Es Dhammo Sanantano #65

How long will you keep trying to drown
your inner bitterness in cups of coffee?
The jaded evening has asked me this.
And I am without an answer.
To roam those very same streets, day after day,
To kiss unfamiliar sights with the eyes—
It is futile, meaningless. How long will they
Beguile—
These decorated shops,
These gaudy advertisements?
The anxious evening has asked me this
And I am answerless
Light stings the weary eyes
not the cool darkness
For the silence of a frightened child
clamor is no remedy
For a jaded solitude, what meaning is held
by the hypnosis of crowds
The hazy evening has asked me this
And I stand answerless.
It is not only the mist that leads the feet astray—
the horizon itself
makes one even more helpless.
The petty ego—
how long will you go on denying
the inborn emptiness
with superimposed songs?
This has been asked of me by Sanwalayi Shaam.
And I am without an answer.
As long as a man has no answer to life itself, whatever he does is rendered futile.
Socrates’ famous saying is that a life not rightly known or recognized is not worth living. A life not lived in wakefulness has not been lived at all.
We live asleep. We walk, get up, work, complete the long journey from birth to death—yet where do we arrive? Nowhere. The journey is over, we are exhausted, and the destination never comes. How long will you keep calling such a life—answerless, meaningless—life?
And if you accept this as life, you will need a thousand ways to lie to yourself. However much you try, somewhere deep within you will keep feeling: something is going waste, something is being done needlessly. To deny it you drink, you drown yourself in music, you chase prostitutes. To deny it you forge new lies. To forget it you invent new ways of self-oblivion. People call those means “entertainment.” All entertainment is self-forgetfulness.
The awakened ones say, “Look within.” We don’t look within, because within, we think, is only darkness. The awakened ones say, “Within is light.” We fear looking within because all we see is darkness.
Only one who passes through this dark night attains the dawn within. The one who turns back in fear from this dark night—his dawn never arrives. Without light there is no fulfillment.
Without a right understanding of life, whatever you do will go to waste. After right understanding, whatever you do becomes meaningful. Then in your hand is the philosopher’s stone: whatever you touch turns to gold. In unconsciousness, whatever you touch—even if gold—it turns to dust.
Don’t you see—people are wealthy, yet what poverty surrounds them within. They hold positions, yet how beggarly they are inside. They have everything, yet are utterly empty. You are caught in the same race. Everyone is. Why? Because from birth you get the “company”—if it can be called company—of runners; everyone is running. The contagious fever of running grips every child. We are born into a crowd of madmen; their madness infects us.
Naturally the child learns what others are doing. Father does it, brother does it, the family, the society, the world does it—the child begins doing what the whole world does. By the time awareness dawns, habits are strong. By the time awareness dawns, one becomes skilled in doing the wrong. So skilled that return becomes difficult. In that very skill prestige accrues.
A poet was very sad. A friend asked, “Why so sad?” He said, “Because I was never meant to be a poet. Poetry doesn’t arise from me naturally. I’m just a rhymester, I force rhymes.” The friend said, “Then why don’t you quit? There are a million other things to do in the world! Look at me—I’m no poet; I still live.” The poet said, “Now it’s too hard. I’m famous. People respect me as a poet. I am established; it’s hard to turn back now. I can’t lose the prestige. And within, there is no juice.”
Then you are in a dilemma. A noose around your neck. What you do brings no relish; what you are brings no relish. The work that could have brought relish—you’ve forgotten its language. Never did it, never flowed in that direction. Hence people are so sad, so tired, so broken; such a desert-like silence within. No music plays, no notes arise, no rasa flows.
The search we call religion is the search for that lost rasa, which is our own treasure, which ought to be. The Upanishads say: Raso vai sah—His very nature is rasa. Religion is the search for that rasa.
In today’s sutras the Buddha gives a few priceless pointers for the search of that rasa.

First sutra—
न कहापणवस्सेन तित्ति कामेसु विज्जति।
अप्पस्सादा दुखाकामा इति विञ्ञाय पंडितो।।
अपि दिब्बेसु कामेसु रतिं सो नाधिगच्छति।
तण्हक्खयरतो होति सम्मासंबुद्धसावको।।
“Even if there were a rain of coins, man’s cravings would not be satisfied. Knowing that all cravings are of little taste and end in suffering, the wise delights not even in celestial pleasures. The true disciple of the Fully Awakened engages in the ending of thirst.”

