Es Dhammo Sanantano #73

Evening is here, pain is here, we are here — and loneliness.
Life is a broken sequence — and loneliness.
To speak of it, there are people, there are joys, there are longings —
No friend, no companion — and loneliness.
Someone comes, is coming, will perhaps come —
This beautiful illusion is ours — and loneliness.
No sooner they meet than speak of parting —
Night is descending, darkness thickens — and loneliness.
What to do, whom to call, where can we go?
Every eye here is wet — and loneliness.

Man is alone. And because of this aloneness, man can set out on two journeys. One is the journey into society, and one is the journey into sannyas. Both are born out of the same source — loneliness, solitude. The lonely man either seeks others to forget himself, seeks the crowd, seeks relationships and company, ties and bonds — drowns himself in wife, in husband, in children, in friends, in family — forgets that “I am alone”: then the journey into society has begun.

But no one ever succeeds in forgetting this way. Again and again loneliness rises and shows itself. Holes appear in the fabric, and from many places the truth you tried to deny peeks through. However many wives, husbands, friends, dear ones — yet you remain alone. There is no quick way to efface aloneness. If it left so cheaply, man would have been happy long ago. It does not. Often the crowd makes you even more alone; it accentuates your loneliness. The more you try to forget, the more it remembers you.

So one way is society — company, companionship — by which man tries to forget himself. The other is sannyas. Sannyas means: not to forget loneliness in someone’s company, but to know it — what it is. To descend into aloneness, to place a ladder into it. To recognize oneself — who am I that is alone? And to recognize what this ‘aloneness’ is.

Whoever sets out to recognize this aloneness, one day discovers: this loneliness is Kaivalya. This being alone is our nature. And in this aloneness there is no pain, no sorrow. This being alone is bliss. This being alone is our freedom, our liberation, our moksha.

So both society and sannyas are born of the same fact — loneliness, aloneness, solitude. If you choose forgetting, you will get lost in the crowd, farther and farther from yourself. And the farther you go, the more pain increases — for going away from oneself is pain. If you enter sannyas, if you turn your solitude into meditation — solitude is solitude, not loneliness; solitude has a beauty, there is no pain in solitude — you shift the very interpretation. Slowly, slowly you sink into your own nectar, into your own being, you taste your own essence...

To take delight in another is society. It never truly arrives; it only appears that it will...
Someone comes, is coming, will perhaps come —
This beautiful illusion is ours — and loneliness.

No one ever comes. You sit with doors open — no one ever comes. “Perhaps he will come” — in that hope your eyes tire and crack. In that hope life is spent, death arrives — and no one comes. And in that hope the supreme opportunity is missed — the chance to turn within.

Consider: if you cannot find bliss with yourself, with whom will you find it? If even with yourself you cannot be in festival, then with whom will you celebrate? And the other who comes to relate with you — he too comes because he is frightened of loneliness. He too is not joyous in solitude, you too are not joyous in solitude. Two unhappy people, frightened of themselves, trying to drown in each other — misery will double. Not double, manifold — it will be the product. How can two miseries add up to joy? Where have you read that two negatives produce a positive in life’s arithmetic? You learned the wrong mathematics. Yet this is the mathematics of our lives — so we think.

You are alone, so you think: get married. Still sorrow. Then: let there be a son. Still sorrow. Then: let the son be married. Still sorrow. Then: let the son have a son... So it goes. Sorrow does not diminish, it multiplies — for those who are added are all unhappy in solitude.

Sannyas means: if bliss can arise, it will arise in me — nowhere else. Today’s sutras are on this.

The first sutra — and before it, the story in which Buddha spoke it:

A youth wanted to be initiated by Buddha and become a sannyasin. He was young, raw. He had not yet known life. But he had become bored of home, bored of his parents — he was an only son. Their constant presence had become suffocating. Their attachment was so heavy he was never let go. They slept in the same room, ate together, went everywhere together.

He must have been tired and scared. Sannyas itself did not attract him; he only wanted to be free of his parents. Seeing no other way, he sought initiation into Buddha’s sangha. The parents wept, screamed, protested — “Don’t even speak of it!” Their attachment was stronger.

But the more they clung, the more he ran. The tighter you grip someone, the more he flees. One night he quietly ran away. Far away, where Buddha was residing, he took initiation and became a bhikshu. The father searched everywhere, then remembered the boy sometimes said, “I will become a monk.” He went to seek Buddha. He found his son there. The father wept, beat his chest, tore his clothes, rolled on the ground. But the more he cried, the more the son stiffened his resolve: “I will not go.”

Seeing no other way, the father too became a monk. He could not leave his son, so he took sannyas. Then the wife — the boy’s mother — waited some days; the husband did not return, so she too set out to find him. She thought: the boy used to say he would become a monk; perhaps he has. She arrived and was shocked — not only the son had become a monk, the father too! She wept and created an uproar, gathered a crowd. The father was ready to go back, but the son said, “I cannot.” Seeing no other way, the mother also was initiated. All three became sannyasins.

