Es Dhammo Sanantano #77

A goldsmith lay on his deathbed. Naturally, terrified of death. For he had made no preparation for dying—no one does. Life slips by just like that, and when the last hour draws near, restlessness breaks out. For that far journey he had made no arrangements at all. He began to panic.

His sons, wishing to prolong their father’s life, invited the Buddha with the bhikshu-sangha for alms. After the meal the sons said, Bhante, we have offered this food for the sake of our father’s life; please bless him. Bless him with a long life.

Even a man at the very door of death still longs for life. Which means he has learned nothing from life. It means the futility of life has not been seen. It means life has not truly been lived—for if it had, its futility would have become obvious.

People come to Enlightened Ones and still ask for the futile. Even their blessings they beg for the insubstantial.

The sons said, Bless our father with a long life, Lord. The Buddha laughed and said to the old man on the deathbed, Upasaka, now let go of your attachment to life. The desire to go on living is stupidity. At least now, drop this stupidity. At least now, gather your wits. Awake now. You have grown old; your body has ripened like a yellow leaf—and for the journey beyond, you have no punya-pāthey. If you are to ask for anything, ask in relation to that.

For the journey on which you are setting out after death, you don’t even have provisions—and the journey is long. You have no punya-pāthey. Your bundle is empty. This life is spent; you have grown like a yellow leaf—now poised to fall. The slightest gust of wind will be enough; and still you cling to the tree. Now prepare to fall from the tree. And the journey you will embark upon after death is long. The body will drop away, what you earned through the body will also drop away. Have you earned anything that can go with you beyond the body, without the body?

That is what we call punya. Punya means: an earning that death cannot snatch away. Punya means: an earning not of the body, beyond the body. Of dhyana, of Samadhi. An inner earning that will go with the Atman. That is called punya-pāthey. Pāthey means provisions for the road. On the way hunger will come—you should have provisions.

The Buddha said, For the journey beyond you have no punya-pāthey, and even now you crave more life! Even now you ask for a longer span! What have you gained out of such a long life? The old man was very old—perhaps a hundred years. What did you gain from such a long life? Now drop foolishness. If in a hundred years nothing was found, what will two or four more years give? If in a hundred years you wasted it, then in two or four more you will waste a little more—what else?

The Buddha said, Now do not seek life—seek yourself. Establish yourself in yourself. Find your center. Seek that which is amrit. That alone is the way to confront death. Life is not the remedy for death—death always conquers life, always.

See: medical science has progressed so much, there are so many medicines available, but the death rate remains a full hundred percent. As many are born, so many die. The death rate will remain at a hundred percent. It will never lessen. Yes, with medicines and arrangements one may live a bit longer, but death will come. Never has it happened that the death rate becomes ninety-nine percent—that a hundred children are born and only ninety-nine die and one remains. The death rate is certain.

The Buddha began asking him, What have you gained in life? This is a hard question. One should not ask such a thing of a dying man. We usually offer consolation to the dying. We sing lullabies so that he may go to sleep peacefully. We do not speak harsh words to one at the end. But the Buddha spoke words very hard indeed. He said, You have no punya-pāthey; establish yourself; find your center; abide in the Self; become wise; be no longer a fool; awake from dreams—life is only a dream.

Saints do not give consolation. Whoever consoles you is not a saint—understand this. Yet those whom you call saints are only in the trade of consolation. You worship them because they console you; they pat you in your joys and sorrows; they keep you deluded, befuddled. They keep saying, All is well, don’t be afraid, all will be well.

Saints do not give consolation; saints give truth. And truth is always hard. When I say it is hard, understand it rightly: truth is not hard in itself—but because you have lived so deeply in untruth, truth seems hard. You have made your whole life false, so truth’s blow goes deep; it pierces to the very core. You cannot bear truth because you are practiced only in bearing untruth.

Truth is naked; no garments upon it. Nor does truth wear masks. Nor does truth make any effort to fit your convenience. If truth adjusts to you, it becomes untruth. You are untruth—if truth becomes adjusted to you, it is untruth. Consolation comes only from that which suits you; that which goes against you hurts. Remember: there is no hurt in truth; the hurt is in you, because you have practiced untruth. Truth is not complex; truth is utterly simple. But you are complex. Truth is straightforward, clean and clear. But you are tangled, knotted. So truth feels like a wound.

Saints strike. For the strike is the only hope; in the strike is the only assurance that perhaps you may wake up. Hence we cannot even thank saints. And by the time we are ready to thank them, they are gone. Did you thank Jesus? Did you thank the Buddha?

Yes—after he is gone you worship for thousands of years. That is repentance. Your worship is repentance. You repent that you could not thank him, you missed; and this has always been so.

You worship the un-saints. Look within and test: whom do you call a saint? One by whose presence you feel consoled. For you, a saint is a name for consolation. One who pats your back, one who says, Don’t be afraid, my hand is on your head, my blessings are with you; pray and God will set everything right. Chant this mantra; wear this amulet—everything will be alright. The one who hands you cheap recipes; and in those cheap recipes you fall asleep.

Whoever consoles you is your enemy, for because of his consolation you will never wake up. His consolation is a sedative, a tranquilizer. Sweet to taste, pleasant—but whatever is sweet is not necessarily nectar. In fact, whoever has to pour poison down your throat must coat it with sweetness. Consolation is sweet poison. It will kill; it will not wake you.

Therefore Enlightened Ones strike. Their words go in like arrows. Those who have the capacity to bear are transformed; the coward runs away. He becomes offended forever; he does not come again to the feet of the Buddha; he does not even come near; he becomes an enemy.

Reflect a little: you become enemies of your friends, and you take your enemies to be your friends.