Before we enter the sutra, understand its backdrop—when and to whom the Buddha spoke it.
There was a monk of the Buddha named Dahar. When his father was dying, he wanted to see his son, but Dahar was away from the village. He could not see him. Dying, the father’s mind, tongue, being held only his son’s name. Calling his name, weeping, he died. Before dying he gave a hundred gold coins to his younger son and said, “When Dahar comes, give these to him from me.”
Some days later Dahar returned. The younger brother, weeping, told him and offered the coins. Dahar threw them away. “A monk touch gold coins! What are you saying? You want to corrupt me? Woman and gold are to be renounced. This is dust; you think it is gold?”
In that refusal there was little awakening and much ego. For a while he bragged among the monks of his renunciation. But soon he grew sad. Those coins began to haunt him. They came in dreams at night. By day, again and again the thought returned: “Why did I refuse? Who would have known? I could have kept them; they would help in need. Better to live with the comfort they bring than beg like a pauper door to door. What is there in being a monk! I made a great mistake.” One night the thought seized him so forcefully that he decided: “In the morning I will ask the Buddha’s forgiveness, drop the monk’s robe, and become a householder.”
The monks informed the Buddha. He said, “This was inevitable. One who seeks praise for giving up wealth proclaims his relish for wealth. There is little difference between the indulgent and the renunciate. The indulgent clutches wealth; the renunciate rejects it; but both value it. Both hold that wealth is something. One runs toward it with greed; the other runs away in fear. The directions differ; the coloring is the same. Wealth still has meaning; it is not yet seen as worthless. So I knew this hour would come. True insight is freedom from both indulgence and renunciation. True insight neither grasps nor rejects wealth; there is nothing in wealth worth grasping or rejecting.”
Then he called Dahar and said, “Fool, what will you do with so few coins! How long will a hundred last? Will they quench your thirst? Thirst is unfillable. These few coins will only pour ghee into the fire.”
And then he recited this gatha. These words were addressed to the monk Dahar.
First, understand this story well; make it your own. The father is dying, yet has no remembrance of himself. Even in dying, man remembers the other. What madness! We squander life, and we squander even the unique moment of death—remembering others, weeping for the son. When will you weep for yourself? Even at death, remembering the son—when will you remember yourself? Life wasted in others’ memory; at the hour of death, no wakefulness! Even in that pain you do not awaken—your sleep is astonishing.
At death a man remembers what he has lived—its extract. Many think they will remember God at death. Not so easy. Only if you remembered God throughout life will you remember Him in death. Death compresses the seed of what you have sown in life. It is your examination. Not that you did anything in life and at the end remembered God. Whom are you fooling? Death will seal and stamp what you lived; it will say, “This is your story.” It will condense your life to one statement.
But the greedy man says, “Tomorrow. I will remember God—tomorrow. Now there is house, door, children, wife, shop, market, a thousand tasks. We will see God at the end.” You write God’s name last on your life’s list.
And one who writes God last will never remember. The list never completes. It keeps growing: one becomes two, two become four, ten, a thousand. From every path two new paths branch; every branch splits again; you keep running. The web grows; your wealth and energy shrink; and you think, “At the end I will remember God—or at least myself. I’ll meditate then.”
People come and say, “We’ll take sannyas—but not yet. Much remains to do.” As if sannyas is to be taken when nothing remains to be done. Has that ever happened to anyone? Life never gives such a moment. It has you start ten new tasks before one is done. One desire nears fulfillment; ten more arise. Desire is very prolific. It bears ten children. Meditation is barren; samadhi is barren—nothing more arises from them. Desire is fertile: one begets another in endless chain.
It’s like tossing a pebble into a still lake: one ripple raises the next; a tiny pebble can ripple for miles. Desire is like that. To rouse it is easy; to still it is hard. A small pebble suffices to stir; to still, you need to calm the whole lake. And people think, “We’ll remember at the end.” They’ve even fabricated stories: that remembering at the end is enough.
You’ve heard the story of Ajamila: he never took God’s name in life; his son’s name was Narayan. Dying, he called, “Narayan, where are you?” The Narayan above thought he was being called! He was calling his son, not the Narayan above. But since he died calling “Narayan,” the Narayan above was fooled and he went to heaven. Beware of such stories! Whom are you deceiving? And if your God is fooled in this way, He is not worth two pennies. What is etched into your being is what existence registers—nothing else.
So Dahar’s father was dying. Though his son had become a monk, he did not remember himself. In fact, as death nears, one intensifies thinking of the other—so as not to see death. To hide from death, the mind gets busier—this is a consolation tactic.
He wanted to see his son. Even death does not reveal that all relationships are about to break, that they are made-up. Whose son, whose father! Death arrives, you are ready to go, yet you want to keep your feet planted here. Dying, he wanted to see his son, and left a hundred gold coins—for the son. Even as wealth is slipping away, he does not see its futility. He leaves wealth for his son.
If a father has a little understanding, he would leave awareness for his son, not wealth! He wasted his life on wealth; now he prepares his son for the same trap. If he had a little insight, he would leave his real treasure—the treasure of experience: that wealth is vain, indulgence is vain, the race is vain; all the rush comes to nothing; death snatches all—he would leave such a sutra for his son: “What I did was waste—don’t lose your time in it.”
But when do fathers speak thus! Every father thinks he is wise. Age does not make one wise. Wisdom has nothing to do with old age. Not a chain of experiences makes one wise, but extracting the essence from experiences does.
