Es Dhammo Sanantano #67

There is an ancient Russian tale. In a big wicker basket many roosters are fighting. To breathe the open air the one below flutters and claws, throwing down the one above to rise. All are crazed with hunger and thirst. Just then the butcher arrives with his knife; he catches a rooster by the neck, pulls him out of the basket, cuts him, and flings him back. From the severed bodies warm jets of blood burst forth. The other living roosters inside hurl themselves upon it to quench the fire in their bellies. In the scramble of living beaks, the cut-off head of the dead bird bounces and rolls like a ball. The butcher goes on cutting the basketful of roosters. Within the basket the number of those sharing the spoils keeps decreasing. In that joy a crow or two of triumph is heard from the few that remain. In the end the basket is filled with nothing but the cut and slain. Silence all around—no quarrel, no noise.
This Russian tale is named—Life.
Such is life. Here all wait for death. Each moment someone’s throat is cut. But those whose throats have not yet been cut are absorbed in struggle, intent on competing. The days, the moments that are in their hands—they must use them. And for them, use has only one meaning: somehow secure one’s life—which cannot be secured.
Death is certain. Death will come. In one sense, death has already come. We stand in a queue. And each moment the queue grows shorter; we draw nearer. Death has already raised her sword; it hangs above our neck—it can fall any moment. Yet until it falls we remain feverishly busy in the hustle of life—let me gather more, collect more, climb to a higher post, gain a bit more dignity, a little more prestige—and in the end death will take it all.
In those to whom the vision of death happens—who see that death will seize everything—Sannyas begins to enter their lives. A revolution occurs within them. The Buddha gave this revolution a special name—Paravritti.
Understand this word. It is precious.
The Hindus have a word—Nivritti. As important as the Hindu word Nivritti is, so important in Buddhism is the word Paravritti. And Paravritti is more significant than Nivritti. Nivritti means dispassion toward the world, renouncing the taste for worldly tendencies. But in renunciation repression can also hide. Nivritti often stands on repression. Paravritti does not mean renouncing the world; it means returning to oneself. The emphasis is—turning within.
Ordinarily our life-energy is flowing outward—that is vritti. Not letting it flow outward is Nivritti. Turning it inward is Paravritti. And if it truly turns inward, then outward it will not go of itself. When outward flow stops by itself—that is Paravritti. When it has to be stopped from going outward—that is Nivritti.
So in Nivritti there will be repression. In Nivritti there will be force. The mind wanted to go—you tied it down and stopped it. The mind wanted to flee—you somehow drove a nail into it. The mind was racing—you somehow sat on its chest. Sitting like that will not give much joy. And what you have bound by force will break loose. What you have mounted by force, today or tomorrow will throw you off in some weak moment. Then the horses will bolt again, the senses will wake again, the tendencies will return. Until Paravritti happens, Nivritti cannot truly be. The mind that is still intoxicated by running outward—let it become just as intoxicated with going within—that is Paravritti.
And Paravritti alone takes you beyond death, because outside is death and within is life. At the innermost center there is the supreme Life—Amrit. There death has never occurred, nor will it ever occur. It cannot occur. There you are Paramatma. There your bhagavatta is—your godliness. There you are eternal, beginningless and endless—and you will remain so. There you are beyond time.
Outside is time. The farther you go from yourself, the more you enter the world of change. The farther from yourself, the more you wander in the momentary, lost among waves. The nearer you return to yourself, the freer you are of waves. And when you arrive right at your own center, all waves fall silent. In that depth there is no wave, no ripple. The process of arriving into that inner depth is named Paravritti.
Paravritti is more valuable than Nivritti, because in Nivritti there is suppression; in Paravritti there is liberation. Nivritti should come like a shadow—the shadow of Paravritti. People usually do the reverse: they think Paravritti will come as the shadow of Nivritti. They imagine, we will stop the mind outwardly and then the mind will begin to move within.
No. The more you stop the mind outwardly, the more it will rush out, ever more stubbornly. Try it. Whatever you deliberately abandon, the mind will return to it again and again. Whatever you ban with force, from that you will not be freed—it will haunt you. Awake or asleep—day and night—it will knock on your door.
No one goes toward Paravritti through Nivritti. But if Paravritti happens, Nivritti follows.
Similarly, we have a threefold vocabulary—Raga, Viraga, Vitaraga. Raga means going outward, being linked with the other. Viraga means breaking from the other. And Vitaraga means being linked with oneself. Raga corresponds to vritti. Viraga corresponds to Nivritti. Vitaraga corresponds to Paravritti.
The whole teaching of the Buddha is for Paravritti, for Vitaragata—how you may be joined to yourself. Therefore all his emphasis is on Dhyana. Dhyana is the process of Paravritti. Dhyana means: your eyes fill only with you—and nothing else remains. You alone remain—and nothing else remains. In that void-state where only you are enthroned and no one else—no thought arises, no feeling stirs, no subject, no memory of objects—there self-remembrance dawns. There right remembrance—samyak-smriti—arises. Surati is born. There you begin to sway in your own rasa.
Seek that rasa—and you are religious. Set out in search of that—and you are a sannyasin. Seek anything contrary—and you are wasting time.
Today’s sutras are very significant. The first—
“Dullabho purisāñño, na so sabbattha jāyati;
Yattha so jāyati dhīro, taṃ kulaṃ sukham edhati.”
“Rare is the noble man, he is not born everywhere. Wherever such a steadfast one is born, happiness grows in that lineage.”
“Sukho buddhānaṃ uppādo, sukhā saddhammadesanā;
Sukhā saṅghassa samagghī, samaggānaṃ tapo sukho.”
“The arising of Buddhas is blissful. The proclamation of the true Dhamma is blissful. The harmony of the Sangha is blissful. The united austerity of the harmonious is blissful.”
