Es Dhammo Sanantano #71

In Shravasti, the wedding of a noble-born maiden. Her parents invited Bhagwan along with the bhikshu-sangha. Bhagwan arrived with the sangha and took his seat upon the dais. The maiden bowed at Bhagwan’s feet, and then at the feet of the other monks. Her would-be husband, seeing her, was burning in the fire of passion, his mind swarming with a hundred sensual images. His mind was veiled by dark clouds and smoke of desire. He did not see Bhagwan at all. He did not see that vast Order of monks. His mind was simply not there. He was in the future. Within him, the nuptial night was already unfolding. He was like a blind man.

Bhagwan felt compassion for him and did something such that he suddenly found himself unable to look at the bride. As if waking from sleep, he started and stood up—and only then did Bhagwan come into view. Only then did the sangha appear to him. And only then did it dawn on him that until this moment he had not been seeing at all. Only where the smoke of the world is not, does truth reveal itself. Only where craving is not, does the sense of the divine arise. Seeing him alert, steeped in wonder, Bhagwan said, “Young man! There is no other fire equal to the fire of passion. It is hell itself; it is sleep itself. Wake up, beloved, wake up! And just as your body has sprung up, so within you also arise—uttishthita! Arise! In arising begins true humanity.”

And then he spoke this gatha—

नत्थि रागसमो अग्गि नत्थि दोससमो कलि।
नत्थि खंधसमा दुक्खा नत्थि संति परं सुखं।।

“There is no fire like passion. There is no stain like hatred. There is no suffering like the five aggregates. There is no bliss beyond peace.”

First, let us understand this episode rightly. It is unique.

Ordinarily, the Indian tradition has been that a sannyasin is not invited at the time of marriage. In a Hindu wedding, people do not invite a sannyasin. It seems logical. For where is sannyas, and where is marriage? What communion can there be between the two? The presence of a sannyasin can become an obstacle for those about to enter wedlock. His presence can serve as a reminder that the world is futile. Those who are about to go and sleep in the dreams of passion—it is not fitting to take them close to a person who would evoke the sense that this sleep is sleep indeed, this fire is fire indeed, this craving is vain and hollow.

So the Hindu tradition has been not to invite a sannyasin to a wedding—and after marriage, those who are bound in wedlock should not even go to seek a sannyasin’s blessing. For if a sannyasin’s blessing is truly a blessing, it will run contrary to marriage. If he says anything, it will be contrary to marriage. His benediction will be to awaken, not to lull. One who is now ready to sleep had better keep away from the awakened; this too seems logical.

But Buddha shattered these procedures. Buddha broke this entire tradition. He said: precisely at the moment of marriage, invite the sannyasin, call him. Because this is the very moment when the unformed mind is being cast into a mould; when the raw mind is setting out upon a journey. Whatever imprint is made in this hour goes deep.

Psychologists also agree that there are certain hours in a person’s life which are supremely sensitive. Imprints formed then penetrate the deepest unconscious.

For instance, when a child is born—that first hour. What the child sees, what he experiences—when he opens his eyes the first time, when he breathes for the first time upon emerging from the mother’s womb—what happens in those ten or fifteen seconds becomes the very foundation of his mind for all time. Nothing more significant will ever happen again. Hence those ten or fifteen seconds are of incomparable value. And psychologists say: make the best possible use of them.

As of now, what we do is not wise use; it is misuse. The child is born; the doctor grabs him by the feet and hangs him upside down. The journey of disturbance has begun. The child is shocked. Just-now all was blissful; suddenly it has turned distressful. After nine months in the womb, to open one’s eyes—even light itself is painful. So psychologists say the light should be very dim. But in the hospitals where children are born, the lights are glaring. The child’s eyes are yet ultra-delicate—like rose petals. Such strong light will sting them forever, will agitate them; his first experience of the world becomes a bad experience.

In the West, where new foundations of psychology are being laid, change has begun. Now children are born in rooms with extremely soft light—tender, colored, pleasing, a slow blue glow—so that when the child opens his eyes there is no injury. Then the child is not laid immediately on some hard bed—that is dangerous: his skin is still so tender. In the West they now place him in warm water at body temperature—because in the mother’s womb he floats in warm water of the same temperature. They lay him in warm water so that upon coming out he finds the world pleasing, that he can relax and be at ease.

If these first moments are pleasant, the child will be a happy being—in the sense that his orientation will be toward happiness. If the first wounds are inflicted right there, then his mind is wounded at the start. He will live frightened. He will assume that enemies surround him, and there are no friends. His outlook is poisoned. Scientists call this hour “traumatic.” The impressions born then will pursue one lifelong.

Then another hour arrives—when you are married. Again a new beginning enters your life. Thus far you were alone, incomplete; now you are joined to a woman or a man—now you are complete. Your yearning, your love, your desire now set out on a new journey. Life had been one way until now; from here it will be otherwise.

These hours are of great importance. We squander them as well. What we do in these hours is all childish. The groom is mounted on a horse, bands blare. Childish. We must be rid of this puerility. These hours are supremely precious. These hours should pass near men who are utterly quiet within. Let the atmosphere be musical—but not stuffed with deafening, cinematic noise. Let veena, flute, shehnai be played—but such music as will settle these hours within the human being as forever delightful.