You got angry once, twice, a thousand times—did wisdom grow? In fact, a thousand angers show your understanding has declined. If you were wise, you would get angry once and see the futility—why repeat? Repetition shows you didn’t learn. You did greed, lusted, suffered—but learned nothing.
So don’t think age equals wisdom. People fall into that error. Wisdom arises from awakening to experience, not piling them up. Whatever you do, do it with full awareness, examine it from all sides. If you found nothing in it, be cautious next time—or habit’s net will grow.
The father dies; everything is left; even then he leaves that worthless wealth for his son. I say to you: don’t do that. When you have sons, leave them something more precious.
Some days later Dahar returned. The younger brother weeping told him and gave the coins. Dahar threw them away.
This too is ignorance. If those coins are nothing, why such zeal in throwing them? That’s why I say: don’t run from home; running shows you still see something there. I say there is nothing there; where will you run? There is nothing there—Himalaya or home, emptiness is the same.
So don’t abandon the wife; let the “wifehood” drop—that’s enough. Let the claim of mine-thine drop—that’s the lie. Even if you run to the Himalayas, the lie “my wife” goes with you—though you leave the wife.
In Swami Ram’s life: he returned from America; Sardar Puran Singh was with him in the Himalayas. One day Ram’s wife came from Punjab—poor, struggling to survive with children after he had left home. She collected a little money to come for his darshan. Ram said to Puran Singh, “What trouble is this! I don’t want to meet her. Somehow turn her away.” Puran Singh was shocked—Ram never refused to meet anyone. To refuse this woman meant there was still “wife-feeling.” If that had dropped, she would be like any other woman. If you meet others, why not her? What is her fault?
Puran Singh said, “If you won’t meet her, I’ll leave you. My faith wavers. You say you have renounced all—then why this feeling of trouble?” Swami Ram—an aware man—understood. Tears came. “You are right. A little trouble was inside. You warned me in time.” He called her, touched her feet. That day he also dropped the traditional monk’s garb, saying, “Even in that renunciatory stance there is pride—that is the delusion.”
Know this: Swami Ram did not die in ochre; he died in simple clothes. Yet I say he died the supreme sannyasin. He understood: “This too is my conceit—that I am a renouncer. What is there to leave or hold!”
So when Dahar flung the coins, it showed he still had relish for them—suppressed, repressed, lodged in the unconscious. Outwardly he threw them; inwardly they remained.
Examine your life: whatever you run from, you relish. A beautiful woman passes and you avert your eyes—what will that do? Your averting eyes declares your relish. If the relish has ended, why the effort of averting? Whom are you avoiding—the woman or your own unconscious desire? If you avoid your own unconscious, how long? It will return, growing stronger with suppression.
Don’t avert your eyes. This trick will be costly. If there is relish, understand it. Put your attention on it, inquire: why is there relish? With deepening attention, one day you’ll find—the relish is gone. Because relish is delusion; it must go. Relish is like darkness; bring light, darkness disappears.
When relish is gone, revolution happens: you are the same inside and out; the boundary between conscious and unconscious breaks; your being becomes one. In that unity is bliss. In that unity, all your fragments and derangements fall away; you become whole. You attain advaita. That state is Brahmabhava.
He flung the coins and scolded, “What do you take me for? I am a renunciant; you give me gold coins, fool! They are dust.”
But no one throws dust like that. If I put dust in your hand, would you throw it with such gusto? You’d just put it down and say, “It’s dust.” The frenzy of throwing reveals fear—“Let me get rid of them quickly; if they remain in my hand too long, my fist may close. Before it closes, throw them.” But your fist closed in the very act of throwing. Note this delusion—it is everyone’s.
Naturally he began to boast to the monks: “See, I flung away a hundred gold coins! Do you know how much a hundred is?” In those days, huge—enough for a lifetime. Perhaps slowly he began to say two hundred, five hundred, a thousand—this is how lies swell.
I know a gentleman who “left home.” He was a homeopath. You know homeopathy doesn’t earn much; less than an allopath’s compounder. His clinic barely ran; I knew him well—flies buzzed there while he read newspapers. His wife died; he took sannyas. Two years later I heard him telling someone, “I kicked away lakhs.” I said, “Sir, I know you well.” He hadn’t thought I would bring it up before his disciples. I said, “Be precise. How much was in the post office when you ‘left’? I know—if you had money, you wouldn’t have left. As I recall, you had three hundred fourteen rupees. When you saw even that ebbing, you took to renunciation. And if there had been lakhs, would you sit practicing homeopathy? Where are those lakhs?” He got angry. Later that night he called me: “Forgive me. You reminded me—what lakhs! And three hundred fourteen—how did you even remember? The passbook is still with me; I didn’t leave it. I used to say thousands; I don’t know when it became lakhs.”
So it goes.
Perhaps Dahar too began to claim thousands, lakhs. But inner relish does not leave so easily. If it were that simple, all would be free of desires.
Gradually he turned sad; talking about those coins again and again kept the wound raw. He would boast, reminding himself, and then feel: “Why did I do it! I beg in village after village.”
The Buddha made his renunciant a bhikkhu—for a reason. Hindus call the renunciant “swami”—also for a reason: one who has become his own master. The Buddha called him “bhikkhu”—from the other side: one who in the world holds nothing—utterly a beggar in the world, with nothing of his own. Both happen together: one who has nothing in the world’s eyes is master within.
Hindus caught the inner—swami. Buddha caught the outer—bhikkhu. Buddha’s emphasis is more useful: first remember the outer, then inner mastery arises. First become utterly poor in the world’s view—nothing left, no claim, not even “I renounced.” A blank slate. Bhikkhu means: one who has seen clearly there is nothing here to own.