“Pūjārahe pūjayato buddhe yadi vā sāvakē;
Papañca-samatikkante tiṇṇa-soka-pariddavē;
Te tādisē pūjayato nibbute akutobhaye;
Na sakkā puññaṃ saṅkhātuṃ imetampi kenaci.”
“Those worthy of worship—the Buddhas or their disciples—who have gone beyond proliferation, who have crossed sorrow and fear—for worship offered to such liberated, fearless ones, its merit cannot be measured by anyone.”
Let us first understand the situations in which these sutras were born.
The first situation—
One day the Buddha spoke of superior and inferior horses.
I have told you many times: the Buddha says, the best horse is the one that moves at the mere shadow of the whip. Less than that is the horse that moves at the whistle of the whip. Less still is the horse that needs to feel the sting of the lash. Lower still is the one that does not move even when beaten—and if it moves, it moves only by sheer force.
The Buddha was saying: who is the supremely excellent steed? Ananda asked, Bhagwan, you have told us who the superior steed is, where such a one is born, how he is born—but you have never told us who the excellent man is, and where the excellent man is born. The Master said, Ananda, excellent men are not born everywhere. They are born only in the Middle Country; they are born already immensely wealthy; they are born in Kshatriya or Brahmin families.
And then he spoke this gatha—
“Dullabho purisāñño, na so sabbattha jāyati;
Yattha so jāyati dhīro, taṃ kulaṃ sukham edhati.”
“Rare is the noble man, he is not born everywhere. Wherever such a steadfast one is born, happiness grows in that lineage.”
The meaning the Buddhists have drawn from this till now is not what it is. Taken straight, it seems the Buddha is born in rich houses. Then what of Kabir! What of Christ! What of Farid! What of Mohammed! They were not born in great wealth. Then are they not Buddhas? That would be a terrible narrowness. The Jains’ twenty-four Tirthankaras are princes—true. The Hindus’ Avatars are sons of kings—true. And the Buddha too was a prince—true. Hence naturally this saying has been taken to mean that Buddhas are born only in royal houses—in great wealth.
But now kings have vanished from the world—are vanishing! In the coming future only five kings will remain—four on playing cards and one in England. The rest cannot survive. The rest are gone! Then where will Buddhas be born—in card-houses? or in England’s royal house? And as card-kings are false, so is England’s king—false; that is why he will remain. There is no other special reason to remain—it is because he is symbolic that he remains.
So will Buddhas no longer be born? This is a mistake. Somewhere the word was misunderstood. I interpret “immensely wealthy” thus: when he says “born already immensely wealthy,” it means Buddhas are not born as accidents; they are born carrying the wealth of many lives. The wealth is inner. The treasure is inward. They are born rich indeed. Perhaps only the last straw needs to be placed, and the camel will kneel. Almost all has been done—perhaps a little is lacking; the water is boiling at ninety-nine degrees—one more degree, and then there will be no rebirth.
This is the meaning of “immensely wealthy.” At least, that is how I take it. Buddhas are not born paupers—paupers not in money, but in the inner treasure. This “great sovereignty” is not of money, it is of Dhyana, of Samadhi, of inner peace and bliss.
Therefore Kabir too is born immensely wealthy. Christ too is born immensely wealthy. To be immensely wealthy means—he comes carrying his own treasure within. Not empty-handed, but with hands full—almost full; a little lack remains which will be fulfilled in this very life; then there is no return. For one who is complete, there is no need to come again.
So I tell you, in the future too Buddhas will keep happening—whether kings remain or not, whether the wealthy remain or not, Buddhas will keep happening. For what has the being of a Buddha to do with outer wealth! It is linked with inner wealth—not with outer.
Secondly, the Buddha says: Ananda, the excellent are not born everywhere.
This is true. Buddhahood does not happen just anywhere. It happens only where there has been sadhana over many lives, the earning of capacity and receptivity—dhyanas practiced, tapas undertaken. The crop ripens only where the seed has been sown. The fruit is received only by one who has labored. So this does not happen everywhere.
Every person can be a Buddha—but does not become one. A few become, once in a while—rarely. It is everyone’s possibility, but possibilities do not become truth easily. To make a possibility true, you have to stake your whole life. Tiny acts across many births have value. Little things pile up. Their results go on transforming your current of life.
You insult someone—you injure someone—such acts do not just pass. In insulting, in injuring, something happens to your consciousness. You give charity—love someone—show compassion—this too is not over in the doing; you too are changed by doing it.
Your small actions keep changing your life-stream. A moment comes when your stream reaches that point—such an auspicious constellation—where Truth can be a guest in your home, where God knocks at your door: let me come in. When the throne is ready, the guest arrives. Hence the Buddha says: they are not born everywhere.
But do you know what meaning the Buddhists drew? And the Hindus? They said: Buddhas are born only in India—not everywhere. Racial pride, national pride! Only in India! This is the holiest land, the dharma-bhumi. For centuries India’s ego has worshiped itself: even the gods long to be born here, for here Buddhas take birth.
Then what will you say of Christ? Of Zarathustra? Of Mohammed? And after the Buddha, the true succession of Buddhas flowered in China, in Japan, in Burma, in Lanka—hundreds attained Buddhahood—all outside India. What will you say of them?
No—the meaning cannot be so narrow. It pleases the Indian mind because it satisfies your ego. I do not agree. Buddhas are not born everywhere—that is true. It does not happen in everyone—that is obvious; once among millions, perhaps. But do not harbor the delusion that that one is in India. He can be anywhere—wherever one is ready, there it will happen.
Then—“they are born only in the Middle Country.” This “Middle Country” has caused great bother in Buddhist scriptures. They measured and mapped how many yojanas long and wide it is. In their geography, Bihar comes in, Uttar Pradesh comes in, a little of Madhya Pradesh—and that’s the Middle Country. Then they cannot be born in Punjab, in Sindh, in Bengal—those are borderlands, not the middle. This is petty. Such a meaning is not befitting.
