Es Dhammo Sanantano #72

Samsara is synonymous with suffering. This question is like asking, “In suffering, is there only suffering, or is there some happiness too?”

There is hope for happiness. But happiness never actually happens; that hope proves delusive. The world assures you that happiness will come—but here assurances are never fulfilled. One promise breaks and the world gives you ten more. In giving promises the world is not miserly; it opens its heart and gives in plenty. However much you ask, it shows readiness to give a thousand times more. But it gives nothing. With these very promises as support, it takes your life from you. On the strength of these hopes it makes you run and run; exhausted, you fall into the grave. Even as you fall into the grave your trust in promises has not broken. Then you think, while falling into the grave—there is Vaikuntha, there is heaven; there happiness will be found. That too is the world’s deception.

The delusion that happiness will be found somewhere else is called “samsara.”
The realization that happiness is now, here, is called “nirvana.”
The delusion that happiness will come from someone else is called “samsara.”
The awakening that happiness is your own nature is called “moksha.”
The scramble that says some circumstance is needed for happiness, some condition must be met, is called “samsara.” Happiness simply is; there is happiness in being as you are. You have never fallen away from happiness; you are made of happiness. The mistake is in asking for happiness; happiness is in savoring happiness.

Therefore Buddha says, Ah, see how happy we are! We wander among enemies without enmity. We wander among the desiring without desire. We wander among beggars as emperors. Susukham vata! Behold our blissful nature. Behold our great bliss.

There is no happiness in the world; happiness is within oneself. But the very meaning of “world” is: to have missed oneself and to have one’s gaze stuck on the other. You do not understand the exact meaning of the word “world.” You think the world means these trees, these mountains, the moon and stars, this marketplace, these shops—that this is the world. You do not understand its psychological meaning; you only understand its dictionary meaning.

“World” (samsara) means: happiness in another, in someone else, somewhere else. That state of ignorance is called the world. And the one who keeps going on in that state of ignorance—keeps moving, keeps wandering—is living in the world. “It wasn’t found here, it will be found there; you reach there—there too it isn’t found; further ahead it will be found.” This very process of wandering is called samsara.

The day you awaken and understand—nowhere is it found: neither here nor there; however far you go, nowhere is it found; all hopes prove like the horizon, where earth and sky never meet, they only appear to—when this realization dawns and you stand awake—awake!—the lamp of awareness is lit, your eyes turn from the other toward yourself, your light illumines you—happiness is in that very instant.

And that instant is outside the world, because the wandering has stopped. That running—which is samsara—has ceased. Now you have dived into yourself; you have taken the plunge within; you have become a stream-enterer; you have received the first fruit of entering the stream; you have descended into the current of your own life. Now you are no longer a beggar; now you are an emperor. Now you can say—Ah, see—Susukham vata! See our happiness!

You ask, “Is there only suffering in the world?”
The very name of the world is suffering. So such a question cannot really be asked. It cannot be asked. But this does not mean there is no happiness. To say there is no happiness in the world does not mean happiness does not exist. Happiness is; it simply is not in the world. There is fragrance. To say there is no fragrance in pebbles and stones does not mean there is no fragrance. If you keep your nose pressed to pebbles and stones, you will not find fragrance. Fragrance is—but for flowers, for the lotus, the rose—not for pebbles and stones. Pebbles and stones are scentless. Fragrance is—in you. The musk dwells in your own navel. That which you have been seeking from door to door, from threshold to threshold, dwells within you. You brought it with you. It is you. Tat tvam asi.

Happiness is. If there were no happiness at all, life would be utterly futile, utterly devoid of essence. Then what would be the point of religion, what its substance? The essence of religion is simply this—to turn you from where happiness is not toward where happiness is. Religion is the search for happiness. Wherever there is suffering, religion awakens you; and where happiness is, it makes you dive in.

And these sufferings of the world are not your enemies either; they are helpers, because by passing through them again and again your experience ripens. By being hurt again and again by the other, by receiving pain again and again, you will awaken and come to yourself. By colliding, by weeping each time, one day your eyes will close.

Life is a fountain of pain;
whoever lives
suffers pain,
and it is while suffering pain that we must die.
Pain is the anvil in the shop of destiny;
pain is the hammer in God’s hand.
By striking us with blows,
the gods shape and polish us.
Perhaps it is true that
man unfolds in pain,
becomes beautiful and grows.

So pain is not altogether useless; suffering is not altogether in vain. Suffering is outside, but the very blows become an anvil, become a hammer; the same blows become a chisel; the same blows cut away and burn up whatever is useless within you; the same blows awaken you.

By striking us with blows,
the gods shape and polish us.
Pain is the anvil in destiny’s shop;
pain is the hammer in God’s hand.
Perhaps it is true that
man unfolds in pain,
becomes beautiful and grows.

Therefore, when I say there is suffering in the world, I am not saying anything anti-world. I am only explaining the nature of the world to you. It is so. And if you use this pain with a little understanding, it will become a staircase. By these very blows the hidden statue within you will be revealed. By these very blows the consciousness concealed within will be revealed. This very fire will burn and burn and burn, and your gold will be refined into pure kundan.

Therefore there is pain, there is suffering, there is anguish—but anguish polishes, cleanses, adorns, and refines. That is why I do not tell you to become an escapist. Hearing “there is suffering in the world,” some people become escapists: they say, “Leave the world.” They run! But you have not understood. Where will you run? Wandering is samsara. If you run, that is samsara. If you think of going somewhere else, that is samsara.

People come to me and say, “Let us leave everything—home and hearth—and go to the Himalayas.” That is samsara. Now they see happiness in the Himalayas. Earlier they believed: if there is wealth there will be happiness; if there is position and prestige there will be happiness. Now they think, “There is happiness in the Himalayas, in a Himalayan cave.” The world has given a new promise; the world has handed you a new formula for running—run toward the Himalayas. Then, sitting in one cave, it will seem, “No, it is not here either; go a little higher, a little higher—it will be there.” This very migration of yours—its very formula—is samsara. When you stop running...

