Es Dhammo Sanantano #78

In one way the distinction is clear—and not clear. Because the difference is between two very subtle things. What is called shreyas, in the ultimate sense, alone proves to be the truly preyas; and what is called preyas is not shreyas at all. So the distinction is subtle. Do not grasp it from the side of words; grasp it from the side of consciousness.

What a stupefied man takes to be worth doing, Buddha has called preyas. What a sleeping man takes to be worth doing, Buddha has called preyas. What an awakened man takes to be worth doing is shreyas. The real question is to turn sleep into awakening. Only then will there be freedom from preyas and movement into shreyas.

A small child wants to play even with fire, he wants to play even with a snake; if you stop him, he cries, he gets angry. He knows nothing yet of shreyas and preyas. In this unknowing state whatever seems dear to him—where is it really dear? If he plays with fire, he will be burned; if he plays with a snake, he will die. That is not pleasant at all. But how can he decide in this innocent unawareness? The more he is stopped, the stronger the attraction becomes. The more you say, “Don’t go near the fire,” the more the fire looks like a call. The child starts feeling, there must be something there; otherwise why is everyone so intent on stopping me? If there were nothing, why would so many try to restrain me?

Such is the condition of man. For thousands of years the awakened ones have repeatedly said, “Don’t go there; there is nothing there.” The result of this constant telling is that our mind says, “If all the awakened say, ‘Don’t go there,’ surely there must be something. What if there is something?” If so many are stopping us, there must be something to it! So we enter into lust, anger, greed, attachment—and we call these dear. We say, “These are sweet to us.”

And the strange thing is: a small child, if he gets burned once in fire, one experience is enough; he won’t go to the fire again. Our stupor is even denser. How many times have you been angry! And how many times have you burned in the fire of anger! Yet, when anger comes, it again seems dear to do it. How many times have you been greedy! And what have you gained from greed? You lost your sleep, your sleep was ruined; anxiety arose; restlessness came; you were agitated, distracted—what has greed given you? What is there to be gained here that someone might get it through greed? But still, when greed arises, it appears dear again.

Shreyas means that which is ultimately dear, that which ultimately proves to be truly pleasant. Not something that seems pleasant while asleep, but something that proves pleasant even when you are awake. Something that remains dear even after experience. If, after putting your hand in fire, the hand does not burn but comes out healthier and more beautiful, then even fire becomes dear.

From afar something may look very beautiful, inviting, like a flame you could catch; but when you go near, there is only burning, wounds, sores... What Buddha called preyas means: that which looks beautiful in your stupor but does not prove beautiful in experience; that which looks attractive in your stupor but does not prove attractive in experience; that which seems true in stupor but proves dreamlike in experience. From a distance it looks charming; as you approach, all its beauty vanishes. It is like a rainbow: stretched across the distant sky, how beautiful! But go close and try to grasp it, and nothing comes into your hand—no smoke, no dust—there is nothing there. A rainbow exists at a distance, not in nearness.

That which remains true even when you come close, that which, after complete experience, still proves beautiful; that in which, even after enjoyment, there is no pain and the juice of bliss keeps increasing—Buddha called that shreyas. He called it shreyas so that you remember something different from what you currently take to be preyas. But if you ask deeply, what Buddha calls shreyas—that alone is truly preyas. And what you take to be preyas is not preyas at all. Because of that so-called preyas you wander and suffer. And the wonder is that man does not learn, experience after experience, again and again.

There is a famous story in the Mahabharata; you must have heard it. During their exile the Pandavas lost their way in a forest. They were thirsty, and one brother went in search of water. He reached a lake whose water was as clear as crystal. He was overjoyed. All the brothers must be waiting, so he hurried to fill water.

But as he bent down to draw it, a voice came from near a tree: “Stop! First answer my questions. If you try to take water without answering, you will not return alive. And if you cannot answer, you will still not return alive.” No one was seen. The story says a yaksha, a spirit, lived in that tree, and that spirit would be freed only when it received answers to its questions. So whoever came to that lake, it asked questions whose answers would liberate it.