But this sannyas was strange. The son had no taste for sannyas; home had turned tasteless. The father had nothing to do with sannyas; he could not leave the son. And naturally, where would the wife go? So she too became a sannyasin.

They stayed together always — wandered together, sat together, begged together, gossiped together. Their sannyas and non-sannyas were the same. No meditation, no dharma, no sadhana, no concern for realization. They would not even go to hear Buddha. People came thousands of miles to listen; they were near Buddha and yet would not listen — what did they have to do with it?

The monks and nuns were troubled. This trio was a weird little family. Word reached Buddha. He called them and understood instantly. The son had taken sannyas only to escape — there was no freedom at home.

All sons want freedom — in any way. So he took sannyas to be free.

The mother and father became monks only to stay near him, clinging in their attachment. Buddha asked: “What are you doing? What kind of sannyas is this? Sannyas means delight in one’s aloneness — giving up the search for juice in the other.”

Understand this well. To give up juice in the other also means to give up bitterness toward the other. As long as you have either juice or bitterness in the other, attachment or aversion, infatuation or anger — you are bound to the other.

So many so-called sannyasins who ran from their homes have not truly renounced. They fled their homes, but sannyas did not happen. They became bitter. They were harassed by home, annoyed by wife, irritated by children; they left in anger, not in awareness.

If awareness arises, why leave? One runs either in anger or fear. In awareness one becomes still. In awareness, wherever you are, there is light. In awareness, wherever you are, consciousness showers. In awareness — mountain or marketplace, house or temple — all are the same.

The escapist has no juice, but bitterness — and bitterness too is a form of juice. Like curdled milk — the sweetness turned sour — yet it is still milk transformed. Something stale becomes acidic — but it is the same thing transformed.

So do not misunderstand sannyas as ‘renunciation’. Sannyas is neither indulgence nor renunciation. Then what is it? Sannyas is the understanding that nothing has been received from the other, nor can be. There is no cause for resentment either. For resentment implies the belief that something could have been received but was not. If you are angry at your wife, you are saying: the wrong wife was found; if the right one had come, I would have been happy. If you are angry at your son, you are saying: a bad son was born; if a good son had been born, my heart would be at peace. You have not seen the truth that happiness is not in the other — not even in a ‘good’ son, not in a beautiful person; not in a ‘bad’ person — not in a ‘good’ person either. Not in the wicked, not in the saint; happiness is not in the other. To be utterly free from the belief that happiness can come from the other — this is sannyas.

The youth ran from home because he was harassed by his parents. Their attachment had become a prison. He could not go anywhere alone; he could not even join a festivity alone — the parents would shadow him. This was excessive; he fled. But he was no sannyasin. The parents had no purpose at all — only attachment. They imagined that through their son all would be achieved. As if God were found in the son — everything. Their eyes never lifted beyond him; they crawled on the ground, eyes fixed on the soil.

Remember: if someone keeps his eyes glued to the ground and cannot see the stars, the stars are not at fault. The stars are — as much for you as for Buddha, Mahavira, Krishna, Kabir. But if you keep your eyes on the ground, it is not the fault of the stars. Only when your eyes lift will the stars be seen.

Buddha asked: “What is this — what kind of sannyas? It seems the beginning itself has gone wrong.” The father said: “The truth is, we have nothing to do with sannyas. My wife and I want to stay with our son; he runs, he is an escapist, he wants to get spoiled, to fall into bad company — we stay after him to save him. He wants to go astray. You know, sir, what youth is! We follow to keep him from going wrong. He is eager to go wrong, so he runs. He has nothing to do with sannyas, nor do we. We three cannot live apart, so we took sannyas.”

Then the Blessed One said: “The unseen of the beloved and the seen of the un-beloved are painful. Therefore, make no one ‘beloved’ or ‘un-beloved’. The root of sorrow is this — the hope that it will come from the other. Hope in the other, expectation from the other — this is the seed of all sorrow. When it does not come, anger arises; when it does not come, agitation is born. Where there is attachment, there, when it breaks, agitation arises.”

Then Buddha spoke these three first gathas. They are rare:

अयोगे युञ्जमत्तानं योगस्मिञ्च अयोजयं।
अत्थं हित्वा पियग्गाही पिहेतत्तानुयोगिनं।।

“One who engages himself in the unworthy, and does not engage in the worthy, who abandons the higher and clings to the pleasant, should look with longing toward the one devoted to the Self.”

The first gatha. Buddha says: the one engaged in the unworthy is naturally not engaged in the worthy. Only when energy is freed from the unworthy can it move to the worthy. One cannot go both wrong and right at once. To move right, you must stop moving wrong.

“One who engages in the unworthy, not in the worthy, and forsakes the higher for the pleasant — let him aspire toward the one devoted to the Atman.”

There are two things to understand: Shreya and Preya — the Higher and the Pleasant.