But I also see the commentators’ difficulty: what else could they do with “Middle Country”? The Buddha did say it—that is true.
Let me offer a meaning—try to understand.
A great Western scientist—Lecomte du Noüy—said a unique thing. Reading him, I suddenly felt: he is speaking of the Middle Country. But between him and the Buddha there is a gap of twenty-five centuries. Without du Noüy, the Buddha’s “Middle Country” is hard to define. So I forgive those who, not knowing, gave that crude geographical sense.
Du Noüy discovered something: man stands in the very middle of existence. The Middle Country. The smallest is the atom; the greatest is the cosmos. He demonstrated that man stands exactly between them. The ratio between atom and man, by which man is greater than the atom—by just that ratio the cosmos is greater than man. Man stands right in the middle—at one end the atom; and the distance from atom to man equals the distance from man to the circumference of the universe. The distances are equal. Man is poised at the midpoint.
Reading du Noüy, the Dhammapada’s statement flashed for me. Perhaps du Noüy never knew the Buddha’s saying. But this must be the meaning—that Buddhas are born in the human realm. Not as elephants or horses. Not even as gods. Behind man no Buddha; beyond man no Buddha. Man is the crossroads. Understand his uniqueness, why he is the Middle Country.
The middle has its grace—and its hazard. To be in the middle is to stand at the crossroads—neither here nor there. Man means: not yet gone anywhere—on the staircase, between. From here one can go both ways. If you wish to be low, nothing falls lower than man. Man drops below the animals. When you say, “He behaved like an animal,” think again—has any animal behaved like that?
Tolstoy wrote: whenever someone says a man behaved like an animal, I get angry—he is doing injustice to animals. For what man has done, no animal has ever done.
Which animal has done what Adolf Hitler did—or Genghis Khan, or Tamerlane, or Joseph Stalin? None. Animals kill too, are violent—but only for food. If the lion’s belly is full you can pass by—he will not attack.
Only man is strange: he kills for sport. He says, we are going hunting! He does not need it, he won’t even eat it; his belly is full—but he goes to play! And when he kills some animal in the jungle, he says: such fun!—a hunt! But if a wild animal kills him, he does not say: what fun—a hunt! Wild animals never hunt for hunting’s sake—only when hungry.
I have heard: a lion and a rabbit went to a hotel. They sat down; the rabbit called the waiter: bring breakfast! The waiter asked: and what will your friend take? The rabbit said: don’t even ask! If my friend were hungry, do you think I’d be sitting here beside him? He would already have breakfasted! He isn’t hungry—only then dare I sit here!
Animals kill only when hungry. Man kills in play. Violence is a pastime. The other’s life is at stake—and for you it is a game!
No animal kills another of its own species—a lion does not kill a lion; a snake does not bite a snake; a monkey’s throat is not cut by monkeys. Man alone kills man—and not one or two, but by the millions. There is no limit to his madness. If man falls, he is worse than beasts; and if he rises, he rises above the gods. Buddhahood means rising; animality means falling. Man stands in the middle—equidistant from both journeys. The labor needed to become God is the same as the labor needed to become a beast. Do not think Hitler did not labor—he did; as much as the Buddha labored to be divine, so much he labored to be demonic.
With the same toil you can gather the treasure of Dhyana—or you can lose yourself. It depends on you. Standing in the middle, with an equal number of steps you can reach the beasts—or you can become God. This is the meaning of Middle Country. Naturally, the crossroads is in the middle.
“Rare is the noble man; he is not born everywhere; he is born in the Middle Country, and from birth he is immensely wealthy.”
So the glory of man is vast—because from here the doors open. And the danger is great—because from here one can fall. Walk carefully—each step measured—for from here the stairs also go down; one slip—and you can tumble.
Remember: falling seems easy—because it seems to require nothing. Rising seems hard. Though falling is not easy either—it brings great worry, great pain. Yet, ordinarily it seems the slope is easy; the ascent—hard. But ascent has its joy: the summit draws near—the winds of bliss begin to blow, fragrance fills the air, the world of light opens.
So ascent is struggle—and sweetness. Descent is seeming ease—and obstacles. Weigh the account fully, and I tell you, it balances. It takes as much labor to be bad as to be good. The unwise invest their labor in being bad. The same labor—and a flower could have bloomed. With the effort you use to kill others, you could be reborn.
Further, the Buddha said: they are born in Kshatriya or Brahmin families.
This too has created difficulties for centuries. If so, what of Vaishyas and Shudras? Raidas was a Shudra—what of him? Does no one from Vaishyas and Shudras attain Buddhahood?
Brahmins and Kshatriyas would like to think so. But this is false. Jesus was a carpenter. Mohammed was a trader—when his first revelation came, he was in trade. So this cannot be the meaning. Nor can it be, because the Buddha again and again denied varna. He said: I do not accept that one is a Brahmin or a Shudra or a Kshatriya by birth. Since he denied the whole doctrine of caste—that was his revolution—what did he mean?
I take it thus: only he attains Buddhahood who has the Brahmin’s longing for Brahman—and the Kshatriya’s courage to stake his life. I do not care whether scholars agree—scholars I never care about. But this is my meaning. By Kshatriya I mean courage—the symbol of daring. The readiness to wager all.
I too hold: a calculating, businesslike mind cannot attain Truth. I am not saying a Vaishya cannot—but a trader’s mind cannot. Because the trader never risks; he counts every penny. How can he dare! A gambler can attain—he can put everything on the line—“either this shore or that—either I cross or I drown.”
The trader thinks: how much profit, how much loss; money left at home earns at least some interest—what is the point of business? If business yields a little more, then perhaps; but lest in greed I lose all, he stops short. He walks with cunning. This is the difference between Kshatriya and Vaishya.