So I say: do not become an escapist; an escapist is not a sannyasin, an escapist is worldly. Where you are, you are fine; right there, you are right—awaken there. Where is there to go by running away! One has to come into oneself. To come into oneself, running is not necessary; to come into oneself, all running has to stop. Stop; be still. That which is obtained by running is the world; that which is obtained by stopping is the divine.

Stop, be still; slowly, slowly, drop the running. Begin to live as if there is nowhere to go, nothing to become, nothing to make of yourself. In that very instant you will find that you are already made, that God has made you complete, has made you just as you would wish to be. But you have never seen your own face. You have been entangled in the faces of others. You have never felt your own knot; you have been feeling the knots of others. You have never mined the treasure within; who knows where you have wandered through births and births, how many journeys you have made—but you have never come home. To come home is religion. Es dhammo sanantano—this is the eternal dharma.

In the ultimate sense, in the final sense, yes. In the primary sense, no. In the transcendental sense, yes. In the practical sense, no. Practically, there is a difference.

Salvation means: by someone else. Hence Christians think: by Jesus. Not by oneself—someone else will come, the benefactor, the savior, the messiah; through him there will be liberation—that is salvation.

This is the lowest conception of moksha. For how can what happens through another be moksha? The world itself is entanglement in the other, and you go on remaining entangled in the other. Before, you were tangled in wife, in husband, in son; now, freed from these, you wait for a messiah to come so liberation will happen. If even liberation is not in your own hands, what kind of liberation is that! When liberation too is in someone else’s hands, liberation itself becomes a bondage. Today the messiah may free you—and tomorrow, what if the messiah changes his mind! What is in another’s hands is not yours; it is not your possession. This is the lowest notion of moksha—that it is through the other. It stands very close to the world.

That is why Christianity has not risen very high. The Christian religion stands close to the world. Hence the Christian priest-pastor is utterly worldly; he does not carry that subtle, otherworldly fragrance you will see in a Buddhist bhikshu, a Hindu sannyasin, a Jain muni. Something is missing. His notion of salvation, of liberation, is stale and borrowed—someone else will do it. So people sit with folded hands. And Jesus came and went, and Christians think liberation happened, liberation happened because Jesus came. Then there is nothing left to do! So this notion of liberation has not become a help to liberation; it has become a hindrance. Now there is nothing to be done!

Now understand. The Christian idea is that because of Adam there was sin. You did not even commit the sin. Amazing! Will you ever do anything yourself or not? Adam sinned, and you suffered his sin. Then Jesus came; he did virtue, and now you enjoy his virtue. You are all borrowed, borrowed! Do you have anything of your own in cash within you? Not even the sin is yours, not even the virtue is yours!

This is not a very deep idea. Why should Adam’s sin make us sinners? Adam may have done it; let Adam sort it out! This kills the very sense of an individual soul.

When did Adam happen? Did he happen or not? And the sin was not a big one. It was the very sin that had to be committed. God had said, “Do not taste the fruit of the tree of knowledge,” and Adam tasted it. Anyone with a little courage would do the same. And then—the fruit of knowledge! It was not something to be left alone. Adam took the risk; he must have said, “Let it be a sin!”

What was the reason? If we enter into Adam’s psychology we will understand. Adam was bored: pleasure upon pleasure, only pleasure. Sweets and only sweets—then diabetes arises. Adam must have developed diabetes. There was only pleasure there, no pain at all in that moksha, that kingdom of God; only pleasure. He must have gotten bored, tired. Nothing else wearies a man as much as pleasure does. He must have felt like doing something, tasting something new.

So he took the risk. He was bored; he said, “All right—at most you will throw me out of this paradise. And what is there to this paradise anyway!” That paradise was a kind of slavery. Where even the fruit of knowledge may not be eaten—what kind of paradise is that! What further commands will there be, if even the fruit of knowledge may not be eaten! Adam agreed; he ate the fruit of knowledge and was expelled from paradise, because God became very angry—his command was disobeyed.

Such a God is not God but an ordinary father, who goes mad with rage at the slightest disobedience. If the father had a little courage, he would have patted Adam’s back: “You did right, son; now you have come of age.” A son comes of age only by saying no to his father. Until he says no, he remains a suckling—he does not become young; his milk teeth have not fallen out. As long as he says yes to everything his father says, how will he ever become his own man! Ask psychology. Psychologists say: the day the son says no to the father, that very day he becomes a young man. So Adam committed no fault; he came of age.

Adam was expelled; the fault was not big—only a declaration of his maturity: “I want to take my life into my own hands.” What does eating the fruit of knowledge mean? “Now I do not want to live on borrowed light; you know, and I should live without knowing!” The father had said, “What need is there for you to know? I know everything. You just obey me.”

That is what all fathers say: “What need is there for you to know? I know everything. You just obey.” But which son can agree to that for long! Leave aside those sons who are simpletons; they do not matter, they hardly exist.

The sin Adam committed had to be committed. It was necessary; it was not a sin at all. Adam had the courage to become mature. Every son has to do it one day; every son, every daughter has to say no to the parents. It has to happen. It should happen. Only then does a spine arise. The Christians call this a sin—what an excellent sin!

And the second oddity: someone else committed the sin—with whom we have nothing to do—and we all suffer his sin because we all are his progeny! Strange indeed! The father sins and the son suffers. The father’s father sins and the son suffers. Then the meaning of the individual soul is lost. What value remains in the individual soul! What sense is there in saying “you are”? You are not.

Thousands of years ago some man made some mistake, and his sin lies heavy on your soul! You have nothing to do with it. You cannot be responsible for a mistake you did not make.

This basic notion is wrong. Then, to correct this wrong notion, another wrong notion had to be invented: if man suffers the sin another committed, then he will also enjoy the merit another performed.

So the whole fun of the story is: it begins with Adam and ends with Jesus; we have nothing to do with it; we are mere spectators. Adam sinned; Jesus obtained forgiveness. Adam broke the command; Jesus fulfilled it. Adam was expelled from heaven; Jesus, with pomp and procession, entered heaven again. And we? Those other than Adam and Jesus? We are only spectators! We carry someone’s sin, then begin to carry someone else’s virtue! But that means there is no soul within you.