Someone once said to the Buddha, You speak such harsh words. The Buddha said, Because I am your kalyan-mitra—your friend in welfare. A beautiful expression the Buddha used: kalyan-mitra. Otherwise, what purpose would I have in wounding you? I derive no pleasure from hurting you. Out of compassion I hurt. I am your kalyan-mitra.

Just think of this incident: a man is dying—one would say to him, Don’t be afraid at all; what death? You are still young; look, what a glow of youth on your face—where is death? You will sit up soon; everything will be alright. Illness comes and goes, don’t fear. And as for your punya, it is abundant—such merit will surely protect you. God is pleased with you. Had the Buddha said such things, the old man would have been pleased; perhaps he would have given more charity; perhaps he would have invited the Buddha for two or four more days.

But the Buddha spoke strangely. He said to the dying old man, Now drop the infatuation with life. Enough foolishness. A hundred years is no small time. You have wandered blind long enough—now open your eyes. What is there in this life you still ask for? What did it give? What will it give? When has it given anything to anyone? Ultimately, your hands are filled with ash. Gather your awareness, the Buddha said—collect some punya-pāthey—you are a beggar.

The goldsmith was very rich, the greatest jeweler in Shravasti. He had abundant wealth. But the Buddha said, You are a beggar—for you have no punya-pāthey. You have no dhyana at all; what use will this wealth be? None at all. It will remain here; you will have to go alone. Learn something that can go with you; someone who can accompany you—not wife, not sons, not wealth, not status; not this outer reputation—establish self-prestige, settle into yourself; awaken a little of your own Self, so that through the dark night of death you may pass carrying your own light.

Every single word is to be understood.

He said, You have grown old, your body is ripened like a yellow leaf, and still your lust remains young?

Note this. The body grows old, but desire remains young. If desire remains young, then you have only baked your hair in the sun; maturity has not come. You have no understanding, no essence of life in your hands. You have become old, yet remain childish.

See the difference: saints become childlike, the un-saints remain childish. Childishness and being childlike—keep the distinction clear. Childishness means the man has not grown. Becoming again like a child means the man has grown so much, so much, that he has become simple again; the futility of complexity is seen.

To become childlike is immensely precious; to remain childish is a great misfortune. To be childlike is good fortune; to stay childish is the greatest misfortune.

Now this man had reached a hundred. He was like a yellow leaf; even a breeze was not needed—he would fall of his own ripeness. Standing at the edge of death—just a matter of moments. Even at this boundary he looks back; he does not look ahead. He clutches at life—let me stay a little longer, a little longer.

Understand: when a man wants to linger a little longer, what does it prove? It proves he has not lived. He certainly lived, but only on the surface. He never met life; its essence never fell into his hands. If he had lived rightly, he would not cling now. He would be happy to let go; he would give thanks: Good, it is over—a bad dream has ended; the futile race has reached its end. He would look forward, not back.

The man who clings to life thinks, My sons, their marriages; their sons and sons’ sons—now there are grandchildren, great-grandchildren—what will become of them? So much wealth I have gathered—what will become of it? What will I do, what will I not do? Death intruded in the middle; so many tasks remain unfinished. He looks back—and naturally, in a hundred years he began a thousand things and left a thousand incomplete; nothing ever completes—for from one thing another sprouts, from the second a third, and so all remains unfinished. A thousand tasks remain undone; he thinks, If I could linger a little, I would complete them. As if anyone ever completed! He does not look ahead. He dies complaining and whining; thus he misses death too—as he missed life.

If you look at life with awareness, truth will be realized. If you look at death with awareness, truth will be realized. For truth is realized by looking with awareness; what you look at does not make much difference.

To this old man the Buddha spoke today’s five aphorisms, these five gathas—

पंडुपलासो’ब दानिसि यमपुरिसापि च तं उपट्ठिता।
उय्योगमुखे च तिट्ठसि पाथेय्यम्पि च ते न विज्जति।।

You have become like a yellow leaf; the men of Yama stand near you; you stand at the mouth of departure, and you have no provisions for the road.

सो करोहि दीपमत्तनो खिप्पम वायम पंडितो भव।
निद्धन्तमलो अनंगणो दिब्बं अरियभूमिमेहिसि।।

Therefore, make of yourself an island; strive quickly; become a pandita; wash off the defilements; become stainless—then you will attain the divine Arya-bhumi.

You have become like a yellow leaf—

So first the Buddha tells him: your death has arrived; now leave the talk of life. Until yesterday you could postpone—you could defer it, saying, Death is not today. This is how we all postpone. We say, Today we are alive; when death comes, we will see. Now it is not coming. We are young; when we are old, we’ll see. The old man thinks, I am not yet so old that I will die. No one ever thinks he will die. He thinks, I will live. I will live long—everything is alright; nothing is wrong.

The Buddha said, Until now you could postpone; today there is no room left to postpone. You are like a yellow leaf, and the messengers of Yama stand around your cot—I see them, even if you do not. Death has come. Now stop thinking in reference to life; think in reference to death. Life is missed; it’s gone; nothing can be done now. You have called me too late, the Buddha must have said—at the time of dying. But even now, if you use these last moments well, something can happen. The messengers of Yama have come close—look carefully. Death is here. My blessings will be of no use. And in any case, I do not give such blessings.

People come to me for such blessings. In this land the tradition of un-saints is so long that people have forgotten what kind of blessing to ask, and what not to. From the Buddha only one kind of blessing can be asked: that awareness dawn; that meditation happen; that Samadhi happen. For before a Buddha, that alone is wealth. All else is futile. You ask blessings for rags and refuse.

Imagine asking a physician, Give me your blessing that I may get TB; bless me that I may get cancer. How foolish it would seem to the physician! In just the same way it seems foolish to the Buddha when someone asks that life be prolonged. Buddha sees life itself as a disease—dukkha and dukkha and dukkha. Birth is dukkha; youth is dukkha; old age is dukkha; death is dukkha; the very flavor of life is dukkha. What is the point of lengthening it? Would you lengthen cancer? Would you lengthen consumption?