So the business-mind does not attain Truth; this too I say. But this does not mean a Vaishya cannot—because many Vaishyas may have a Kshatriya’s courage, and many Kshatriyas may have a trader’s calculation. Being born a Kshatriya does not make one courageous. Kshatriyas can be cowards. The real question is courage.
And certainly, the Brahmin-like quest for Brahman is needed. Not all Brahmins have it. So those in whom the quest is alive, only they are Brahmins. That is also how the Buddha used the word—Brahmin is one who has sought and found Brahman. The very word says so. No birth makes you Brahmin; a certain inner state does.
So yes, only Brahmins arrive—but take Brahmin to mean: seeker of Brahman, seeker of Truth. Naturally, how will one who never seeks arrive? One who never sets out—why should he reach?
And Shudras cannot attain—do not take this as birth either. Shudra means: one absorbed in the small—khudra. Who is entangled in little things: a house, enough food, fine clothes—and that’s all; the essence of life finished. Those tied to the trivial are Shudras. Those whose love is for the vast are Brahmins.
In this sense the Buddha is right to set aside Vaishya and Shudra. He says: they are born only in Kshatriya or Brahmin families—meaning: where there are these two qualities. Many Shudras may be Brahmins; many Brahmins may be Shudras. Many Vaishyas may be Kshatriyas; many Kshatriyas may be Vaishyas. Keep this in mind—and a new meaning arises.
Two qualities are needed. Without these two, it will not happen. If the quest for Brahman is there but no courage—you will sit still, your search will be impotent. You will turn your rosary at home, you will not venture onto the unknown path. Only longing is not enough—you must go. And if the courage to go is there but not a deep thirst for Truth—you will wander. No one reaches merely by leaving home. Direction is needed—vision is needed—pure eyes, a pure mind, a flaming thirst.
Where longing and courage meet—where one is both Brahmin and Kshatriya—there the happening occurs; there Buddhahood is born—that “lineage.”
At that moment, answering Ananda, the Buddha spoke that gatha—
“Dullabho purisāñño, na so sabbattha jāyati.
Rare is the noble man; he is not born everywhere. And by “noble man” the Buddha means one in whom Buddhahood has dawned. All are men—but until the ray of Buddhahood lights your life, you are not the noble. You are man in name only—makeshift men. The noble descent has not yet come. Your inner lamp has not been lit. Your intelligence has not been polished. It is smeared with soot upon soot—veiled by curtain upon curtain.
The noble man is the one who has awakened—whose inner lamp burns—and now his life is light. After that, whatever you do, nobility pervades it. Whatever you touch becomes noble. You touch earth—it turns to gold. Your touch becomes the touch of Amrit. Even if someone brings you pain, inflicts suffering—it changes nothing; no one can shake your nobility.
“Jisne insānoñ kī taqseem ke sadme jhele,
Phir bhī insāñ kī akhawwat kā parastār rahā—”
“He who has borne the shock of man’s division, yet remained the worshiper of man’s brotherhood.”
This is the definition of Buddhahood—the one whom men tormented and troubled...
“Jisne insānoñ kī taqseem ke sadme jhele,
Phir bhī insāñ kī akhawwat kā parastār rahā.”
Yet his compassion remained unshaken. Still his longing was: may man be blessed.
Jesus was hung on the cross. Even at the last moment he said: Father, forgive them, for they know not what they do. And for whom did he ask forgiveness?—those hurling stones, rotten fruit, filth, shoes at him. Whatever humiliation was possible, was done to Jesus—abuse even of a dying man—alive they abused him, at the moment of death they had no mercy.
Jesus is thirsty, hanging on the cross—the cross the Jews gave then was not a quick death: hands nailed, feet nailed; sometimes one died in six hours, sometimes eight, sometimes dangling for a day; blood keeps flowing—and when all the blood drains, one dies. Not like today’s quick execution—it was great agony. Blood is flowing from his body; great thirst came. When blood drains, the body’s water drains with it—so the throat burns. In the blazing noon he cried: I thirst! Someone dipped a torch in a filthy gutter, smeared with that muck and water, and held it to his face: lick this, your thirst will ease. For those he is praying: Father, forgive them; they do not know what they do.
“Jisne insānoñ kī taqseem ke sadme jhele,
Phir bhī insāñ kī akhawwat kā parastār rahā.”
Such a one is noble. For him there is no mine, no other.
“Dwar ke liye na bhītar hai na bāhar—
Dwait darshan meñ hai.”
For the doorway there is neither inside nor outside—duality is in the beholder. You sit inside the house; the child plays outside—you say, outside. The child comes in—you say, inside. But ask the door: what is outside, what inside? For the door both are at equal distance.
For the door there is neither inside nor outside—duality is in the gaze. One who stands as the door—sees no mine or other; no outside, no inside; no happiness, no sorrow. His duality is gone. He sees only the One. The realization of that One is nobility.
And the Buddha said, such a noble one is not born everywhere. And whenever such a unique one is born—
“Where that steadfast one is born, in that lineage happiness grows.”
Understand “lineage” too—people have been mistaken here as well.
It does mean, the house where a Buddha is born, there joy will grow—that is also true. Wherever a Buddha is present, joy will increase. Unawares, even one who passes near will feel a gust of joy. One who comes without knowing will catch a whiff of fragrance. So the house where a Buddha is born—there certainly is joy. But this is not the deepest meaning. In the Buddha’s language, kula—lineage—has another sense.
The Buddha says: there is no fixed, unchanging soul in you—no solid entity within you—there is a continuity, a stream. In the evening we light a lamp. If in the morning someone asks: is this the same flame you lit last night—what will you say? If you ponder, you will say: the lamp is the same in one sense, and not the same in another. The flame we lit has long been gone. Another flame, each moment, is arising. The one we lit keeps merging into the air; another arrives. So “this lamp is the same” only in that the present flame is of the same lineage, the same stream—but that flame is long gone; thousands of flames arose and went in the night.
