? From birth I’ve heard you; this one heard twice—and that too for money. Buddha said: your son is no longer yours—he is mine. He who has heard me is mine. Now this son is mine. Even if you give him the wealth of a universal emperor, he will not return. Make him the emperor of heaven—Indra—he will not return. Place the wealth of the three worlds at his feet—he will not return. The father said: what has happened to him? Buddha said: he is a sotāpanna—he has entered the stream of meditation.

At that moment Buddha spoke this gatha—

Pathaviyā ekarajjena, saggassa gamanena vā;
Sabbalokādhipaccena, sotāpattiphalaṃ varaṃ.

Better than sole sovereignty over the earth, or going to heaven, or lordship over all the worlds—is the fruit of stream-entry.

This becoming a sotāpanna is what I call sannyas. Those among you who have heard—remember this incident. If you have heard, you are mine. If you went away after hearing without becoming mine—you did not hear. Remember. And until you become sotāpanna, until you begin to dive into the stream of meditation, to take the plunge—heard or not heard are the same.

Enough for today.