So, begging at doors, if someone said, “Go on,” the pain of those hundred coins would burn. That became a wound. “This daily begging—old age is coming—then too I’ll beg. If sick, I can’t go—then I will starve.”
And the Buddha said: “Do not store for tomorrow. What comes today, eat; if something remains, share. Tomorrow beg again. Live day to day. Keep no accounts for the future—what is the future but death? Let death find you empty-handed; then it will have nothing to snatch. If death finds you in inner emptiness, you will be amazed: death came, yet you did not die; an immortal note began to sound within.”
Usually, when death comes, we worry: “What of my house? my son? my shop?” and we miss the nectar within. We get entangled in what death will take—wife, sons, wealth. We start accounting: “All life spent gathering; death takes it in a moment!”
If at that moment you truly have nothing—note, I’m not saying don’t have a house or shop, but have the clear understanding: nothing here is mine; empty-handed I came, empty-handed I go. What will death snatch? We never made anything “mine”—what will it take! Alone we came, alone we go—if this is your state, then when death tries to snatch, your gaze falls on the nectar within.
Death will take the body—what else? But you are not the body. If the world’s tangle is absent and the mind is quiet, you will behold the deathless. Then death becomes liberation. There is an art of living and an art of dying. People neither live rightly nor die rightly.
So one night he resolved: “Enough. I will ask the Blessed One to relieve me of sannyas. Those coins await me; I will live in comfort.” People come to me: “We took sannyas a year ago; nothing has happened yet—shall we drop it?” I ask: “You lived in the world for lifetimes and got nothing; sannyas has been one year and you are ready to drop it! Perhaps you never took it.”
Only those drop who never took. One who has seen the world is empty—what is there to go back to? Sannyas means only this: there is nothing in the world. If you say you will leave sannyas, you mean there is something in the world; let’s go back.
Dahar was not truly a sannyasin. Otherwise this would not arise. But a hundred coins upset everything. Small things trip you.
One friend sits here. He was a sannyasin, then left for a small thing—his being principal of a college wasn’t possible while a sannyasin. But what will being principal give? A few more coins? Death will take few or many—no difference to death.
Understand this man’s difficulty; it is yours. Today you take sannyas; tomorrow your office says, “If you remain a sannyasin, no promotion.” The mind will waver: “Why this trouble? Let’s become headmaster.” But what will you gain? Death makes no distinction.
The monks told the Buddha. He said, “Inevitable. One who seeks praise for renouncing wealth has relish for wealth.” When he threw the coins crying, “Dust!” and told people what a great renouncer he was, I knew sooner or later he would drop sannyas. The indulgent and the renouncer differ little. The real thing happens when you see, with awareness, that the world is empty—then there is neither holding nor dropping. A new way of being arises.
He called Dahar: “Fool, what will a hundred coins do? Will they quench thirst? When they begin to dwindle, won’t you ache: ‘Let me earn a little to keep them at least a hundred’? Bit by bit they’ll vanish; one day you’ll be a beggar again. And that will be beggar-hood; this is bhikkhu-hood. There is a difference. A beggar is one from whom wealth has been snatched. A bhikkhu is one who, seeing its futility, has let go. The beggar is wretched; the bhikkhu is not. ‘Beggar’ is a word of insult; ‘bhikkhu’ of honor.
“That is why we called the Buddha a bhikkhu, Mahavira a bhikkhu; we gave great honor. In no other language are there two distinct words for ‘beggar’—only in the Indian tongue. Because other lands never knew a Buddha-like bhikkhu. Translators in the West struggle: What to call bhikkhu? Beggar? It doesn’t fit. He is no beggar—he is a master, emperor of emperors. Monarchs bow at his feet. What beggar! There is no word there for this. Bhikkhu is a wondrous word.
“Literal meanings may coincide; existential meanings are utterly different. What a gulf between beggar and bhikkhu!
“So, will a hundred coins end your thirst? Thirst is never sated—dushpur, unfillable. No one has filled it. You think a hundred drops will do? Look at me: I left oceans. I tell you, even oceans don’t fill. The mind has no bottom; pour as much as you will, it leaks out—remains empty. At most, these few coins will feed your fire.”
Then he spoke the gathas—
“Even if gold were to rain, man would not be satisfied in desires.”
न कहापणवस्सेन तित्ति कामेसु विज्जति।
“What of a hundred—if there were a rain of gold upon your house, your thirst would remain.” He would say, “Look at me.”
“All desires are of little taste and end in suffering.”
अप्पस्सादा दुखाकामा इति विञ्ञाय पंडितो।
There is taste in desire—but very little. Put it on the tongue—it seems sweet for a split-second; instantly it turns bitter. The sweetness is bait.
Like a doctor’s pill with a sugar-coat: hold it a moment and the bitter fills your mouth. What you call happiness is the sugar-coat; you are drinking poison in the name of happiness. Little taste!
“And the wise—note, not the one with bookish knowledge—the truly wise is he who knows: all cravings end in sorrow.”
Have you not found this? Wherever you found pleasure, did you not find pain attached? Whomever you pinned hope on for happiness—did that not become your hell? Look within and testify with your experience: the Buddha is right.
“Knowing thus, the wise delights not even in the pleasures of heaven.”
‘This world’s delights are vain,’ says the Buddha, ‘and so are the delights of heaven.’ They may last long, but end they do. And when they end, man falls again into misery. Seek such joy as never ends; not a sugar-coat over poison, but pure nectar. That search is religion.
“And the true disciple of the Fully Awakened delights in the ending of thirst.”
Thus one who has heard the Awakened Ones, in whose ears their nectar has fallen, engages in ending thirst. Fool, a hundred coins won’t do.
न कहापणवस्सेन तित्ति कामेसु विज्जति।
Even a rain of gold won’t.
अप्पस्सादा दुखाकामा इति विञ्ञाय पंडितो।।
The wise do not ask even heaven’s pleasures. Don’t be a fool. “Pandit” comes from prajna—awakened intelligence.
अपि दिब्बेसु कामेसु रतिं सो नाधिगच्छति।
तण्हक्खयरतो होति सम्मासंबुद्धसावको।।
And you—a listener of the Buddha—would leave him for a hundred coins! Abandoning nectar for poison!

