Es Dhammo Sanantano #70

“Life is suffering” is not a philosophical opinion. The enlightened do not think that life is suffering as a belief, nor are they eager to prove it so; life is such. It is a fact of life. Deny it a thousand times—you will not be able to deny it. Suppress it as much as you like—you will not be able to suppress it. It will keep surfacing. And when it surfaces, it will make you very miserable—because you live assuming life is happiness, and then suffering arises. Each time the notion of happiness breaks, you become unhappy.

Your impoverishment does not come from life’s sorrowful nature; it comes from assuming life to be happiness and then not finding that happiness. You mistook a thorn for a flower, pressed it to your chest as a flower, built great hopes, wove big dreams—and then the thorn pricked you, your dreams shattered, your hopes broke; that is how impoverishment is born.

If you see a thorn as a thorn, first of all you won’t press it to your chest. You step out of the danger of being pricked. And even if, knowing it as a thorn, it still pricks you, you will not be impoverished. You will understand: a thorn is a thorn; it will prick. One must walk carefully, intelligently, with awareness. What is there to cry about if a thorn pricks you? Why beat your chest over it? But you believed it was a flower and it turned out to be a thorn—then you beat your chest, you weep bitterly. Your impoverishment is born from the failure of your belief.

If the words of the enlightened truly sink in, your impoverishment ends. You know things as they are. When there is no expectation, there is no possibility for expectation to break. And when expectation does not break, what impoverishment can there be?

You are lost in a distant desert, parched with thirst, and you see an oasis. If it is an oasis, good—you will reach and be content. If it is not, all your running will only make you thirstier. And after walking miles, when you find there is no oasis, what else can you do but collapse? The effort you spent in chasing that mirage could have been used to find a real oasis.

So first, “life is suffering” is not a notion but a fact. Such is life. The Buddha says: know life as it is. The moment you know, two things happen. First, you have no expectations from life. Then however much suffering comes, you will know—it had to be so. There is acceptance, a simple acceptance. In that natural acceptance, impoverishment does not arise; it cannot. If a stone is a stone, where is the impoverishment? If earth is earth, what impoverishment is there? But if you kept a lump of clay in a safe and one day opened it to find it is clay, while all along you thought it was gold—then there is impoverishment. Impoverishment means: what you thought you would find, you did not. One thing turned out to be another. Where you imagined love, there was hatred; where you expected friendship, enmity; where you thought there was wealth, there was deception.

So first, you are freed from delusion if you see life as suffering—as it is. One who is free from deception finds great peace in life.

Second, the effort you used to waste on life’s deception is saved. If life is suffering, there is no point in going outward. What will you do with your life energy now? The energy you have can turn inward—outward there is only suffering. If it becomes clear to you that outside there is suffering, where will you go now? There is no longer any sense in rushing to far-off capitals. No purpose in going mad after wealth. No reason to chase any mirage. Your life-energy is freed from all ambitions, from all futile pursuits—and it begins to move within.

For energy has a law: it must move. Energy is dynamic. If it does not go outward, it will go inward. Energy will flow; it has motion. The moment you see that life is suffering, all the doors to the outside close at once. What will happen to this energy now? It will turn inward, move toward the inner depths, begin to seek its own center—there is nothing to gain outside; search within.

This revolution is what is called religion. This process of transformation is meditation, which the Buddha called paravritti—turning back—when energy, finding no space to go outward, stands still and turns within. You were standing at the gate, ready to go out. Now there is no meaning in going out. What will you do? Will you not return and rest in your own home?

Mulla Nasruddin was standing at his door, stick in hand, adjusting his cap. Just then a friend arrived. The friend asked, “Mulla, where are you going?” Seeing his friend, Mulla said, “I’m not going anywhere—I’m coming, I’m coming from outside.” The friend wasn’t convinced, because he himself was coming from outside and hadn’t seen Mulla coming—and Mulla was either taking off his shoes and putting down his stick, or putting on his shoes; it wasn’t clear. He said, “I don’t understand.” Mulla replied, “I’ll explain. You’re my own; I can tell you my trick. The moment anyone knocks on the door, I quickly start putting on my shoes, setting my cap, picking up my stick.” The friend asked, “What’s the point of that?” Mulla said, “If I see it’s someone I shouldn’t seat inside—he’ll just waste my head—I say, ‘I’m going out.’ And if it’s someone of my own, dear to me, with whom it will be a joy to sit, I say, ‘I’ve just come back.’ This way I welcome people in the middle; both doors remain open—depending on the person, either I go, or I come.”

When your life-energy no longer goes outward, you will come home. If the Ganges does not merge into the ocean, it will return to Gangotri.

Keep this second point in mind: what is the Buddha’s purpose in saying again and again that life is suffering? Not to make you miserable, but to free you from misery.

Hence the Buddha declared the Noble Truths. The first Noble Truth: life is suffering. The second Noble Truth: there is a way to be free of life’s suffering. First let it be understood that life is suffering; then the search for release can begin. Then the Buddha said there is a possibility of being free of suffering—look at me, at my great bliss: I am free. So it isn’t a mere fancy that one can be free—“who has ever been free?” There is a possibility. And there is a state in which suffering ceases altogether.

With “life is suffering” the Buddha’s teaching does not end—it begins. This is only the first step. Once this is seen, you will naturally ask: Can one be free of this suffering, or is it our destiny to undergo it? The Buddha says: One can be free. A hope opens—but of a new kind. Not a hope that runs outward, but a hope that rests within. A new beginning, a fresh ray descends—not the glitter of wealth nor attachment to another, but the radiance of one’s own center.

