Es Dhammo Sanantano #69

Life in itself is neither happiness nor misery. It is a matter of seeing. It is a matter of vision. Everything depends on how you look. Happiness and misery are our interpretations. They are not facts. Happiness and misery are not outside us; they are outcomes, conclusions born of our way of seeing. The very same thing can be joy to one person and sorrow to another. And someone else may remain indifferent to that same thing—neither happy nor unhappy. And it will also happen at times that what is joy to you today becomes sorrow tomorrow; and what is sorrow today turns into joy tomorrow. And at times such moments come when you go beyond both happiness and unhappiness, becoming neutral, a witness on the shore.

If one observes one’s life accurately, rightly, there is no need to go to the scriptures to discover this truth.

Socrates’ famous saying is: An unexamined life is not worth living.

Only by exact and right observation does one find a life worth living. Someone once asked Socrates, Would you prefer to be a satisfied pig, or a dissatisfied Socrates?

Socrates said, I would prefer to be a dissatisfied Socrates, not a satisfied pig. Why—asked the questioner—since man does everything for satisfaction. Socrates said, A dissatisfied Socrates will one day find a satisfaction that can never be taken away; but a satisfied pig is satisfied only in name. It has not known dissatisfaction yet—how will it ever know what lies beyond dissatisfaction?

When life is observed rightly, we go beyond both happiness and unhappiness. For a truth becomes clearer day by day—that they are our interpretations. And if they are our interpretations, we are free.

If one must grasp the essence of all religions, grasp this: whatever we experience in life is our interpretation. Therefore we can be free whenever we choose—because changing our interpretation is in our hands. If happiness and sorrow were outside of us, then bondage would be outside of us.

Understand. It is not that someone has put you in a prison. If someone had put you in a prison and locked you in chains, then you would be in their hands. If they freed you, you would be free; if not, you could not be free. And even if you were somehow to get free, you could be caught again; you could be imprisoned again. Then your freedom cannot be very deep. When your unfreedom depends on another, your freedom too will depend on another. That would be a great dependence. If even in freedom you are bound, that is a heavy slavery.

The situation is that you have believed you are in a prison. It is your belief. The chains are not real—they are only beliefs, mere notions. Therefore the day you open your eyes and see, the chains will melt, dissolve. Think of it like this: at night in a dream you find yourself in prison, and in the morning you awaken to see that you are at home—the prison was a web woven by your imagination.

The Buddha’s sutras today are important.

The first sutras—the first three—

Sussukhaṁ vata! jīvāma verinesu averino.
Verinesu manussesu viharāma averino.

“Amid enemies, being without enmity—ah, how happily we are living! Among men who are hostile, we abide without hostility.”

Sussukhaṁ vata! jīvāma āturesu anāturā.
Āturesu manussesu viharāma anāturā.

“Among the ailing, being unafflicted—ah, how happily we are living! Among men who are troubled, we dwell untroubled.”

The third sutra—

Sussukhaṁ vata! jīvāma ussukesu anussukā.
Ussukesu manussesu viharāma anussukā.

“Among the attached, being unattached—ah, how happily we are living! Among men possessed by craving, we dwell without craving.”

Understand the story of the birth of these sutras—

Between the Shakya and Koliya states flowed the Rohini River. Blocking its waters, the people of both regions irrigated their fields. One year, in the month of Jyeshtha, seeing their crops withering, the servants of the Shakyas and the Koliyas came to the Rohini to irrigate their fields. Each wanted to draw water first, and so a quarrel broke out. News of this reached their masters, the Shakyas and the Koliyas. Kshatriyas are kshatriyas—swords flashed out. With their armies, prepared for battle, they set out. The Buddha was meditating on the shore of the Rohini. He heard the news. He came and stood between the two armies poised for war. Seeing the Blessed One, the Shakyas and the Koliyas threw down their weapons and bowed.

The Buddha said, Great kings, what kind of quarrel is this? For what are you fighting? The kings of both states said, Bhante, we do not know the cause. The Buddha asked, Then who knows the cause? You have drawn your swords without even a cause! You did not even ask the reason! At least you could have found that out! They said, Perhaps the generals know. The generals pointed to the sub‑generals, the sub‑generals to the soldiers, and finally the matter reached the servants—and only then did the cause come to light. The servants said, Bhante, it is over the water. The Buddha said, Over the water! The water has always flowed here; you fight today—so the quarrel cannot be because of the water. The servants said, Understand, Bhante—it is over who should use it first. Then the Buddha said, So—because of precedence! Not because of water. Who goes first! Do not blame the water.

The Buddha smiled and asked the chiefs of the Shakyas and the Koliyas, Majesties, what is the value of water? The kings were embarrassed. Ashamed, they said, A trifle, Bhante, almost nothing. What value is water! And of human beings—asked the Buddha? The kings shrank even more and said, Priceless, Bhante—what could be more valuable than a human being! The Buddha said, Then consider: for a trifling value you are set to destroy the priceless. For water you will spill blood? And the river will continue to flow just the same. You will fall, be cut down, die—and the river will keep flowing, flowing as ever, and the river will not even know. For the nonessential you sacrifice the essential? For pebbles and stones you throw away diamonds and jewels? That is why in your life there is sorrow, anxiety, darkness. Look at me—look at my great bliss. What is its secret? Only this—that I move without enmity. Only this—that I see the essential as essential, and the nonessential as nonessential.

And then he spoke these three gathas.

So first, let us understand every single word of this story. The illustrative tales in the scriptures are not to be read casually. Every word holds meaning; layer upon layer of meaning. Unveil one layer, and another appears. The deeper you go into the story, the more astonished you will be that you can descend step by step.

First point: the quarrel began on the riverbank among the servants. The quarrel began among the servants, and the masters were pulled into it. The servants look like masters, and the masters look like servants. This is the first thing to take note of. And it is a very deep truth about man. In the story it may not be immediately obvious, because such stories are subjects for meditation. If one meditates deeply on them, their layers unfold.

First layer: the eyes, hands, nose, ears are servants—and the master is dragged behind them. The eye says there is beauty, and you go, becoming mad—and you do not even know whether there is beauty or not. The eye says so, and you trust the eye. The ear says something, and you trust the ear; the tongue says something and you trust taste. Thus the master is pulled by such servants. And if someone asks you deeply why you did what you did, you say, I don’t know the reason.

Someone falls in love—ask him, why? He shrugs his shoulders: As to why—no idea! Another man runs madly after wealth—ask him, why? He may say, Because everybody is running, the whole world is running, that’s why. Others are running, so I run. Another is crazy for position—ask him, why? It may not be clear to him at all. The senses have delivered some news; relying on their news, the inner master has set out.