So Buddha broke the old tradition. He said the sannyasin may come. He himself would go. If invited, he would attend weddings—not alone, but with thousands of his monks, so that the entire atmosphere would change. Where thousands of monks have arrived, the very air changes. Where Buddha is present, the air changes. There, bride and groom will become secondary; Buddha’s presence will deepen and intensify. That lighthouse will make use of these brief, priceless hours. A deep imprint will be made; a remembrance will settle in the mind that marriage is not the end of life. Go, by all means—but one day you must come out of it. Go—but through experience you will ripen, and one day you will step beyond it. For there are those who have stepped beyond. Buddha is here. This peace of Buddha, this bliss of Buddha—this fragrance will linger.

However lost you may be in dreams, this fragrance will, at times, break your sleep. And when the anguish and sorrow of life begin to bite too much, you will not think of suicide—you will think of self-transformation. You will say: all right—if this life is painful, if suffering flows here, life does not end; there is another life—the life of a Buddha.

In the modern age, when suffering comes, difficulty arises—no door is found. It seems better to end oneself; what meaning is there? The same getting up each day, the same work each day, the same husband or wife, the same quarrels, the same worries, the same responsibilities—what sense is there? And ten more years will be the same repetition. Better to finish oneself.

The number of suicides grows each day. In the West, it has grown greatly. Because the sannyasin has departed from the West; one catches no glimpse of him. The priest in a church, the rabbi in a synagogue—he is no sannyasin either; he is as worldly as you. There is nothing in his life; his presence gives no hint of another style of being—no call, no summons.

So Buddha broke the tradition. He said: if sannyasins are available, invite them to the wedding—so that when the young man and woman, full of great hopes, are tying the knot—hopes which tomorrow are bound to break, for there is no way for them to be fulfilled; these grand fantasies will turn to dust—then at least a memory should remain: there is another way of life; this is not all. Then they can turn toward Buddha, toward sannyas.

So this small incident is worth understanding.

In Shravasti, a noble maiden’s wedding. Her parents invited the Shasta along with the sangha. Bhagwan, arriving with the sangha, took his seat. The maiden bowed at his feet, and then at the feet of the monks. Her would-be husband, seeing her, was burning in the fire of passion, his mind possessed by all manner of lustful thoughts.

Here lies a basic difference between women and men. The woman’s sexuality is passive—a cool fire. The man’s sexuality is active—a blazing fire. Hence, in the realm of religion, it is easier for a woman to journey than for a man. For a man’s energies are active, outgoing; a woman’s energies are passive, ingoing.

So if you see more women than men in churches, temples, gurudwaras, do not be surprised. It is natural. In Buddha’s sangha too, for every four renunciates there were three women and one man. The same proportion held in Mahavira’s order—four ascetics: three nuns, one monk. And I have observed closely: almost the same ratio holds; where you find four religious seekers, you will find three women and one man.

And when women enter into practice, they do so wholly. Men do not enter so wholly. A man’s mind runs in many directions; a woman’s does not. Rest is natural to a woman.

So both are present: the maiden whose marriage is being solemnized, and the groom. But the groom did not see Buddha at all. The maiden saw, and went and bowed at his feet.

Bear this in mind too: for a woman, surrender is easy—bowing is easy. For a man, bowing is difficult—very difficult. Only if there is much understanding does a man bow. With even a little unawareness, he remains stiff. He would rather break than bend—he thinks his manhood lies in that. The woman is a tender vine; a little breeze and she bends. The man is like a tree standing hard and firm; even in a storm he will not bend. And if the storm grows great and he must bend, then the great trees fall and cannot rise again. The small plants that bend rise again when the storm passes. The storm cannot harm them.

The woman is like a tender vine; bending is intrinsic to her. So the maiden went and bowed at Buddha’s feet. She saw him. For a moment while bowing, she must even have forgotten that her would-be husband was also seated there. And not only did she bow to Buddha, she bowed to the monks as well. But the man did not see. The young man did not see Bhagwan. His eyes were filled with fire; he was impatient for the rites to be over. His desire was ablaze.

Her would-be husband was burning in the fire of passion.

Inside him a fire was raging—flames, smoke everywhere. How would he sense Buddha? Bhagwan came and sat; so many monks came—he saw nothing. Have you noticed—when you are filled with a strong desire, you see only what corresponds to your desire. Nothing else appears.

A man entered a jeweler’s shop at high noon, grabbed a handful of diamonds—and ran. He was caught—midday, in the bazaar! The magistrate was astonished and said, “What madness is this? We have seen thieves—every day!—but at high noon? Customers seated, the shop open, people walking by—you barged in and ran with diamonds? Is this any way?” The thief said, “I could see nothing but the diamonds. As soon as I saw them, I saw no one else—not the shopkeeper, not the customers, not the road, not passers-by.”

When desire is intense, you see only what desire shows you. All else falls into darkness, behind a veil. The youth did not see Buddha. He did not see Bhagwan at all.

Sometimes even if God were to pass by you, you might not see him. He must have passed so many times. In endless time it is impossible that you have never come near the awakened. Impossible that someone who attained Jina-hood never passed by you. Impossible that some Krishna, some Christ, some Mohammed, some Zarathustra never passed your village or stayed in your neighborhood. It cannot be. You are not new; you are ancient, eternal—since always you have been here. Surely these occasions have come many times. But you did not see—this is true. Now you do not even remember. You do not recognize.

Even today, if an awakened one passed by, you would likely not see. You will see only what you are capable of seeing. If you are mad for wealth, you will see wealth; mad for position, you will see position. Your eyes look only where your craving is running in haste. All else is dark. So we are ninety-nine percent blind; we see merely one percent. Hence, auspicious moments come and are missed.