The Buddha says there is a possibility of going beyond suffering. There is such a state—of the extinction of suffering, of freedom from suffering—nirvana. Then you will ask: If life is suffering and there is such a state where suffering is no more, what is the path? The Buddha says: the Eightfold Path—eight processes by which, gradually, a person becomes free of suffering.

So the Buddha does not want to make you miserable; he wants to free you from misery—that is why he speaks so much of suffering. You are doing the opposite. You do not look straight into life; you are afraid suffering may appear, so you avert your eyes. You look here and there, not directly—lest you might see!

You too know there is suffering in life; you have experienced it again and again. They say: once burnt by milk, one blows even on buttermilk. Your eyes tell that you have a sense of it; you have experience—how could it be otherwise? How many times have you thought, “This is a flower,” and found a thorn? How could you remain unlearned after so much? You have learned—and yet you keep denying your own learning.

The Buddha wants to make it absolutely clear that life is suffering—so clear that not a shred of doubt remains. If doubt remains, you will go on searching outward, running—thinking perhaps somewhere a way will appear. So he wants to establish it unbreakably: life is suffering.

Nor does the Buddha need to labor much to prove it—life is like that. Just lift the curtain and you will see: stripped naked, life is suffering. As when you strip any person you find a skeleton and all surface beauty disappears, so if you strip life you will find the skeleton of suffering. Beauty appears only on the skin. The Buddha is doing with life exactly what an X-ray does: it reveals the bones, what lies within.

No, there is absolutely no such danger, because life is already miserable. Not the slightest danger. Such a danger could exist only if there were happiness in life. But there is no happiness in life; you are out of danger. Try as many devices as you like—you cannot make life any more miserable. Life is the very climax of suffering. You can neither improve it nor spoil it.

What the buddhas said could not be understood; so what happened is not the buddhas’ responsibility. People understand something else. They do not understand what is said.

For example, I have heard: Mulla Nasruddin was standing in a bus, traveling without a ticket. Eventually he was caught. The ticket inspector said, "Sir, you’re dressed like a gentleman, and you’re traveling without a ticket! And can’t you see the notice right in front of you that says, ‘Sitting in the bus without a ticket is an offense’?" Nasruddin said, "Exactly—that’s why I’m standing. I haven’t sat down precisely because of that notice. Sitting is the offense, isn’t it?"

People understand like that—according to themselves. What the Buddha says is not understood as the Buddha said it.

A professor said sympathetically to one of his students, "Ah, you failed in philosophy; did you read the book I wrote or not?" The dejected student said, "No, sir, I didn’t fail because I read your book; I failed because I fell ill." How you take a statement, in what sense you take it, depends on you. When the buddhas said that life is suffering, they did not say, "Accept misery." They did not say, "Wrap yourself in a blanket of sorrow and sit." They did not say, "Become dejected, worn out, hopeless, suicidal." They said only this: if it begins to be seen by you that life is suffering, then a ray of the sun will enter your life; a thrill and a joy will come. And Buddha keeps saying again and again, "Ah, behold my great bliss!" The Buddha wants you, too, to come to the same celebration as the Buddha, to have the same flowers bloom in your life.

If the Buddha called life suffering, it was so that you could move in the direction where there is no suffering, where there is joy. But people misunderstood. They concluded, "If life is suffering, then all right—what is there to do!" People became lethargic, sluggish, lazy. They sat down: What is the point of walking, of getting up, of doing anything—this life is suffering! But that does not mean their inner journey began. Even sitting in that torpor, they kept thinking of the outside.

Only yesterday we were reading that Buddha’s monks were sitting and talking, wondering, "What is the greatest pleasure in the world?" They are monks—renounced the world—and they are thinking, "What is the greatest pleasure in the world?" One says, "Royal pleasure." Another says, "Sexual pleasure." Another says, "The pleasure of food." And so the discussion goes.

Buddha was startled. He stood behind them and listened. He said, "Monks, what are you saying? I can hardly believe it! Even as monks you see pleasure in kingdoms, in wealth, in position, in sex! Then how have you become monks? And now, as monks, you are still deliberating about these things."

So these lazy, drowsy people of the East—don’t think they have become inward-going. Sitting idle, they are still thinking the same: that the roof will split open from somewhere—because we have such sayings: When God gives, he tears open the roof. But what is it that he gives? The hope is still for money.

But the gaze is fixed only on money. Destiny and effort and all that are just conversation; the real issue is money. Sometimes money comes without doing anything, and sometimes it doesn’t come even after doing a lot. But the eyes are on money. The whole race of life is toward money. Even after taking sannyas you are still thinking, “Let me be sure about this: how does money come? Does it come by doing something, or does it come on its own?”

So people sit around thinking, “When God gives, He tears open the roof and pours it down. Then why do anything? Let’s sit. When He gives, He’ll tear open the roof and give.” They have fabricated such stories: that money is found while walking along the road—whoever has it in his fate will find it along the way. And for the one whose fate does not hold it, no matter what he tries, nothing comes.

Thus people have not begun the inner journey; the outer journey, in actuality, they have stopped, but they keep it going mentally. This has become a misfortune. Sitting idle, they go on thinking the same thoughts.

I have heard: a man, walking along the road, grabbed a gentleman’s hand, laid a list before him and said, “Look, I am getting a temple built. We need one lakh rupees. So-and-so has given a thousand, so-and-so five thousand—the names of the prominent people of the village are written here.” The gentleman, wanting to shake him off, said, “Brother, what will a temple do? Build a hospital, build a school—that has some substance. There are already plenty of temples; what shortage is there of temples!”

But the man became angry. He said, “Everything will happen through the temple, because without God how can anything happen! So many people fall ill precisely because people have forgotten to pray to God. If people prayed, why would they fall ill at all—what need would there be for hospitals! And true knowledge is born of prayer. So the essential thing is the temple. Without a temple, where will God be worshiped?”