Preya means: what is pleasant to me, I must get it. But you are in darkness; even what you find ‘pleasant’ is born of your darkness. You are sick; your ‘likes’ arise from your sickness. You are blind; your likes are born of blindness. If you chase the pleasant, you will go astray. First seek Shreya — the Higher.

Shreya means: transform yourself. The one whose eyes are fixed on the ground — if he ‘chooses’ the pleasant, it will be of the ground. If not pebbles then gems, but gems too are pebbles in truth. Man has made distinctions — this stone a diamond, that a rock. Remove man, and all are stones. Diamonds do not know they are diamonds; if they knew, they would laugh at man — “We are stones.” Man’s choice made some stones high and others low.

If you keep eyes on the earth and keep choosing the pleasant, you will never touch moon and stars. Shreya means: lift your eyes first; raise yourself first. Shreya means: become auspicious first, rise in sattva first, awaken to Shiva-ness first; taste a little divinity — then choose the pleasant.

He who chooses Shreya finds Preya too — for at the peak of Shreya only the Divine remains ‘pleasant’. At the height of the Higher nothing but Self-realization remains dear.

For now, if you chase the ‘pleasant’, you miss both. The truly dear is seated in your innermost; the beloved is within your heart — and you grope outside. You declare this thing ‘dear’, then that — a big house, a big diamond, a big shop, a big car... forever seeking. Nowhere do you find the Beloved. Whatever you find becomes futile.

Is this not your experience? Whatever is found becomes empty. Until it is found, it seems meaningful. Even a great palace — how long does it give delight? For two-four days there is a wave, a pride: “I got it.” After a few days you forget. Those who live in palaces do not remember their palace twenty-four hours a day; it is forgotten like a hut. Then dreams of larger palaces arise. What is, becomes empty.

So Shreya means: awaken yourself first. Only when awake can you seek the Higher. Sleepwalking you will grasp the false. If you are wrong, how will you find the right? He who seeks Shreya attains it — and suddenly one day finds that the ‘pleasant’ comes free, as its shadow.

Thus Buddha says: the person who leaves the Higher and clings to the pleasant should aspire and vie with the one who moves inward, who seeks Atman.

Buddha must have told those three: think a little — what are you doing? Has anyone found the beloved this way? You will waste your life. You will not find ‘dear’ in son or wife or father; relationships only hide the fact that you are alone — that is all. “Not alone” — that is the pretence.

Notice: when you are left alone in the house, what anxiety arises — a hollow wind begins! Alone, a fear, an insecurity. “No one is here, no companions.” And those you call companions — what are they? Their being there changes nothing. Only noise remains — a crowd. In noise and crowd you forget yourself. After the day’s bustle you fall into bed exhausted; in the morning you run again. Thus you stay forgetful. You do not notice what you are losing. This whole running is a kind of intoxication that deprives you of yourself.

Buddha said: take this to heart — hold to Shreya, leave Preya. And if you cannot yet, then at least aspire toward those who have left Preya and set out toward Shreya. Here are so many monks, Buddha must have said — see their peace. Look at me, he must have said — su-sukham vat! Look at my happiness. Lift your eyes to the summit of my joy. You live by me, surrounded by monks — so many meditating, so many descending into Samadhi, so many achieved — and you three sit clutching each other, lost in trivial talk! So much of the Higher is happening, such waves of Shreya are rising — ride them. Such a great boat is going toward the Higher — will you not board it? And seeing those already aboard, do you not feel a yearning?

Remember two words — spriha and irsha. Jealousy is worldly spriha; spriha beyond the world is longing for the Divine. Others are receiving — I am not. Let at least this sting be there. Others are waking — I still sleep. Let this thorn prick. Sitting among so many sannyasins, you are still in your home — you have not even arrived. You three have made a little den of ‘mother-father-son’ here! Wake a bit. By chance you have got this opportunity; you had no taste for sannyas, nor they. Yet even by chance you can benefit. If by chance one wanders into a garden, he can still enjoy the beauty of flowers — perhaps later he will come by longing.

It happens. Someone’s son becomes a sannyasin...

Recently a young woman from Germany came and took sannyas. Her family was upset. In the West even the word bewilders. The father rushed here. He tried four days to persuade her, but she would not go. He brought her to me, hoping I would convince her. He listened to me a few days, came to the evening darshan; he heard what I said to others — and then the very question of taking her back vanished for him. He said: I will return. Sannyas has seduced me too. I came to take my daughter; I myself am caught. I want to taste meditation. For now I must go — the mother is worried, the college is upset, exams near...

I said to the girl: you too go back — let the family settle. You are fortunate to have such a father. Go.

She returned, but the father’s heart remains here. The girl will return — the father too. He came by chance; perhaps never would have come. If the daughter had not run, he would never have. But spriha has arisen. He saw people dance and asked me: I have never danced. He saw people joyous and asked: can people be so happy? I cannot believe it.

A chance visitor sometimes boards the boat — if there is intelligence. And sometimes one who strives to come still misses — because of some trifling obstacle. It depends on the person — on the quality of being.