Between the Shakya and Koliya states, the water of the Rohini was dammed to irrigate fields. Second point: here, we all drink of the same life. Hence quarrels can arise at any moment—because the same river flows between each of us. From it I must draw water; from it you must draw water. Life is one. We are all neighbors.

Jesus’ famous saying: Love your neighbor as yourself. And another saying: Love your enemy as yourself. Someone asked Saint Augustine, The two sayings seem alike and yet are very different. On the one hand Jesus says, Love your neighbor as yourself, and elsewhere he says, Love your enemy as yourself. Augustine said, As far as I understand, “enemy” and “neighbor” are two names for the same person. The one who is the neighbor—that very one is the enemy.

Have you noticed—who is your enemy? Your neighbor. With the distant, enmity does not arise. With the one next to you, enmity arises. Because the same river of life—on whose waters both claimants stand. Over trifles, quarrels begin. What are the matters! Where are the reasons worthy of quarrel! Over what small things you have fought! Someone encroached half a foot of land—a fight! You have never even thought what you are losing by quarreling! And one thing must be admitted: this life of ours is shared—we all live one life.

The river is one; all must drink; all are thirsty—and naturally there can be grabbing and snatching. But to snatch is stupidity, unconsciousness. The people of both regions irrigated their fields from the same river.

One year in Jyeshtha, seeing the crops withering, the servants of the Shakyas and the Koliyas came to the river for irrigation. Each wanted to water first. Now “first” has nothing to do with irrigation—watering the fields is the real issue. The real issue is that the field is drying, the sun fierce, noon of Jeth, water is needed. The essential thing is to water the field; “first” and “later” have no value.

But all the quarrels of life are quarrels of “first” and “after.” We get so lost in the first-and-last that the fields are left aside—and once quarrel begins, no one draws water from the river. The fields stand thirsty, crying; another thing has begun. Often the root cause remains aside; trivialities come in between. We forget the root and wrestle with the trivial. The entire quarrel is about “first” and “after.” All competition is about who goes first.

Jesus’ other famous saying: Those who are last—those who are capable of being last—they shall be the owners of my Father’s kingdom. Those who can be last.

In this world the greatest strength is the capacity to be last. Anyone mad can want to be first. There is nothing special about wanting to be first; everyone wants it. The madness to be first is a public disease. This madness for first place—that is what I call politics.

Therefore politics is the root of all quarrels. Until the disease of first-ness leaves the world, politics will not leave the world. And until politics leaves, wars will not leave. Violence will not leave. Explain nonviolence a thousand times—it will do nothing. Catch the root of violence: “I first.” The essence of nonviolence is: I consent to be last. The real question is of being. I will stand at the end—so far back that none will even come to push me.

It was a quarrel of firstness. And when that quarrel arises, then even water becomes secondary, the fields become secondary—let alone fields and water—even the people for whom irrigation was being done become secondary. The very people for whom the fields stood to provide food become secondary. The quarrel had begun.

What is the quarrel in the whole world? What is the quarrel between Russia and America? Between India and Pakistan? China and Tibet? Israel and Egypt? The same quarrel. This story is of that same quarrel. When one or two people go mad, we recognize it; when crowds go mad, recognition becomes difficult. When groups upon groups go mad, it becomes very hard to see.

Psychologists say that at times we see madness in individuals, but in groups madness is the daily norm. Sometimes an individual goes mad, but group-mind has always been insane. Hinduism is in danger—Hindus go mad! Islam is in danger—those who follow Islam go mad! It takes no time to go mad. Individually, a man is mad only sometimes; collectively he is mad as such.

When the news reached the masters, the kings, that the servants were quarreling, that their servants had beaten the others, that our servants were overthrown—such rumors must have arrived. Truth cannot arrive in the hands of madmen—there is no way for truth to pass through them. It becomes something else. From one mouth to another it changes.

A woman was describing a quarrel to her neighbor. The neighbor listened with great enthusiasm. We relish quarrels. She listened with delight. Her child was crying, troubling her, but she ignored it—the quarrel-story first. When it was over, she said, Tell more, a bit more detail. The storyteller said, I’ve already told you twice what I saw—what more detail!

The story must have been exaggerated, greatly exaggerated—that there was slaughter, that blood flowed, a great insult happened. Swords unsheathed—kshatriyas are kshatriyas!

Hearing this, the masters went mad. The armies were readied; the bands of war began to play; both banks stood with troops. The Buddha heard the news. He sat under a tree nearby, witnessing what was happening. Whoever wishes to see this play of the world must sit and watch. If you become involved, you cannot see. The involved one becomes blind. The eyes of the involved fill with haze, for he is filled with partisanship.

He sat impartial. On both sides were his lovers. On both sides were his followers; both states had affection for him. He belonged to all. So there was no partiality. There could have been—because he himself came of the Shakya clan. Hence his name—Shakyamuni. The Shakyas were involved in this quarrel: one side was the Shakyas, the other the Koliyas. Had the Buddha seen it as “I am Shakya,” he could not have seen rightly—what he saw would have been distorted.

If you see “I am Hindu,” what you see will miss. If you see “I am Muslim,” you will miss. If you see “I am Indian,” your eye will no longer be true. Eyes belong only to the one who has no partiality.

He sat under the tree—silent, nothingness, void, like a mirror. He saw all this, saw this stupidity. Whenever you look in silence, you will see stupidity; on all sides you will see stupidity. You will be astonished: What is this! But while the servants fought, it was still tolerable; when he saw that the masters had come, swords drawn, slaughter about to begin—the Buddha rose, came, and stood between them.

Seeing the Buddha, the Shakyas and the Koliyas threw their weapons and bowed. Such is the tradition of this land: when one like the Buddha stands in between, then, for a moment at least, we leave our madness. Only for a moment—we cannot leave it longer, for madness has entered our blood. But this country’s tradition! Its communion with Buddhas is ancient. That too has entered our blood. However mad we be, sometimes a ray descends for a moment. Seeing the Buddha in between, they forgot what they were doing. And to bow to the Buddha one must cast aside one’s weapons. Hands filled with weapons cannot be hands of reverence. Where there is violence there cannot be reverence. Where there is violence there is no meaning in bowing at the feet of the enlightened, for violence does not know how to bow. Only nonviolence knows how to bend. Therefore, the one who surrenders becomes nonviolent; the nonviolent becomes surrendered. Like lightning, this flashed—seeing the Buddha between them, both threw down their swords.