We are all such spirits, wandering in search of some answers. We too are yakshas; where have we received answers to our questions? If the answers were found, we would be freed. That is why the story is so sweet, so lovely.

The yaksha is imprisoned in the tree. His soul is captive. He is in search of certain answers. If he gets them, he will be freed. This is his curse: until he finds the answers, he cannot be free. So whoever comes to the lake, he asks, “First give me my answers.”

The questions he asked seemed very difficult. They could not be answered. So one Pandava fell unconscious. Then another came—searching for his brother and for water. The same happened to him. In this way four brothers fell like corpses on the bank. Then Yudhishthira arrived.

The questions are very beautiful, very important. One of them, relevant to today, is this: What is the most astonishing thing about man? What is the most unbelievable thing about man? Yudhishthira said, “That he does not learn from experience. This is the most astonishing thing.” And the yaksha accepted the answer. His bonds fell away.

When the right answer is found, bonds open.

The most astonishing thing is that man does not learn. Think about yourself; analyze your life a little. How many times have you been angry? And every time after anger you have repented—every time, without exception. And every time you have decided, “No more; I will not be angry again; there is no point in it.” How many times have you descended into lust? Each time dejection has surrounded you. Each time, tired and defeated, you have thought, “What did I gain? What did I get? With how much eagerness I went, with how much desire, with how many dreams—and all lie in dust.” “Now no more, no more”—you have decided many times. And hours do not pass—let alone days—and desire rises again.

So do you learn? No. The most astonishing thing is that man does not learn from experience.

The one who begins to learn from experience slowly starts moving toward shreyas. Anger is preyas; non-anger is shreyas. Lust is preyas; desirelessness is shreyas. Greed is preyas; generosity is shreyas. Gradually, learning from experience, you will find that what Buddha called preyas drops away; and what he called shreyas begins, slowly, to take root in your life. And when the roots of shreyas are planted in your consciousness—when your soul becomes their soil—then the flowers that bloom in life are the truly preyas.

So what we begin as shreyas, as the auspicious, we finally discover is the truly dear. And what we begin as preyas—far from becoming shreyas—in the end we discover is not even preyas. Therefore the one who goes in the direction of preyas is called worldly; and the one who goes in the direction of shreyas is called a sannyasin.

Understand it in the language of consciousness: the sleeping man runs after preyas; the awakened man rises toward shreyas.

It is good to remind you of the little story being referred to.

A woman’s only son died. He was her sole support. She had poured her whole life into him. Her grief knew no bounds. She beat her chest, rolled on the ground, tore her hair. The neighbors tried again and again to console her, but she wouldn’t listen. She would not even agree to give up her son’s corpse. She held it to her breast. She hoped a miracle would happen. She hoped that her pain, her suffering, her tears would be understood by God. That somewhere her cry would be heard, somewhere there would be justice. She had heard it said: in His court there may be delay, but not injustice! So she refused to let go. She kept wandering with the child’s body, never setting it down even for a moment. She would not sleep at night lest someone cremate the body. Then people decided she had gone mad.

There was no other way. Buddha had arrived in the village, so people said, “If you think a miracle can happen, take the boy to Buddha. What greater good fortune could there be! Lay your son at his feet. If life can return, it will.” The villagers knew it would not happen—it had never happened—but they thought that perhaps by going to Buddha she might understand something.

She went and placed the body at Buddha’s feet. She said, “Have compassion; you are the Great Compassionate One. Bring my son back to life.” Buddha said, “All right, do one thing. Go into the village and bring mustard seeds from a house where no one has ever died. If such seeds can be found, your son will live at once.”

Her tears vanished; she began to dance. “I’ll bring them right away—this is no big thing. Our village grows mustard; there is mustard in every home. I’ll bring it now.” She had no sense that such seeds could not be found. She did not keep the condition in mind—that Buddha had said, “From a house where no one has ever died.”