A voice kept drawing near all night long,
while my far-flung mind kept drifting all night long,
Someone, somewhere, was softly humming a song;
I kept building sandcastles all night long.
Madhavi’s sweet fragrance kept drifting in,
waking that ageless thirst within.
Moonlight shook the body’s chains with playful grace—
now here, now there, her smile upon my face—
And to appease the mistress of the sulking flower,
I kept pleading with my wasteland all night long.
Someone, somewhere, was softly humming a song;
I kept building sandcastles all night long.
The moon’s bazaar kept decking and adorning itself,
a picture took form, then crumbled itself.
Something surged and churned in the life within,
a needle pricked my eyes again and again—
A moon fallen into a blind dark well
kept failing to find its path all night long.
Someone, somewhere, was softly humming a song;
I kept building sandcastles all night long.
For a word that was half-said, half-unsaid,
for a dream half-shaped, half-unbred,
For two or four grains of tenderness only,
for a single touch of belonging only,
Seeing one ray of possibility bright,
I kept launching boats all night long.
Someone, somewhere, was softly humming a song;
I kept building sandcastles all night long.
On the balcony stood waning age,
each hour passed before my gaze.
My craving, eyes wide, kept staring hard;
in distant forests a train kept rolling hard.
Only the wind screamed through the woods,
only a lamp kept flickering all night long—
Seeing one ray of possibility bright,
I kept launching boats all night long.
Someone, somewhere, was softly humming a song;
I kept building sandcastles all night long.