Do not think this youth’s condition is his alone. Many times it is your condition. Do not think, ‘Poor fellow!’ This story is yours. It is the story of man. These stories are about man. Do not shrug them off thinking, ‘Yes, this must have happened to someone.’ This happens to man; it is happening to everyone.

He did not see Bhagwan.

Have you ever observed this within yourself? You are walking along the road, and a beautiful woman appears—after that, do you see anything else? Nothing. Who comes, who goes—all fades. That beautiful form binds your eyes. If a diamond lies on the path—once you see it, do you see anything else? Nothing. Because of this blindness we miss the Buddhas—and remain fools.

He did not see Bhagwan. Nor did he see the great sangha of monks.

Let one say he did not see Bhagwan—but thousands of monks in yellow robes! He did not see them either. His eyes were filled, not empty. Only when eyes are empty do they see; filled eyes see nothing. He saw only his wife. Perhaps he even felt annoyed that such people had come, making his bride bow at their feet. ‘My wife is bowing at someone else’s feet!’ Perhaps it disturbed him. ‘Who are these people? What have they taken themselves to be!’ He himself did not rise to bow—he saw nothing. Seeing his wife bow may have only increased his restlessness.

People come to me thus. A woman comes; her husband is angry. He says, “While I’m alive, why do you need to go anywhere? Whatever you need to ask, ask me. Whatever you need to know, know from me.”

Now that is quaint indeed! Can a wife ever ask anything of her husband? And can a wife ever believe there is any sense in the husband? If he had any sense, would you have chosen him? If he had any sense, would you have fallen into his net? If he had any sense, would he be a husband? The world may accept you—but the wife cannot believe you have sense.

He says, “Ask me. Whatever you wish to know, ask me.” And she knows him thoroughly—who knows a husband more thoroughly than the wife! She knows every weakness, every limit. She knows how to push your buttons: one button and you are angry; another and you are flattered. You are a puppet in her hands—and you tell her, “Ask me.”

I said to his wife, “Why don’t you ask him? Why trouble to come here—when he so insists!” She smote her forehead: “Shall I go to hell by asking him? He himself is going—and he will take me with him. What does he have that I should ask him?”

But understand the husband’s trouble. He is hurt that his wife bows at someone else’s feet—it wounds his husband-ego. This stings him: “My wife bows at someone else’s feet!” Hence husbands have always instructed their wives: “I am God.” Beyond this there is nowhere to go: the husband is the deity, end of matter. That the wives never listened is another story; but the husbands kept explaining—this is true.

So he must have felt troubled: “What sort of people have come?” They looked strange, these yellow-robed men—“What are they doing here? What need is there for them? Who invited them?” The girl’s parents must have had devotion toward Buddha. The boy’s parents, or the boy himself, had no relation to Buddha. An unfamiliar crowd—odd people! Even if they appeared dimly on the edge of his awareness, they were only a cause of unease. Seeing his wife bow, his discomfort grew.

He was not there at all. He was in the future. Within him, the nuptial night was underway. He was like a blind man. He wanted to spring and seize his wife. Nothing else made sense.

Bhagwan felt compassion for him.

One so aflame must be shown compassion. He pitied him—understood his sorrow—saw his madness.

He did something such that the young man became, all at once, unable to look at the bride.

The tale does not say what he did. Something. Let me explain through another story what he might have done.

A Sufi fakir was approached by a youth who placed his head at the fakir’s feet and said, “I have decided, firmly: I will surrender at your feet.” The fakir said, “Have you heard the saying: before the disciple chooses the Master, the Master chooses the disciple?” The youth said, “I have heard—but it doesn’t apply to me. I have decided to place my head at your feet.” The fakir said, “Have you heard the saying: only he goes toward God whom God calls?” The youth said, “Forget these sayings—heard, unheard—what does it matter? I know about myself: after months of thinking, I have decided to surrender.”

The fakir said, “Come with me.” He took him outside the hut. In a nearby field, a farmer—midday—tired from work, had sat under a tree to rest; a dog sat near him. The fakir said, “Do you see that farmer and dog? Watch now. I will send news to the farmer: throw three stones at the dog.” As soon as the fakir said it, the farmer picked up a stone and threw it; then another; then a third—driving the dog away.

The youth thought, “Looks like a coincidence.” The fakir said loudly, “No, not a coincidence.” The youth was startled; he had not said it aloud—he had only thought it. The fakir said, “No—no coincidence.” The youth thought stubbornly, “This too could be coincidence.” The fakir said, “I’m telling you, it is not coincidence.” Now the youth became alert—as if awakened.

The fakir said, “See further. Do you want him to stand up?” “Show me,” said the youth. The fakir spoke—and the farmer stood up. The youth doubted: “Perhaps his rest was over; he was about to rise.” The fakir said, “Look—shall I have him raise the left hand, or the right? This will have no cause.” The youth said, “No cause—raise the left.” As soon as he said it, the farmer raised his left hand.

Now it was difficult to explain away. The fakir said, “Come.” They approached the farmer—an old, seasoned man. The fakir said, “We performed a little experiment—tell us something. Why did you throw stones at the dog? It had been with you a long time; you had not thrown anything—why suddenly?” The farmer said, “I was resting—I hadn’t noticed the dog. Suddenly I saw it—and wanted to drive it away.” The fakir asked, “You could have driven it with one stone—why three?” The farmer said, “So the dog would be well taught—not to return.” “Why did you suddenly stand up?” “I had rested enough; too much rest is unhealthy; I wished to exercise.” “And why did you raise your left hand?” “Enough! They are my hands—left, right—who are you? Is this a court? Have I committed a crime?” Then he turned to the youth and said, “Listen, boy—this fakir seems dangerous. Such Sufis teach strange things to raw youth. Beware—he is filling your head with nonsense.”