She went—one house, two houses, three houses; she knocked on every door in the village, from the poorest to the king. But everyone said, “Mad woman, where will you find a house in which no one has ever died? Such a house cannot exist! Someone’s father is dead, someone’s mother is dead, someone’s son is dead, someone’s brother is dead—there cannot be a house where no one has died. For those who now live in a house, many times more have already died there. Fathers’ fathers died, their fathers died—how many have died!”

By evening, realization dawned: death is inevitable. She returned. She had gone dancing with the joy of bringing mustard seeds; she came back empty-handed, yet still she danced. There was no longer any hope that her son would awaken; what joy could there be now? She returned with the joy that she had grasped a truth: death is inevitable. Weeping is futile. And whatever few moments of life remain must be used in such a way that one attains the deathless. In this body death will happen; it is necessary to seek that in which death does not happen.

She came and laid her head at Buddha’s feet. Buddha asked, “Did you bring the mustard seeds?” She began to laugh. “You played quite a joke—but it worked. There were no mustard seeds to be found.” She moved the boy’s body aside and said to the people, “Take it away and bury it.” And she said to Buddha, “Initiate me. Ordain me. I am here today; who knows about tomorrow? Tomorrow I too may die. When all die, I will not remain long either—so it is not right to waste even a single moment now. What son! What mother! Now I must seek that which is eternal, everlasting. Initiate me. Do not delay.”

She was ordained. She proved to be a great nun among Buddha’s disciples. Among the women who, in Buddha’s presence, attained the ultimate truth, she was one.

Jesus is compassionate; Buddha is greatly, supremely compassionate. Jesus’ compassion will not work for long—therefore compassionate. Buddha is of great compassion—his compassion works to the very end, unto the infinite.

Even if a dead man is revived, he will die again. Jesus awakened Lazarus—Lazarus had died—now where is Lazarus? He died again. He died once; then he died a second time. So the total outcome of that compassion was that Lazarus had to die twice.

Jesus healed people’s eyes—where are those people now? Their eyes are gone; they too are gone. He made the lame walk—where are they? They must long since have rotted in their graves. Jesus is compassionate—there is no doubt. But how far does that compassion reach? What Jesus did, a doctor now does. If for the time being a doctor cannot yet revive the dead, by the end of this century he will likely manage that too—there is no real hurdle. So Jesus is, at most, a physician; Buddha is the great physician, the one of great compassion.

That is why we did not call Buddha merely compassionate; we called him the Great Compassionate. Buddha gives a kind of life that, once given, can never be lost. He gives an eye that will never again go blind—an ear, a capacity for hearing, through which whatsoever is worth hearing will be heard; feet with which movement into the unapproachable becomes possible, entry into the unknown begins. Buddha too gives, but not to the body—he gives to the soul; not outwardly, but inwardly.

In India we never gave much value to the blind getting physical sight or the deaf getting physical hearing. What will come of it? So many people have eyes—yet where are their eyes, really? One more blind man gets eyes—what changes? So many have ears, yet they have heard nothing. What music have they heard? What truth have they heard? And Jesus himself repeatedly had to say to his disciples, “Having eyes, see; having ears, hear.” They had eyes and ears, yet Jesus had to say again and again, “Listen—listen with open ears; use your eyes!”

Buddha gives eyes too—Mahāvīra gives eyes, Krishna gives eyes—the subtle eye, inner vision. An eye that, once opened, never closes again. Buddha awakens as well—but not from death; he awakens you from life. Hence, great compassion. One awakened from death will die again, be born again. Buddha awakens you from the very spell of life—so that then there is no birth and no death. He awakens you to the great Life.

Ordinarily, Jesus will feel more meaningful to you. That is why the number of Christians grew. There is a reason—his message appeals to everyone; it is in your language. Who among you really longs for insight? You say, “Leave all that—who wants inner vision? Right now I need new spectacles; and you talk of inner sight! First fix the glasses. I can’t hear properly, and you talk of truth—first cure my ears. I limp, and you speak of journeying to God—first make me fit to walk in the world.” Jesus’ compassion suits your desires. Jesus’ compassion is compassion as per your measures; Buddha’s great compassion is compassion as per Buddha.