A crowd began to gather on the road; the gentleman wanted to escape, so he said, “Well then, if you are so adamant about building a temple, catch hold of those who can give ten thousand or five thousand. I cannot give that much. What will come of what I give?” At once the donation seeker climbed down to five rupees: “Alright, then give five rupees.” To get rid of him, the gentleman took out a one-rupee coin and gave it. The man looked closely at the coin and said, “Sir, you are insulting not me but even God.”

So even God’s honor and insult are measured by money! The gaze is bound to rupees. Give five rupees and God is honored; give one rupee and God is insulted. Your honor and insult are measured by rupees, and your God’s honor and insult are measured by rupees. Money seems to be the scale by which everything is weighed.

Understand this a little. In the East man has indeed become sluggish, indolent—but only sluggish and indolent; he has not become religious. Those who tell you the countries of the East are religious speak an outright untruth. In my constant experience, those who come from the West have less of a grip on money, less of a grip on the world; people of the East have a stronger grip on the world, a stronger grip on money. They do nothing—do nothing to fulfill that grip. They keep waiting, yet the same plans churn in the mind.

People in the West at least do something; that is good—at least they act to fulfill what they are attached to. People in the East have the very same attachment, the same disease in the mind, the same taste, the same pus flowing within, the same wound—but they sit and do nothing. And this sitting they take to mean they have become religious. The rosary is in the hand—they chant Ram-Ram—and a knife is tucked under the arm. Pay attention to the knife; don’t pay too much attention to the rosary—that is turning in the hand mechanically. The essential thing is this: even when people pray to God, they pray to ask for money—“Lord, when will Your grace descend upon us? Scoundrels and hooligans are getting ahead; when will Your grace come to us? Everyone is succeeding; when will Your grace come to us?”

But if you ask, “Within that grace, what have you hidden—what are you asking for?” you will instantly find: money, position, prestige. In the West, people labor for the desires they harbor. In the East, they harbor desires and do not labor—that is the only difference. But the race of desire continues. It makes no difference whether you translate your desire into action or not—once desire arises, your energy begins to flow outward. Only in desirelessness does energy turn inward.

So the East did not understand. The sayings of the enlightened ones were misunderstood; their misinterpretation made people slothful, sluggish, lazy. Had we understood the words of the Buddhas, there would be urgency in life, a shine, an edge, wisdom, intelligence; there would be a flame in your life, a radiance. Buddhas do not come to make you dull; they come to ignite you. They do not come to blow out your lamp; they come to light it. They come to give your life an edge. Let such an edge arise in your life, such a gleam of bliss arise—the very bliss you are seeking, but seeking in the wrong direction.

To seek bliss in life understood as the outer is the wrong direction. Life understood as the inner is the right direction. There is a life outside, and there is a life inside. The Buddhas call the outer life “dukkha” (suffering), and the inner life “sukha” (bliss).

Thus they say: “Ah, behold our great bliss—we move among the hostile without hostility. Behold our bliss—we move among the lustful without lust. Behold our bliss—we move among the ambitious without ambition. Behold the bliss—susukham va! Recognize our bliss.”

The sole purpose in showing you your misery is only this: that your energy may begin to move in the direction of bliss.

The mind creates the dilemma. In truth there is no dilemma at all; it’s quite simple. Buddha is saying what I am saying, and I am saying what Buddha is saying. Buddha says: there is suffering in the outer life—drop it, so that you can attain the inner, nectar-like, blissful happiness. I say: attain the inner, blissful, ambrosial—so that the outer drops on its own. It is only a difference in how it’s spoken. Buddha says the glass is half empty; I say the glass is half full. There is no reason for confusion. My emphasis is on the full; Buddha’s emphasis is on the empty.

And there is a reason to emphasize the full: you won’t easily understand the language of emptiness. Emptiness frightens you; it makes you run. Empty! You flee at once. I speak of fullness—there’s no reason to run. I do not tell you life is suffering; I say life is supreme bliss—come within. Yet I am saying exactly what Buddha says. Buddha says: there is suffering there, come here. I say: there is bliss here, come here. I have dropped talking about the outside. If you start coming within, the outer suffering drops by itself. Therefore my emphasis is not on leaving the world, but on taking sannyas. Buddha’s emphasis is on leaving the world. But the point is the same. These are two ways of holding the same thread.

The world has changed a great deal since Buddha’s time. In twenty-five hundred years, much water has flowed down the Ganges. The language that seemed meaningful then no longer seems meaningful now. I am speaking in the language you can understand.

So I say: the divine is a celebration. Buddha says: cessation of suffering. I say: the attainment of bliss. I say: the divine is a dance. Buddha says: life is suffering. I say: the inner life is a lotus in bloom. Buddha says: this outer life is nothing but thorns.

Understand the difference: Buddha is speaking one facet; I am speaking the other. But they are two sides of the same coin. The mind creates the dilemma. The mind wants to create it. The mind says, “If a dilemma arises, the hassle is over.” The trouble begins, and it feels as if the trouble is over—now there is nothing to do: once the dilemma is set up, you can stand stuck and say, “We’ll see when the dilemma is resolved.”

So the mind takes great relish in dilemma. It says, “Now what shall we do—follow Buddha or follow this one?” I tell you: follow either, and you have followed both. Choose one—and you have chosen both. Either follow Buddha—if the language of emptiness suits you. There are people for whom it does. If the language of emptiness resonates with you, listen to Buddha and set out. If emptiness frightens you, I am speaking the language of fullness. Then accept the language of fullness.