The fakir returned to his hut with the youth. “What do you think now?” he asked, “for the farmer insists these were his own thoughts.”

Understand a fundamental truth about the mind: of all the thoughts you call your own, hardly any are yours. Mostly you pick up others’ thoughts. When someone powerful is near you, you immediately receive his thoughts. There is no need to speak; waves of thought are being broadcast every moment from everyone. The weak receive from the strong. As water flows from high to low, thoughts flow from the strong to the weak.

Hence it is said: do not sit with the wicked. Often your so-called good men are impotent; the criminal is potent. Therefore avoid the wicked—for though he is wicked, he is powerful. One who has committed ten murders cannot be a man of little force—he misused his force, that is another matter—but powerful he surely is. Beware! If you sit near him, the subtle waves from his brain will be picked up by yours. And if you begin thinking of murder, do not be surprised—though you will still assume, ‘I am thinking.’

Therefore, satsang is advised: sit near one who has attained knowing. There your journey becomes easy. Auspicious waves that have never stirred within you will begin to move in his presence. Buds that never opened in you will begin to blossom. Rays that never rose within you—dormant—will suddenly stand up awakened by his impact. Such is satsang: to come into the presence of a powerful awakened one, so that his awakening begins to buffet you—becomes a storm, an alarm ringing around you—not letting you sleep—shattering your dreams—waking you up.

What might Buddha have done? Nothing special—only this: he turned his attention toward the youth. He merely turned his eyes upon him. As when you hold a torch and turn its beam upon someone’s face—the full light pours upon that face—so Buddha turned the torch of his inner light upon the youth. The light rushed toward him. In that impact, the dormant wisdom within him startled and awoke.

As if roused from sleep, he started and stood up. And then he saw Bhagwan.

When did Bhagwan appear? When he became unable to see his would-be wife. This is worth deep understanding.

Your eyes are limited. Either you see desire—or you see the Self. Either you see lust—or you see the Divine. You cannot see both at once. Ever looked at a coin in your hand? You cannot see both sides simultaneously. Place it face-up—see its face; turn it over—see its back. But both sides at once—no. A coin is small—and yet it is impossible. So it is with God and lust. If your gaze is fixed on one side, it is closed to the other. If it shifts to the other, it closes here.

So, the moment Buddha did something—meaning: he flung a stream of his light toward the youth; a bridge of light formed—the youth bathed in it—suddenly the would-be wife disappeared from his sight. Where did she go? It is not what exists that you see; you see what you wish to see. Have you noticed? You see only what you are prepared to see. Your world is limited—it is your selection.

Scientists say: of all that is happening around you, you register perhaps two percent; ninety-eight percent you do not perceive. Consider: a beautiful young woman approaches. Do you see the whole person? You do not. You see some aspects and leave others. If someone later asks you to recall—“What did you see?”—you may remember a little. Asked the color of her hair—you may not recall. The color of her eyes—you may not recall. But a little you will recall—the little you actually saw.

You are led through this garden, and later asked, “What did you see?” Each person will remember different things. A connoisseur of flowers will notice blossoms; a woodcutter will think which shrubs to cut and sell as timber. A painter will see an extraordinary symphony of colors—thousands of greens within green. There is not just one green—look carefully: each tree is a different green. But only a painter will see diverse greens; he will perhaps notice nothing else. A botanist will recall only names—Greek and Latin—species and origins, what country a plant comes from. Seeing a rose, he will think: from Iran.

You will likely never think of Iran—what has Iran to do with the rose! But the botanist will instantly think: from Iran. Hence Hindus have no native word for rose; gulab is Persian—gul-âb. In Hindi there is no original name—because the plant is not native; it is borrowed. But not everyone will notice this.

We see what we are prepared to see.

As Buddha’s light fell upon the youth, a revolution stirred in his consciousness—even if only for a moment. In that jolt, the potter’s wheel turned—the axis shifted. Just now, only the bride was visible—now she vanished. And when the bride vanished, he woke as from sleep. He saw Bhagwan—that incomparable form, that incomparable radiance, that divinity, that peace! For a moment the wedding procession must have faded, the canopy disappeared, everything dissolved. For a moment he entered another realm.

And then he saw the sangha.

When he saw Bhagwan, he saw those who are madly in love with him; he saw those in whom a few rays of Buddha exist, a taste of the divine. When the source is seen, the small lamps are seen. When the sun is seen, the little lamps can be recognized. If the sun is not seen, what lamps will you see? When the sun appears, you recognize light—and then the other lights too. He saw the sangha.

Where there is no smoke of the world, there truth is seen. Where there is no desire, the peaks of godliness arise.

Seeing him alert and steeped in wonder, Bhagwan said, “Young man! There is no other fire like the fire of passion. That itself is hell; that itself is sleep. Awake, beloved, awake! And as your body has arisen, so you, arise—uttishthita! Get up! In arising, humanity begins.”

And then he spoke this gatha—

नत्थि रागसमो अग्गि।
“There is no fire like passion.”

नत्थि दोससमो कलि।
“There is no stain like hatred.”

नत्थि खंधसमा दुक्खा।
“There is no suffering like the five aggregates.”

नत्थि संति परं सुखं।
“And there is no joy beyond peace.”