To be auspicious is best; at least yearn for the auspicious. If today you cannot be it, at least dream that someday you may. And look with care upon those in whom it has happened — it can happen to you too.

मा पियेहि समागञ्छि अप्पियेहि कुदाचनं।
पियानं अदस्सनं दुक्खं अप्पियानञ्च दस्सनं।।

“Do not seek the company of the beloved,” said Buddha, “nor ever the company of the un-beloved. Not seeing the beloved is sorrow; seeing the un-beloved is sorrow.”

Buddha said there are two causes of sorrow. If you do not meet the beloved — sorrow. If you do meet the un-beloved — sorrow. If beloved departs — sorrow; if un-beloved arrives — sorrow. But the root is that you made a relationship of love. Both ‘beloved’ and ‘un-beloved’ are born of that. Sometimes both happen with the same person.

Have you seen? A childhood friend returns — great joy, you embrace him. One day passes — he spreads his bedding and settles in. The second day a slight restlessness, the third day the wife is irritated: “Enough! Why is he parked here?” The fourth day the children are troubled; the fifth day you pray to God to send him off. If after a month you finally manage to bid him goodbye, you will be happier than when he came. He is the same, you are the same — what happened? In one and the same relationship, love turns to un-love.

Love and un-love are two faces of the same coin. Both bring sorrow. The beloved will part — death separates all. Before birth we were separate; birth gathers, death scatters. Wayfarers meet on the road and then part. Birds gather on a tree at dusk and fly away at dawn. Birth has brought us together; death will bid us farewell — today or tomorrow.

And many causes of meeting will pass. A woman is beautiful; you fall in love. Beauty does not last. After a while it recedes.

Mulla Nasruddin’s wife asked: “When I grow old, will you still love me?” Nasruddin was reading the paper, nodded: “Yes, yes, of course.” Then he realized what he had said: “You won’t start looking like your mother, will you? Otherwise let me say from now — then I won’t be able to ‘love’, etc.”

You fell in love for some reason; that reason will go — then what? And even if it doesn’t, what was charming at a distance loses charm up close. Does one’s own wife appear beautiful? One’s own husband? Beauty is from a distance, in the unattained. The more difficult the attainment, the stronger its effect. If a woman is so rare that she cannot be had, her beauty remains forever. The moment she is had, it evaporates. What will you do? However beautiful the nose, the eyes — in two-four days you forget.

What depends on a cause will break. Here the beloved will be met, here the beloved will be lost; love will happen — then sour into un-love. Therefore love in every way brings sorrow — while it stays, and when it goes; when the un-beloved comes, trouble. So Buddha says —

“Do not seek the company of the beloved, nor ever of the un-beloved.”

What does this mean — never be with anyone? For even Buddha lived with thousands of monks!

No — he means: do not erect the bridge of ‘relation’ in between. Live together, but do not weave relational bonds. You a peak in your solitude, the other a peak in theirs. Do not assault each other’s solitude, do not dominate it, do not become each other’s owner nor make the other your owner. Remain free. Even together, do not make a ‘bond’. This is my teaching.

Hence I do not even say: leave the house. If you do, where will you go? In the ashram, which will become your house. Wherever you live will be called ‘house’. Leave wife and son, you will still live with someone — and bonds will arise anew.

No — so there is no question of running. Drop the bridge of relation between persons. Live with your wife, but not as ‘husband’. Let the husband-attitude go. Live with your son, but not as ‘father’. Let the father-attitude go. These are only attitudes — soap bubbles. A breath will scatter them. A small blow of awareness breaks them. They look like rainbows — colorful, but nothing in the hand when you reach. Let these bubbles burst. Stay together, but do not make a bond.

If you live together and make no bond, then there is no sorrow in the meeting or parting of the beloved or un-beloved. You become skilled in acceptance. Beloved comes — good. Un-beloved comes — good. You have no demand that only thus will I be happy. Without demands, what to say of your happiness — it becomes oceanic. Beyond causes and conditions, happiness becomes your nature.

Swami Ramatirtha used to say: the great Greek scientist Archimedes said — if I can find a stable point to stand on, I can move the world. But he could not find such a point — for there is none outside. The stable point is within — the Atman. Take hold of it and you can move the world. As it is, the world moves you. You are a slave to circumstance. A small outer event shakes you. Anything makes you happy or unhappy. You are not your own master.

Ramatirtha spoke rightly: if you search outside for a stable point, you will not find it. That search is the world — a secure place outside, a rest outside. No — outside there is no stable point. Inside there is — where you can attain supreme rest. Reaching there, none can shake you. Reaching there, if you wish, at your gesture the whole world trembles.

In truth the doer are you,
And the deed are you.
You are the Atman,
And you are the so-called non-self.
You are the beautiful rose,
And the lover nightingale.
You are the flower,
And you are the bee.
Everything is you —
Ghost and spirit,
Deva and angel,
Sinner and saint —
All you.