Do not remain stuck in the dilemma. One who gets stuck in dilemma loses much. He stands at the doorway—neither entering nor leaving—stuck. Split by doubt and duality, you gain neither the world nor God.

It seems many times you don’t even think what you are asking! Love and surrender have the same meaning. What kind of surrender can there be without love? And if there is no surrender, what kind of love is it! Without love, surrender cannot be. What passes for surrender without love is not surrender; it is compulsion.

As if a man were to place a knife on your chest and say, “Surrender!”—and you had to. He says, “Come on, surrender—the watch, your wallet—surrender them.” In the panic of the knife you surrendered; that is not surrender. That is helplessness. From this you will take revenge; if you get a chance, you won’t spare him. This is not surrender; this is violence.

Surrender means: voluntarily, by your own will. No pressure on you, no force, no one saying anything, no one compelling you in any way. It is your love; in love you bowed—that is surrender. Only in love can there be surrender.

And where there is love, if surrender is not there, know that it is not love. Generally people try to extract surrender in the name of love. “You love me? Then surrender!” If there is love, surrender will happen of itself; there will be no need to make it happen. The surrender that has to be enforced is not surrender. That which happens on its own, which becomes spontaneous—if it is not spontaneous, you have become entangled in a false posture, a counterfeit pose.

We are searching for that which is all around;
This life is a quest for its own home.
Whoever we met carried off a piece of our years;
This mind joins with no one—lonely, it remains sad.
All the bright dreams turned into night,
Yet who knows what dawn we still await.
At the hour of worship the deity remained stone,
Though we say he dwells in every particle.

We do say that he dwells in every particle, but at the time of worship—let alone every particle—even the stone kept before you as the deity remains just stone.

At the hour of worship the deity remained stone,
Though we say he dwells in every particle.

And it will remain so, because this is not a matter of doctrine—that he dwells in every particle—it is the experience of the eyes of love. Look with love and you will see him everywhere. Then you will see him even in a stone idol. The idol itself is not needed; you will see him in a boulder lying by the roadside. If there is love, there is nothing but the Divine. If there is love, there is only God. If there is no love, there is no God. For God there is no other proof, only the eyes of love. Until these eyes of love are found, you will go on wandering, searching for that which is right nearby, which has surrounded you on every side.

We are searching for that which is all around;
This life is a quest for its own home.

God is not settled far away on the moon and stars; he is your neighbor. When Jesus said, “Love your neighbor,” he was saying: love that which is near. In that very nearness you will see God. And where God is found, there you will find your home. Without love, something else altogether is happening.

Whoever we met carried off a piece of our years;
This mind joins with no one—lonely, it remains sad.

Without love, add as much as you like—how will it join? Love unites; nothing else does. Everything else separates. So a little of your life your wife carried away, a little your husband carried away, some the children will take, some your mother and father took.

Whoever we met carried off a piece of our years—

In the end you will find yourself standing robbed; death has come, and whatever remains will be taken by death.

This mind joins with no one—lonely, it remains sad.

It will not join, because the alchemy of union is precisely what you lack—you lack love.

All the bright dreams turned into night,
Yet who knows what dawn we still await.

So many relationships have broken, so many loves—so-called loves—have collapsed, and still you sit waiting for some imagined dawn. Every dream has proved futile, yet you keep groping among dreams, groping, groping. Wake up!

For truth there is only one qualification: the qualification of love. If love arises in your heart—and “arises” is not even right; it is already full there—only learn the art of letting it flow. You are holding it back; you are very miserly, stingy. Whenever the chance to give love comes, you immediately clamp down; you don’t let it flow. You tread very carefully, measuring each step, in matters of love.

Give. Pour out with both hands. Whatever you receive, pass it on. And don’t worry whether it will return or not—love returns. It returns a thousandfold. Don’t even worry that if you gave it to this person, it must come back from him. It will come back from somewhere, a thousandfold; don’t worry. Love returns.

If it doesn’t return, there is only one proof: you must not have given. If it does not return, then think again—did you really give? Or did you only deceive? Did you put on a show of giving, or did you give? If you gave, it returns. This is the law of this existence. What you give comes back—hatred as hatred, love as love, insult as insult, respect as respect. You receive a thousandfold what you give.

This world echoes, in a thousand forms. If you hum a song, the song returns. If you hurl an abuse, the abuse returns. Whatever returns, know that that is what you gave. As you sow, so shall you reap.

This is important. Mythic tales collect around all enlightened ones, and there is a reason.

First: if you separate the stories from the lives of enlightened beings, what remains? A bare outline—when the Buddha was born, on what date, in which house. But what will you gain by knowing that? Whether it was the first or the second or the third of the month—what difference does it make? When he died—what difference does that make? The worth of an enlightened one lies in that which was never born and never dies. That which was born and died was the body, the form. Keeping accounts of that is of no real value; it is secondary, inessential.

History attends to the inessential; the Purana seizes the essence. The Purana does not fuss over when the Buddha was born; it cares what buddhahood is. The Purana is not a newspaper; it is not concerned with events, but with the radiance hidden behind events.

There is a great difference: two utterly different ways of grasping.

What buddhahood is—that is one matter; who Gautam Buddha was—that is quite another. Gautam Buddha will become a part of history. But what will you find in history? A small note: a son named Gautam was born to a king named Shuddhodana; his mother’s name was such-and-such; at such an age he left home; at such an age people say he became enlightened; then he began to teach; and at eighty he died. This is the outer frame, not the real thing. It is like a sketch without flesh and marrow.