Therefore I call salvation the lowest notion of moksha, because it rests on the other. A little higher than that is the Hindu Vaikuntha. Only a little higher—not much.

Vaikuntha means: by God’s grace. No human being is the medium; but still, the other remains significant—God’s grace. If God wills, he will lift you up; if his compassion happens, he will lift you up. And then you will dwell forever with God in Vaikuntha, enjoying delights—only pleasure, heaven, with apsaras, with wish-fulfilling trees; sitting beneath them you will gratify all your desires.

This goes a little higher than salvation. At least no messiah is placed in between. At least the son of Adam is not placed in between; there is a direct God—fine, so much is good. This is a slightly higher notion. And it will happen by his grace. So one will have to earn his grace. To earn his grace, the heart must be cleansed, made prayerful, made pure—this is the devotees’ view.

But even in Vaikuntha, God remains and we remain, separate. Two remain. And where two remain, it has not yet gone very high. Because where duality is, there all the impurities of mind are—mind is what divides things into two. Where the mind is no more, how can two remain?

Therefore there is a third notion of moksha. Vedanta and the Jains—their notion goes higher. Moksha means: two do not remain; only one remains. Hindus call that one Brahman. The individual soul, the human soul, merges into Brahman. We are lost. The drop falls into the ocean and becomes the ocean. Brahman remains—Brahman alone. This is the Vedantin view.

The Jaina view is that the ocean merges into the drop. The Divine dissolves into us. We remain; I remain; the soul remains. The Jaina view goes higher than the Hindu, because if I merge, I am lost, and only God remains, it means I never existed—only God was. Only that which never truly was can be lost; only that which never truly was can be annihilated, which merely appeared. This injures human dignity. Mahavira did not allow human dignity to be injured. He said: the religion that wounds human dignity will enslave man. Human dignity is unsurpassable, ultimate. So the soul itself becomes God. It does not dissolve into God; it becomes God—like the ocean descending into the drop.

A drop merging into the ocean is simple; we can understand it. But the ocean descending into the drop is an extraordinary happening. So in moksha only the soul remains—the pure soul remains, the pure light of consciousness remains; no other.

Then there is nirvana. Nirvana is the Buddhist notion. It is the highest. Beyond it no notion has ever gone. Nirvana means: neither God remains nor I remain—no one remains; only shunya, emptiness, remains. Because the Buddhists say: if God remains and I do not, then the two do not remain, one remains. If I remain and God does not, still the two do not remain, one remains. But as long as one remains, the other, in some manner, also remains. For one has no meaning without two. When two have disappeared, one should also disappear; what meaning has one!

If we say “one,” immediately “two” comes to mind. Can you say “one” and not think of two? That is why the Vedantins found a unique way—they do not say “God is one,” they say “God is nondual,” not-two. They do not say directly that God is one, because saying “one” immediately evokes “two.” One has no meaning without two. Think: if there is only one, how will you even call it one! There must be two for one to have any meaning at all.

So the Hindus say “not-two.” But the Buddhists say: whether you say “one,” or you say “not-two,” however clever the device, however subtle the ingenuity, nothing changes. If one is, two survives. If you say “not-two,” even then the notion of one remains. And in that formless state there is neither one nor two—it is beyond number.

Only one thing is beyond number: zero. Zero alone is beyond number. Is zero one, two, three, four, five? Zero is only zero—neither one, nor two, nor four, nor five. Therefore whatever meaning you place upon zero gets reflected. Put zero on one and it becomes equal to nine. Put zero on two and it becomes equal to eighteen. Put zero on three and it becomes equal to twenty-seven! There is nothing in zero; zero is only zero. Zero is like a mirror—whatever you bring before it, it reflects. Red comes, the mirror turns red; yellow comes, the mirror turns yellow. A man appears, a man appears in the mirror; the man goes, no one remains—the mirror is empty. Zero is a mirror.

So Buddha chose the word nirvana. Every word of Buddha is precious. His hold on what is supreme and final is unmatched.

Nirvana is the final notion. No one remains. This will frighten you too. That is why not many are drawn to nirvana—no one remains! Then what is the point? You want bliss, yes—but you also want to remain; otherwise, what is the point even of bliss! And Buddha says: as long as you are, suffering remains. You are the suffering. The very notion of “I” is suffering. Where you are not, there is bliss.

Now this becomes a little difficult. It has to—when things reach such heights they become difficult. They go beyond logic. They slip out of the grasp of the intellect.

These four words are different, as I said, in practical terms. In the transcendental sense, they are not different. Whether one goes by the path of salvation, or by Vaikuntha, or by moksha, or by nirvana, ultimately one will arrive only at nirvana. Because those that do not carry you to the very end will leave a sense that the goal still remains; you will feel, “The destination is still ahead; I must go a little further.” Beyond nirvana nothing remains. Beyond zero, what remains?

Therefore in meditation, keep nirvana in view. Yes, each walks according to his own condition. If nirvana is not yet within your grasp, then start with salvation—no harm. At least something is done; you turn a little away from the world; at least one step is taken; a ripple of religion has arisen. Fine—start from there. Think this way: Christ will grant liberation. Fine—at least the feeling for liberation has arisen. The thirst to be free has awakened.

Then, as this thirst grows, you will feel that the notion of salvation does not work. Then perhaps the notion of Vaikuntha will come within your grasp. Then walk by the notion of Vaikuntha. One day you will understand: Vaikuntha is fine, but it too seems an extension of the world—subtle perhaps, but an extension. The same pleasure, only in a larger measure; the same women, only more beautiful; the same desires, now fulfilled because of wish-fulfilling trees. Before, they were fulfilled with effort; now they are fulfilled for free—but the story is the same. Then you will think of moksha: now leave everything and drown in meditation.

Then a moment will come—when you reach the last summit of meditation—you will find: everything is gone, but this sense of “I” that remains, it pricks like a thorn now. That day you will drop this thorn too, and nirvana will happen.

So start from where you are—no worry. The arrival is nirvana. If you do not arrive at nirvana, you have not arrived. In meditation keep nirvana in view; but if that goal seems too far and the peak is not yet visible to you, then make whatever is visible your practical aim for now. Begin climbing the nearer hill. But keep in mind that one day you are to climb the Everest; you are not to be content with anything less.