What happiness are you thinking of? We tell you: there is no happiness there. We say out of experience: there is no happiness there. You are rushing in a direction—we too rushed; look at these monks—countless ones have rushed, across endless time—and all returned empty-handed. You seek happiness, yes—but your direction is wrong.

Panchskandha is the Buddha’s distinctive term. He says man’s personality is made of two: name and form. Form means body—the gross; name means mind—the subtle. The body is one; the mind has four modes: sensation, perception, formations, and consciousness. Together they are five. From these five, the personality is built. And one who lives only within these five—Buddha says—there is no suffering like the five aggregates. Living in taste, in accumulating wealth, in rank; living in attachment, protecting the body lest it die, beautifying it—living within these—either the mind’s cravings for rank and ambition, or the body’s cravings—living thus is to live in sorrow, in unrest.

“And there is no joy beyond peace.”

Such a life is suffering upon suffering—thus its direction is toward hell.

The second aphorism—

Once Bhagwan came to the town of Alavi with five hundred monks. The people invited him for a meal. On that day, a poor lay-devotee of Alavi, hearing of Bhagwan’s arrival, wished to hear the Dharma. But in the morning one of his two oxen strayed, and he had to go search. Without food or water he searched until noon. As soon as he found the ox, he came—hungry and thirsty—to behold the Buddha. Bowing at his feet, eager to hear the Dharma, he sat nearby.

But Buddha first called for food. Though the man objected, he insisted—and had him fed first. Then he spoke only a few words of instruction. Simply hearing those few words, the man attained the fruit of sotapatti. For Buddha personally to have someone fed—this was entirely new. He had not done so before—nor ever again. Like lightning, it became the talk of the sangha. Finally, the monks asked Buddha: why? He said, “With an empty stomach, religion does not happen. With an empty stomach, Dharma cannot be understood. Monks, there is no disease like hunger.”

And then he spoke this gatha—

जिधच्छा परमा रोगा संखारा परमा दुखा।
एतं ञत्वा यथाभूतं निब्बानं परमं सुखं।।

“Hunger is the greatest disease; formations are the greatest sorrow. Knowing this as it is, one knows Nibbana as the supreme bliss.”

Understand this.

Buddha called hunger the greatest disease. Why? Because when hunger is intense, when the belly is empty, all consciousness circles around the belly. When the body is hungry, consciousness cannot fly to heights; it hovers around the body.

You have seen a truth: if a thorn pricks your foot, your awareness circles there; a tooth aches—awareness circles there; the head pains—awareness circles there. Wherever there is pain, awareness gathers.

Thus our word vedana is wondrous: it has two meanings—knowing and pain. Vedana comes from vid, from which Veda comes. Hence one meaning is awareness, knowledge; the other is pain, suffering. Two meanings of one word—strange! Yet there is harmony. When there is pain, awareness collects there. Where pain is, there awareness gathers. Then it is hard to move away from pain. One who is hungry sees only the body. Where talk of the soul then! We say, “A hungry man does not sing the name of Gopala.” Even if he prays, hunger overlays the prayer.

Therefore I say again and again: because of poverty, religion cannot flourish in the world. Only prosperous societies can be religious. In Buddha’s and Mahavira’s times, this land reached a great height because it was prosperous.

Think: Mahavira wandered with forty thousand monks. Each village had the capacity to feed them. Buddha too moved with fifty thousand monks. Villages could feed them—even for three or four months during the rains when they would stay in one place. To feed fifty thousand monks required capacity. Today an entire village cannot feed five monks. The country then was wealthy—rich indeed. “Golden bird” was not an empty phrase. In Buddha’s time, this country saw the highest summit of prosperity. On that summit, Buddha and Mahavira appeared. After that, such an appearance did not occur again.

So it is no wonder that today in America there is deep interest in religion. Where there is prosperity, where the belly is completely filled, the emptiness of the soul becomes visible. There is a step-by-step relationship: only one who has completed the foundation of a house can raise the walls; without a foundation, how will you raise walls? And only with walls can you put on the roof; and after the roof, the golden finial.

Religion is the golden finial—the last height. Beyond it there is nothing. One who has not gathered the lower necessities may dream of heights, but in truth he will not attain them.

Thus I say: a poor society cannot be religious. I do not say that a poor individual cannot be religious—by striving he can be an exception. But a poor society as a whole cannot be religious. I do not say a rich society will automatically be religious—but it has the possibility. Not every wealthy person will be religious—but his likelihood of turning toward Dharma is greater than that of the impoverished.

Within us are three planes—the needs of the body, then the needs of the mind, then the needs of the soul. The body needs bread, clothing, shelter. The mind needs music, literature, art. How will a man, his belly pinched by hunger, read Shakespeare? How will he understand Kalidasa? How will he hear classical music? As hunger gnaws, he will not hear. These are the mind’s needs. When these too are fulfilled—and classical music also yields no more—then begins the search for a greater music: meditation—a music that needs no instrument; a music that is already playing within, which needs no playing—the anahata naad, the Om that resounds by itself. Then the soul’s needs begin.

So Buddha spoke truly: “Hunger is the greatest disease; formations the greatest sorrow. Knowing this as it is, Nibbana is known as the supreme bliss.”

He had that hungry man fed—but this happened only once; mark this. Buddha did not do it again and again—because this man was not merely hungry. He possessed a great longing. He was deeply eager to seek the divine, the truth—call it what you will. If he were only hungry, Buddha would not have been particularly interested. His interest was because within this man a greater hunger was sprouting—but it was being smothered by the small hunger. The sprout was pushing—but this lesser hunger was consuming him.