Or a river. You say: this is the Ganges. You say: we came here last year too—this is the same river. The Buddha says: is it the same? Think again. No—it is of the same lineage. That river has flowed on. What you saw a year ago has fallen into the sea. Yes, this river is flowing in the same current, connected with that—neither utterly other, nor completely the same.
This he called the law of continuity—santati. This is “kula.”
Are you the same as when you were born? How much has flowed! The river has flowed. The Ganges has flowed on! Now you are young—how much has gone by. When you are old—will you be the same? Much will have passed. Yet in one sense you will be the same—because it is one stream. The one born will not die; the baby born seventy years ago will not die—everything has changed. Yet in another sense, that same stream will break.
The Buddha gave great value to this doctrine of the stream—his unique discovery. It means, in this world nothing is fixed—not even you. Unfixity is the nature of the world. Change is its nature. Others had said so before, but they let you off—they said: you do not change; everything else does. You are constant. The Buddha says: you too are changing. And the one who does not change—you do not know him. And so long as you are, you will not know him. When you fully see that “I” too is but a shadow of this changing world—when you drop your delusion of fixity—then something will be seen...something eternal.
But the Buddha did not discuss That. He said, to discuss it is already to falsify it. Whatever we can discuss becomes impermanent. So he left That beyond discussion. There is That—unsayable, eternal—but he did not discuss it. What you know now as “I” is changing. You are a stream, a continuity—like the lamp’s flame, like a river. Keep this in mind—and the meaning becomes clear:
“Wherever that steadfast one is born—
In that lineage happiness grows.”
Once Buddhahood descends in you, then in the subsequent stream that flows—day after day, as you are reborn each day—joy keeps growing. Today some, tomorrow more, the day after more. You go on changing, but joy thickens. Joy goes on increasing. A moment comes when joy becomes great joy—mahasukha. That moment is called Nirvana—the moment of Samadhi, the state of jivan-mukti—call it by any name.
The second sutra—
“The arising of Buddhas is blissful; the proclamation of the true Dhamma is blissful; the harmony of the Sangha is blissful; the unified austerity of the harmonious is blissful.”
The situation—when did the Buddha speak this?
One day many monks were sitting and talking. Their topic was: what is happiness in the world? Someone said: there is no happiness like the happiness of kingship. Another said: against the happiness of sex, what is kingship!—and he praised sex. Another praised fame, another position. A glutton praised food; a lover of clothes praised clothes. A dispute arose. Just then the Buddha came. Standing behind, he listened. Then he said: Bhikshus! Being bhikshus, what are you saying! This whole world is in sorrow. Happiness is an appearance; sorrow is truth. Not that there is no happiness—but not in the world. Where then is happiness? Buddha said: the arising of the Buddha is bliss. The hearing of the true Dhamma is bliss. Samadhi is bliss. And then he spoke that gatha.
First let this scene be imprinted—
Many monks were sitting, talking. First, even to sit gossiping is unworthy of a bhikshu. A bhikshu should sit silent. A bhikshu should be in silence—speaking only what is essential. After becoming a bhikshu, many things must be dropped—among them idle talk. Otherwise what is the difference between the worldly and the renunciate? If the bhikshu too speaks of the world, then the difference is only of clothes, not of inner being.
So first: many monks were talking. When monks sit, let them sit in silence—sink into stillness, descend into the void. Bhikshu means—one in search of Samadhi. Gossip will not give Samadhi.
Think also of yourselves; you too are renunciates. If you sit in idle talk, ask yourselves: what will come of it? If your talk is the same as that in hotels, clubs, shops, bazaars—then what is the difference? One’s speech reveals oneself. Words do not just come; they are fruit. The neem tree bears bitter fruit—that is neem’s discourse. The mango bears sweet fruit—that is mango’s speech. Consider what you speak—your words will show whether poison or Amrit flows within.
Where Amrit flows, even his speech changes. If he speaks, it will be of God, of prayer, of worship, of meditation. If he tells a tale, it will be of Buddha, Mahavira, Krishna, Christ—and that too, not much. For what is there much to say? If he delights, he will recount what we call Ram-katha—“for the joy of his own heart Tulsi sang of Raghu-Nath.” He will speak sometimes for his own and another’s joy. Not tales of women, not tales of wealth. Sometimes a satsang—two monks crying together with joy, speaking of bliss, hinting at what is happening within—supporting one another, going forward—satsang.
The Buddha certainly startled them: Bhikshus, being bhikshus, what are you saying! The discussion you are engaged in is not for bhikshus. First of all, silence was befitting; if discussion, then of the Divine. And their subject?—what is happiness in the world? This is telling. If a monk is speaking of worldly happiness, it means he came raw from the world; his mind is still there; it still goes there.
Ramakrishna used to say: the kite may fly in the sky, but its attention remains on the garbage heap below—where a dead mouse may lie. It flies high—do not be deceived by that. It is circling; it waits—if no one is around, it will swoop. These monks must have been like circling kites. What are they saying?—what happiness is greatest in the world! If there is happiness in the world, why did you leave it? Only when sorrow remains and sorrow alone—does one renounce. When it becomes clear that there is nothing here—bubbles on water, rainbows in the sky, sky-flowers—then one renounces. Sannyas means: the world has become futile—known by one’s own seeing. These monks perhaps ran away for wrong reasons. Someone’s wife died—he became a monk. Someone went bankrupt—became a monk. Someone lost an election—became a monk. Watch—many will become monks now! Nothing else remains.
What did not come—the ego does not accept it; it says: the grapes are sour. The fox leaps again and again; the grapes are high—she cannot reach. She cannot reach—she cannot admit that either. She struts away. Someone asks: Auntie, what happened? She says: the grapes were sour.