Such is our life—houses of dust, houses of sand; paper boats and woven dreams—in whose nets we ourselves are lost.

Second sutra—
“Out of fear people take refuge in mountains, forests, parks, trees and shrines. But such refuge is not auspicious, not supreme—because by taking such refuge one does not become free of all suffering.”
बहुं वे सरणं यंति पब्बतानि वनानि च।
आरामरुक्खचेत्यानि मनुस्सा भयतज्जिता।।
Man worships gods out of fear. Out of fear he built temples, devised prayers.
बहुं वे सरणं यंति पब्बतानि वनानि च।
Sometimes he worships trees, sometimes stones; sometimes a temple image, sometimes an imageless mosque—look carefully! Whether temple or mosque or gurudwara or chaitya or Shiva-shrine or church—man kneels out of fear. The Buddha says, one who kneels out of fear will never know truth.
नेतं खो सरणं खेमं नेतं सरणमुत्तमं।
नेतं सरणमागम्म सब्बदुक्खा पमुच्चति।।
“This is not a secure refuge, not a supreme refuge; by such refuge one cannot be free of all suffering.”
This sutra too was spoken in a specific situation.
The father of King Prasenajit of Kosala had a Brahmin priest named Agnidatta. When the king’s father died, Agnidatta, despite honor from the new king, renounced household life and became a wandering teacher. He was learned; now his “great renunciation” added fragrance to gold. Within days thousands of disciples gathered. He went about preaching: “Take refuge in holy places, sacred rivers, images and temples, the scriptures and rites; perform sacrifices and rituals—thus you will attain supreme bliss.”
He himself had not attained bliss; nor did he know the path. He was learned, could quote scriptures and ritual law; his memory was sharp; he had been royal priest—prestigious; and when he renounced, still more so. Thousands became his disciples. Not only did he say “Take refuge in rivers, mountains, temples, scriptures,” he also inveighed against the Buddha.
Why? Because the Buddha said: “There is no Brahmin, no Shudra, no Kshatriya, no Vaishya—man is just man.” No Brahmin likes this—unless he has a little understanding. His joy depends on being “Brahmin” above others. The Buddha said something unique: “All are born Shudra-like; Brahminhood is achieved by knowing Brahman.” Brahmin is not by birth, but by awakening. So Brahmins were offended.
The Buddha also said: “Scriptures contain nothing; what is true is in your consciousness. What is, is in you.” This too offends. Tell a Muslim “There is nothing in the Quran”—he is angry. Tell a Hindu “Nothing in the Vedas”—angry. Even tell a Buddhist “Nothing in the Dhammapada”—angry. Though truly, scriptures contain nothing by themselves. What is, is in your consciousness. When it awakens in you, you will see it in scripture too; until then, no scripture can awaken you.
So the Buddha opposed scripturalism, caste, the ashrama system. He said: “One who wishes to be a sannyasin should not delay.” The Hindu order said: sannyas in old age—after brahmacharya, grihastha, vanaprastha, then sannyas if you survive seventy-five. Hardly anyone did—average lifespan then was near forty. So who could sannyas? And even at seventy-five, many still don’t.
The Buddha broke that flow: “Whoever wishes to, whenever—take sannyas now. Even a ten-year-old—who can guarantee tomorrow?” People ask me, “You give sannyas to children!” I say, “If tomorrow were guaranteed, we could wait—but nothing is.” Time flows; death can come any moment. Death respects no ashrama—it is no Hindu!
Thus the Buddha said, “Any moment is right.” This upset the Hindu structure—caste and ashramas are its base.
Priests were angry. Their profession depends on saying: “Listen to scripture; perform Satyanarayan katha—everything will be done. Bathe at the Ganga, at the Kumbh—sins will wash away. Worship stone, worship temple—everything will happen.” The Buddha cut the root; the whole business was uprooted. He said: “Go within. You need no priest to go within. Take the hint—turn inward.”
So Agnidatta was angry. He taught the opposite: “Seek refuge in tradition and scripture, not in Buddhahood.”
Once, with his disciples, he was camped near Shravasti; the Buddha too was there. The Buddha called his great disciple Moggallayan—who had attained enlightenment in the Buddha’s lifetime—and said, “Go, awaken poor Agnidatta. If needed, I will come.” Moggallayan went. But waking sleepers is hard; waking learned sleepers is harder; when they have crowds of followers—near impossible. Agnidatta showed no interest; he was ready for argument. Moggallayan had not come to debate, but to convey a message; Agnidatta wouldn’t listen. By nightfall Moggallayan said, “At least let me stay overnight.” Agnidatta said, “In our ashram we do not shelter such people. You are corrupt and would corrupt others.”