There are a few things to understand.

First thing: it is true that because of menstruation women face many hindrances, many ailments. But keep the second thing in mind as well: because of menstruation women also have certain advantages that men do not have. In this world thorns do not come alone—they come with flowers; nor do flowers come alone—they come with thorns. In every bitterness some sweetness is hidden.

So yes, menstruation brings many difficulties. Equally true—though it is not usually noticed—is that because of menstruation women have certain benefits men do not. For example, the four or five days of menstruation are very negative days for a woman. The whole mind fills with negation, becomes sickly, full of anger, melancholy; life feels heavy—as if a small death is beginning to happen. Men do not have this kind of trouble. But you do not realize that the negativity that arises in those four days also flows away in those four days; and the rest of the month is more buoyant. Men do not have that kind of buoyancy. Their negativity takes thirty days to drain out; it trickles out bit by bit, not all at once. A woman’s “disease” is flushed out in four days at once. Ultimately both carry the same human malaise—it has to come out.

Thus a woman is troubled “wholesale” for four days; a man remains troubled “retail” for thirty days. That is why a man’s pain never appears as deep as a woman’s, but his elation also never appears as deep as a woman’s. A woman’s softness, her beauty, is in part due to menstruation. When that menstruation washes out all the gloom and poison, for the rest of the month she becomes light. The man remains in the same restlessness all month; his restlessness leaves slowly.

So keep this in mind: if you consider the total quantity of restlessness, there is no difference between woman and man—the quantity is the same. Suppose the figure is one hundred: the woman discharges the hundred in four days; the man takes thirty. Naturally the man’s daily dose seems smaller, and the woman’s dose in those four days seems large. That’s one point.

A second aspect is seldom seen—even women rarely notice it. Where do a woman’s song, her beauty, her softness, her grace come from? Because in those four days the poison runs out; again there is sudden lightness—the burden has dropped. If this second point is also remembered, those four heavy days will not seem such a burden. It is necessary to remember the benefit as well—that’s one point.

Second thing: the disorder is not caused so much by menstruation as by a woman’s identification with the body. Women take themselves to be the body much more than men do. Men identify more with the mind; women identify with the body.

Hence a woman’s interest is in the body. She can stand before the mirror for hours. A man cannot understand the point of staring at one’s own face for hours! For hours she adjusts her clothes. There is scarcely an occasion when a woman reaches somewhere on time—her mind keeps changing: “Shall I wear another sari? Arrange my hair like this or like that?” The husband is honking below, and she still cannot get ready; every preparation feels insufficient. A woman’s body-consciousness is very deep.

Within a human being there are three elements—soul, mind, and body. A man’s “disease” is linked with the mind; a woman’s with the body. Hence men quarrel in a different way: they quarrel about principles, scriptures, Hindu-Muslim, politics; this idea, that idea—“we believe this, you believe that.” A woman cannot understand what nonsense this is! Whether you accept the Quran or the Bible—what’s the big deal? They’re all the same. The real question is the body—who is beautiful? Who is wearing the costlier sari? Who has the precious jewels? This is the line of thinking.

A woman is not disturbed by whether the other woman is Hindu, Muslim, Christian, or Parsi; when another woman passes by, she notices, “Ah, she bought that sari! She had those ornaments made! I’ve fallen behind!” Listen to women’s conversations; when they chat, they revolve around the body, bound to the body.

This is why the difficulty arises. During menstruation the body goes through great strain, and women are strongly identified with the body—therefore there is trouble. The trouble is not really because of menstruation; it is because of being tethered to the body.

So if you want to come out of the difficulty, gradually lessen your identification with the body. Cultivate the awareness: “I am not the body.” This is the medicine. Especially during the four days of menstruation, keep unbroken contemplation and feeling: “I am not the body.” Let this contemplation continue at other times too. Let the awareness “I am not the body” settle in more and more deeply—and do whatever is needed to make it dense.

That is why I say: if you have taken sannyas, wear ochre robes; let all other colors be finished. Then you will not have to go on thinking and choosing. A sannyasin woman has an advantage—she gets ready quickly; there isn’t much to prepare. There is only one color; there is no choice among colors; there aren’t many saris.

Women come to me for sannyas; men come too—their reasons for hesitation are different. A woman said, “How can I take sannyas? I have three hundred saris—what will happen to them?” No man has yet said to me, “I have so many clothes—what will happen to them?” His reason is usually something else. But a woman’s reason is straightforward: she has three hundred saris; if she takes sannyas they will all become useless—so what will happen to them? Women ask me, “After taking sannyas, can we wear jewelry, etc.?”

So, the things that increase identification with the body—clothes, jewelry, adornment—let them be gradually relinquished. You will find that the impact of menstruation decreases in exact proportion to the loosening of identification with the body. Relax your hold with the body a little. Do not look at yourself by tying yourself to the body. See yourself as separate from the body. Do not miss any opportunity to see yourself as separate from the body; whenever a chance arises, make sure to see. Even standing before the mirror, keep the thought: “This body is not me.” Then there is no harm—even if you stand in front of the mirror for three hours, stand—but keep this awareness: “This body is not me.” As the depth of this awareness grows, the pain of menstruation will steadily diminish.

Then you will be surprised to find that as the pain of menstruation has decreased, its benefit begins to become visible: that it is good to be done with it in four days. It is intelligent—finished quickly. Granted the fire was intense, but it ended quickly. The remaining days are more of ease and peace.

Menstruation is not a new topic. The scriptures have considered it deeply. Buddha and Mahavira also had to consider it, because the question is ancient. It has always been so. It is not that today’s woman has suddenly become identified with the body—she always has been. A woman’s ailment is the body; a man’s ailment is the mind. And whether you are identified with the body or with the mind, in both cases you miss the soul. If you are identified with the mind, you miss the Self; if identified with the body, you miss the Self.