On the night the Buddha left his palace, what happened inside him? “He left the palace”—this is an outer incident; it will enter history. But the storms that arose in his consciousness as he left—no history can record them. What turmoil surged—there must have been turmoil: he was leaving the most beautiful wife, leaving a newborn son. As he turned to go, an impulse arose to slip in for one last look—at least to see the child once more, who knows if he would ever see him again! The child was asleep, hidden in his mother’s veil; Yashodhara lay turned to one side. The Buddha felt like lifting the veil to see the boy’s face. Then he paused: if he lifted the veil and Yashodhara awoke, would he still be able to go? If she began to cry, to wail, would he be able to go? So, without a sound, he turned from the door and left.

Now, whether this happened or not is not the point; but it should have happened—understand this distinction. History says, “We will write it only if it happened.” The Purana says, “Whether it happened or not is meaningless; it should have happened.” Do you see the difference? It should have happened.

Will you not go to the doorway of the woman you loved, the woman through whom your son was born? Whether the Buddha went or not is not important; he should have gone. It is human nature to go. It is a trait of the human heart—to want at least to see the boy. Then there must have been a great inner conflict—whether there was or not is not the point—perhaps the Buddha, being stubborn, simply fled and never went there at all. Still, the Purana, which sees into the human heart, takes him there. This is what would arise in any human being.

Just imagine: at midnight you are leaving home forever—would you not want to look once at your wife, the one you loved so much, to whom you gave all your tenderness? Would you not want to run your hand once across your son’s head? This is utterly natural. It is psychological. Whether it is historical or not makes no difference.

The one who wrote this understood the human mind. Perhaps the Buddha was of a resolute kind and simply went. But that would not feel right. To write that he rose silently and left and did not even look back—this would be inhuman. A man will look back again and again, he will regret, he will think a thousand thoughts, he will go and return, step forward and fall back.

Then the tale goes on—and this too could well have happened, it could even be historical—that when the Buddha set out in his chariot, the horses’ hooves would thunder so loudly that the whole city would awaken. These were royal horses, the finest of that time; their hoofbeats would echo through the town; there would be obstacles. The Purana says the gods felt: “If people awaken, this great renunciation will be stopped.” The gods felt!

The gods are symbols of the auspicious, as the devil is a symbol of the inauspicious. There are no gods somewhere out there; but “god” is a symbol of the auspicious. Existence itself has the urge to protect the auspicious—so says the Purana.

So the gods thought: the hoofbeats might stop the Buddha from going. If his going is stopped, this rare event that happens only once in aeons will be thwarted. If the Buddha does not become a buddha, then the millions who would have followed in his footsteps will be deprived. So the auspicious element in existence made immediate arrangements: they spread great lotus blossoms along the way; the horses’ hooves fell upon lotuses, and no sound reached the town.

Did this occur? It cannot be said. But it should occur—that is our heart’s aspiration. The Purana is the noble aspiration of humanity.

The Purana is saying: Existence cannot be indifferent to us; when you do the auspicious, infinite forces will support you. This is expressed through symbol. When you do wrong, you are alone; when you do right, the whole of existence supports you. And so it ought to be—so it ought to be.

Otherwise existence would be neutral, unconcerned with our lives: whether we steal or kill, whether we do virtue or charity, whether we love or hate, whether we hoard wealth or sink into meditation—existence would have no interest. Such a world would be tasteless. If existence makes no distinction between our acts, then the saint and the sinner are equal.

The Purana says, “No—existence cares.” When you do wrong, you are alone; existence does not go with you. For evil, you bear sole responsibility—so beware. And when you do the auspicious, the whole of existence supports you. Existence longs for the auspicious. This yearning, this will-to-good, is revealed through the tale.

Stories speak in symbols; in stories, meaning hides in symbol. The gods spread lotus flowers; no one heard the hoofbeats. The gods cast such a deep sleep over the city that the entire capital fell into slumber. The city gate—whose opening would normally be heard for miles in those ancient forts—was opened, and yet it was as if the whole town had been given chloroform.

Did it happen? That is not the question. Do not ask whether it happened or not. If you ask that, you have asked the wrong question. It should have happened. On the night of the Great Renunciation, the auspicious element of life gave support in every way.

Purana means: not only what is seen, but a revealing of the unseen. What is visible history will catch; what is invisible the Purana holds. In the West there is nothing like the Purana, and so Western history is impoverished—it has no poetry. When poetry joins history, the Purana is born. The East wrote Puranas, not history; the West wrote history.

So when a Western thinker comes, he asks vain questions: “Was the Buddha born on this date or not?” People labor for years to fix the exact date. We do not bother; any date will do.

Look: it is said of the Buddha that he was born on a full-moon night; he attained enlightenment on a full-moon night; and he died on a full-moon night. This sounds like Purana, not history. It could happen by coincidence—that someone is born on the full moon, attains on the full moon, dies on the full moon—but it feels more Puranic than historical. The same day for birth, enlightenment, and death—such coincidence is rare. It may not be historically correct, but it is of value.

The full moon is a symbol of fullness. Grasping that symbol, the Purana says: the Buddha was born whole—born on a full-moon night—born cool, radiant, with the complete beauty, carrying a unique ambrosia. Then, on a full-moon night, that hidden nectar within him flowed forth, blossomed, opened like a lotus—he attained. And on a full-moon night he departed, for even the death of a buddha is full, as his birth was full. Everything in the Buddha’s life is complete. To say this—that everything in the Buddha’s life is complete—we chose the symbol of the full moon. People choose different symbols, but the value lies not in the symbol itself; the value is in the meaning we pour into it.

That is why Puranas arise around enlightened ones; mythic stories are created. Through the meanings hidden in those stories you can understand what buddhahood signifies.