The Buddha asked, Majesties, what kind of quarrel is this? For what are you fighting? The Buddha saw that there was nothing in it. There never is anything. Look into your own life—what are quarrels?

Sometimes couples come to me—a husband and wife—saying, We’ve quarreled a lot; we want to separate. I ask them, Tell me the cause. They both feel awkward; neither wants to say a cause. They say, What’s a cause—nothing special. When I insist, Tell the cause—they are embarrassed: Why do you insist—the cause is nothing. The cause can be very small.

If you search for the causes of your disturbances, at the end you will always find some petty matter. But the petty gets momentum.

I’ve heard—an American actress married—it was her tenth marriage. As soon as they signed the register in church, she said to the priest, No—I want a divorce. The marriage ink was still wet! The priest was startled. He said, I’ve seen many divorces, but this is too soon. What is the reason—and I’m right here; you haven’t even quarreled yet. She said, We’ve fought. This man signed his name larger than mine. That’s trouble. He’s trying to show off. This began wrong; I won’t enter it. I won’t get into such trouble.

On such a small thing, a fight—someone’s signature a little large! Observe your life.

The Buddha sat and saw there was nothing in it—only a balloon of talk. He asked, Majesties, what is this quarrel? For what? The kings said, Bhante, we do not know the cause.

Truth is, no one here knows why they quarrel. One wants to quarrel—and then finds a cause. He does not quarrel because of causes; he invents causes in order to quarrel. Then he says, There is a cause, therefore I fight. But look within yourself: when you are in the mood to quarrel, you will find any cause. Any cause! You returned home and the salt in the curry is less—that’s enough. You throw the plate—though for that small matter it had no meaning. The tea is cold. In the morning your shoes were not by the bed. Any small thing! But if you are eager to fight, it suffices.

In truth, had you not been eager to quarrel, you would not even have noticed. It is because of your eagerness that any peg suffices and you hang the quarrel on it. You inflate the cause so that the responsibility doesn’t remain on you; you pile it onto the other: What can I do, I was compelled. The other forced me.

They said, We don’t know the cause. The Buddha asked, Then who knows? Perhaps the generals—said they. They themselves were already doubtful, hence the “perhaps.” The generals pointed to sub‑generals, sub‑generals to soldiers—and in the end it reached the servants.

Now servants make kings quarrel. This is what is happening—throughout life. Servants are making you quarrel and entangle. Someone eats too much. The doctor says, Don’t eat—if you overeat you’ll die, you’ll be sick, this will happen, that will happen. But you obey the tongue, not the doctor.

Mulla Nasruddin’s eyes were failing. The doctor told him, Stop drinking now. If you drink more, you will lose your sight. Mulla sat up to go; the doctor asked, You gave no reply. Mulla said, Look, doctor, all that was worth seeing I’ve already seen—what remains to see! Don’t tell me to give up wine; there’s nothing left to see! But the addiction!

Eyes may go, life may go—no matter what goes, we cling to small addictions—addictions planted by the servants. One is mad after taste, another after form, another after something else—madnesses differ, but madness remains.

The servants said, Bhante, because of water. That too isn’t true—water has always flowed; the fight arose today. And water will flow tomorrow. So the quarrel cannot be because of water.

Mark this. When you declare a cause—watch: is it the real cause, or is the cause hidden elsewhere? Even those who began the quarrel do not know the real cause. We live in stupor—in unconsciousness, sleepwalking. We do not know why we do what we do.

The Buddha laughed and said, Because of water? Or who goes first? Then the root cause was caught. And remember: once the root is caught, transformation becomes possible. “Who first?”—which means ego is the root cause. For the one who is first is great; the first is powerful. The one at the back is small. Yet the Buddha asked the chiefs: Majesties, one thing—what is the value of water? The kings were ashamed—A little, Bhante!

Before the Buddha, one cannot lie blatantly. This is the meaning of the master’s presence. What you might not see when alone becomes easy to see in the master’s presence. What you might have denied alone, what you might have covered up with words—before the master it becomes clear. In the Buddha’s presence it was straightforward. It was straightforward even alone—but alone you are there to save yourself; you would have denied it, colored it. Before the Buddha they had to accept.

With embarrassed feeling they said, A trifle, Bhante, nothing. Water has no value. And of human beings—asked the Buddha. Great value—priceless—the value of man cannot be measured. Then—he said—think: for a trifling value you are set to destroy the priceless? What a bargain! For the nonessential you abandon the essential?

But that is what we are doing. Where have you entangled your consciousness! In rubbish! Where have you squandered your soul! Where there is nothing to be had; where no one has ever gained anything. And you know this. Moments of intelligence sometimes peep within—you know you too will not gain. Alexander did not gain, Napoleon did not gain, Akbar did not gain—how will you? No one gains—there is nothing there.

Yet man hoards wealth and loses his soul. He climbs up ladders of position. Positions are climbed—and life slips from the hand; the vault fills. One day suddenly you find death has come. Life is gone, and what you had accumulated by selling life—gone too.

From this world many return defeated—thoroughly defeated. Those who did not somehow connect with Rama, they return utterly defeated. Those who did not join to the inner light, who did not awaken, return badly defeated.

Grasping the nonessential and abandoning the essential! Throwing away diamonds for pebbles and stones! Hence there is sorrow, anxiety, darkness in your life.

The Buddha made great use of this small event. That is the art of Buddhas. A small matter he turned into a basis for teaching. A small thing he made into a far-reaching pointer—a sharp arrow.

He said, That is the cause of sorrow, anxiety, and darkness in your life. Look at me—look at my great bliss.

This is what all true masters have said: Look at me—look at my great bliss.

What is its secret? Only this: I wander without enmity.

Only this: no hostility remains toward anyone.

Only this: I see the essential as essential and the nonessential as nonessential. Therefore no anxiety remains, no pain remains, no quarrel remains, no antagonism remains.

See this on a deeper plane. When the Buddha says, I wander without enmity, your mind may think he bears no hostility to others. But there is a deeper meaning—he does not hold hostility, period. Leave aside others—he does not hold hostility even toward himself. Often, a man leaves hostility toward others but keeps fighting himself. He says, I have no enmity with anyone; I won’t go to court with anyone—but the fight within continues: There is anger; I must fight it. There is attachment; I must fight it. There is greed; I must fight it. There is ego; I must fight it. So enmity continues—the enemy has changed.

The Buddha does not say, I have no enemies outside. He says, I abide without enmity—understand—“I have become free of enmity.” Enmity with others has fallen—and with oneself too it has fallen. Enmity itself has fallen. This enmityless state is the state of great bliss.