This is the path of sannyas: to know that my world is within. The worldly path is to believe that my happiness is outside. Do not place your center outside yourself — you will fall. Awaken absolute trust within; remain centered in yourself — then nothing can shake you.

When Buddha says do not drown in company, he is saying: be your own center.

The third sutra —

तस्मा पियं न कयिराथ पियापायो हि पापको।
गंथा तेसं न विज्जन्ति येसं नत्थि पियाप्पियं।।

“Therefore make no one your beloved. Separation from the beloved is evil. Those who have neither beloved nor un-beloved are nirgrantha — unknotted.”

Understand nirgrantha. The Jains call Mahavira ‘Nirgrantha’ — without knots, without bonds. We say of two married: “a knot has been tied.” Seven rounds, seven knots. Hard to undo. Nirgrantha — no knots anywhere, bound to none, being in oneself.

In children’s tales a king’s life is hidden in a parrot — the king cannot be killed unless the parrot’s neck is twisted. Such tales are significant — this is our state. Someone’s life is locked in his safe. Parrots are outdated — safes! Someone’s life is in his chair. Twist the chair and his life seems to go. No one’s life is within.

Whose life is within is nirgrantha. Whose life is outside is granthita — knotted. Your wife dies — you think of dying. Your son dies — you think of dying. Your business fails — you think of dying. For trifles you think of dying. Your life is tied to trifles. A little disturbance outside and you think: I should die.

Psychologists say it is rare to find a person who has not contemplated suicide at least ten times. And contemplation is equal in essence. The courts cannot catch you, but if there is a divine court, you are caught. The police cannot catch you for thoughts; but before existence you are guilty. Before yourself you are guilty.

You valued your life cheaply. Business failed — you think of dying! So your life is worth only that much? You lived for the shop — not the shop for you. You insulted this vast gift of God. That is a knot.

Nirgrantha — no knots anywhere. Mahavira became naked; nirgrantha also means naked. With no knots, nothing to hide. We hide our knots — lest others discover and hurt us.

A little boy at the hospital had a hurt hand. Before the bandage, when the doctor took his hand to dress it, the boy said: “Wait — bandage the other hand.” The doctor said: “Are you crazy? We bandage so that no one at school will hurt you.” He said: “That’s why I say bandage the other hand — you don’t know schoolboys. If they know where the injury is, they will surely hit it.”

Such is the world. If people discover where your knot is, they will press it. So people hide their knots, never mention them. Otherwise these mischievous people will enjoy pushing your buttons.

In my village people teased a man by calling “Sita-Ram!” He was a Krishna devotee, opposed to Sita-Ram. If someone said “Sita-Ram,” he would flare up, take up sticks or stones. Once people learned this, it was hard for him to go out. I told him: you will be in trouble. “What can I do?” he said. “Do you have a way?” I said: you yourself start saying “Sita-Ram!” He said: “Will that help?” I said: “Try seven days. Say ‘Sita-Ram’ to all you meet. If someone says it, say it louder; say, ‘Good, son — say it louder!’” He said: “What will it do?” I said: “Try seven days.”

In seven days the village fell silent. No one said “Sita-Ram” to him. The knot was now in the open. He came and said: “Strange — it worked. Now I go out hunting for someone to say it, but none does!”

As soon as people know your knot, they tease you. Over and over, they press it.

Mahavira became naked — meaning: no knots left, nothing to hide. Childlike, he stood.

गंथा तेसं न विज्जन्ति...
He who makes neither love nor hate, neither friend nor foe — his knots melt.

Now understand further.

Jesus says: make even your enemies your friends. A high statement — but not as high as Buddha’s. Why? Because if you still remain in the category of ‘friend’, you cannot be free of ‘enemy’. If there is no enemy, what meaning has ‘friend’? If you say “All are my friends,” it means none is friend. Saying “I love everyone” means you love no one, because love implies choice.

If a woman asks, “Do you love me?” and you say, “Of course — I love everyone,” she will not be pleased. She wants you to say: “Only you I love — always you — it is eternal.”

If you say “All are my friends,” your friends will be upset — leave aside enemies. They will ask: then what is the meaning of ‘friend’?

Jesus says turn enemies into friends. Buddha says: both friend and enemy arise together. As long as you hold friend, enemy will remain. Drop both. This relationship itself is wrong. From it arise knots; knots bring pain.

This is the grammar of our pain — knots upon knots.

Why read the grammar of pain?
Life is a broken fragment —
Of form, of age, of breath —
No integration happens today.

Attachment — how long, with whom?
Eyes find not the feet to bind.
How to speak of truth —
Here, only veils upon veils.
They who wandered all their lives
Are the ones who judge conduct.
Sand and shell — and man —
A lost ray in mist.
Why read the grammar of pain?
Life is a broken fragment.

If you watch life closely, you will understand this grammar of making knots. We are very skilled at tying them — swiftly we weave them. And then we suffer. Slowly our whole being fills with knots; pain everywhere.