There are two kinds of fools in the world. One kind tries to prove that Puranic tales are true in the historical sense—these are madmen, and because of them needless trouble arises. They try to prove poetry as literal truth. Someone says, “Seeing the moon, I remembered my beloved; the moon looked like her face.” You can quarrel: “There is no relation between the moon and your beloved’s face. How big is the moon, how small is her face! Put that big moon on her head and she will die; and scientists have brought back rocks and dust from the moon—no beauty there, only craters and stones. How can you compare your beloved’s face to a cratered ball? Are you in your senses?” If someone insists like this, he will trap you; you will have to say, “Forgive me, I wrote poetry; I made a mistake.”

But you have not understood. The poet never meant what you are saying. He meant only this: that in seeing the moon, a certain beauty arises within; a certain wave is born within—just as a wave is born when he sees his beloved’s face. There is some kinship, some harmony—on the same wavelength—between the two experiences. That is all.

He is not saying the moon and his beloved’s face are the same thing; he is not speaking mathematically. He is saying: seeing the moon, the same quiver arises in me as when I see my beloved’s face; with the moon too I melt into the same absorption as with her face. He speaks of a kinship—and it is subtle; and the kinship is not between the moon and the face—it is in his heart.

So when it is written that the Buddha was born on the full moon, attained on the full moon, left his body on the full moon—perhaps that full moon was in the hearts of his devotees. They felt: it must be so. If the Buddha were born on some other day, it would not feel right. Suppose you say the tenth day of the lunar month—it would not feel right; it would jar. That the Buddha was born on the tenth? That he attained on the eleventh? It would not sit well. Just imagine: “the tenth” does not fit; “full moon” fits perfectly—so it should be so. Look into the hearts of those who loved the Buddha, and you will understand.

When the Buddha was enlightened, the stories say that in the forest by the Nairanjana where he sat, flowers bloomed out of season. If a scientist goes to test this, I doubt he will find unseasonal blossoms. But they should bloom. So many hearts’ flowers blossomed—how to express that? A device was found, a poetry invented: when the Buddha attained, trees bloomed out of season. It was not the season, but when such a great event happens, who cares for season and unseason? The time has come—flowers must bloom. Dry trees turned green again; those in which no shoots had appeared for years sprouted anew. So it should be. How many parched hearts sprouted! How will you say this? People who had been dry for lifetimes—one drop of the Buddha’s ambrosia fell upon them and they became green, new shoots came, life saw a new verdure, new songs were sung. Accept this as symbol, and the meaning of the Purana becomes clear.

So one kind of madman tries to prove that whatever is written in the Purana is literally so—they murder the Purana. And there is a second kind who says that whatever is in the Purana is false—they too murder it.

Neither is everything true, nor is everything false. In the Purana there is a great poetic truth. Poetic truth means truth said in a sweet and loving way. When we want to say something in a sweet way, we employ untruths as well. Truth is used in such a way, and untruth is used in such a way, that they no longer contradict. Purana means: even untruth has been used to reveal truth.

This is wondrous. So it should be: even untruth becomes a step toward truth. Nothing is wasted—poetry is used, story is used—for the grand symphony.

Thus, around enlightened ones, stories arise—unique stories. I call that person truly intelligent who neither tries to prove the Purana literally true, nor tries to prove it literally false, but endeavors to understand it as poetry. Then great meanings are revealed—meanings that could not be written or said in any other way. The Purana is a unique style for revealing the profound truths of life.

Where will you bring ripe people from? If there were only the ripe, what need would there be of initiation? You have asked a question as if one were to ask a doctor, “Why do you treat the sick? Should treatment be for the healthy?” The sick are the ones to be treated, and it is the unripe who must be given initiation.

The very meaning of initiation is an effort to ripen. So it has to be given to the unripe! It is the mad who are to be made sane, the ill who are to be freed of disease. It is precisely for afflictions that medicines are sought.

So you ask, “Why did the Buddha give initiation?”

Our minds are such that, instead of searching for our own faults, we take more relish in finding faults in the buddhas. That story was meant for you to look within and see whether in you, too, there isn’t hiding an infatuation with wealth, position, pride. That you did not see. You said, “Ah, then there seems to be something wrong with the Buddha! Why did he give initiation to such unripe people?” And a man who cannot even tell who is raw and who is ripe—what else would he know? Your mind does not descend into its own mistakes; you enjoy the mistakes of the buddhas more. Perhaps finding a fault in the buddhas gives you a little pleasure—the pleasure of thinking, “Look, we are wiser than they! We can see these men are unripe; they should not be initiated, and yet the Buddha initiated them.”

Where are the ripe people? Then the Buddha could only initiate buddhas. But why would buddhas go to a buddha for initiation? What purpose would there be?

Remember, it is the unripe person who goes; he is the one in need. Sitting in the Buddha’s fire, he will ripen. So do not think this is some anomaly, as if it were a mistake on the Buddha’s part.

You are here with me. What do you think—that you were given initiation because you are ripe? Then look at your face in the mirror. You are unripe, and in you are all the errors of unripe-ness. And knowing all those errors, initiation was given. It was given with your future in view, not with your past in view. If what you have been so far is taken into account, initiation could not be given to you. It is given in the hope of what you can become. A fruit is unripe—so far unripe—but it can ripen, can it not? Initiation is granted to that possibility of ripening. The concern is not how you are now; initiation is given keeping in view what you can be—your ultimate peak. When you are refined, what you will become; when you pass through the fire, how—as gold, as kundan, as utterly pure refined gold—you will emerge: that is kept in view. If you yourself, as you now are, are kept in view, then initiation could not be given at all.

There is a story in Tibet. There was a very accomplished fakir who, all his life, kept refusing to give initiation. He would lay down such conditions that no one could fulfill them; he was searching for a ripe man. His conditions were such that no one could possibly meet them. He would ask, “Have you become thought-free? Have you attained to celibacy?” If someone had already attained to celibacy and thoughtlessness, then, sir, why would he come to your refuge? Have you opened a hospital for the healthy? Gradually people lost heart. No one even dared to ask, “Master, initiation?”