Sanjay Gandhi—you saw—took sannyas from politics. What happened? The grapes were sour. Now he says: I will serve the people without office. Who was stopping you before? Now this wisdom has dawned! Many become “monks” like this. This is not sannyas. It is covering up defeat. Decorating failure with fine words. If a free post were available, no one would resign. Now it is costly, difficult—so better resign. But what you never had—how can you renounce it? Understand the meaning. What is not, how can it be renounced? You must have lived it, tasted it, found the grapes sour—then they can drop. This is merely consoling oneself.
So these bhikshus—poor fellows—became renunciates for wrong reasons. They have not left the world; the world is still in them; only their garments have changed.
Therefore I never tell you to leave the world. I say: remain where you are—live awakened. Many are runaways; if they find a chance, they will run. I do not tell you to run. I say: remain—taste the grapes again and again; let them be found sour; let them fall of themselves; let experience itself be your conclusion. Then what will you run from? The world will fall away.
A dispute arose. Where desire is, there is dispute. Where thought is, there is conflict. If sannyas has been taken in the true sense, dispute ends. What is there to argue? One indisputable thing is seen: the world is futile. The names—kingdom, wealth, fame, honor—are all world—different faces of one thing. Where is the disagreement?
The Buddha came. He listened and he was startled. Then he said: Bhikshus, being bhikshus—what are you saying! This whole world is sorrow. And you tell of royal happiness, sexual happiness, the happiness of taste! What are you saying! If there were happiness here—why did you come? Happiness is an appearance, the Buddha said—sorrow is truth. Not that happiness is nowhere—but not in the world. The world is where happiness seems to be—but is not. From afar it seems so; as you approach, you find it is not.
Where is happiness? The Buddha said: in the arising of the Buddha. If the Buddha is born within you—there is bliss. If Buddhahood descends—there is bliss. “Buddh-otpada”—a beautiful word. If the Buddha is born within—you awaken—there is bliss. Sleeping is sorrow, unconsciousness is sorrow; waking is bliss. Hearing the Dhamma is bliss. The supreme bliss is the arising of the Buddha. If that has not happened yet, second is—the joy of hearing the words of those who have awakened. To sit near them is bliss. But do not stop with that. If you stop with listening, a kind of happiness will be there—but not lasting. Therefore he says: there is bliss in Samadhi. The definition of happiness is: first, Buddh-otpada—the supreme. If that is not yet, listen to those whose sun has risen; dwell with them—that is bliss. But do not stop there. Let what happened to them happen to you—the means of that is Samadhi. Listen to Buddhas—and then strive to be like them. That striving is Dhyana, Samadhi, Yoga. And the day you become—it is supreme bliss.
Then he spoke that gatha—
“Sukho buddhānaṃ uppādo—sukhā saddhammadesanā—
Sukhā saṅghassa samagghī—samaggānaṃ tapo sukho.”
“The arising of Buddhas is bliss; the teaching of the true Dhamma is bliss; harmony in the Sangha is bliss; united austerity is bliss.”
Understand this too. If bhikshus quarrel, oppose one another—politics enters. Then they are no longer religious—they have become politicians. Where there is quarrel, where there is ‘I am right, you are wrong,’ there is ego. Where there is ego—there is politics.
“Harmony in the Sangha is bliss.”
A bhikshu should live as if he is not. The renunciate should live as if he has given himself up. Let there be the Sangha—not “me.” Drop the “I.” This is the Buddha’s Sangha—I am a wave in it, not separate. He is the ocean—I am a wave.
“Harmony in the Sangha is bliss.”
Even then you will taste joy. For as soon as you drop ego—by any pretext—bliss arises. The ego is a thorn. Wherever it is removed, a flower blooms.
“United austerity is bliss.”
Do not quarrel—do not waste yourself in useless talk. Pour your entire energy in one direction—in tapas. Tapas means heat, energy. Just as science says the world is made of electricity, so does religion say man too is energy-made. So much energy lies within that, if we awaken it, all our darkness will be burnt; if we ignite it, all our rubbish will burn; what is dross will be consumed—gold will remain. Hence the word tapas is used. Whatever the seeker does is included in tapas.
But keep one thing in mind—united!
“Samaggānaṃ tapo sukho.”
Let it not be that your tapas is scattered—fragmented—some here, some there—a thousand directions—then no result. You have seen: sunlight—if through a lens it is focused onto paper, the paper ignites. Remove the lens—still the rays fall—but the paper does not burn. Samaggānaṃ means—together, at one point. Then it burns.
If all your life-energy is poured into one aim—to awaken Buddhahood in oneself—awakening will happen. But if split: one mind says earn a little money; one says do a little meditation; one says enjoy a little of the world; one says take a little sannyas—so divided, you will arrive nowhere—and bliss will not be attained.
The final sutra—
“Those who have gone beyond the world’s proliferation; who have crossed sorrow and fear—if one worships such worthy Buddhas or their disciples, or such liberated and fearless ones—the result of that merit cannot be measured by anyone.”
This too the Buddha said in a special situation. Understand it. The background makes the sutra clear.
Once, going from Shravasti to Varanasi, the Blessed One halted beneath a tree. Upon that tree there was a small plinth. Nearby, a Brahmin farmer working his field saw him and came for darshan. But before bowing at the Master’s feet, he bowed to the tree’s plinth. The Master asked: Brahmin, knowing what did you do this? You bowed to me—but before me you bowed to the plinth. Knowing what did you do so? The farmer said: Bhagwan, I do not know much. But by tradition this is our sacred spot; we have always worshiped it. The Buddha said: Brahmin, you did well.
The disciples were startled—because the Buddha had often said: what will come of worshiping plinths? Only the other day a sutra had come—what will come of worshiping trees, chaityas, temples, idols, scriptures? The Buddha would say such worship is futile. Today the disciples were shocked.