From morning he had been remembering Buddha while searching for the ox. He was so eager he left home without food or drink: “Let me quickly find the ox and reach the Buddha.” Then, with such urgency—that when he found the ox he tied it any which way and ran! He did not go home to eat two morsels. He ran: “First, let me hear the Buddha.” His thirst for Dharma must have been intense.

You, for small reasons, miss. You do not meditate because you say, “Today I am not quite well.” Or, “Guests have come.” Or, “I am tired from the office.” You keep finding excuses.

This man did not find an excuse. He had plenty—the ox was lost. “Shall I seek the ox or seek the Buddha?” You would have dropped the matter. Even after finding the ox you would say, “I am exhausted; let me eat and rest. Then we will see—what’s the hurry? The Buddha is not running away!”

His longing was deep—so he came hungry. His withered face, his empty belly, his tired body—when he bowed at the Buddha’s feet, Buddha saw: not only is his body hungry—his soul is hungry. Truly hungry. Buddha insisted: “Eat first.” He personally called for food. He had no food—he sent someone running to the village. Among the monks the talk must have arisen: “Who is this special man? A rustic farmer! What does Buddha see in him?”

What you do not see, the Buddhas do. You see diamonds only after the jeweler has polished and displayed them. Buddhas see the diamond while it still lies like an ordinary stone, with no luster. This man was an uncut diamond; he could shine—he was no mere stone.

Buddha had him fed, then spoke two words—no more. The story says: simply hearing those few words, he attained the fruit of sotapatti.

Sotapatti means: the person has entered the stream—the stream of Buddha’s consciousness. He has stepped into the river—he had stood on the bank; now he says, “Enough, I am coming. I set out toward the ocean.” This is the most important fruit in Buddha’s path—for everything else follows from it. One who has not entered the stream—how will he reach the ocean?

There were those there who had listened to Buddha for years and had not attained sotapatti—still standing on the shore, in doubt: “Shall we, shall we not? Something appeals, something does not.” This man did not deliberate. He heard two words, and said, “Enough.” He plunged—became sotapanna—Buddha-minded.

The monks asked Buddha: “What is this? You have never given such honor to anyone. You never sought to feed anyone. Often you tell people to fast. And this man you fed!”

Fasting we shall speak of soon.

The third aphorism; its story—

King Prasenjit was a glutton. His whole being seemed to be on the tongue—eating, eating, eating—and then, naturally, sleeping, sleeping, sleeping. He ate so much he was always ill. He ate so much physicians stood by in constant attendance. The body became gross; its sheen and luster were lost. He lay like a corpse. So much he ate!

Buddha came to the town; Prasenjit went to hear him.

He must have had to go. The whole town was going—if the king did not, what would people say? They would think him irreligious. In those days kings had to show they were religious; otherwise their prestige suffered. If people knew the king was irreligious, his honor fell. So he went. But before going—how long would Buddha speak? An hour? An hour and a half?—he ate his fill.

He would not get to eat for that long—so he stuffed himself and went.

He was a king; he sat in front to hear the words. And as soon as he sat, he began to nod.

He had no interest in listening—nor was he in any state to listen. He had eaten so much he was swaying; others swayed in ecstasy—he swayed in sleep.

Buddha saw this and felt deep compassion. Seeing his nodding, Buddha said, “Majesty, will you waste life like this? Will you not awaken? Much is gone; little remains—gather your wits. Food is not life. Do not squander this supreme opportunity.” Prasenjit said, “Bhante, the fault is all food’s. Because of it my health is always poor, sleepiness remains, negligence and laziness surround me—and I see no way out. The fault lies with food, Bhagwan!”

Buddha said, “Fool! How can the fault be food’s? You are shifting your fault to food. Food does not mount you by force!”

Remember: we do this too—we shift blame.

Mulla Nasruddin was brought to court for thrashing a constable. Wobbling, drunk, the magistrate said, “Nasruddin, how many times have I told you—leave the drink.” He said, “Sir, it’s all the fault of wine. Because of wine, this poor constable got beaten. It’s all wine’s fault. You are absolutely right!”

How can the fault be the wine’s? But we shift blame. None accepts fault as one’s own—and the life of one who does, revolutionizes.

Prasenjit said, “Bhagwan, Bhante, it is all food’s fault. Because of it all this trouble arises. I see no way out.”

Buddha said, “How can the fault be food’s? The fault is of awareness. You know your health is harmed; you know laziness comes; you know life is wasted—but this knowing you cannot keep with you while eating. This knowing returns after you eat—but when you eat, you forget.”

Prasenjit asked, “What shall I do?” Buddha said, “Perhaps you will not be able—you have grown very dull. Your bodyguard stands by you—his name is Sudarshan. Sudarshan! What kind of bodyguard are you? The body is being ruined—and you are its guard! What service are you rendering your king? Remember this: when the king sits to eat, stand directly in front of him—remain standing—and remind him: ‘Be mindful; remember what Buddha said.’ Do not fail. He will be angry—he will push you away—but do not move. You are the bodyguard—do your job.” This struck Sudarshan: he is the guard—and before his eyes the body is being ruined. So he began to stand there.

He must have been a man of courage. For Prasenjit was very annoyed whenever reminded. If he ate too much, Sudarshan said, “Remember, remember what Bhagwan said!” The king would bark, “Stop your nonsense! To hell with your Bhagwan! We will think later.” But the guard would not relent—he kept reminding and reminding. Slowly, something began to happen.

“Drop after drop the rope marks the stone.”

A mark began to form.