Three days before his death he sent word to the village: Whoever wants initiation, come. People could not believe it, because the message said, “Whoever!” Some went to check if there wasn’t some misunderstanding, for this man had been refusing for seventy years, had not given initiation to a single person, and today a message is sent into the marketplace that whoever wants—let him come; even the one who does not want, let him also come; he too will be given!

A man was sent to verify. He climbed up to the cave on the mountain and said, “Master, a message has reached us—it must be wrong—that you have said whoever wants initiation...” He replied, “Yes, whoever wants initiation—and do not delay. If anyone expresses even the slightest desire, bring him. Bring him along.” But the man said, “All your life you have been saying these conditions must be fulfilled...” The fakir said, “You did not understand. Until now I myself was not worthy to give initiation; therefore I looked for excuses. I had placed big, big conditions. Now I am worthy; now whoever comes will do. And I am not to remain here much longer—only three days. In these three days, whoever comes must be given initiation. What I have received, I must distribute. Now drop the worry about fit and unfit; leave aside good and bad. Go beat the drum in the village that I am here only three more days. And I have attained, therefore whoever wants to receive, let him come.”

This story is very significant. One who has attained buddhahood will be ready—indeed must be ready—to give initiation even to the last one. One who has reached the ultimate peak will have such compassion that he will call even those lying in the lowest ravine, the last pit. Knowing that your clothes are smeared with mud and your heart has many wounds. But this is not your nature. These are your mistakes, which can be cut away, which can be removed. These wounds will heal; this mud will be washed away. Your clothes are not being initiated—you are being initiated. Your actions are your garments. If you have done bad actions, your clothes have become dirty. Your naked nature is being initiated.

When a Buddha gives initiation to someone, he looks at—what can be? He does not initiate the seed; he initiates the tree that has not yet appeared.

When I put a garland around your neck, I do not put it around your present neck; I garland the neck that is yet to be. When I give you my blessing, I do not bless you, because if you were to receive the blessing, it would be dangerous—you would sit even more firmly in your mistakes. I bless the one who is to be born. You are only a womb; what is hidden in your womb. You are only a seed; I bless your tree.

Naturally, even after initiation you will commit mistakes. There is no problem in this—you will. And you will err, and it will be the work of the buddhas to keep making you alert, to keep warning you.

So these Buddhist monks were sitting and talking of wealth, of position, of kingdom. The Buddha went to startle them: “Hey, you fools, what are you talking about!”

Do not think that the Buddha was startled. The Buddha knows this is what will happen—what else would happen! Understand this difference. When the Buddha says, “O monks! You, and talking like this?” do not think he is startled. The Buddha will know that these are the very things that will go on. What else will people do who are lying in ditches and ravines! When the Buddha displays such alertness, he is only trying to startle the monks. He is saying, “This is not what I expect of you. Now get up—enough! Now drop it. You have become monks, and still you talk like this? Now drop it!” All the while knowing that for now this talk will continue. And do you think those monks, hearing him that day, would have dropped it? You too don’t drop things so quickly; no one does. It takes time; one has to be struck again and again. The blows have to keep falling. The master’s continual blow keeps falling, keeps falling—one day the seed cracks.

The state beyond duality is like the nail at the center of a cartwheel that is turning. The nail does not turn; the wheel turns. The dualistic state is like the turning wheel. The wheel turns upon the nail that does not turn.
What turns is the world; what does not turn is the divine.
That which is still like the nail within you is your center; that which spins like the wheel within you—your mind—is the world. The spinning mind is dualistic; it is evolving, it is becoming, it is happening, happening every day, moving, moving. And within you there is something that neither is happening nor needs to happen—it simply is; it is eternal, unmoving. It has no development. As it was, so it is, and so it ever will be.
What is evolving within you—the mind—is time, kāl, change. And what sits within you beyond becoming—beyond the pairs, unattached, forever calm, still, seated cross‑legged, never even stirred—the unshakable element within you—that is timeless, outside time. To go from the world toward the Self means only this: to go from the wheel to the nail; to leave the moving and take hold of the unmoving. Because you have been well ground with the moving; if you remain tied to the wheel, you will be ground. A man tied to the wheel will be ground, will suffer. The wheel will keep turning and the man will keep being crushed with it. In olden days, as punishment they tied a person to a chariot wheel. The man would die, turning with the wheel. This is the very punishment we are undergoing; and no one else tied us to the wheel—we tied ourselves. We ourselves chose the wheel instead of the nail.
Kabir has a verse. He saw a woman grinding flour and thought: there are two millstones, and whatever comes between them is ground to powder.
Between the two millstones, no one remained intact.
When he sang this, his son Kamal—true to his name—said, “You didn’t look closely enough. There is a peg between the two stones; whoever takes hold of that peg, no one can grind him. You saw—but not carefully. Yes, those who fell between the stones were ground, but say something of those too…”
If you have ever ground grain, you will know: some grains are very clever; they slip aside and cling to the peg. Everything else gets ground; when you lift the upper stone you’ll see a few grains that, having caught hold of the peg, are saved. Those grains that grasp the peg—those are the buddha-people. What else?
In the world all is dualistic.