Dharma means: slowly dissolving knots; arriving at a nirgrantha state where you are intoxicated in yourself, sufficient unto yourself. Where if the whole world vanished this very moment, not a particle of your ecstasy would change. Your ecstasy is then your own, your treasure — none can rob it. Whatever can be robbed — do not call it wealth; it is calamity. What cannot be robbed — that alone is wealth; the rest is misfortune.

The second sutra — and first, its story:

A shravaka’s son died. He was deeply distressed.

Shravaka means ‘listener’ — he listened to Buddha. Had he truly listened, there would be no sorrow — he must have heard only with the ears, not the heart. In name he was a shravaka; truly he was not.

When Buddha learned that the shravaka’s son had died and he was grieving, Buddha said: “Then he has not heard! What kind of shravaka is he? For years he listened and not a bit has become his own. Today his son’s death has exposed all.”

His grief became the talk of the town. Daily he went to the cremation ground. The son had been burned, yet he went to that spot, sat and wept — spoke to the one who was no more. He grew almost deranged. He stopped coming to hear Buddha — had no sense left. The clouds of grief wrapped him so thickly that he could no longer see Buddha. Even when monks met him on the road he would not bow.

News reached Buddha that he was losing his sanity. Buddha went to his home.

The Blessed One asked the cause of his sorrow. “Upasaka, why do you grieve?” He said: “Bhante, I suffer from my son’s death.”

Just as shravaka means one who listens, upasaka means the one who sits near the Master. But sitting near does not help if you are not tuned to the Master’s vibrations. However much you hear, if it touches only the ear, not the heart, nothing happens.

So he was neither upasaka nor shravaka. Yet years near Buddha drew Buddha’s compassion to him.

Buddha asked: “Why do you grieve?” He said: “Bhante, my son died — did you not hear? My only son, my staff for old age, my eyes in old age, my support —” and he beat his chest and wept.

Buddha said: “It is the mortal that died. Only what dies has died; what does not die has not. What is destined to die — today or tomorrow — that alone has died. Nothing unprecedented has happened. You tied your love to what perishes. Seek the amrit — the deathless. Look carefully once again: what was mortal in your son has died; the mortal dies. What was immortal, that which never dies, the eternal — you made no acquaintance with that. And you too will die. Hurry — recognize within yourself that which never dies. Otherwise you will go on thinking you are body, mind — and you will writhe. Do not miss this opportunity — make this circumstance a device for meditation. Recognize that which within you never dies; recognizing it in you, you will recognize it in your son. Only by witnessing what is beyond death can you go beyond grief. Otherwise, never.”

Then Buddha said: “Only the perishable has perished; only the dying has died. Upasaka, if you make anyone ‘beloved’, grief and fear will arise. If you would be without grief, make no one beloved or un-beloved. Do not weave relations of attachment. Invest your life in awareness, not in attachment; in awakening, not in sleep and stupor.”

In such a situation Buddha uttered these sutras —

पियतो जायते सोको पियतो जायते भयं।
पियतो विप्पमुत्तस्स नत्थि सोको कुतो भयं।।

“From the beloved arises sorrow; from the beloved arises fear. For one free of the beloved there is no sorrow — whence fear?”

तण्हाय जायते सोको तण्हाय जायते भयं।
तण्हाय विप्पमुत्तस्स नत्थि सोको कुतो भयं।।

“From thirst (tanha) arises sorrow; from thirst arises fear. For one free of thirst there is no sorrow — whence fear?”

In life, sorrow and fear go together. That which frightens you gives you grief. Death frightens — and thus gives grief. As long as death frightens, grief will arise. Today the son dies, tomorrow the daughter, the day after the wife, and then you; each time the sorrow thickens. Children can do little in life except accumulate layers of sorrow and grow old. As layers of grief settle, one grows old. We come as blank pages; lines of sorrow are written upon us. Our life is a tale of sorrow.

How do we write this tale? At the root of all sorrows is death. Wherever there is fear of death, know you are within sorrow’s bounds. The day you know there is in you something no death can erase, no pyre can burn; that which weapon cannot cleave — Krishna says: nainam chindanti shastrani, nainam dahati pavakah — until then, fear. And until fear, sorrow.

Thus Buddha said: seek the amrit. And to seek it, turn from Preya to Shreya.

“From the beloved arises sorrow...”

Buddha is saying: you are not sorrowing because your son died, but because you made him ‘my son’.

Understand this.

I have heard: a house caught fire. The owner wailed — a lifetime’s earning burning. No way to put it out. Someone ran up and said: “You weep in vain. Yesterday evening I heard your son say he sold the house.” “Really?” Half his tears dried. The house still burned — but it was not his, so the matter ended. Just then the son arrived: “The talk was only talk — no earnest given; the deal is off.” The father began to weep again. The house remained the same — but now it was ‘his’ again.