A learned man could not recognize a Buddha-being; scholarship blinds. The light stands before him—he cannot see.
Moggallayan had to sleep on a sandbank by the river. It was cold. Agnidatta’s disciples were delighted; no one slept there—there dwelt a naag, a serpent king, deadly; whoever came there died—none returned. “The trouble will end! What kind of envoy has the Buddha sent—he doesn’t even know where he sleeps! Death will come.”
At dawn, the disciples ran to see the corpse; they found Moggallayan in meditation, and the naag with hood spread, guarding him. Astonished, they ran back. Agnidatta, left alone, felt ashamed and curious; like a child, he too went to see. He was amazed. The disciples fell at Moggallayan’s feet. Agnidatta lacked that courage, but was pained and angry that his disciples bowed to another.
Just then the Buddha arrived. Moggallayan opened his eyes and fell at his Master’s feet. The disciples, stunned—“If the disciple is so miraculous, what of the Master!”—fell at the Buddha’s feet.
Agnidatta, trembling, asked, “What is this miracle?” The Buddha said, “Think of a greater miracle: you are a man and could not recognize; a serpent recognized.”
Consider this: how far can man fall! Sometimes an animal recognizes—because it is simple, innocent; it has neither Vedas nor Quran; it is not Hindu, Muslim, Christian; it is simple. Even this naag recognized the aura around Moggallayan.
Often naags recognize. Don’t take this as mere trick. It has happened many times in India—even with Jain Tirthankaras. The scientific fact: a serpent has no ears—scientists wondered why it sways to the snake-charmer’s flute. It cannot hear sound—so perhaps it mimics the charmer’s sway? But even when the charmer kept head and flute still, the serpent still swayed. Now we know: though it has no ears, its whole body is so sensitive it “hears” through the skin. The entire body functions as an ear. Thus the subtle current around a Buddha-being is caught by the naag’s body; he gets intoxicated, absorbed.
Hindus began worshiping naags because they have rare qualities; chief among them: the capacity to recognize the Buddha-beings. Where such recognition is, there must be a ray of Buddhahood.
The Buddha said, “Fool, this impresses you—but think: Moggallayan came to you, I sent him, and you remained blind; you would not see.” Agnidatta stood bewildered: one part wished to bow; another stiffened—“How can a Brahmin bow to a Kshatriya? I am learned; I have disciples—how can I bow?” Yet something within wanted to.
The Buddha asked, “Agnidatta, what is the essence of your teaching?” He repeated: “Take refuge in holy places, rivers, temples, scriptures, and rituals—thus you will attain bliss.” The Buddha said, “Fool, has anyone ever become free of sorrow by such refuge? Have you? Speak honestly for once. I stand as your witness. Have you attained joy? Look within. If it has not happened to you, how will your teaching give it to others?”
If only many gurus of the world would look within thus, much wandering would be saved.
Then the Buddha uttered the gatha:
बहुं वे सरणं यंति पब्बतानि वनानि च।
“Out of fear people take refuge in mountains, forests, parks, trees and shrines.”
आरामरुक्खचेत्यानि मनुस्सा भयतज्जिता।।
“All this is born of fear, not understanding.
“But this refuge is not auspicious.”
Whether man bows before tree or mountain or river—what will it do? Bow before Buddhahood—something can happen.
नेतं खो सरणं खेमं नेतं सरणमुत्तमं।
नेतं सरणमागम्म सब्बदुक्खा पमुच्चति।।
“By such refuge, one is not freed from suffering.
“He who goes for refuge to the Awakened, to the teaching of awakening, and to the community of the awakened—who sees with right wisdom the Four Noble Truths—suffering, the arising of suffering, the cessation of suffering, and the Noble Eightfold Path leading to the cessation—he has gone to the true refuge. This is the auspicious refuge, the supreme refuge. Having gone to this refuge, one becomes free of all suffering.”
यो च बुद्धञ्च धम्मञ्च संघञ्च सरणं गतो।
चत्तारि अरियसच्चानि सम्मप्पञ्ञाय पस्सति।।
The one who has taken refuge in Buddha, Dhamma, Sangha, who has recognized the Four Noble Truths with prajna:
दुक्खं दुक्खसमुप्पादं दुक्खस्स च अतिक्कमं।
That there is suffering; that suffering has a cause; that there is cessation; and that there is a path—the Noble Eightfold Path—leading to peace.
दुक्खं दुक्खसमुप्पादं दुक्खस्स च अतिक्कमं।
अरियञ्चट्ठंगिके मग्गं दुक्खूपसमगामिनं।।
एतं खो सरणं खेमं एतं सरणमुत्तमं।
This is the secure refuge, the supreme refuge.
एतं सरणमागम्म सब्बदुक्खा पमुच्चति।।
And, Agnidatta, I tell you: thus one crosses all sorrow and attains bliss.