He must have shaken the dying man deeply. Great harshness with a man at the end. His compassion must have been immense. Otherwise one would think, Let it be now—he slept through life; will he wake now? Let him die in peace. No—the Buddha shook him even at death. Why? Because truth is such a thing that sometimes it happens in a single instant. So not a single instant is to be lost. If the blow lands and the man has heart, courage, it can happen in a moment. Thus to the last drop, Enlightened Ones try that you may awaken. They go on shaking you to the very end.

He said, You are ready for departure, and you have no provisions. He must have made the man very miserable. On one side, death; everything is slipping—sons, daughters, family, wealth, possessions, the earnings of a lifetime—and on the other side, this strange man arrives! And he says, You have nothing in your hand; you are going utterly empty; the journey is about to be; death has come; the palanquin is ready; they will seat you any moment and take you away; and you don’t even have road provisions; not even a few coins set aside for the way. You don’t have even a penny of meditation. He must have made the man very miserable.

But understand. Perhaps only in very great suffering can you wake. In pleasure man sleeps; in pain he can wake. Pleasure brings sleep; in pain sleep does not come. The Buddha’s blow on his heart must have been such that—if there was a heart—it would be torn open. You have no provisions; you are a beggar. And still you ask for blessings for the futile. Do something meaningful now. Make an island of yourself. This is the Buddha’s special phrase—make an island of yourself.

सो करोहि दीपमत्तनो...

See an island—a small island in the ocean, separate from all, cut from the continent, living in itself. The Buddha says again and again—be an island. Island means: free yourself of all relationships, like a small island in the sea. Do not remain attached to anyone; become asang—unattached. Island means be unattached; be alone.

He said to the old man: Now be alone. Forget that you have a son, a wife, grandchildren, great-grandchildren, any wealth. Forget all. Even this body is not yours—Yama’s messengers have come to take it. This mind is not yours either; it too is borrowed. Now drop all relationships. Be unattached. In this last hour do one thing—break all ties, bring down all bridges. Unattached and alone, like an island. In such aloneness you will be free; then death becomes moksha.

Understand: whoever dies utterly alone is liberated. Whoever dies tied to relationships returns again—takes birth again. So long as you need the other, you will return—for the other is found only here.

If the husband dies longing for the wife, he will return. If the wife dies longing for the husband, she will return. Your longing will pull you back. Only those do not return whose hearts hold no longing for another. Then there is no need to come back.

The world means the presence of the other—where the other is available: a wife can be found, a husband can be found, friends can be found, sons and daughters can be found—that place is the world. Moksha means where you are utterly alone—the state of kaivalya. Where there is none other than you; where you are, and only you; where, to infinity, only you are—no other. Where you could not even say hello to someone, nor greet anyone. Preparation for that state is possible only for one who goes from life having broken all ties; who does not even look back; who has taken complete leave of the world. This stance the Buddha calls becoming an island.

सो करोहि दीपमत्तनो खिप्पम वायम पंडितो भव।

And the Buddha says: One who has become such an island—only he is a pandita.

Do not take pandita to mean what it means today. Its original meaning is: one to whom prajna has happened; whose inner lamp is lit. Today pandit means: one who has much rubbish of scripture; whose inner lamp is unlit, but who has gathered much smoke from outside.

You know the proverb: where there is smoke, there is fire. Today’s pandit is one who has collected smoke all around; and naturally, onlookers think, Where there is smoke there must be fire. But you can arrange it so this logic won’t work—you can fix a smoke tank and keep emitting smoke, deceiving the whole neighborhood that there is a fire, while there is none—only a smoke tank. Borrowed smoke can be brought.

A pandita, the Buddha said, is one whose inner lamp is lit. And the truth is: when that inner fire burns, there is no smoke at all.

Understand: fire does not produce smoke; smoke is produced when the wood is wet. The drier the wood, the less smoke. If the wood is utterly dry, there is no smoke. So smoke is not caused by fire but by moisture hidden in the wood—by wetness.

Where the inner fire has truly burned, and where one has dried oneself in dhyana, where the entire dampness of desire has evaporated, the whole liquidity gone, where there is no more chasing of cravings, where one has become like dry wood—thus the old phrase: kashtha Samadhi—wood-like Samadhi. One becomes like dry wood—kashthavat.

Then a fire burns. In that fire there is no smoke. The fire is one’s own—not borrowed, not another’s. And it burns without fuel: without wick, without oil. No wick is needed, no oil is needed. It is an unprecedented miracle—a knowledge arises within that has not come from outside, that flowers within you. That state the Buddha calls pandita.

सो करोहि दीपमत्तनो खिप्पम वायम पंडितो भव।

Now be an island; now be a pandita; make effort; wash off the stain; become stainless. Do not gather more stain. Do not ask for more life. Ask for nothing now. Now that death has come to the door, accept it. Welcome it. Enter the suchness—tathata—without asking for the otherwise.

Mala means demand. Mala means: let it be thus, let it be so. Mala means: Let it happen as I want. Mala means the shadow of “I,” the filth of ego. Where there is ego, there is mala. If you live from ego, you are mlechchha. If you are free of ego, you are nirdosha—stainless. And only the stainless know.

Thus the Buddha says, Become stainless; wash off the mala—and you will attain the divine Arya-bhumi.

निद्धन्तमलो अनंगणो दिब्बं अरियभूमिमेहिसि।

And what is attained by the noble, the most noble—that supreme realm—the Buddha calls Arya-bhumi, the Land of the Noble. That sky is accessible only to those who have washed off all mala. Only they can rise to that height whose stains have been cut away.