First, leave enmity with others—fine. But do not imagine that you must leave enmity with others and begin enmity with yourself. One man enjoys tormenting others; another begins enjoying tormenting himself through fasting. There is not much difference between them. The one who enjoys making another starve and the one who enjoys starving himself—there is little difference. A slight difference—dangerous because the other could escape, could fight back, could find a way to save himself—but you, tormenting yourself, how will you escape? From whom will you escape? Where will you go? You have chosen a thoroughly helpless enemy.

One man enjoys giving others pain... Psychologists divide the insane into two categories—sadists and masochists. The masochist torments himself; the sadist torments others.

Most of those you call sadhus—ascetics—ninety-nine percent are masochists. They are not truly sadhus or sannyasins. A true sadhu, a true sannyasin, says: Look—look at my great bliss. All enmity has fallen—outward and inward. No enmity remains. The enmityless state is sannyas.

Then he spoke these three gathas—

“Amid enemies, being without enmity—ah, how happily we are living!”

Look—the structure of these sutras also clarifies what I am saying. First the Buddha says, “Amid enemies, being without enmity—ah, how happily we are living.” Then: “Among hostile men we dwell without hostility.”

What he is saying is: unless you have attained inner non-enmity, you cannot attain outer non-enmity. If enmity remains within—toward anyone—even toward yourself—you are living in a mood of enmity. Hence he repeats—

Sussukhaṁ vata!
“See—ah—how we live in bliss.”

Jīvāma verinesu averino.
“Amid enemies, we are without enmity...”

Who are the enemies? Those you call lust, greed, attachment, pride, jealousy—those the scriptures call your inner enemies.

“Amid enemies, we are without enmity...”

Among all these inner foes we live unhostile—no enmity even with them. Let them be, if they wish! There is indifference toward them, a certain neglect has come. Be if you must; go if you must—your choice!

And you will be surprised—to the very extent that this indifference arises, the enemies leave. They do not stay even a moment. In the fire of your indifference they are burnt to ashes.

Yes—if you savor them—before you savored lust by indulging it; now you savor lust by suppressing it—then these enemies will remain. They will not go; your savoring remains. Now there is enmity—earlier there was friendship—but the relationship remains. There is a relationship of friendship; there is a relationship of enmity.

Have you noticed—when your enemy dies, something goes empty within. As if someone of your own has died—what will you do now?

I knew a man whose lawsuit with a neighbor had gone on for forty years—case upon case. His whole occupation was the court; his relish—the court. An old landlord; money was no problem. If he lost one case, he filed another. An average of ten or fifteen cases he kept going against his neighbor. The neighbor was equally stubborn; he too litigated.

Then the neighbor died—of a heart attack. I went to sit in the neighbor’s house, and afterward to the house of his born enemy. He said, Why have you come here now that he is dead? I said, I have come to see how you are—for what will you do now? He was startled: That’s a telling point—I’m worried too. Because thanks to him, forty years passed in great fun; now that fun is finished. That was my relish—this gambit upon gambit. And he was a craftsman too—he often got the better of us; it’s not as if we always won. Without him, of course we are sad—something is empty.

Six months later that gentleman also died. It seemed to me that had his neighbor lived, he might have lived a while longer. The neighbor died, so his purpose was over. He had only one objective; for forty years he wagered everything on it—when that man left, what meaning was there in staying?

Remember—you invest your energy not only in friends but in enemies. Your friends die—you lose something. Your enemies die—you also lose something. Both become relationships.

“Amid enemies, we are without enmity...”

To have no relationship at all—that is non-enmity. Here, note a subtle difference—that between Jesus and the Buddha; between Jesus and Mahavira there is the same difference.

Jesus says, Love your enemies. The Buddha and Mahavira say, Do not hold enmity with enemies—no more. They do not raise the point of love. For love too becomes a relationship. One relationship—of hate—you have changed into love, but the link remains. The Buddha and Mahavira aspire that you become unlinked, unrelated.

This teaching goes beyond the teaching of love—because the one you love can become the one you hate, and the one you hate can become the one you love. They are two sides of one coin. Become unrelated. Become detached—uninvolved. Let no relationship remain. This state is non-enmity. The Buddha could have called it maitri—friendliness—but he did not.

He said, “Amid enemies, being without enmity—ah, how happily we are living.”

The Buddha stands there among them and says, Look once at me—see this shower of great bliss! We are happy—great bliss has descended—and for a small thing: we have mastered non-enmity. With this one thread of a sutra, heaven has descended.

Has the sky come down
Into the court of grasses!
Blue earth has grown green
In the tide of these rays.
Height has slipped down
Into the love of lowliness—
Has the sky come down
Into the court of grasses!

As when rain falls from the sky and the lawn grows green. You see the rain; you see the greening. The greening of enlightened ones you can see—but the nectar that rains upon them you do not see. Yet from their greenness know—rain has fallen—some invisible rain. That invisible he calls—Sussukhaṁ vata!

This phrase is beautiful. It means not merely “happily,” but “ah, how blissfully!” As if we are moving as bliss itself; we are not just happy—we are bliss and we move as bliss. Look at us—

“Amid hostile men we dwell without hostility.”

So first he speaks of the inner enemies—amid them we are non-enmity—and then of the outer—that which has happened within spreads without.

“Among the ailing, being unafflicted—ah, how happily we are living! Among troubled men, we dwell untroubled.”

Note the same point—within and without. The first sutra is for the within. First the inner—then the outer. What happens within, only that truly happens without. If the outer comes first and then the inner, there is danger—there may be hypocrisy, forcefulness.

“Among the ailing we are unafflicted...”

How many thirsts are within you; how many hungers; how many cravings. Lust demands, taste demands; the eyes demand, the ears demand, the nose demands—how many demands within you! How many beggars within you!

“Amid the ailing we are unailing...”

We are not joined to any demand or craving; we stand apart. That is sannyas. Not running away from the world—but free of thirst while standing amid these thirsts.

Sussukhaṁ vata! jīvāma āturesu anāturā.
Āturesu manussesu viharāma anāturā.

“And among troubled men, we dwell untroubled.”

On all sides are troubled people—beware! Within are troubled passions; outside are troubled people. If you are not fully awake, you will be trapped in some thirst, some entanglement. And we all live by imitation. Your neighbor builds a big house—you begin to build a big house. Even if everything must be wagered! Even if you must go to the last penny! If the neighbor has done something, you too must do it. We live by imitation. The neighbor adopts a style of dress—you want that dress. You want the same—or better.

We live by imitation—and imitation misleads greatly. We accumulate what we do not need. Look closely in your home—see what you have accumulated! What things are there without which life could go on?