He said to the Brahmin: you did well. The disciples felt a contradiction. The Buddha then said to them: this is the stupa—the samadhi—of Kassapa Buddha of the past. And the worship of the worshipful is right—always right. Then he said: Bhikshus, close your eyes—meditate. Pour your whole consciousness upon this plinth. The monks sat, quiet. They poured their energy upon the plinth—and were astonished. They had never seen such a thing. From outside it was a poor ruin of brick and stone—but within, infinite light. Inside that humble plinth was such vast radiance—its aura spread for miles. They opened their eyes and said: explain to us.
The Buddha said: before me was Kassapa Buddha. I am not the first; infinite Buddhas have been before me; infinite will be after me. This earth is never empty of Buddhas. Before me was Kassapa—this is his plinth. For Buddhas there is no first and last, no past and future. The real thing is to bow to Buddhahood. And this man does not even know to whom he bows. But do you know—to whom you bow when you bow to me? In ignorance one is ignorant. But even in ignorance he is moving in the right direction. In darkness he is groping for the door. He does not know whose plinth this is. But it is not necessary that what comes by tradition is right; nor necessary that it is wrong.
Keep this in mind. What has come by tradition is not true simply because it is old; nor false simply because it is old. Judge each thing by its own quality. To say “tradition is right” is foolish; to say “tradition is wrong because it is tradition” is also foolish. Neither new is truth nor old is truth. Truth is in the old and in the new. Do not accept something as true because it is old; nor because it is new.
The world errs like this. In the East: what is old is right. In the West: what is new is right. Both are wrong. Right has nothing to do with age. Whether the Vedas are five thousand years old or fifty thousand—what difference does it make? If true, then even five days old they are true. If false, even fifty thousand years old they are false. What I say—if true, is true, however new. If false, false, however new. Newness and oldness have no link with truth.
Judge each thing by itself, said the Buddha. Therefore I have often said: what is there in worshiping a chaitya?—but to this Brahmin I will not say so. Because the chaitya to which he bowed—there is something there. Though he does not know. Bowing, bowing—perhaps some day the ray will descend.
Then he uttered this sutra—
“Those who have gone beyond the world’s proliferation; who have crossed sorrow and fear—if one worships such worthy Buddhas or their disciples, or such liberated and fearless ones—the merit of such worship cannot be measured by anyone.”
The Buddha said: so great is the fruit of worship—of bowing—that it cannot be said. Why should there be such merit in bowing? The truth is: not in the bowing itself, but because bowing bends the ego. There lies the merit. You agreed to bow—laid the ego down for a while—accepted smallness before another—that has merit.
In the East we created many devices so that the practice of bowing may remain alive. Touch your father’s feet—though it is not necessary that fathers be righteous. If all fathers were right, the world would be right. Fathers steal too; a father may be a murderer. Yet we say: even if the father is a murderer, bow and touch his feet. Touch your mother’s feet—though all mothers are not right. But bow. Why?—so the practice remains. So the process is not forgotten. If one day you reach a true one, there will be no hesitation.
I see it here—when someone comes from the West, he has great difficulty bowing. Even if he bows, it is with reluctance. For there is no process of bowing in the West—no touching feet—father’s feet, mother’s feet, guru’s feet—no such tradition. One day suddenly you tell him: bow before God—he has no practice. One who has never swum in shallow waters—if you throw him into the ocean, he will drown.
First one must learn to swim in rivers—or in a pool—shallow water. Then the deep sea. Father is a shallow edge—many faults are there—that is okay—still bow. By bowing in the shallow, you learn to bow. Then if ever you meet a Buddha—you will bow without a hitch. No thought arises: should I bow or not? You will bow—naturally. You will find yourself already bowed. Your bowing will be so spontaneous. And in that spontaneity is merit; in that spontaneity something flows into you.
Our belief is: even if you bow to the wrong person—you lose nothing. The worst is: nothing is gained. But the practice remains. If one day you bow to the right person, the energy flowing from his inner being will fill your vessel. You will brim over. Then you will thank even those to whom you bowed wrongly—because they prepared you for this moment.
So the Buddha says: the merit of worship offered to Buddhas or their disciples—or such liberated and fearless ones—cannot be measured. Therefore I say to this Brahmin: you did well. You do not know me—but you know this plinth by tradition. Once people bowed here knowingly—thousands of years ago, Kassapa Buddha was. Someone bowed at his feet knowingly. Then his son bowed because his father bowed. Then that son also felt: there is something here. Slowly the meaning was forgotten—but the bowing remained. This chaitya has prepared you to bow at my feet. Therefore you did well—to bow first to the plinth. Give it thanks.
There was a meeting between Kassapa Buddha and this Buddha in a previous life—a wondrous tale. Then Gautama was ignorant—Kassapa’s glory was great. People came from afar to his feet. Gautama too went for darshan; he bowed at Kassapa’s feet. As he rose, he was startled—Kassapa bowed at his feet. He was shaken: Bhante, what sin is this!—what are you doing! I may bow to you—ignorant, sinner, foolish, unknowing—that is right. But you—bow at my feet! Kassapa said: listen—you will one day be a Buddha. I see it. Your Buddhahood is not visible to you—but it is to me. I bow at the feet of that future Buddha.
It is his samadhi on which the Buddha halted today. Thousands of years have passed—but when the monks meditated, they felt that within that samadhi there is an extraordinary light. With the eye of meditation, even the light of a Buddha gone millennia before can touch and stir you. Without that eye, you can sit before a living Buddha—and remain blind. It depends on you.
Remember the Buddha’s word: practice bowing. And do not keep accounts of good and bad. Who are we to decide who is bad and who good? Where you get a chance to bow—bow. Your concern is: we got to bow—this is enough. If you keep bowing—again and again—the ego-rock is worn away. It takes time.