Ask my blessing, the Buddha said—not for life but for moksha. Will you ask a blessing for being born again on this earth? Ask instead that your birth be in the Arya-bhumi. Remember, Arya-bhumi does not mean some “Aryan” land like India. Arya-bhumi means the divine realm, the realm of Godhood, the realm of Buddhahood. If you must ask for a blessing, ask thus.

उपनीतवयो च दानिसि सम्पयातोसि यमस्स सन्तिके।
वासोपि च ते नत्थि अन्तरा पाथेय्यम्पि च ते न विज्जति।।

Your age is over, fool! You have reached the presence of Yama. In the interval you have no shelter, and you have no provisions for the journey. You have built no house in God. You kept building huts of clay on this earth—you built no dwelling of consciousness. You have no residence. You will wander from realm to realm, you will be a vagabond. You built no home, no refuge, you did not raise a roof.

We spend our lives roofing here; how then could a house be built in that far realm, the Arya-bhumi?

The Buddha gave many names to his bhikshus; one was Anagara—one without a house. Agara means house; anagara: houseless. Someone asked, Why do you call your monks anagara? The Buddha said, Because here my monk builds no house. He builds elsewhere—in the invisible. Where nothing is visible to eyes of skin; if your divine eye opens, you will see. My monks are not houseless; their houses are built in another realm, on another dimension. Here they are houseless because here all houses are proved sand castles—houses of cards. They fall. What is there worth building? Build a house that does not fall! A house that is forever, eternal.

So the Buddha said to him:

वासोपि च ते नत्थि...

You have no house.

...अन्तरा पाथेय्यम्पि च ते न विज्जति।

And you have no provisions for the way.

उपनीतवयो...

Your years are finished, but your desire is not? Then you will be born again, again enter a womb, descend again, the round will begin again—the same circle you have revolved countless times.

The most unique discovery of this land—the greatest gift India has given humanity—is the insight of freedom from the wheel of rebirth. No other segment of humankind ever evolved this vision. The East—especially India—gave birth to the idea that we have been born many times, and each time we did just what we are doing now. And we want to be born again—to do the same again. Then our stupidity must be immense! Anyone with a little intelligence would stop the repetition, step off the potter’s wheel.

So the Buddha said, Your years are gone, yet your desire is not? You sit in the jaws of Yama, still craving life?

सो करोहि दीपमत्तनो खिप्पम वायम पंडितो भव।

I tell you again, he said—again and again—make of yourself an island; strive; be a pandita.

निद्धन्तमलो अनंगणो न पुन जातिजरं उपेहिसि।।

Wash off the mala; become stainless; I bless you that if you make even a little effort, then there will be no birth for you again, nor again any death. You will not come to birth and old age again.

निद्धन्तमलो अनंगणो न पुन जातिजरं उपेहिसि।।

This alone can be a Buddha’s blessing—that there be no more birth for you. It will sound strange. We are used to the blessing: May you live long; live for ages! The Enlightened say: May you never live again. May there be no birth again. For if there is birth, there will be death; if birth, then old age; if birth, then suffering and pain; if birth, then anxiety and anguish. Therefore—no birth.

No such blessing is given anywhere else in the world. Only in this land has it been given: May you never be born again. May you become an Anagami—non-returner.

The Buddha said, If you want my blessing—take this.

अनुपुब्बेन मेधावी थोकथाकं खणे खणे।
कम्मारो रजतस्सेव निद्धमे मलमत्तनो।।

A goldsmith—since the old man was a goldsmith, the Buddha gave an example: As the goldsmith burns away, little by little, moment by moment, the dross from silver and purifies it, so the intelligent one removes his own stains gradually.

Do likewise.

अनुपुब्बेन मेधावी थोकथाकं खणे खणे।

Howsoever great the filth, little by little, moment by moment, it is cut away. Oceans are emptied; pot by pot they are drained. Drop by drop a pitcher is emptied.

अनुपुब्बेन मेधावी थोकथाकं खणे खणे।
कम्मारो रजतस्सेव निद्धमे मलमत्तनो।।

And you are a goldsmith—you know well, however much impurity in silver, slowly it is made pure. So be intelligent—become pure, become stainless. I do not give the blessing of life; I give the blessing of the Supreme Life—where there is eternal bliss, eternal peace.

They say the goldsmith, instead of consolation, heard these wounding words and at first was shocked. Stunned—bewildered. He must have thought, Whom have we called? From whom have we asked a blessing! We asked that this life be prolonged—and he is blessing that all future lives be ended! We asked that this life be a little longer—and he says there should never be any life again; now let it end forever; the matter closed, the very root cut. At first he was startled—as anyone would be.

He must have met “saints” earlier—so-called saints who give consolation; whose job is to bandage your wounds; to explain away everything: if you are poor, miserable, suffering, they say it is past karma, it will pass; do not worry; all is going to be well. God is testing you—this is an examination; do not be troubled; it will pass. The darker the night, the closer the dawn; do not be afraid. They go on explaining—cling to your place, remain as you are, where you are. They go on bandaging you. He must have met such saints; and on that basis he made the mistake of asking the Buddha for such a blessing.

He was startled, surely. In place of consolation—a wound! Such hard truth, such bitter words. But he was a man of courage. The blow struck home. Like a lightning flash, and in that flash the last moments of his life became full of light. It was seen clearly—the words were plain, two-edged, without frill or deceit, no elaborate theory, but simple—so simple a goldsmith could understand. That is why the Buddha mentioned the goldsmith. As if in darkness a torch were suddenly lit—the words became clear.

When he looked carefully, he too must have seen the messengers of Yama. Bitter though it was, it was true. Naked though truth may be, it cannot be denied. Had he been a coward, he would have denied it. He would have said to his sons, Whom have you brought? Bring some saint! What kind of man is this? I am dying; I want a little peace—and this man even snatches away what little peace I had. He is pulling away the ground beneath my feet. Who brought him here? But the man must have been courageous. He did not push the truth away; he let it enter his heart—though it cut and pained, he allowed it. In a single lightning flash, his last moments became luminous.