You will be startled. Without many things life would go on—and perhaps more easily. There would be more space; there would be room to move, to turn. Anxiety would be less; restlessness less. And where anxiety is not, there bliss arrives.

“Among the attached, being unattached—ah, how happily we are living! Among the attached, we dwell without attachment.”

Sussukhaṁ vata! jīvāma ussukesu anussukā.
Ussukesu manussesu viharāma anussukā.

These are the first three sutras.

Then the fourth sutra—and its circumstance—

One day the Blessed One went for alms to a Brahmin village named Panchashala. Mara—the Tempter—had beforehand inflamed the villagers so that no one gave even a ladleful of alms. When the Buddha, with an empty bowl, was leaving the village limits, Mara came and said, Well, ascetic! You received nothing? The Buddha said, No. You have succeeded—and I too have succeeded. Mara did not understand. He said, How so? Either I have succeeded or you have. How can both succeed together! This is illogical. The Buddha smiled and said, No—not illogical—trans-logical. You succeeded in corrupting, in deluding people; I succeeded in remaining unaffected. And that nourishes more than food.

Mara cast another net. He said, Then, Bhante—enter again—perhaps you will get alms. What is the point of remaining hungry all day! There will be trouble, pain—you have come a long way, tired—perhaps someone will take pity. Mara thought that, thus, perhaps the Buddha would be insulted again; he trusted the villagers. Perhaps if the Buddha were insulted again, he would get angry.

But the Buddha said, What is gone is gone. What did not come was not meant to come. What has come is plenty. Going back—there is nothing of the sort. Buddhas do not go back. Buddhas do not even look back. Why lose today’s good fortune. Food comes, it keeps coming. Today we will live like the Brahmas of the Abhassara realm—subsisting on joy.

This is a Buddhist vision—that there is a realm, a heaven, where those endowed with Brahma-knowledge—the Brahmins, the Brahmas—dwell; its name is Abhassara. There no one eats gross food. There beings feed on love alone. You too say sometimes, We offered a feast of love; there, only a feast of love runs. You only say “feast of love,” but then you serve gross things. In that realm, only love-feasting runs. Love alone is the food—the only nourishment.

The Buddha said, Today such good fortune is ours—we shall not miss it, Mara. Today we shall live like the Brahmas of that realm, in the joy of love. Today we shall feast on love.

And then he spoke this gatha—

Sussukhaṁ vata! jīvāma yesaṁ no natthi kiñcanaṁ.
Pītibhakkhā bhavissāma devā Abhassara yathā.

“Ah, how happily live those who have nothing at all! Like the Abhassara devas, we too shall feed on rapture today.”

Pītibhakkhā—today we shall eat love.

Before we enter the depth of this small tale, one point. Modern psychology has rediscovered this truth: when the mother feeds the child, she gives not only food but also a feast of love. One is gross nourishment—the milk that flows from her breast—and the other is her love that flows unseen.

Psychologists say, If a child receives only milk and the mother does not give love, the child begins to wither. Even if full bodily nutrition is given, but not love—say a nurse feeds the child, or you hire a nanny, she feeds—there will not be the same flowering, the same joy, the same life; some flower in the child will never bloom. For the mother gave milk—gross nourishment—but with the gross, like a shadow, the subtle also flowed—love.

Love and food are deeply connected. That is why when you love someone you invite them for food—to let love be known. The one who loves you cooks for you. When a woman cooks for her lover, it is not only food—there is love in it. A hotel’s food cannot have love. The body may be satisfied, but somewhere the life-breath remains empty.

When a mother cooks for her son, even if the food is plain, there is a taste—it is a feast of love. Someone else may serve you very fine food, but if there is no heart in it—if it is served reluctantly—it will not digest; even if it digests, it will not go deep beyond the body.

In this country we realized thousands of years ago that love is an essential ingredient of food. Therefore, where there is no love, do not accept food. If your wife cooks in anger, do not eat that food. If you are cooking in anger, do not cook—for food prepared in anger becomes poisonous. Today the result may not show; tomorrow it will. If not tomorrow, the day after—the poison accumulates.

When you sit to eat—if you are angry—do not eat. When you are filled with love, only then can you take in the flowing love from outside. Love matches with love. The wave of love carries the wave of love within. If you sit angry and eat, you will eat—but the wave of love will not enter. And the food you eat in anger becomes toxic.

Hence we made great rules: no one should eat in anger; food prepared in anger should not be eaten. From whose hands to accept food—and from whose not. At what time food should be prepared.

For four days each month women—when in their monthly cycle—were told not to cook. Perhaps in the future science, too, will prohibit this. Because during those four days, such transformations occur in the body, such hormonal shifts, that their inner love-joy dries up—so much pain arises. In that pain and ache, love cannot flow; therefore cooking then is not right. Food prepared then becomes toxic.

There have been experiments. In a laboratory at Delabour in England, they experimented: if a woman who suffers much pain during menstruation holds a rose in her hand, it withers at double speed. The same woman, when not in her period, holds the rose—if it takes an hour to fade, during the period it fades in half an hour. Even a rose receives the waves; so will food receive waves.

We are not only body—we are soul. So the soul too must have some food, as the body has its food. Hence there is such longing for love. A man can go hungry for food, but cannot live without love. He can remain poor, but not without love. He can live without wealth, but not without love. There is a deep thirst for love—that thirst indicates the soul is unsated; that its food has not been given.

So this Buddhist conception is important—a realm of gods—meaning a place where body is no more, only souls. Even if this is a symbol, it is meaningful for understanding. It gives your life a perspective. Do not take it as a historical fact that such a heaven exists somewhere. It is a symbol. If there were a realm where bodies have fallen and only souls dwell, then food would not be needed—love would. Pītibhakkhā—there, beings would feast on love. They would serve and receive love. There the commerce of love would flow, its exchange would be abundant—pītibhakkhā.

The Buddha said, Today, Mara, such a good fortune has come—we too will be pītibhakkhā. Today we will live on love alone.

Now, understand this story—

One day the Buddha went for alms to a village of Brahmins called Panchashala. Note—a village of Brahmins. A dangerous village. All scholars. Whenever there have been enlightened ones, scholars have rejected them. Those who crucified Jesus were scholars, priests. The high priest of the great temple of Jerusalem participated. The council of priests decided. The greatest scholars of the Jews passed the judgment—this man deserves death; he is dangerous.

The scholar is not on the side of living knowing. Why? He should be—but he is not. For if the Buddha is right, then the scholar’s whole knowledge is hollow. He has gained it from scriptures, from books. The Buddha has kindled it within himself. The Buddha’s scripture is in his consciousness; the scholar’s scripture is outside—in books. He has taken book-knowledge to be wisdom.