“Rasari āvat jātat hai, sil par padat nisān—”
By coming and going the rope leaves its mark upon the stone.
“Karat karat abhyās ke, jaḍmati hot sujān—”
By doing and doing—practice—dull minds become wise.
Thus the Buddha says: this Brahmin did well. He may not know—to whom he bows—but he knows bowing.
So keep in mind: if ever you find contradiction in the words of the Enlightened—do not be entangled. When the Buddha says: what is there in bowing to temples—he is right. And when he says: there is much in bowing—he is also right. Both are true—spoken for different vessels.
When he said, “what is there in temple or scripture,” do you know to whom?—to a scholar, Agniddatta. A great pundit—a knower of rituals and texts. To him the Buddha said: what is there in scriptures!—what is there in temples, in pilgrimages! He struck him mercilessly—to humble his pride. That was compassion.
Today a simple Brahmin farmer—no pundit—he says: I do not even know why I bow—just tradition. He is simple. To him the Buddha did not give that blow—no need. In this bowing man there is no ego to shatter. To him the Buddha said: you did well, Brahmin.
Understand the difference. To the arrogant—a severe blow: what is there in temples! To the egoless: you did well. Two different contexts—two different men—two different words.
This happens here daily. Often a person discusses philosophy with me—I tell him one thing. The next man comes—and I have to say the opposite. They are startled. But they do not see that two different men stand here—and I must speak to those who stand.
Sometimes someone says: he just answered my question too—I have nothing to ask. I say: forgive me—that answer was for him. Ask your question. You cannot ask the same question as he did. He says: but it is exactly the same—word for word. The words may be the same—but the question cannot be—because you are different. Your background is different. You were born of a different mother, a different father’s seed. In a different land, a different air; you passed through different situations; gathered different samskaras. Your background is different. The same question—only he can ask. No one else in the world can ask it.
So sometimes words match—you think the questions are the same. Sometimes I use the same words in reply—you think the answers are the same. Do not be deluded.
Morning talks are public; evening talks are personal. The evenings are of deeper value. In the morning I speak the public truth; it is not addressed to any one—I speak as Truth is. I do not speak looking at you—but at Truth. As I see it, I speak. In the evenings, when I speak to you—you are more important than Truth. More than me. I speak seeing you. The morning is like a chemist’s shop—with all medicines on the shelf. Evening is a prescription—written for you. Do not hand it to another. Do not think: if it was given to me, it will serve anyone. It may not—and sometimes it can harm.
Hence you will often see contradictions in my words. There is a reason. The Buddha’s monks felt the same. They thought: how is this? Only days ago he said “nothing in this”—and now he tells this Brahmin “you did well.” They do not see—the other was a pundit; this is a simple Brahmin. The same blow cannot be dealt to both. The blow that awakened Agniddatta would kill this man. The blow that supported Agniddatta would remove this one’s support.
Therefore, often there seem to be contradictions in the words of the Enlightened—step by step—yet contradiction cannot be there. It only appears.
“Kisi ne bāṇṭe phūl,
Kisi ne bāṇṭe phal,
Kisi ne kisalay—
Par din ḍhale sab gale,
Kumhlāe, murjhāe—
Tum āe—
Bāṇṭā bīj-mantra—
Anukampā—
Kaha, ban ātmā kā mālī—
Kar kṣhāy se rakhvāli—
Bach jāegī bagiā kī hariyālī.”
The essence of all the Buddha’s sutras is compassion—anukampā. Whatever he says, arises out of compassion. He says what is needed for the one before him.
“Kisi ne bāṇṭe phūl,
Kisi ne phal,
Kisi ne kisalay—
Par din ḍhale sab gale,
Kumhlāe, murjhāe—
Tum āe—
Bāṇṭā bīj-mantra—
Anukampā.”
If you want to catch the flavor of the Buddha—catch the word anukampā. His interest is not in scripture, doctrine, philosophy. His sole trust is compassion. He has not cared whether what he said today tallies logically with yesterday—would the logician be troubled? He did not think of this. He revealed what stood before him. He answered the one present. The answers are not prefabricated. Prepared answers are worthless. The Enlightened is like a mirror—whoever comes, that reflection appears.
I have heard a story—there was a mouse—and a squirrel. The mouse was mischievous—squeaking all day, making merry. The squirrel was innocent—chirping here and there. By chance they met. The mouse boasted: People call me king of mice—Ganesha rides me; without me even Ganesha cannot move. My sharp teeth are like weapons; they can gnaw iron cages, anything. I am a logician: like the shears of logic, I cut.
The simple squirrel was surprised. She said: Brother, you harm others, you do no good. If you are so proud of your teeth, why not carve something fine—use them, then I will know. As for me, I have no such gifts. You see three stripes on my body—just those are special. Whatever grain I find, I clean the chaff and eat contentedly. The mouse said: what specialty is in your three stripes—what nonsense! What is there in stripes?
The squirrel said: You don’t know?—Two black bands on the sides; between them a white one. Their meaning: between layers of difficulty the true joy peeks. Between two dark nights there is a bright day. I keep my attention on that golden stripe. I do not count the dark ones. God gave me these stripes to remind me: keep attention on the middle band. By remembering that, great contentment is there, great joy. Death is not seen—only life. Sorrow is not seen—only joy.
Thought is mouse-like—it sees only darkness; contradiction upon contradiction; this wrong, that wrong—only criticism. Faith is simple—squirrel-like. She spoke truly: between two black bands—the white band. That is my beauty. That is my focus.
Logic gets entangled in the futile—and by being entangled it nourishes the futile. Faith holds to the meaningful—slowly the futile drops from the eye—the meaningful remains.
One who learns to live in the meaningful—that one is a sannyasin.
Enough for today.