As soon as something becomes ‘mine’ — pain. The moment it is not mine — finished. Your son dies and you grieve — not because of death but because of ‘mine’. Suppose after cremating your son you come home and find documents revealing your wife deceived you — the child was not yours. The whole matter is finished. Not only finished — you might be ready to kill your wife. Your son’s death becomes secondary — you think: good riddance, the nuisance ended. ‘Mine’ and ‘not-mine’ father sorrow.

Thus Buddha said: “From the beloved arises sorrow, from the beloved fear. For the one free of the beloved there is no sorrow — whence fear?”

Things follow one another. Tie a knot of ‘mine’ in pursuit of the pleasant — then you fear it may open. If it opens, sorrow. One wrong step, and the next follows on its own.

I have heard: a pious Jewish householder had a rule that every Friday evening he would bring a beggar home for the Sabbath. One day he took a beggar from the synagogue — behind him trudged another ragged man, and behind him another. “Who is he?” asked the householder. “My son-in-law,” said the beggar. “I support him.” Himself a beggar! “And the one behind?” “My son-in-law’s son — I provide for him.”

Such queues form. You invite one in — you have invited the whole world. You take one wrong step — a thousand follow.

Thus Buddha says: make no one beloved — then neither fear nor sorrow. And the energy that went toward Preya turns toward Shreya; you can experience the beyond-death. Taste amrit — and what fear, what sorrow?

“From thirst arises sorrow; from thirst arises fear...”

Dust sits upon your head —
Perhaps you do not know.
A beautiful mistake —
Perhaps you do not know.

Flowers that bloom
On a stone’s palm are rare —
We are those flowers —
Perhaps you do not know.

You are the ocean —
Clouds shower upon you —
Thirst is small-born —
Perhaps you do not know.

Boats at shore — now
Amid furious waves —
The topmasts —
Perhaps you do not know.

These faces, flower-shaped —
Fair-seeming masks —
Thorn-tips dipped in poison —
Perhaps you do not know.

Body is a temple —
My inner shrine a tapas-wood —
We are Arya at root —
Perhaps you do not know.

We do not even know what is happening. Where beauty seems, in the end we find poison-tipped arrows. Where wealth seems, ash remains. What is going on? Where are we going? That which we crown as a diadem proves to be dust. And within us is hidden our highest form —

Body is a temple —
My inner shrine a sacred grove —
We are Arya at root —
Perhaps you do not know.

Within us dwells the noble, the conscious — Arya does not mean ‘Hindu’; Arya means the nobility within. Seeking Preya, you become an-arya; seeking Shreya, you become Arya.

The last sutra — and before it, the incident:

While the Blessed One dwelt at Jetavana, an Anagami elder passed away and was born in the Pure Abodes, Brahma-loka. At the time of death his disciples asked: “Bhante, has some special attainment occurred?” The stainless elder, thinking, “Is this any ‘attainment’ or ‘specialness’?” maintained silence. After his death the disciples, weeping, came to the Blessed One to ask his destiny. The Blessed One said: “Bhikshus, do not weep. He is born in the Pure Abodes. Behold, your teacher’s mind is free of all desires — rejoice.”

They asked: “But why was he silent at death? We had asked — why did he not tell us?”

The Blessed One said: “Just so, bhikshus — for to a stainless mind, the feeling of ‘attainment’ does not arise.” And then he spoke this gatha.

This incident is important. Anagami means in Buddhist language: one who will not come again — whose returning has ceased. This is supreme. Never to be reborn means the fruit is ripe. What was to be learned in the world is learned; what was to become is become. No return is needed. Anagami is the last fruit. Srotapatti — entering the stream — is the first. Becoming Anagami — the river has met the ocean, union with truth.

At Jetavana an Anagami elder died and arose in the Pure Abodes, Brahma-loka — where purity is absolute, where nothing impure remains.

At death his disciples asked: “Bhante, has any special attainment occurred?” Among Buddha’s disciples, as some grew old and established in Samadhi, Buddha sent them afar to spread the message. These elders had disciples of their own. They pointed to Buddha and taught how to dissolve into him — bridges, they were. When the elder was dying, his disciples asked: “Tell us — what has happened? What is occurring within? What do you carry? Where will you be born — or not? Please speak.”

The answer is sweet. The stainless elder, thinking, “Is this too any attainment?” remained silent. ‘Attainment’ is the language of ego. Saying “I have attained” strengthens the ‘I’. The supreme cannot be claimed — while the claimer remains, the supreme is not. The one who would claim is the obstacle.

And it is not an attainment for another reason — it is our very nature. Not something found anew; it was always so. We only remembered. When Buddha was enlightened and asked, “What have you found?” he said: “Nothing. That which was, I knew it; it was always so. The treasure was mine — I had not looked at it. So to say ‘I attained’ is not right — recognition happened.”

Thus the elder remained silent. To say “I am Anagami, I will not return” would itself become a way to return — a bit of ‘I’ would remain. To say “I have attained what was to be attained” would declare ignorance.

The Upanishads say: he who says “I know” — know that he does not. Socrates said: when I knew, I knew that I knew nothing.