He saw: saints do not console; saints give truth. However bitter—the medicine is always bitter. He must have remembered, being ill and on a cot for years, that medicines are bitter.

That goldsmith died attaining srotaapatti-phala—stream-entry. He was blessed.

If a physician like the Buddha is met at the last moment of life, it is great blessedness. He died entering the stream. He stepped into the current of meditation. That single shock, that single sword-cut, severed the net of his infatuations. He placed his head at the Buddha’s feet—he surrendered. He thanked the Buddha. He said, No harm done. I wandered all my life—no harm. If one who set out in the morning returns home by evening, he is not called lost. So let it be evening—let the sun be setting—I have reached home; I have understood. He stopped looking back.

The moment you stop looking back and drop the desire and craving for life, peace flowers. Dhyana settles of itself. Thoughts leave by themselves when craving leaves. Thoughts are only the shadow of craving; without the fall of craving, thoughts will not go. As long as the tree of craving is there, the birds of thought will camp upon it. Cut the tree—and the birds stop coming. It happened in a single instant.

This is an unparalleled process of the Buddha. In the twenty-five hundred years since, it has happened to many—sometimes in a single instant. Yoga has no such arrangement. Yoga says: births upon births of effort are needed. The Buddha says: If there is the capacity for awakening, if there is courage—if you dare the unknown—it happens in a single instant. No need to wait eternities; no need for labor. Urgency is needed, intensity is needed. If intensity is there, a flame arises in a single moment. If intensity is not there, you may make efforts for many births—lukewarm efforts—and nothing happens. The fire never catches; the water never turns to steam; you never take to the sky; your wings never sprout.

People ask me: How long until Samadhi? I say: it depends on you. Samadhi has no timetable—six years, twelve years? Mahavira took twelve; Buddha took six; for someone it may be eighty years, for someone eighty births, for someone a moment. It depends on your urgency—your intensity—how totally you stake yourself. If you wager your whole being, it happens in a moment. If you try to bargain little by little—Let’s see if this much will do—then it takes a very long time. Samadhi is beyond time—so time has nothing to do with it. It can happen in a single instant.

The old man died a stream-enterer.

Stream-entry is the beginning; moksha is the end. Stream-entry means: one has entered the source, the current. And one who has entered the current will reach the ocean. It is no longer a question of time—he has arrived, in essence. The boat has been left to the current, and the current flows to the ocean.

Understand this.

In this world a current of meditation is flowing. That current is the real Ganges. By bathing in it you are purified; all other Ganges are futile. A single current of meditation flows in this world—whoever enters it, that current carries him to the ocean of Samadhi. It takes you—it carries you; you need not even move your limbs.

Ramakrishna used to say: Only hoist your sail; the winds will fill it and take you to the goal.

Just enter this river, the Buddha would say. This river is already going; it will take you. The moment of entering the river is called stream-entry.

The goldsmith died a stream-enterer.

He died—the Buddha was present—and died. Blessed he was. What greater blessedness than for death to happen in the Buddha’s presence? Even if one has wandered all life, if in the evening one comes to those feet, all is attained. He placed his head at the Buddha’s feet and died.

If one dies with his head bowed at the Buddha’s feet—you may not grasp what blessedness lies in it—but it is great blessedness. Stream-entry has arisen. He bent into the current of the Buddha; he descended. He took the wedding rounds with the Buddha. He formed an alliance with the Buddha. He merged into the Buddha’s vast energy. He did not argue or hesitate—there was no time. Had there been more life, he might have said, I’ll come tomorrow; I’ll think, ponder. Had he been young, he would have said, I am young; sannyas is for old age; surrender is for old age; I have much to do in the world—after that I will come. Your words appeal, but my time has not come. But he saw the truth—the leaf had become yellow.

He had been denying it, but inwardly one knows. How long can you deceive yourself? Amidst deception, truth rises. He too must have been seeing it—however much sons say, No, no—death is far; you are healthy. The physician says, Everything is fine—keep taking the medicine; in a few days you’ll be up, walking. All must have said so; but in everyone’s eyes he must have seen the yellow leaf, everyone’s face must have been saying, Brother, there is no hope now—though their words said something else. And he himself must have known—his hand heavy to lift, breath hard to take, energy sinking day by day.

The Buddha said it simply and straight. That Buddha’s honesty touched him. Friends, relatives, physicians all said, You will survive. The Buddha said, Survival-talk is nonsense. My blessing will not help—and such a blessing I do not give. Do not ask for it. Death has surrounded you on all sides; messengers of Yama are present; the litter is ready; any moment you will be seated—now decide; be established within; take hold of the ray of meditation; drop craving. He must have seen death surrounding him. Seeing the encirclement of death, he bowed at the Buddha’s feet. There was no time to postpone—to say, Tomorrow, let me think.

And I tell you this event is deeply meaningful—this is the state of every person. It is not only when one is a yellow leaf that one dies; green leaves die as well. Death does not come only in old age; it arrives in youth. Death keeps no accounts, follows no rules; it can come any moment. You too are in the same situation as that goldsmith—no different by a hair. It is not necessary that tomorrow all of you will be here; someone may depart. The situation is the same. The messengers of Yama do not come later—they come with you when you are born. They sit nearby with the litter, waiting for the chance to take you. Not that they come only when needed—by then it would be too late. Every man is born with his own messengers of Yama. You have brought your litter with you. Your bier is already prepared; sooner or later, it will be tied.

Do not think this story concerns only that old man; it concerns you. You may be wondering why I tell you this tale—perhaps it should be told to the old. You are in the same condition. A one-day-old child is in the same condition. The child who takes the first breath—often the second breath never comes. The moment breath enters, death surrounds. When will it come?—no fixed time. But one thing is fixed: it will come. It has already come; it sits encircling you.