“By steady practice the dull become wise.”

A little awareness began to dawn. He would get angry—then ask forgiveness: “It is not your fault.” Sudarshan said, “Look, I must answer to Bhagwan; many messages have come: ‘Sudarshan, report!’” The king was even more afraid.

Buddha remained three months in that town. When Prasenjit came again, he was another man—luster had returned to his face, radiance to his being. He thanked Bhagwan deeply; he thanked Sudarshan too—gave him his daughter in marriage, and half the kingdom.

When he returned transformed—full of gratitude—Buddha spoke this gatha—

आरोग्य परमा लाभा संतुट्ठी परमं धनं।
विस्सास परमा ञाती निब्बानं परमं सुखं।।

“Health is the highest gain. Contentment the greatest wealth. Trust the best of kin. Nibbana the supreme bliss.”

Arogyam is a wondrous word. The English ‘health’ does not carry its vastness. Arogya means freedom from all disease—including the diseases of mind and of soul. It is vast. You are said to be truly arogya only when all your upadhis—limiting conditions—have fallen away; when no boundary remains upon you.

“Health is the highest gain.”

Hence Buddha repeatedly says, “I am a physician—a vaidya. I have come to give you arogya—not doctrines, not philosophy.”

Arogyam paramam labham.

He called it the supreme gain—surely, it is not merely physical health; when on all planes—physical, mental, spiritual—a person is free of disease. And the greatest disease is stupor; the greatest disease is unconsciousness.

“Arogyam paramam labham; santushti paramam dhanam.”

One who attains arogya attains contentment too—for where there is arogya, there is contentment. Where no disease remains, what discontent can there be? A little becomes enough. A little food—and deep satiation. A little—and it is much. The vast is found in the small.

“Contentment the greatest wealth. Trust the best of kin. And Nibbana the supreme bliss.”

Nibbana means extinguishment—emptiness. First diseases cease; then, slowly, the ego that lived by those diseases dissolves. The center of all disease is ego. When the supports vanish, the edifice falls. The state that arises then Buddha calls Nibbana—the highest happiness.

The last aphorism—

पविवेकं रसं पीत्वा रसं उपसमस्स च।
निद्दरो होति निप्पापो धम्मपीतिरसं पिवं।।
तस्माहि:
धीरञ्च पञ्चञ्च बहुस्सुतं च धोरय्हसीलं वतवंतमरियं।
तं तादिसं सप्पुरिसं सुमेधं भजेथ नक्खत्तपथं’ व चंदिमा।।

One day, residing in Vaishali, Bhagwan said to the monks, “Monks, be alert! Four months from now I shall enter parinirvana. My hour is near—my departure draws close. Therefore, do what is to be done. Do not delay.”

Hearing this, great fear arose in the sangha. Natural. The monks sank in deep sorrow. Natural. As if suddenly it were the new moon night. Monks began to weep, beat their chests. Flocks of them gathered, lamenting: “What will happen now? What shall we do?”

But there was one monk, Tishya-sthavira. He neither wept nor spoke to anyone. He thought, “The Master will depart in four months, and I am still not beyond passion. While the Master yet lives, I must attain arhatship.” So thinking, he fell into silence—poured his entire energy into meditation. Seeing him suddenly quiet, other monks asked, “Brother, what has come over you? Has the news of Bhagwan’s departure shocked you so deeply? Have you lost your voice? Why do you not weep? Why do you not speak?” They even feared Tishya had gone mad.

The shock could have driven him mad. One at whose feet your whole life has been surrendered—whose going is at hand! Upon whom all your hopes have rested—whose departure approaches! Natural indeed.

But Tishya who grew quiet, remained quiet. He would not even answer. A deep hush surrounded him.

News reached Bhagwan: “What has happened to Tishya-sthavira? He has sealed himself off—like a tortoise drawing in its limbs—gone within. Is this some sign of madness? Was the blow so deep that his memory and speech are lost?”

Buddha called Tishya and asked. Tishya opened his heart and said, “I seek your blessing that my resolve be fulfilled. Before you go, Tishya-sthavira should depart”—not seeking death, but that this ego named Tishya-sthavira depart. “I am pouring my life into it. Your blessing is needed. For four months I will not speak, not move—my whole strength must be focused. You said, ‘Monks, be alert. Do what is to be done.’ This alone seems the worthy doing: to pour these four months into revolution—wholly—this shore or that—but let it not be said I held anything back.”

Buddha blessed him and said to the monks, “Whoever loves me should be like Tishya. This is what I meant: do what is to be done; be alert. My going is certain. Weeping and lamenting—what will come of it? You have spent lives in tears. Discussion—what will that do? Gathering in crowds to debate and grieve—what use? You cannot stop me; my departure is certain. Weeping you will waste this hour too. Tears will not help you. Build a boat. Tishya has done rightly—he has built the boat of silence. Only in such a boat does one cross. Therefore we call a sadhu a ‘muni’—one who has fashioned the boat of silence. Tishya has become a muni.”

“Those who worship with garlands and perfumes do not worship me. That is not real worship. One who offers the flowers of meditation at my feet—he alone worships me.” Thus spoke Buddha. “Only one who lives according to the Dharma worships me. Meditation is the touchstone of love toward me. Do not weep—meditate.”

And then he spoke these gathas—

“Pavivekaṃ rasaṃ pītvā, rasaṃ upasamasya ca,
Niddaro hoti nippāpo, dhammapītirasaṃ pivaṃ.”