A man has to drop his attachment to the mind; a woman has to drop her attachment to the body. Both have to work equally hard. To drop attachment to the body requires just as much effort as to drop attachment to the mind. And when attachment to both falls away, what remains—the state of non-attachment, of dispassion—there is self-realization. That self-realization is health.

There is only one medicine for becoming healthy: the realization that I am the soul—not the body, not the mind. Illnesses belong to the mind; illnesses belong to the body.

You will be surprised to know: women go mad less than men; the number for men is double. Men go mad twice as much. Why? Because a woman’s madness is discharged in bulk; a man’s madness remains stuck. And women are less mad because their attachment is with the body; the body doesn’t really go mad. Men go mad because their attachment is with the mind; the mind goes mad. More men commit suicide—twice as many men.

This may surprise you. Ordinarily you will find women giving more threats of suicide. They don’t do it; they threaten—don’t worry too much about their threats. And even if they do, they try with such arrangements that they can be saved. Even if they take sleeping pills, they won’t take more than five, six, seven. That is only a threat. Ten women attempt suicide; nine are saved. Ten men attempt; five manage to be saved. A man’s attempt—he plunges headlong; then he doesn’t think what is to be done now! He goes completely mad.

Twice as many men die by suicide; twice as many men go mad. And at the root of all this, a woman has the support of menstruation. In four days her whole madness flows out—she cries it out, washes it out, writhes in pain, becomes filled with all kinds of melancholy, and then she becomes light.

A woman’s body suffers; a man’s mind suffers. And suffering will continue until the connection with the soul happens. Then whether it is a man’s suffering or a woman’s, it makes no difference—the two are equal.

So, as you detach yourself from body and mind, you become healthy. To be immersed in the soul is the remedy for health.

This is not a question; it is praise. And there is no need for praise.
If you have questions, ask them; if you have praise, keep it in your heart. What is the essence of it anyway? What will come of talking about it?
So first, ask something that is of benefit to you, that is wholesome, auspicious for your life.
Second, where are original ideas to be found! How could they be! How can anything in this world be original! Countless people have been; from endless time human beings have thought and reflected. Do you think a single idea remains that no human being has thought before? Impossible.
But thoughts that have been thought get lost again and again. When you think them again, it seems they are original. We forget; memories are lost. We have the Vedas, five thousand years old; but even five thousand years before that people were thinking—only no compiled book of theirs has remained with us. It’s not as if before the Vedas people were not thinking, that they were sitting there without thinking—if they had been sitting without thinking, all would have become Buddhas! They were thinking, reflecting, searching. They too must have thought deeply.
And remember: very few of those who think write what they think. Everyone thinks; very few write. Of what is written, not all survives; it gets lost in the current of time. Then of what survives, language changes day by day with the times, and it slips from our grasp. When someone once again says the same thing in modern language, it seems to us new, original. Nothing can be original; under the sun and moon all is old. What could be new! All is eternal.
But it always happens. When, for the first time, you experienced love for a woman, you must also have thought, such love has never happened before—it is original. But do you think you alone think so? Every lover thinks the same.
Even if you ask a rose about the blossom that has opened on it, it too will say—such a thing has never happened before. But how would it know about the flowers that have bloomed on other roses, and what do roses know of other roses! Through endless time, flowers have been blooming on endless roses—what would it know!
So first: what could be original at all! Nothing can be original! That is why Buddha says: Esa dhammo sanantano—this is the eternal dharma. Buddha says, do not think that I am saying this; it has been said forever, this alone has been said, and this alone will always be said. It is eternal.

I am a medium,
not original thoughts.
The flowers that have once bloomed
bloom again on new clusters.
The sky has already been wholly covered.
All that was worth knowing
has already been known.
The questions that found no answers before—
it is unlikely they will be answered even today.
Such is the state of thinkers:
they adorn old questions
in new styles,
and, mistaking them for answers,
swell within.
But these are not answers,
they are the clamor of questions.
The truth that was once unseen
is still beyond arguments.

So thoughts are not original; they cannot be. There is no way for them to be original, because the very logic of thought is borrowed. The words, the language—those too are borrowed. Thoughts cannot be original. Then what can be original? The experience of emptiness. That alone is original.
But do not take “original” to mean “never happened before.” Give “original” another meaning—of the root, of the source. Original as from the origin, from the roots. Do not take original to mean new. Take it to mean that what happens to you in shunyata, in samadhi, is the experience of the root, the origin, the source. Not that it has never happened to anyone before. Many buddhas have been, many will be, many have kept happening; all reach that same root. To reach the root is to be original.
So what I am saying to you is original in this sense: I am speaking from the root. But do not take it to be original in the sense of new.
And then you say, “I am very impressed by your original ideas.”
To be impressed is not a good thing. To be impressed can even be dangerous. Do not be impressed by my ideas. For, impressed by ideas, what will you do? You will collect ideas, become a little knowledgeable, gather a little information. There is no essence in being impressed by ideas.
It would be better if you were impressed by me, not by my ideas. Be impressed by my state, not my thoughts. From thoughts, take only this hint: to reach the state from which these thoughts arise. Do not start collecting the thoughts. Otherwise, you will leave pearls on the ocean shore and gather shells and conches. Dive into the depths of the ocean.
To be impressed by me means to engage in the effort to reach where I am. There is a difference between these two things. If you are impressed by my ideas, you will start saving them, locking them in a safe, installing them in memory, repeating them, telling them to others. That is not of much use. It will make you a pundit, but you will not become wise. You will become learned, but the Veda within you will remain asleep. You will begin to appear more intelligent, but in truth you will not become intelligent. A few more layers of dust will settle on your consciousness. Your mirror will be covered even more. I am here not to cover your mirror, but to uncover it.
So leave my ideas. See where my ideas point—toward thoughtlessness—so descend into thoughtlessness.
Keep this in mind; this is important.
When I speak to you, you can do two things. You can catch hold of my thoughts. Then you have missed—you have missed me, you have missed the real. You picked up the pits and did not suck the mango. You started counting mangoes and did not taste them. I say to you: suck the mango; there is no essence in picking up the pits. And in counting mangoes there is no point at all.
Buddha used to say again and again that in a village there was a man who sat in front of his house. Every morning all the cows and buffaloes of the village would go out, cross the river, and in the evening return home. He would count every day—how many cows and buffaloes went, how many returned? Sometimes he would even get worried: two hundred went and one hundred ninety-nine came back—where did one go?
Buddha says, that man was mad. He had nothing to do with them; not one cow, not one buffalo was his! Yet he would sit there, all tangled up in it. And Buddha says, just so are those who sit and count other people’s thoughts.
Buddha used to say: do not catch hold of my thoughts. Appa deepo bhava—be a light unto yourself. Catch my indication.
So when I say to you, be impressed by me, I am saying: stand where I am standing and begin to look from there. The sky that is visible to me can be visible to you as well. Do not grab hold of what I say about the sky; do not be impressed by that. Because no matter how many songs I sing in praise of the sky, my praise is not the sky. And no matter how much I speak of that taste, my words cannot give you that taste—you will have to take it yourself. No matter how many songs I hum about springs of water, your thirst will not be quenched. You will have to walk to the spring. And I want to emphasize this, because many people end up being impressed only by ideas. Do not make that mistake.