Dust rises—autumn leaves the garden;
The lord of seasons, who scatters flowers, will come.
For whom has the fair of the world ever paused?
For whom has the world wept a whole lifetime?
Separation that could not be borne a moment—
Morning he lit the pyre; by evening he slept at home.
For no one does the bustle halt;
Since who knows when, it’s been this same hurly‑burly.
The one who left made home and threshold empty;
The one who comes will arrive with clamor and fanfare.
Lips that sob are the lips that sing;
The earth that burns is the earth that receives the rain.
He who gives the trial by fire becomes pure gold;
The eyes that weep are the very eyes that smile.
Sun and shade live side by side—fire and water:
Else what meaning would evening or morning have?
The body-scorching ember of the sun has gone;
The moon, spilling coolness on the path, will come.

In such duality—day gone, then night; night gone, then day; pleasure gone, then pain; pain gone, then pleasure—the mind goes on. Success–failure, loss–gain, honor–dishonor—the mind sways in such pairs. All the movement of mind is dualistic. And wherever there is duality, there will be conflict. Wherever there are two, there will be friction; where there is friction, there cannot be peace—how could there be?
Therefore the mind is never peaceful. When you ask, “How can the mind be peaceful?” you ask the wrong question. The mind is never peaceful. Only when the mind is not, there is peace. In the absence of mind there is peace; the mind itself is never peaceful. Where there is peace there is no mind, and where there is mind there is no peace—because the very process of mind is twoness. The mind’s formula is to split everything and throw it into conflict—dilemma, duality, division.
So in duality there will remain great inner friction, conflict, pain, sorrow. That is what the Buddha calls life—the life of two, of duality, of the outer.
There is a life beyond duality—of the inner, of one, of nonduality. Whoever enters the life of the One…
There was a Zen monk. Whenever anyone asked him anything, instead of answering he would simply raise one finger. That was his whole reply. All his life he gave only that answer. But I tell you, whatever could be answered, he answered.
I speak every day, yet I say only as much as that monk who, by raising a single finger, would say—One. He was saying: if you remain in two, you are in trouble; enter the One and all is well. Two means problem; One means samadhi, solution. Two means the world; One means nirvana. But he didn’t even say that much—just one finger.
When he was dying, his disciples gathered. They thought, “Perhaps now, at the time of death, he will say something.” He had never said anything. At the last moment they jostled him: “Master, at least now say something!” He smiled, raised one finger—and died. Only the one finger remained raised. In his name, the temple they built in Japan holds only a statue of an upraised finger—one finger pointing upward.
Even in dying he pointed to the One. You live in two even in life, in sleep, in waking; you are two in death as well. He was only One—One in life, One walking‑sitting, waking‑sleeping, One in dying too. In the very moment of death there was not even this duality: “Shall I die or not? Shall I remain a little longer or not? Is this good or bad?” Where there is One, there is no choice—what is, is; as it is, it is right.

A moistened farewell to the one who departs,
A welcome to the one who arrives.
Change is the order of life;
Behind an age lies the toil of a moment.
The Creator’s wheel does not stop;
Stillness in motion is an illusion.
For inert and sentient alike, destiny flows;
The pause you imagine within restlessness is imagined.
The present rests on the momentum of the past;
The future follows upon these.
The six seasons return and return;
The sun and moon revolve without cease.
Not for a moment does it halt—
Nature, the dancer, in her restless dance.
Sometimes they’ll bloom, sometimes they’ll fall;
Flowers will ever adorn.
Destruction and creation are one;
Within the seed the tree is contained.
The present rests on the momentum of the past;
The future follows upon these.

Here there is spring and there is autumn; there is the flower’s blooming and the flower’s falling. Here everything is in twos. There is birth and there is death; youth and old age; today all is well and tomorrow all is ruined; today all is ruined and tomorrow all is well. Here life goes like the teeth of a wheel going from below to above and above to below. In this duality nothing is stable.
And because nothing is stable there remains great restlessness—for whatever is, cannot be relied upon. Today it is; will it be tomorrow? Position is there today; will it be tomorrow? Wealth is there today; will it be tomorrow? The loved one is near today; will they be tomorrow? Here everything is changing so swiftly that you cannot trust it. Only the blind can trust that what is today will be there tomorrow. Those with eyes will see that change is the only constant; nothing is fixed. So let us seek that which is beyond change. Seek that which is eternal, beginningless. The search for That is religion.
Some find the One through love—because love reveals the One. Love means making two into one. When the devotee becomes one with God, then the peg is grasped—then the two stones cannot grind him.
Or there is another process: meditation. Drop the mind; become a witness. As witnessing grows, slowly, slowly, the mind becomes quiet, quieter; one day it is gone—it becomes zero. When the mind becomes zero and witnessing remains, then what remains is One.
The devotee becomes one with God by joining through love; the meditator becomes one by disjoining from the world—only One remains. But both processes are processes of becoming One. Buddha’s way is the way of meditation, of witnessing—like Ashtavakra’s. Sahajo, Daya, Meera—their way is the way of devotion. Join God to yourself so utterly that not even the slightest gap remains; so that one cannot tell who is the devotee and who is God—in that moment the two are lost. Or let the sense of witnessing be established—in that moment too, the two are lost.
By any means, let the two be lost—by any means, by any arrangement, come to the peg of the wheel. On that peg is eternal peace, eternal bliss. Reaching that peg, you arrive not only at your own center, you arrive at the very center of existence. Then there is no sorrow. Some call it liberation, some call it nirvana—the difference is only in words. Whoever has found that refuge, the refuge of the One—his sorrows vanish just as, at sunrise, dewdrops vanish; or as, when a lamp is lit, darkness disappears.
Until you find this One, restlessness will not go. Until you find this One, you will not be fulfilled. Until then, keep seeking. Stake whatever has to be staked, for this alone is worth attaining. All else attained, nothing is truly gained; whoever gains this One, gains all.
Grasp the One and all is accomplished; try to grasp all, and all is lost.
That’s all for today.