If you think you will decide tomorrow—who knows if death will come in between—then the decision will never happen. Therefore, for the one who wants a revolution in life, there is no time but now. This very moment. If in this moment you bow, then bow. If in this moment stream-entry is to happen, let it happen. Either now—or never. For besides now, there is no time.

He bowed to the Buddha’s feet, and bowed, he died. Wonderfully blessed—he died in surrender; died in the dazzling light of the Buddha; died understanding that state. His sons must have wept; his family must have wept—for they could not see what had happened. But the Buddha must have rejoiced; the awakened bhikshus understood—a rare thing happened. That’s why this story was included in the Dhammapada. Not every story was included; in forty years, thousands of things happened in the Buddha’s life; not all were recorded. Only those that are symbolic, significant. This is a most indicative event.

So do not struggle—for life. If you must struggle, struggle for moksha. Do not crave to prolong life. If you must crave, crave to be free of life.

I was reading a poem yesterday—by Dinkar. He is gone now; he fought and fought—and went. Even at death he did not have the fortune of stream-entry. He used to come to me, asked about meditation, said he would do it someday—but his concern remained with the body. He had diabetes and was anxious about it. He loved food, and diabetes made it impossible to eat as he wished—this pained him much. Thus he went. This poem of his came into my hands yesterday—

Old age,
I have no friendship with you, it is war;
Your coming is not a friend’s visit—
it is the enemy’s invasion.
You have not come alone—
you bring an army of calamities;
but I will not surrender—
backed against youth’s last wall,
I will fight you to the end.

He fought. The poem is apt—he did as he said.

But to fight for life has only one meaning: to ask for another life. Death will come—but by fighting death you open a road to the next life. He must already have been conceived in some womb—he could not wait long. So intense was his craving to hold life that it would not have taken time—here dying, there being born. Again the same circle; again the same turmoil; again he will die. One can hope that this time he will not repeat the mistake—that this time he will die as a stream-enterer.

Stream-entry means: now one dies accepting death, for death is the indispensable part of life. Death is not an accident from outside; it is life’s own part—life is overshadowed by death; death is hidden within life. One dies accepting—because there is no longer any craving for life. It has been seen thoroughly from all sides, and no essence found. So one sinks in serenity—not fighting, but peacefully.

Whoever dies in perfect peace is not born again. Whoever dies in utter tranquility becomes an Anagami—he abides in that realm which the Buddha calls Arya-bhumi.

निद्धन्तमलो अनंगणो दिब्बं अरियभूमिमेहिसि।

I say the same to you. Death will come—accept it. Only when the futility of life is seen will you be able to accept. If life appears meaningful, how will you accept? Then you will fight—and fighting, you will miss. Here there is nothing to fight for. There is much to awaken to—nothing to win. And the one who awakens—he alone wins.

Hence we have called the awakened Jina—victors. And what was their victory? Only their awakening.

Life is a kind of enticement, a deception. It gives hope. Nothing is alright—never does it become alright—but life says, Tomorrow it will be. Just wait till tomorrow; ask for one more day; who knows, tomorrow it may be the day of destiny, when grace will shower and the roof will cave with abundance! One more day—one more day—and the man keeps sliding. If you are to wake from life, you must wake from hope.

The Buddha laid great emphasis on an-asha—no-hope. He would bless the bhikshu: May your hope die. My blessing—let hope die. Become utterly hopeless—this is my blessing. You will be afraid—hopeless? But hopelessness only means hope-less—free of hope. It is not a tragic state—it is the state of awakening. Now there is no hope, no future, no talk of tomorrow. When there is no tomorrow, your energy does not run into the future. The future is a desert—there your river is lost. When the future does not remain, no hope remains, your energy gathers—it becomes a lake; in that lake, establishment happens—self-establishment, self-knowing. And that lake one day becomes Nirvana.

The second aphorism, its story. It too is linked to the first.

There was a bhikshu—Tishya. After the rains-retreat someone gifted him a very coarse cotton sheet.

Many bhikshus would stay in the rainy months—three or four months—and after the retreat, when they set out again, people would give them small gifts. They were allowed only a little—three robes, no more. Someone might gift a sheet, or a bowl. Then the old bowl had to be left; the old sheet too.

This bhikshu Tishya spent the retreat in a village. After the rains someone gifted him a coarse-weave sheet. He did not like it—the weave was too heavy.

A bhikshu was not permitted to complain about what he received, or to say, This is too coarse, I will not take it. A bhikshu accepts silently whatever is given. But people are clever, legal-minded—they find a trick.

In that same village Tishya’s sister lived. When he was gifted the sheet, she was present. Tishya placed the sheet in her hands—said nothing. The sister understood—the cloth was too coarse. She went home, slit the coarse sheet into fine strips with a sharp knife, pounded and carded it, and wove a fine soft sheet again. Meanwhile Tishya waited with great eagerness for the cloth—and in his mind he built many fantasies about it: It will be like this, like that; wearing it I will walk thus, thus.

Notice: to create desire, man needs no great object. A fakir’s loincloth is enough—on it palaces of craving can be erected. You do not need a great palace—one hut suffices. Desire can be hung upon any peg. Now it was only a sheet—no need to be so troubled—but for a bhikshu a sheet is much. He thought: My sister will make it like this, like that.

He waited eagerly. In his mind many desires arose. One day the sister brought the cloth and offered it. His heart danced like a peacock. Such a beautiful robe—even the Blessed One does not have such a robe, he thought. His ego was richly nourished. Tomorrow, wearing it, I will go out—and even the Lord will know that he has nothing so fine. No one in the sangha has such a robe.

But it was already evening. Tishya thought: I will wear it tomorrow. If I wear it at night and go out—who will see? And the pleasure lies in showing. Thinking so, he hung it on a line with great care and fondness. That night he could not sleep well for worrying about it.