About the Noble Eightfold Path—the Buddha’s eightfold way to liberation—understand a little.

1) Right View (Samyak Drishti): See what is as it is. Don’t interpose notions, desires, dogmas. Agnidatta stands before the Buddha—but sees his caste, his Veda-opposition. Clouds of concept blocked his seeing. Even the naag recognized Moggallayan; Agnidatta missed—because of notions.

2) Right Intention (Samyak Sankalpa): Not stubborn willfulness. People mistake obstinacy for resolve. Obstinacy is ego—“I will do it and prove it.” It’s not about the act; it’s about “me.” Right intention means: do what is truly worth doing—and stake your life on it, not for ego, but because it is worthy.

3) Right Speech (Samyak Vani): Say what is—plainly. No double-speaking; no facade. If you seek Truth, first become truthful. Only the truthful can be related to Truth.
A child blurted to guests, “Uncles, have you come here to die?” The grandmother scolded him. The child said, “How do I know? Mother said this morning: If I had known these people would come here to die, I’d have gone elsewhere for the holidays.”
In the morning you see someone you dislike and think, “Damn—his face! Now the case will be lost”—but you say, “What a rare blessing—darshan after so long!”
Right speech means: say it as it is—even if it costs. Don’t build false fronts.

4) Right Action (Samyak Karmanta): Do what your heart truly calls for. Don’t imitate others. The neighbor buys a car—you suddenly “need” one. You were fine a day earlier. Blind imitation scatters you.
Right action means: keep your energy in one direction—what is yours to do. Don’t split your stream into a thousand rivulets; you won’t reach the ocean. Continuity is needed. People start meditation two days, stop; then again. Seeds need time—patience, seasons, nurturing.

5) Right Livelihood (Samyak Ajiv): Don’t make a livelihood out of what violates your inner growth. You must earn bread—but choose a creative way. A butcher earning bread—what kind of earning is that! A livelihood of falsehood—like a lawyer polished in lies—finds it hard to bring Truth into life; his success depends on proving lies as truth. Right livelihood is creative, conducive to godwardness, not destructive.

6) Right Effort (Samyak Vyayam): Avoid extremes—neither laziness nor overzealousness. The lazy never starts; the overactive rushes past the goal. If you draw a bow, the string must be rightly drawn—too little, the arrow falls short; too much, it overshoots. The Buddha emphasizes the middle—Majjhima, the mean.

7) Right Mindfulness (Samyak Smriti): Let the trivial be forgotten; preserve the essential. You do the reverse—hoard trash, forget jewels. You know your bank balance; you don’t know who is sitting within. “Surati” of Kabir is this very “smriti”—self-remembering.

8) Right Samadhi (Samyak Samadhi): Even samadhi can be wrong—dull absorption. Someone faints into stupor—mind is off, but he has gone down, not up. Thoughts stop in stupor also; but awareness is lost. True samadhi: thoughts cease and awareness remains.
There are three common states—dream, waking, and deep sleep. In both true and false samadhi, dreams cease; in dull samadhi one sinks into sleep; he returns rested, even a bit blissful—but wiser, brighter? No. It is yogic slumber. True samadhi: you go within alert. You return blissful and luminous; your aura glows; fragrance surrounds your life.
It’s like putting a man under chloroform and wheeling him through a garden. The scent enters, cool breeze touches—but he knows nothing. When he wakes, we have wheeled him out; he says, “It felt nice… something fresh… a hint of fragrance”—but no path is known.
Two kinds of samadhi: dull (from intoxicants—bhang, ganja, opium, marijuana, LSD, mescaline) and awakened. In the West, dull trances are popular; here they’ve existed for millennia—“holy men” taking hits—“Bam Bhole!” The Buddha strongly opposed this—not because there is no pleasure; there is. But it is sleep. Rise above—go in with a lamp; see the path; then you won’t depend on substances.
This is the Noble Eightfold Path. The Four Truths: suffering; its arising; its cessation; and the eightfold way to that cessation.

These two gathas are important. Contemplate them deeply.

No more will I let you sleep in heavy slumber;
Singing, I am coming to awaken you.
I will not let you sink into the abysmal dusk;
I am coming to adorn you with the crimson dawn.
Such is the Buddha’s message—
No more will I let you sleep in heavy slumber;
Singing, I am coming to awaken you.
I will not let you sink into the abysmal dusk;
I am coming to adorn you with the crimson dawn.
Till now you have flown in imagination,
shrinking back, shivering at the touch of practice;
I will not let you fly only in the sky;
today I am coming to settle you upon the earth.
It is no joy to weave dreams in sleep;
it is no sorrow to carry the Master’s load on your head.
What you thought was a thorn till now,
I am coming to turn into a flower.
Seeing midstream, do not be afraid;
take the oar in hand, do not be afraid.
I will not let you tire upon the shore;
I am coming to ferry you across.
Break all the chains coiled in the mind;
break all the narrowness nested in the mind.
As a drop, I will not let you fall away;
as the ocean, I am coming to lift you up.
Rise—you will raise the earth; the sky will lift its head.
Walk—and new rhythms will jingle in the gait.
Straying from the path, I will not let you turn back;
on the path of progress I am coming to move you on.
No more will I let you sleep in heavy slumber;
Singing, I am coming to awaken you.
I will not let you sink into the abysmal dusk;
I am coming to adorn you with the crimson dawn.

Enough for today.