Not in the least.

Understand two words—following and imitation.

Buddha is not asking for imitation; he is asking for following. Imitation means: as Buddha stands up, you stand up; as Buddha sits, you sit; whatever Buddha eats, you eat; whatever Buddha drinks, you drink. That is imitation. It is hollow. You will begin to look like a Buddha, but you will remain a fool. It becomes theater; the essence never comes into your hands.

You can wear clothes like Buddha, walk like Buddha—there is no great obstacle in that. With a little practice you can even begin to speak like Buddha, use the words he uses—this can all be done. This is what people have been doing for centuries: imitation, copying. You become a carbon copy. You never become appo deepo bhava; you never become a light unto yourself. You make a picture of Buddha’s lamp and tuck that picture to your chest.

Remember: no picture of a lamp gives light. When darkness falls you will writhe, because the picture will not illumine. Imitation is hollow, superficial, only on the surface.

Following is a much greater thing. Following means: look at Buddha closely, peer deeply into him; make him a window, look through him into the depths. Where is his lamp burning? How has it been lit? Don’t make a picture of the lamp; rather, see how that lamp is burning within Buddha. Don’t repeat the outer things. How Buddha walks—what difference does that make?

This often happens here. Those who live around me for long begin to get up, sit, walk in the same way. They think something very significant is happening. Sometimes they do it knowingly; sometimes it happens unknowingly. Not that they always do it deliberately—live near for long and things become contagious. They catch the surface: they start walking, sitting, speaking in the way I do—if my hand makes certain gestures while speaking, they too begin to gesture. They think, “Now this is it!”

There is nothing in the hand, nothing in the gesture. Even if you learn it, nothing will happen. Catch the source within from where the gesture arises. Following means: enter the very source from which Buddha’s buddhahood is born, from which these rays are coming. Enter that root-source yourself. How did this state arise in Buddha—how? Pass through that same treatment. The same samadhi, the same meditation. Not the outer conduct, but the inner Buddha must be created within you.

That is why I say to you: don’t be influenced by my words, be influenced by me. And when I say “by me,” remember, I am not asking you to imitate—follow. Understand what has happened here, and then how can it happen to you? Then take each step in that direction. If your own lamp is lit within you, in the very way it is lit within Buddha, that is following. But if you draw a picture on paper and hold it to your heart, that is imitation.

There is no contradiction between the two statements. When Buddha says, “Follow,” and also says, “Be a light unto yourself,” there is no conflict. This is precisely the path to lighting your own lamp: understand the inner functioning, the life-style, of a lamp that is already lit. How was his lamp lit? How did he strike two stones to create fire? How did he bring forth the inner oil? How did he kindle the flame? How did he twist the wick? Understand all of this correctly—its process, its science. If that science comes into your grasp, if that formula comes into your grasp, that is following.

But don’t get caught by the outward formula. This happens here—just now it has happened to Rampriya, an Italian sadhika. She is good, simple; it hasn’t happened knowingly—it has happened unknowingly, unconsciously. Now she says that whatever I eat, she will eat. If I remain in my room all day, she too will not step out of hers.

I called her and said, “Mad one, it won’t happen this way. This way you will go mad. You may sit in a room, but your mind won’t change because of that. Your mind will keep roaming; the bit of insanity that used to escape by going out will no longer find an outlet—you will go crazy.” She is going a bit crazy, but she won’t listen. She thinks that whatever I do, she must do exactly that—eat the same food, sleep at the same time, get up at the same time, stay in the room just as long, meet no one. She will go mad. I am trying to pull her out, because there is no substance in this.

This is imitation. This is not following. Go within—staying in a room won’t do it; going within will. Surely one day there will be a difference even in your food, because when your state of consciousness changes you will not be able to eat what you were eating till yesterday. If till yesterday you were cutting up chickens, you won’t be able to do it so easily; it will become difficult. If you were drinking alcohol, drinking will become difficult. This much is true: your food will change. But by changing your food your consciousness will not change; by changing your consciousness, your food will change. And the day you become silent, then it’s your choice—sit in a room, sit outside; wherever you sit, you will remain alone. It will make no difference. No one will then be able to snatch your aloneness away. But merely by sitting in a room, aloneness will not arise. Don’t walk in reverse. Walking in reverse looks easier, therefore most people begin to walk backwards.

Mahavira attained knowledge; his lamp was lit, his sun rose. Naturally people felt: How can we have this? What should we do? Mahavira stood naked, so they too stood naked. They thought it happens through nakedness; they became sky-clad.

But by becoming naked, how can Mahavira’s knowing happen? Yes, if Mahavira’s knowing happens in you, then it is your choice—if you feel to be naked, be naked. Many Mahaviras have been in this world; not all were naked. At the same time Buddha was present; he did not become naked. That is your own whim then. It is a matter of your convenience or inconvenience—then you decide.