When true knowledge stands present, his counterfeit becomes pale. If the false coin is angered at the sight of the real, what’s surprising? And false coins are plenty. If all the false coins band together against the true, what is surprising? If all the false coins join to kill the true coin, still no wonder.

So first—the village of Panchashala, of Brahmins. If there had been even one man there who was not a scholar—he might have felt pity. From a scholar, what pity! Another amusing point—Jesus said, The devil too quotes scripture. So if Mara—Buddhism’s “devil”—has won the scholars over against the Buddha, no wonder—because the devil is himself a great scholar.

You may not know—Christianity holds this: the devil is a god who was expelled from heaven because he was eager to dispute even with God. He must have been a scholar, a Brahmin. So the devil speaks with great scriptural style. Therefore the scriptural are aligned with him. All priests and scholars end up in the devil’s service. Temples are built in God’s name—but they serve the devil. The priest arranges the plate of worship for God—but the arati descends to the devil.

So the tale says: the Buddha went for alms in that Brahmin village. Mara had already inflamed the villagers so that no one gave even a ladleful of alms. Such accidents have occurred daily. For thousands of years we weep for the Buddhas and shed tears—and sometimes we do not even give them a ladleful of alms. Sometimes from us they receive only insult—and then for centuries we cry and honor them. That honor cannot wipe the insult away—for that insult is not to the Buddhas alone; it is ultimately to our own inner Buddha. It is a refusal of the possibility of awakening within ourselves.

When the Buddha, with an empty bowl, was leaving the village, Mara would have come to ask, Well—how was it! What, ascetic—got nothing? Understand this as an inner symbol. Not that some devil stood outside—it was the mind’s devil within who said, Hey! You have attained such knowing, such Samadhi, such Buddhahood—and these wicked men did not give even alms! These sinners did not give even alms! This devil did not stand outside; he sleeps within all; you meet him daily. He would have egged the Buddha on: Curse them—let this village be destroyed. These are not worthy of the name “human.” He would have tried to inflame him.

The same devil sat within those villagers; the same devil inflamed them: This Buddha is coming—this pretender thinks he has attained knowing, that he has become God. He is a hypocrite. First, he is a kshatriya—not a Brahmin. Second, he does not accept the Vedas. Third, he does not accept ritual. Fourth, he declares, I have attained what none ever attained—an unprecedented Samadhi has been attained by me. All this is ego, empty talk. He deludes people, leads them astray, corrupts religion. Do not give him alms—giving alms to him is sin. He will live on your alms and mislead people—you’ll become partners in sin. Don’t give. Make it clear there is no acceptance for him here. Complete his insult.

And the same devil spoke within the Buddha. The mind is the devil. The mind tries to lead astray toward the world. Mara said, What, ascetic—got nothing? You—who have attained Buddhahood—and you don’t get even alms! What is this!

The Buddha said, No—no alms. You succeeded—and I succeeded as well. The mind understands logic, not the trans-logical. The devil grasps logic, not what is beyond. Hence all religions say—until you go beyond logic, you cannot go beyond mind. Shraddha—trust—means going beyond logic.

When the Buddha said, I succeed too; you be happy, we are happy—the devil’s words caused not even a ripple in the Buddha. So the devil asked, How? Either I succeed or you do; either we win or you win. The mind believes always in duality. But there are moments when both win. With understanding, there is no defeat; even in defeat, no defeat. This understanding is the sutra in this tale.

The Buddha said, Not illogical—trans-logical, my friend. But the logic is clear: you succeeded in corrupting and deluding people—that is your work; you succeeded fully; rejoice and dance. And I succeeded in remaining unaffected. The insult was heavy—door to door I begged and not two grains were dropped in my bowl.

Just imagine—a son of an emperor, who had everything, who could feed hundreds of thousands of monks daily—today, he has gone with the bowl to beg among beggars—Brahmins are beggars—and beggars refused to give. It must sting! It must hurt!

But the Buddha said, I remained unaffected, hence I succeeded—fully succeeded. You created for me an opportunity to know my own success—a chance to see my victory. And this nourishes more than food. Food nourishes the body; remaining unaffected gladdens my soul.

This I call vision, darshan—this I call the eye. The true eye can transform darkness into light and thorns into flowers; it can turn poison to nectar. Disease becomes medicine. Without the eye, even nectar becomes poison, and flowers become thorns. The whole matter is of the eye—of the way of seeing—of your interpretation.

Therefore I began today by saying: life is neither happiness nor sorrow; life is interpretation. In this very moment, the Buddha could have interpreted: I have been gravely insulted! He would have been miserable. And in this very moment he made such an interpretation—unique—never heard, never seen—unprecedented. The thorn changed instantly; earth became gold.

He said, I remained unaffected—unmoved. Nothing changed within me. People slammed their doors in my face; people said, Move on! They said, Nothing here. I have returned from the village with an empty bowl in my hand. But this emptiness is empty in your view; in mine it is full. For I have returned unaffected. A unique savor fills it—and I am happy, so happy. It nourishes more than food.

Mara said, Then, Bhante—enter again. Mara did not understand. He did not hear. He said, Then one more chance: if he hasn’t yet become angry—if he had, he would have come under the influence of mind—let’s coax him into the village again. He trusted the Brahmins—they will refuse again, perhaps drive him out more sharply: You again! We told you—nothing here! The second insult may hurt more.

He tried to entice the Buddha: Enter again—perhaps you will get alms—what’s the point of staying hungry—what’s in these talk of yours about being unaffected, or the rasa in your bowl! He saw only the bowl was empty. The mind does not understand bliss—it understands sorrow.

The Buddha said, No—what is gone is gone. Buddhas do not look back; Buddhas do not return. What had to happen has happened; what had not to happen, did not. This matter is finished. Buddhas have no relish in repetition. Buddhas enter the new. Today we shall spend the day like the Brahmas of the Abhassara realm—subsisting on pīti—rapture. And then he spoke this gatha—

“Ah, how happily live those who have nothing at all!”

He must have shown his empty bowl to the devil: See—those who have nothing—how blissfully they live!

Sussukhaṁ vata! jīvāma yesaṁ no natthi kiñcanaṁ.

He whose possession is “nothing”—his bliss has no boundary. If you have a thousand rupees—you have the bliss appropriate to a thousand. If ten thousand—then that much joy. But remember: if you have a thousand, that is also the limit of your joy—and the billions that could have been but are not—those will be your sorrow. Sorrow will be more; sorrow will always be more. You have one woman—the joy of one—and the millions of beautiful women who are not yours—they will be your pain.