Whoever has something cannot sleep—for anxiety. Hence the poor sleep, the rich do not. The rich should sleep more peacefully—they have all things; the poor have nothing. Yet the poor sleep, the rich cannot. As wealth increases, anxiety increases.

Tishya usually slept peacefully; this night he was very restless—someone might steal it! A thousand bhikshus slept under one roof—someone might take it. In the morning it would be hard to trace. And the robe is such that it can catch any eye. Someone might have seen the sister bring it and be waiting. Twice or thrice he rose in the night and groped in the dark to see if the robe was still there.

In sleep he dreamt many dreams about it. When will morning come—when will I wear it? Desire hovered nearby. By chance, that very night Tishya died. His thirst for the robe—so excessively strong—that Tishya, dying, became a louse and entered into that robe. The moment he died, he became a louse and sat in the robe.

The next morning the bhikshus cremated his body and, as per rule, took up the robe to distribute. This too was a rule: when a bhikshu dies, his things are distributed to those who lack. The louse went crazy. No longer Tishya—he was a louse, hiding in the robe—he went mad: They are looting my property! He ran here and there within and cried out.

None but the Blessed One could hear the louse’s voice. The Buddha heard, laughed, and said to Ananda: Tell the bhikshus to leave Tishya’s robe where it is. On the seventh day the louse died. How long does a louse live? When Tishya himself died, how long a louse? After the seventh day the Buddha told them to distribute the robe.

Naturally the bhikshus asked the reason—why he had stopped them a week ago and now allowed it.

The Buddha told them that Tishya had become a louse and died again—and said: The lustful dies countless times. As many desires—so many deaths. For as many desires, so many births. Each desire becomes a birth; each desire becomes a death. And he spoke this gatha—

अयसा’व मलं समुट्ठितं तदुट्ठाय तमेव खादति।
एवं अतिधोनचारिनं सानि कम्मानि नयन्ति दुग्गतिं।।

As rust arises from iron and, arising, eats the iron itself—so the deeds of one who violates right conduct lead him to a bad destiny.

This story is important. Do not think that trouble comes only with big things. For trouble, anything will do. For the trouble not to arise, the biggest thing will not trouble you. Sometimes a bhikshu like Tishya gets disturbed over a robe. Sometimes a king like Janaka, living amidst a vast empire, is not disturbed at all.

Keep in mind: disturbance is not related to big or small, but to understanding and unawareness. This man became a monk—left everything—but the inner craving remained the same. Perhaps earlier he walked with a swagger; now the swagger remains, hidden. The rope may have burned, but its curl has not gone. Today he has a fine robe—soft—and he thinks, Ah! Wearing it I will walk—and even the Lord does not have such a robe. His mind is delighted.

This jealousy, this ego, this urge to display—this is not the sign of a sannyasin. Hence the Buddha calls it a fall from conduct. A sannyasin’s conduct means he has no desire to display anymore. No taste in showing. A sannyasin means: whether small or big, he no longer clings. A sannyasin means: even what is his, he does not take as his own—not even the body, not even the mind.

A worldly man takes even what belongs to others as his own. You came here—not bringing the land, not bringing the house. The land was here before you; you came and planted a flag—made it yours.

Man is a strange madman. When the Americans first went to the moon, they planted a flag. As if the moon belonged to someone’s father. When Hillary climbed Everest, he planted a flag. Everest has been since long before man—who does it belong to? But we claim even the other’s things.

I read a story yesterday. A wealthy Jew used to give a beggar a fixed amount every year. One year he gave him only half. When the beggar made a face, the rich man explained, Brother, this year my expenses have greatly increased. My eldest son has fallen for the country’s top dancer and is pouring money on her like water. So forgive me—I cannot give more this time. Hearing this, the beggar got angry and said, Sir, if your darling son wants to keep the country’s top dancer, let him—on his money, not on mine!

We grab even the other’s wealth.

Remember: sannyas means the question does not arise of claiming the other’s property; even what seems one’s own is seen as not-one’s-own. This small robe became an empire. A little robe—and already deceit. It was coarse-weave—he could not say, I won’t take it; I want fine. But the legal trick—where legal tricks come in, simplicity is lost, hypocrisy begins.

Among the Jains—especially the Digambaras—there is a rule since Mahavira’s time, a lovely rule. When Mahavira set out in the morning for alms after meditation, he would take a vow within: If today I see two mangoes hanging before some house, I will accept food; or if there is a black cow before a house, I will accept. He would take one such rule and then walk the whole village. Sometimes he would not find food for months—who knows about such a combination.

Once he took the rule: a bull standing, and jaggery smeared on its horns. For three months he found no such bull. And even if there were, the people of that house must invite him. So many conditions had to coincidentally meet. When they did not, he returned.

A Digambara monk still follows this. But he has found a legal trick. He has fixed two or three signs—and he keeps to those. You will be surprised—when a Digambara monk enters a village, before many houses you will see two bananas hanging, or two mangoes. He keeps only two or three signs, so the lay followers hang those signs—and so he never goes without food. Mahavira sometimes had to go three months without food; often he went without.

In Mahavira’s twelve years of sadhana, it is said, he obtained food only three hundred and sixty-five days—in effect, eleven years hungry and one year fed. Once in seven days, in fifteen days, in a month. Surely he used no legal trick; otherwise he could have kept an easy sign like two bananas; slowly people would learn and hang them everywhere, and the hurdle would vanish.

Not only that, a little “kitchen” goes along with the Digambara—two or four lay followers go ahead of him. If the village folk do not know his sign, they arrive a day earlier and arrange. The villagers cook; if it doesn’t work, the lay followers know and have food ready. So food never fails. Then what is the point of the rule? Mahavira’s essence is lost. Man is dishonest.