But to think that by becoming naked you will attain knowledge—that is a very shallow idea. Knowledge is not so cheap that merely by throwing off your clothes it will arise. So many naked sadhus roam this land! You go to the Kumbha Mela and take their darshan, yet you won’t see anything of Mahavira in them. All sorts of dissolute types. There is no light in their lives. You won’t find any expression of peace or bliss on their faces—anger, violence, you will find. The monasteries of those Naga sadhus are called akharas—akharas! As if this were wrestling! They are adept at brawling, adept at riots—ready to kill or be killed over trifles!

Nakedness won’t do it. That is why Kabir said: If realization came from nakedness, then all animals and birds would have attained Jina-hood long ago—they roam naked as they are. They have never worn clothes. No, by dropping clothes nothing will happen.

I am not saying that if realization happens your clothes may not drop away—perhaps they will; that is a different matter. Then whatever harmonizes exactly with your inner happening will go on happening of itself.

Mahavira was vegetarian; so people thought: We too will become vegetarian, and realization will happen to us in the same way. So Jains have been vegetarian for twenty-five hundred years. And in twenty-five hundred years of vegetarianism, what has happened? Nothing. What is the difference between a Jain and a non-Jain? The same anger arises, the same lust, the same jealousy, the same violence, the same hatred. What has happened? Catching hold of outer things becomes easy. It is very easy to filter your water, to avoid eating at night—what difficulty is there?

Certainly, Mahavira did not eat at night, because in the light that had arisen within him it did not seem right to eat at night; it did not seem right to drink unfiltered water; it did not seem right to eat anything other than vegetables. Attain that state of consciousness yourself; then if all these things happen within you, good. But don’t go in reverse.

Not from the outside to the inside, but from the inside to the outside. By changing the outer you cannot change the inner; but if the inner center changes, the circumference changes by itself.

Not at the very end; one step before the end silence is indispensable. At the very end, you will have to speak again. The Buddha spoke—for forty years. Yes, one step before, one step before entering the temple, one rung earlier, silence is essential. Only the one who has become silent enters the temple.
But the one who has entered the temple then has to run—village to village, town to town, heart to heart—knocking and saying, “I have awakened; you too can awaken.” Then he has to speak, has to say it. Just as silence is indispensable before entering the temple, in the same way, when in silence the soul is available, when in silence one has known oneself, expression too becomes inevitable.
All who arrive at knowing arrive by becoming available to silence. But not all who arrive choose to express. From this the world suffers a great loss. If all who have arrived would attempt to say what they have known—even knowing that saying it is very difficult, and that even if you do say it, who is ready to understand? understanding is even more difficult—even knowing this, those awakened ones who came to converse with the walls, their compassion is immense. Knowing that what is known is hard to say, and that even if, somehow, you tie it up and carefully manage to say it, the listener’s understanding is difficult. Still, if you speak to a hundred, perhaps some day one will understand; if you say it a hundred times, perhaps once someone will catch it. Therefore keep on speaking.
That is why the Buddha spoke continuously for forty-two years—morning, noon, evening. When all the Buddhist sayings are compiled, it is hard to believe that one man could have spoken so much! But this event issued from silence. From silence came this supreme eloquence. First the void happens; in the void the experience occurs; then the experience wants to become word, to spread, to be shared. The one who attains buddhahood and gives it expression becomes the true master.
Many become arhats. They have attained the truth, and then they quietly sit, remaining silent. Kabir has said, “Having found the diamond, tie it in a knot; why open it again and again?” Now that the diamond is found, quickly tie it up and sit in silence; why open it again and again! Fine—this too is fine; if someone feels so, he will do so.
But the awakened ones open it again and again—opening it in the morning, opening it at noon, opening it in the evening; whoever comes, they open it and show it: “A diamond has been found.” They do not just tie the knot; they say, “Look, brother, this diamond has been found; you too can find it.” Although this is a diamond that no one can give to another—otherwise the awakened ones would have given it—it cannot be transferred. Even if the awakened one were to give it, in your hand it would turn to coal.
Do you know? Coal and diamond are made of the same chemical elements. There is no chemical difference between coal and diamond. Coal, lying for millions of years under the pressure of the earth, becomes a diamond—the very same coal. Sooner or later scientists will discover a method to apply such pressure to coal that what happens in millions of years will happen in a moment under pressure, and coal will become diamond. And if there were a way to remove the pressure that has been upon the diamond for millions of years, in an instant the diamond would become coal. So coal and diamond are not different.
What the awakened ones have discovered through births upon births, the pressure they have applied to the coal, has turned it into a diamond. That diamond is a diamond only in their hands. The moment it comes into your hands, the pressure is released—you have no pressure at all—and it turns into coal. Therefore this diamond cannot be given, but it can be shown; it can be told to you that such a thing happens, that it exists—look, it can happen within you too! There was a time when it was not within me either; I too carried only coal. But then this extraordinary event happened, this miracle; it can happen within you as well. Just as it happened in me, the method I will tell you.
So the true master keeps opening that knot. Kabir has said it in another sense—he spoke for the seeker. In the beginning one should not do that. Kabir means: when, at first, meditation begins to settle, do not be quick to open the knot and show it, otherwise the bird will fly away. In the beginning do not be in a hurry to tell. The mind feels like telling, to say to someone, “This has happened.”
Have you ever noticed? Those who are meditating rightly will many times find in their experience that there was great sweetness in meditation, and you told someone—and the next day the sweetness doesn’t come; the bird has flown. The mistake lay in the telling. In telling, you already took a certain enjoyment, and the ego became a little stronger. You told someone, “An amazing experience happened in meditation—the kundalini arose, a light ascended, it seemed as if the third eye were opening!”
While you were speaking, you had no idea; you were simply moved, delighted. You said it—to your wife, to your husband, to a friend—without even thinking. But in the very saying, within you the ego was formed a little. A stiffness entered you—“Look, we are we, and you are you! Where are you, still wallowing in rubbish! Still entangled in the world!” You may not have said this outwardly, but a wave passed within you: “You are still in filth! Look at us!” A certain feeling of purity arose—“We have become a bit saintly.”
There—the trouble set in with that feeling. The next day when you sit to meditate, neither does the kundalini arise, nor does the light appear, nor is there any trace of the third eye. You are very puzzled—“What has happened!” You try hard, you make efforts, and the thing keeps slipping away. For such seekers Kabir has said, “Having found the diamond, tie it in a knot; why open it again and again.”
But when the diamond has ripened—ripened means: when there is no possibility of the ego being born—when even if the whole world were to come and look at your diamond, no sense of “I-ness” would arise in you, because you know that this diamond lies in everyone; it is not a matter of specialness.
The Buddha has said: “The day I attained enlightenment, for me the whole world attained enlightenment.” He said a very unique thing. And I testify from my own experience that this is true. I also say to you: the day I knew, that very day I also knew that all have known. Because on the day it is found, you see that the diamond lies in everyone. You may not know it—that is another matter—but the diamond is there. You may not see it; I do see it. The one who has seen his own diamond begins to see the diamond within all. The eyes that have become capable of seeing light become capable of seeing everyone’s light.
This saying of the Buddha is important: “The day I attained knowing, for me the whole world attained knowing.” After that day there is no one ignorant.
Then what does the Buddha explain? Someone asks the Buddha: “If it is so—if you now know that all are already enlightened—then what is it that you explain?” The Buddha says: “I explain only this—that people are sitting believing themselves to be ignorant. I explain only this: you are not ignorant; you are knowing. There is nothing left for me to explain; for me it has become clear that all are knowers. But those who are knowers are sitting believing themselves to be ignorant. That belief has to be broken.”
Yet even when the supreme state happens, some people still sit with the knot tied. Nothing can be said to them either. Therefore all the religions have made two distinctions. The Jains have made a distinction: one they call the Kevali Jina—the one who has known, who has attained jinahood, has found perfect samadhi, but remained in silence thereafter, spoke no more. He is called a Kevali Jina—he attained kevalata, onlyness, and went into the void, into the great void.
The second they call a Tirthankara. Tirthankara means one who, having attained himself, begins to build a ford for others—“From here you too may cross.” A tirtha is a ford, a landing on the shore of this ocean of becoming. He begins to build the steps and says, “From here, you also bring your boat across. We crossed without a ford—but to leave the boat without a landing is always dangerous. Somehow we crossed without a ford; now for you we will lay steps, pave it well, and make a ford. Bring your boat here.” Such a one is called a Tirthankara—one who builds a ford for others.
The Buddhists too have used two words. One is Arhat. Arhat means one who has attained, whose inner enemies are all finished—arihant, arhat—he has conquered his enemies, and then he sits in silence.
The second is called a Bodhisattva—one who has attained awakening and now sets out to share it. He says, “What has been received I will also distribute. As far as I am concerned, my work is finished; I have known what is to be known. But there are many who know nothing of this; I set out to awaken them.”
Both points are important. When, in the beginning, the first ray of meditation descends, listen to Kabir; that is advice for the seeker. And when the ray has descended and the sun has risen, then do not listen to Kabir. Then, wherever you meet anyone—whether he agrees or not, whether he wants to see or not—untie your knot in an instant and at least show him the diamond! He may refuse, he may cry out, “Forgive me, I don’t want to see; I will see later. This is not the time; I’m going to the market; my wife is ill.” You tell him, “No matter—at least have a look. Whether we meet again or not—at least you will remember that there is such a thing as a diamond, that the diamond happens. And if it has happened to an ordinary man like me, it can happen to you too.”