But silence is hard to understand. People barely understand words; who will grasp silence? Even when spoken to, they do not hear; what of the unspoken? The disciples were depressed: “Our master is dying empty-handed. What will become of us who followed him?”

They went to Buddha. Their tears had two causes — the master’s death, and the thought: “We followed one who attained nothing.”

Buddha said: “Do not weep. Your master is born in the Pure Abodes. He has awakened to supreme purity. See — your teacher’s mind is free of desires; he will not return. Desire pulls one back, desire drags downward. Desire is descent. Your master has become upward-flowing. Earth holds him no more. He rises to the Pure Abodes.”

The Jains have a symbol: coat a piece of wood with clay and submerge it. It will sink from the clay’s weight. The water flows, washes away the clay. One moment comes when all clay is gone; then the wood rises and floats. So, say the Jains, the Siddha rises to the surface of existence, to the boundary where alok begins. The Buddhist term: Pure Abodes — Brahma-loka. Beyond man — become God. No reason to return. As long as you think “I am the body,” earth holds you. The day you know “I am not the body,” earth’s grip loosens. Slowly the clay washes off; you are purified. Consciousness becomes upward-flowing.

“Go, rejoice,” said Buddha. “Your master is free of desire — Anagami.” They asked: “But why was he silent?” Buddha said: “He did tell you — with silence. Some things can only be said in silence. If said, they are spoiled. But to understand that, great sensitivity is needed — a meditative state to read that gesture.”

Buddha said: “Just so, bhikshus — to a stainless mind the sense of attainment does not arise.” Where there is attainment, there is no feeling of attainment. Where union with the Divine is, to say ‘union’ is meaningless. Words reach only so far — they stutter before truth, like a child lisping. The mother must infer his meaning. So too words before truth — they lisp.

Thus Buddha spoke this rare sutra —

छंदजातो अनक्खातो मनसा च फुटो सिया।
कामेसु च अप्पटिवद्धचित्तो उद्धसोतो ति बुच्चति।।

“In the Unsaid, whose heart has found its cadence; whose mind has been suffused — or in whose mind that nectar has poured; and whose consciousness is no longer bound in sense-pleasures — he is called upward-flowing.”

“Your master has become upward-flowing. Understand.

Chhandajato anakkhato... — a beautiful phrase. In that which cannot be said — anakkhato — when cadence arises, when the heart falls into rhythm with the Unsayable, when one becomes musical with the Ineffable; when one is drenched, bathed in that rasa — then naturally, one is freed of pleasures. For when the supreme delight is tasted, who longs for the petty? When the orgy of the Divine is found, what else would one want? Then all pleasures go insipid. They are not to be ‘left’ — they fall away as worthless. Having the essence, one drops the non-essential.

Such a one, says Buddha, is called uu rdhasrota — upward-flowing.

कामेसु च अप्पटिवद्धचित्तो...
The mind that was always bound by cravings — the chains fall. The fetters break. Freed, it rises upward.

Urdhvasrotah — upward-flowing. Until bound by desire, we are adhogami — downward-moving. Water flows downward — seeks depressions, not heights. If dropped on a mountain, it will not rest but rush down, becoming streams, seeking valleys — not content with small hollows, it runs until the great abyss of the ocean.

But the same water, heated by the sun, becomes vapor and rises — clouds, skyward — upward. Water becomes steam — upward-flowing. The same water, as water, is downward; as vapor, upward. So consciousness has two states. What we call ‘mind’ is water — it moves down. What we call ‘Atman’ is this same water, become vapor by tapas, by heat — rising, winged.

Go down — the world. Go up — the Divine.

Chhandajato anakkhato...
When one comes into cadence with the Unsayable, begins to dance — he does not return. Becoming a peacock, he does not come back.

A fragrance flew in through the window,
Carrying rhythms soaked in nectar.
Painted flowers on the walls
Seemed to scatter pollen.

A line of a new poem
Trembled impatient upon the lips —
Touched by a spring breeze...

As spring comes and flowers bloom and fragrance floats, so a spring within also comes — when the inner window opens:

A fragrance flew in through the window,
Carrying rhythms soaked in nectar.
Painted flowers on the walls
Seemed to scatter pollen.

A line of a new poem
Trembled upon the lips —
Touched by the vernal wind.

Tesu blossoms flare, the east wind strikes,
Squirting color-filled pichkaris...
Drums and cymbals climb
A new terrace of sound.

After a year, today
The mind-bird is intoxicated —
After a year, today
Again spring is fragrant.

This is the song of outer spring. Of the inner, it is thus:

After many years —
After many births —
Today the mind-bird is intoxicated.
After many years —
After many births —
Today, spring is fragrant again.

Chhandajato anakkhato...
To whom cadence has come with the Ineffable, who is drenched in nirvana’s rasa, who has forgotten the ego — who remains nothing but dancing consciousness, intoxicated with the inner wine — he becomes upward-flowing.

Enough for today.