“Drinking the nectar of aloneness and the nectar of peace, man becomes fearless; drinking the love-nectar of Dharma, he becomes sinless.”

So—drink the nectar of aloneness. Aloneness means: dive within yourself. You have made many bonds outwardly, forged many ties with others—what have you gained but sorrow? Now make a bond with yourself. Build a new bridge—between you and you. Go within. Aloneness does not mean: flee to the Himalayas. It means: the life-energy you have poured into relationships—free it from them. Play with yourself. Be self-absorbed.

“Drink the nectar of aloneness...”

Pavivekaṃ rasaṃ pītvā—Buddha calls it rasa—nectar, sweetness. Beautiful word—for one who has drunk the nectar of aloneness has drunk ambrosia. That for which you seek in relationship—and will never find there—is found in aloneness. It hides within your own nature. The spring is yours; it lies buried in your depths.

“Drinking the nectar of aloneness, and the nectar of peace, one becomes fearless.”

Now you are afraid—Buddha said—you are crying, screaming—afraid because I am going. For you made a relationship with me, not with yourself. If the wife goes, the husband weeps; if the husband goes, the wife weeps; if the son goes, the father weeps; if the father goes, the son weeps. Those who have poured their energy only into ties with others will spend life weeping. Tie yourself to yourself.

“Drink the nectar of peace...”

rasaṃ upasamasya ca—drink the nectar of silence, of wordlessness—taste yourself. Then you will be fearless. Then there is no fear—whether Buddha remains or goes—who comes and goes? All are where they are; none comes, none goes—only our ties form and break. If you become unattached, there is no pain in life.

“Drinking the love-nectar of Dharma, become sinless.”

Where is Dharma? Dharma means: your nature—your suchness—what, in truth, you are.

“Therefore: as the moon follows the path of the stars, so follow the man who is steady, wise, much-learned, virtuous, vowed, noble, and intelligent.”

“Look at Tishya—he is steady, wise, much-learned, virtuous, vowed, noble, intelligent. Follow him. Do not weep and wail.”

तस्माहि:
धीरञ्च पञ्चञ्च बहुस्सुतं च धोरय्हसीलं वतवंतमरियं।

Go after such a one. Learn from him. Let what happened to him happen to you. What is Tishya-sthavira doing? What?

Noise does not break the sleep of Time,
Nor do shoves open the door of destiny;
Enter the formation of creative Samadhi—
Master stillness and silence.
Night, darkness, and aloneness
Are the true founts of power.
Shun the glare,
And pierce the target in the dark.

Outside there is much light—hence we sit with eyes open. There are many forms outside—hence the eyes remain open. When we close them—within, there is darkness.

Night, darkness, and aloneness
Are the true founts of power.
Shun the glare,
And pierce the target in the dark.

When one becomes silent, when one sinks into meditation, one sinks into one’s own deep darkness. Have you seen—the true energy of the tree rises from the roots buried in the dark? The true founts, the sources of power, are in darkness. In the mother’s womb, in darkness, the child grows—receives life. The seed is buried in the soil—in darkness it sprouts. You are worn out by day—at night, in darkness, you sleep; in the morning you are rejuvenated—new life, new energy.

One who has learned the secret of going within—supreme energy begins to unfold in his life. He reaches such a spring, such a source, that however much he spends, nothing is spent—he attains the inexhaustible source.

In countless ways Buddha has only taught awakening. Someone overeats—he wakes him. Someone is hungry—how will he awaken?—he feeds him. Someone is drowned in the fire of passion—he shakes him awake. Someone is drowned in words, in weeping, in relationships—he stirs him.

By breaking old ornaments,
No new adornment is made;
By denying established values,
No new icon is shaped.
Only a vision freed of stupor is given—
Truth is given release.
Only a vision freed of stupor.

This alone is Buddha’s gift—a vision freed of stupor. Do not live asleep—live awake; live in awareness. Buddha taught no prayer to some deity seated in the sky. He did not say: be beggars—stretch your hands. He said: go within—and you will find the divine; you are the divine.

No beggar’s prayer
That the gods fulfil desire;
No terrified plea
That Indra slay the foe.
Only homage to those
Who are Arihants, who are saints—
Whatever their religion or path—
Only the alphabet of surrender:
The one and only mantra.

He taught only one mantra—the alphabet of surrender: how the circumference of you surrenders to your innermost center; how the trivial is surrendered to the essential; how the outer is surrendered to the inner.

Only the alphabet of surrender—
The one and only mantra.

No other mantra did Buddha teach.

No beggar’s prayer
That the gods fulfil desire;
No terrified plea
That Indra slay the foe.
Only homage to those
Who are Arihants, who are saints—
Whatever their religion or path—
Only the alphabet of surrender:
The one and only mantra.

Arihant is a precious Buddhist word: it means one who has conquered his enemies—and the chief enemy, Buddha says, is negligence—stupor. One who is awake is Arihant, is saint. Then what religion, what sect—no need to count. Wherever you find an Arihant, a saint—follow him.

“As the moon follows the path of the stars, follow the steady, the wise, the much-learned, the virtuous, the vowed, the noble, the intelligent.”

Where you find a saint, sit in his shade. Where you find a saint, bathe in his waves—drink his nectar—flow in his stream—become a sotapanna.

These small stories, and the small sutras woven through them, can transform your whole life. But not by merely listening—by absorbing, by doing. As Buddha said, “Monks, four months from now I shall depart; therefore, do what is to be done.” Whether Buddha remains four months with you, or four years, or forty—what difference? Do what is to be done. Be alert!

Enough for today.