Once a bhikshu was returning with alms when a kite dropped a piece of meat from its beak into his bowl. The Buddha had said: Whatever falls into your bowl, accept. He thought, What to do? Fresh meat! He had been a meat-eater earlier. The Buddha himself said to accept what comes. But other bhikshus saw and said, Wait. For such a case the Buddha did not speak. We must ask the Buddha. They too felt jealous—he will eat meat and we not! They were all kshatriyas—since most followers of Buddha and Mahavira were kshatriyas.

The matter went to the Buddha. See how man’s dishonesty causes trouble. If I say, Whatever falls into your bowl, accept—this one will eat meat. But if I say, I leave it to you—if something unfit falls in, reject it—that too is a danger. Then the bhikshu may begin rejecting what he does not like—dry bread—and accept puris. That danger would be greater. A kite dropping meat is rare; but in rejecting, daily trouble would arise. So the Buddha said, Alright—accept what falls into your bowl.

Because of this small incident, all Buddhists became meat-eaters. Vegetarianism was lost. China, Japan, Korea, Tibet, Burma—meat-eaters. All Buddhist lands are meat-eating—because of one small incident. One kite created all this trouble. Millions became meat-eaters because of one kite’s trick. Now they say, Whatever falls into the bowl. And the lay followers, knowing monks like meat, began to put meat in their bowls. Earlier they did not.

The Buddha said, One should not eat what another has killed. He could not imagine that a legal mind would find a loophole. Do not eat what has been killed. So in China and Japan you will find signs hanging in shops: Here we sell only meat of animals that have died by themselves. For that the Buddha did not forbid. They say, We sell only that. But are so many animals dying of themselves? Thousands of cows are being slaughtered. The meat comes cut; the hotel hangs the sign—and you can eat happily, for it is clearly written.

You also know; the whole world knows; but who cares? The buyer says, Let the hotelier worry; if he lies, that is his sin. The hotelier says, The world knows—yet you buy. Like signs here saying: Pure ghee sold here. Everyone knows what is sold where “pure ghee” is written. No need to tell. When ghee was pure there was no sign: pure ghee. It was enough to say ghee—ghee meant pure. To write “pure” means impurity has entered.

For Tishya it was not a big thing—a small robe—but the robe made him restless. His ego rose high. Night fell—no chance to wear it—so he thought, Tomorrow morning, as the sun rises, I will bathe and wear it; in the sangha they will see; they will be struck with envy; even the Lord has no such robe as I. But by chance, he did not sleep at night; dreamed dreams—and died that very night.

Understand: whenever you die, the final desire in your mind will become the seed of your next birth. If you die with desire, desire becomes the framework of your new life.

In his dying moment only one feeling remained: the robe, the robe, the robe. Then he died—and became a louse.

Louse is only symbolic—the story is a parable. Louse means: now there was no other way—only as a louse could he enter and “wear” the robe. The robe’s craving made him a louse.

Your craving will become your next body. Therefore, die carefully. But you will not be able to die carefully unless you have lived carefully.

You have heard stories—do not dismiss them; they are symbolic: A man dies and becomes a snake sitting upon his buried wealth. All his life he thought only of wealth—day and night worrying that someone might discover where it is buried. He dies—and becomes a snake. Whether it happens or not is not the question—the point is indicative. You will become what your lifelong craving was. And whatever clouds were hovering in your mind at the last moment—their signals will shape your next beginning.

Tishya became a louse in his robe. When the robe was lifted to be divided, naturally the louse went mad; ran within and cried, They are looting my property! He died—but the craving did not. He died—but the attachment did not. He died—but the ego did not.

No one but the Buddha could hear that subtle voice. He laughed and said to Ananda, Tell the bhikshus to leave the robe where it is. After seven days when the louse died, the Buddha said, Now divide it.

Naturally, the bhikshus asked—there seemed a contradiction. A week earlier he had suddenly said leave it; now suddenly he said share it.

The Buddha said, The lustful dies countless times.

His craving made Tishya a louse. As a louse he died. Now with that craving he will be born again, and die again.

The lustful dies countless times. As many desires—so many deaths. Every desire is a birth; every desire is a death. Then the gatha—

As rust gathers on iron—arising from iron, it eats the iron—so do your cravings, born in you, eat you away. Craving is rust upon consciousness. Free of craving, one is stainless—no rust upon him.

Likewise, a man who violates right conduct—his own karma takes him to a bad destiny.

See Tishya’s plight—the Buddha said—his own delusion, his own mistake—what a plight it led to! From bhikshu to louse!

Man has traveled all these journeys. You were once animals, once birds, once plants, once mountains—now you are human. Use this rare opportunity rightly. Do not let it slip. There is one right use: die this time in such a way that there is no birth again. He alone has used life rightly who dies in such a way that there is no more birth.

For that, it is necessary to die without craving—nirvasana. To die silent, still, empty—then within you there is no direction to carry you anywhere.

When there is no desire in you to go somewhere, to become something, then you are free of the earth’s pull; then you rise to that sky where only those rise who have attained Buddhahood.

There is one birth after which there is no death—that birth is in moksha. And there are endless births in which there is death again and again—those births are in samsara. The choice is yours.

The ocean is a fair of drops;
God is a solitary man.

This aloneness the Buddha calls becoming an island.

सो करोहि दीपमत्तनो खिप्पम वायम पंडितो भव।

Be alone; be unattached. Live as if you are alone—no companion, no comrade; no one is mine, no one is other. Live like an island. And the day you live like an island, that day the lamp of true learning—pāṇḍitya—will be lit within you.

Do not let this lamp remain unlit. This lamp must be kindled. Then you will have punya-pāthey. And you will have a house in the Vast—you will not be homeless.

From the world, erase the house; in Nirvana, build the house.

Enough for today.