A character of Jean‑Paul Sartre says: Whenever I see a beautiful woman, I want to possess her. I want to possess all the women of the world. But how is that possible! Hence I am unhappy. You will possess one woman, two women, ten—but there are infinite forms—what you cannot possess, their pain will haunt you.

How much wealth can you gather! Much will remain ungathered. If you become owner of the whole earth—then the moon and stars remain—countless—whose ownership is not in your hands. Then there will be sorrow. Lack will cling.

Therefore understand the Buddha’s sutra—

Sussukhaṁ vata! jīvāma yesaṁ no natthi kiñcanaṁ.

What to say of his bliss—there is no limit to him who has nothing. When one rejoices in nothing, how can sorrow be! This is the meaning of bhikkhu, of sannyasin—to rejoice in nothing, to be utterly immersed in the rasa of nothing; to see the empty bowl as filled with rasa.

Swami Ram went to America—he called himself an emperor. He had nothing—two loincloths and a begging bowl. Someone asked him, Everything else you say is fine, but calling yourself an emperor—doesn’t fit! You have nothing—two loincloths and a bowl. Ram said, These two loincloths and this bowl make my emperorship a little less—just a little stuck.

I told you before—Diogenes became naked. He kept only a bowl. He ran to the river to drink water—washed his bowl to drink—just then a dog leapt in and drank the water before him. Diogenes threw away the bowl and caught the dog by the legs: Master! Where are you going? The dog must have been startled—what is this! Diogenes said, Good—good reminder—came at the right time. I was unnecessarily rubbing this bowl. If you can live without a bowl, why not I! He threw the bowl into the river. That day Diogenes said, My emperorship is complete. A small bowl had held it up a little.

Ram said, These two loincloths and this bowl—make my emperorship a little less.

Understand the meaning—

The emperor is the one who rejoices even in nothing—because nothing has no limit; it is infinite. In nothing—all is included.

Ram said elsewhere, The day I abandoned one house, all houses became mine. I left a tiny courtyard—and the whole sky became mine.

Remember, from one side the renunciate becomes a bhikkhu; from the other, he becomes a master. Therefore Hindus called him Swami; Buddhists called him bhikkhu—both are true. By becoming a bhikkhu he becomes a Swami. The Buddhists chose “bhikkhu,” which is right—he says, I have nothing; I shall live in nothing. The Hindus chose “Swami”—the one who lives in nothing—his ownership is total; he is emperor; he is Swami.

Sussukhaṁ vata! jīvāma yesaṁ no natthi kiñcanaṁ.

“Ah, how happily live those who have nothing!”

The Buddha said, Look, fool—why do you make yourself miserable and make others miserable—whereas we live in great bliss. We move as bliss itself. We have nothing. See this bowl—utterly empty. This emptiness is our joy.

Therefore the Buddha says: Śūnya Samadhi—emptiness. When you become empty within—no thought remains, no desire remains, no attachment, no craving—when the inner bowl is also empty—then the bliss of Samadhi begins to shower. When one becomes empty, the whole descends.

“Like the Abhassara gods, we too will feast on love.”

Pītibhakkhā bhavissāma devā Abhassara yathā.

Now today’s day we shall spend like Brahmas. Such a heavenly day you have arranged, Mara—thank you! You succeeded—and we succeeded.

Understand this art of seeing. Keep this sutra safe in your heart. It can be used daily. It is a thing to use every day.

The last sutra—

Jayaṁ veraṁ pasavati dukkhaṁ seti parājito.
Upasanto sukhaṁ seti hitvā jayaparājayaṁ.

“Victory breeds enmity; the defeated sleeps in sorrow. But the one who is calmed sleeps in bliss, having abandoned both victory and defeat.”

The Buddha spoke this sutra in this circumstance—

King Prasenajit of Kosala, in warring for Kashi against Ajatashatru, was defeated three times. He became greatly anxious. He lacked nothing—a great kingdom was his—but Kashi pricked him. Kashi under another’s control—that pricked him. He possessed much—but what another possessed pricked. Three times he attacked Kashi—and each time lost. He became deeply anxious. After the third defeat he was pushed beyond limits—his pride was badly wounded. He thought, I could not defeat a milk‑faced boy—what point in living! Ajatashatru was just a youth—no age to boast of—and losing again and again to that boy became painful.

He thought, I could not defeat a boy—then what use is my life! Better to die. He stopped eating and drinking, lay down on his bed. Still sleep would not come. Where was peace! How can peace come to one eager to kill himself! His sleep too was lost. He became nearly deranged. He drowned in unbearable sorrow. The monks told the Buddha.

It had been long since Prasenajit had come; the monks worried. He used to come sometimes to hear the Buddha—but hearing is not really hearing! He came—and still this race continued. The monks said, Such is his condition—after three defeats, he lies in bed—neither eating nor drinking—neither sleeping nor waking—like a madman.

The Buddha said, Monks, neither in victory is there bliss nor in defeat. For both are excitement. Where there is excitement, where is peace—where bliss! The victor engenders enmity; the defeated cannot sleep in bliss.

Then he spoke this gatha.

“Victory engenders enmity.”

Because the one you defeat will seek revenge. He will prepare. He will defeat you. And in defeating someone, what deep hostility you have incurred—how will you deal with the retaliation? Anxiety will grip you—he will attack, he will avenge—what will he do? Victory engenders enmity, begets anxiety; you must organize security.

And the defeated—if victory is not there—if defeated—there is no bliss either. For the defeated cannot sleep in bliss. Awake, he is restless: I have lost—my pride is broken, my ego shattered; in sleep he is restless too, tossing and turning. He sleeps a sleep of sorrow. Even in sleep sorrow. Even sleep—the natural bliss that even animals have—he loses. Even in sleep he sees sorrowful dreams. The same shadows of his defeat appear monstrous.

“But the one who is calmed sleeps in bliss—having abandoned victory and defeat.”

Upasanta is a vital word—one in whose life no excitement remains. Neither a desire to win, nor upset if defeat comes—who has dropped the desire to win and accepts defeat with equanimity—such a person is upasanta. Only the upasanta is blissful.

Now understand this story.

King Prasenajit of Kosala, in warring for Kashi against Ajatashatru, was defeated three times. He became deeply anxious. A man does not awaken once, not twice—three is symbolic. Three times defeated. Three means—enough; a man must be thoroughly foolish.