I was joyful then, and I am joyful now. I wasn’t “prestigious” then, and I’m not now. Prestige is not in my destiny.

But once bliss is found, who worries about prestige! Prestige is what those seek who have not found bliss. Prestige means: we have found nothing within, so let people outside confer something on us—perhaps then it will feel as if we have gained a little. Prestige means others fill us up a bit; we are empty. Others say, “You are beautiful”; others say, “You are auspicious”; others say, “You are Shiva”; others say, “You are a saint”—let others say it; inside, we are empty. And if others don’t say it, there’s nothing in us. Prestige is borrowed—on loan, someone else saying it.

So I wasn’t prestigious then, and I’m not now. Prestige is neither my fate nor my taste. What I have a taste for was there then and is here now.

Yes, if you ask—perhaps you mean, has anything changed or not? Something has. Back then I didn’t have to keep company with you “mahatmas”; now I have to! That’s the only difference; otherwise, nothing much has changed.

No one becomes God by doing; godhood is our nature. When you drop all doing and look within, you discover—God is what we are! It has nothing to do with doing.

You probably imagine: how many fasts were undertaken, how many push-ups and squats (dand-baithak), how many headstands, how many asanas and exercises, how much bhajan and kirtan—perhaps you are asking in that sense: what did you do by which you became God?

It is precisely through doing that you miss. By doing and doing, you miss. Because godhood is our very being; nothing needs to be done for it—you are God. Try a hundred thousand methods, you will not become anything else. Every method will fail. That is why you are weeping in life—because every method is failing. Whatever you do does not succeed; it cannot. Only when you know what you are will there be fulfillment. Keep trying to become something and you will never become anything. Time will pass, life will be spent, labor will be wasted, and no result will ever come to hand. You are squeezing oil from sand.

And you ask, “What did you do?”

Your notion is that by doing something odd or extraordinary a person becomes God. Then you have not understood. Godhood is a declaration of one’s nature. In non-doing—by not doing anything—when your whole life-consciousness slips free of all movement, free of the world, free of the race; when you remain absorbed within, stand still as if stunned; when not even the slightest thought arises to do this, not the faintest urge arises to become that, not even a ripple of the race arises to reach somewhere—here and now, when you lie in quiet rest—in that very moment the truth is revealed: your godhood manifests. God is within you, lying in your lap.

So do not ask what to do. Ask instead what was given up, what doing was dropped, through which one became God—that question has meaning. The ambition to become was dropped; the very idea of becoming was dropped—what in English is called “becoming”: “Let me become this, let me become that.” All such notions were let go. What I am is fine. With what I am, I am content. What I am, as I am—this is the supreme destiny, this is my nature. Abiding in this being, with no urge to be otherwise, in that very instant—instantly—godhood is revealed. Suddenly you find God enthroned upon the lotus of your heart. And not enthroned there as other than you—you are that: Aham Brahmasmi.

That’s all for today.