The Buddha repeated his words thrice. He would say to someone, Heard? He would say, Yes, Bhante. He would ask again, Heard? Yes, Bhante. Again—Heard? Yes, Bhante. Three times he would repeat. He would say—people are so foolish that even in three times they do not hear.

Three times defeated—and still he did not see that in success there is nothing; that only failure is coming to his hands. The one who seeks success meets failure—but he does not understand. The one who seeks wealth becomes more destitute within—but he does not understand. The one who seeks respect meets dishonor—but he does not understand. It happens again and again—yet he does not understand. Our eyes are closed. Lightning flashes—but we do not see.

Three defeats for Prasenajit—he became anxious. He did not see that his desire for victory produced defeat; instead, he became anxious: I could not defeat a boy—what use my life! As if the meaning of life is to win. Some people live only to win. Win and win—and then die. What is the relation of winning to life? And if you lose—you think of dying.

Psychologists say—it is hard to find a person who has not at least once thought of suicide. Not that he has done it—that is different. But not thought of it—rare. Many attempt it; they do not succeed—that is different; but they attempt.

Your life is fine as long as you keep winning. Lose—and you want to die. A small loss—and you want death. What, then, is the meaning of your life—only winning and losing? We are like small children. For small things we are ready to die; for small things we are ready to kill.

He thought, I must die—his ego was hurt—and what is there in life! We have not known real life. The life of the ego is not real life. Within you is a life that cannot die. If only you knew it—you would never think of death. The idea of suicide arises because you think it is possible to die. Death is not possible. No one ever dies. Death is a false thing—never occurs. What is within you is eternal—always is, was, will be. The thought of suicide arises because your reputation is spoilt in the market; you go bankrupt; your wife dies; your son betrays you; some small thing—you want to die. The thought of death means only one thing—you have not known life. If you knew life, how could you think of death?

Sometimes people come to me about suicide. A few days ago, a woman said, I see no meaning in life. She was around sixty. Her face was such that at sixty in the West, no attachment, no relationship, can easily arise—her husband had divorced her; her children grew and went into their worlds; now no one looks at her—she thinks of dying. Twice she tried—took sleeping pills—barely saved.

She asked, What meaning is there in my life—I should die! I said, Try—though you cannot die—but I will say first: know life a little—then die. As yet you do not know life—you prepare to die. If you come to know life, I will permit you to die—go ahead.

She was startled. She said, I did not expect you to permit me—you will certainly preach to me. I said, What is there in preaching? By preaching, your obstinacy will increase—you will relish it more—let me die. Prohibition becomes invitation. Say to someone, Don’t do it—and he wants to do it more.

Mulla Nasruddin’s wife was reading the paper. She said, Listen—scientists have split the atom. Mulla said, What’s in that? If they had wrapped the atom in a parcel and written on it, Handle with care, and sent it to the post office—it would have broken long ago. The very parcels that say Handle with care—those are thrown down. No need for scientists to try so hard.

Wherever prohibition is written, the invitation begins.

I lived in a town for years. A gentleman across from me had a big wall—he was bothered that people might paste posters, or write on it, or urinate there. I said, Try a trick—write on it: Posting bills prohibited. Urinating prohibited. He liked the idea. He wrote it.

After five to seven days he came: You’ve created a bigger problem! Those who used to pass quietly now stop to urinate. By having it written, you created a mess. I said, That is what I wanted you to see—if you simply write Urinating prohibited, you give everyone the idea to urinate—and also the idea that this spot is suitable—otherwise why write! Suitable place. Someone wrote out of fear—because the place is so suitable.

Wherever there is prohibition, there is invitation.

So I said to that woman, Die—no worry—but if you must die, why the hurry—do a little meditation—know life a little. This is not life—that a husband left, some children left—now no one is interested in you—that is not life. There is another life—inner life. Taste it a little—then die. For I know—one who tastes it understands there is no dying—death is impossible; life is eternal.

He thought to die, stopped eating and drinking, lay down. He wanted to sleep—but how could sleep come! Is that a way to bring sleep! Is that a way to bring peace! His sleep also fled.

When the monks told the Buddha, he said, Monks, neither victory nor defeat holds bliss—bliss is within. Victory is outside; defeat is outside. Victory is a relationship to another—to sit upon another’s chest; defeat too is a relationship to another. Bliss comes by relating to oneself. When the other disappears and only one’s own being remains—then the river of bliss flows, then the ocean overflows. Both—victory and defeat—are excitement; where there is excitement, there is no peace. The victor engenders enmity; the defeated cannot sleep in bliss.

Then he spoke this gatha—

Jayaṁ veraṁ pasavati dukkhaṁ seti parājito.
Upasanto sukhaṁ seti hitvā jayaparājayaṁ.

Consider—by a slight difference, all difference arises. A slight shift of vision.

Begging, giving—
Are only gestures of the palm.

This palm—see? If it spreads upright before you—it is begging. If it turns over—it is giving. By so small a change, begging becomes giving, giving becomes begging.

Begging, giving—
Are only gestures of the palm.

And happiness and sorrow too are gestures—of vision alone, of the eye alone.

The difference between nest and cage—
Is only this—
One is made by you,
The other for you by someone else.
Not much difference. If someone else makes it, it’s a cage; if you make it, it’s a nest. Whatever others make will prove a cage. Therefore do not rely on what is made by others—make something of your own within.

The difference between nest and cage—
Is only this—
One is made by you,
The other for you by someone else—
Not much difference.

Whether ten years old or fifty—
All are merely playing.
Yes—according to their age,
They need different toys.

That’s all the difference among people. In childhood you play with small toys; grown up—you play with bigger toys; aged—you play with costlier toys. But all is toy-play. One spreads a chessboard, moves kings and queens, elephants and horses; another moves real elephants and horses—but it is all a chess game. Even in chess, swords are drawn! In small games there is victory and defeat.

When I was at the university, someone brought the game of Monopoly to the hostel. No one wanted to play with me. I asked, Why? They said, Because you are neither pleased in defeat nor pleased in victory; neither happy nor unhappy; win or lose—okay. There’s no fun playing with you. Fun comes when one wagers his life. Monopoly is the game—who monopolizes!

Whether ten or fifty—
All are merely playing.
Yes—according to their age,
They need different toys.

Whom will you call experienced?
The one who is a well‑read elder,
Who has seen much—
Or the one
Who knows how to distill the flavor of experience?

From all experiences, extract the rasa—the essence—and you will find a single essence: your interpretation. Whether you accept defeat or victory; whether you accept happiness or sorrow—

And the day you see this, that moment you are free. Who then can bind you? The chains are not real—they are your notions, your interpretations.

Enough for today.