Understand the difference. Jesus gives you what you are asking for—he gives you preya, the pleasant. Buddha gives you shreya, the truly good. You never asked for shreya. So you may not even thank Buddha, for why thank someone for what you never asked? You might even be annoyed: “We came asking for one thing and you give another. We say ‘heal our eyes,’ and you say ‘meditate—inner vision will open.’ Keep your inner vision to yourself; we want eyes—we want miracles!”

Hence you gather around miracle-workers. There you feel some hope. Your infatuation with life has not ended; so you worship whoever patches life up and polishes it.

Buddha says: there is nothing of essence in this. The body will go—it is going. You may live a few more years; then what? Death is certain. When death is certain, do something by which the whole process of dying drops forever. Awaken in an inner realm where death does not happen.

So if you ask me, I will say: Buddha is of great compassion; Christ is compassionate. Christ you will understand; Buddha you will not. And whatsoever you readily understand cannot transform you; that which you do not yet understand—that alone brings revolution to your life.

There is a very lovely story about Jesus—very dear to me. The Christians never wrote it down; it is not included in the Bible. The Sufis preserved it. They have kept several Jesus-stories so wondrous that without them the Bible is incomplete. Perhaps the compilers left them out deliberately, for they are dangerous stories.

Jesus came to a village and saw a man, drunk with wine, lying in the gutter by the roadside, hurling abuse. Jesus shook him and said, “My brother, is life given to you for drinking wine?” The man opened his eyes, came somewhat to his senses, and quickly clutched Jesus’ feet. He said, “Master, I was dead—you raised me. Now you tell me what to do with this life! I was dead; you revived me. And now you come to instruct me not to drink? What should I do with this life? It weighs heavy; it brings me great pain. By drinking I somehow forget myself. Keep your wisdom to yourself—you are responsible! I was dead; why did you revive me? Answer that first.”

Jesus must have been quite shaken—would this fellow sue him, or what? But he must also have grown deeply sad. He had given this man life; yet he had not thought that after life there must be meaning too. What will life alone do? If life has no meaning, what will you do with it? If it has no direction, what then? Just getting life changes nothing—everyone has life. What have you done with yours?

You too would agree with that man. If God were to appear to you, you would grab him by the throat and say, “You are responsible—why did you give us life? Why were we born? And now you say: don’t drink, don’t visit brothels, don’t be dishonest, don’t lie, don’t gamble, don’t smoke—you give us birth and then forbid everything; you are putting a noose around our necks! Then what are we to live for?”

Sad, Jesus went deeper into the village. He saw a man running after a beautiful woman—lasciviousness in his eyes, burning desire. He caught him and said, “What are you doing? These eyes—these eyes are for seeing God.” The man touched Jesus’ feet and said, “Forgive me, Master—but I must say this: I was blind; you restored my sight. Now you tell me what to do with these eyes! If not to behold form and beauty, what good were these eyes? Would it not have been better to remain blind? Why did you give me sight? When I was blind, there was no pain. Since these eyes arrived, beauty appears—and its call is irresistible! And now you appear to stop me! Then make me blind again.”

Jesus was astonished. He left the village, heavy at heart. He must have felt deeply hurt: “What has happened? I served people out of compassion—what are they saying?”

Outside the village he saw a man tying a noose to a tree. He asked, “What are you doing?” The man said, “Stay away, and listen: if I die, don’t bring me back. I am utterly fed up. Please be on your way—there is nothing in this life.”

This is what Jean-Paul Sartre asks: What is there in this life? Where is meaning? That is what the thoughtful of the world ask: What is the purpose of life? “A tale told by an idiot”—so it seems. No meaning at all. Why not end it?

A character in Dostoevsky’s The Brothers Karamazov cries out to God, “Take back this ticket you gave me for entry into life. Where are you? Are you at all? If you are, give proof. Take back the permission you issued for my entry—because there is nothing in this life.”

Far from thanking, man makes God the culprit: “Why did you give us life? What is here but pain and suffering?”

Yet Jesus’ language appeals to you because it is close to your desires—your cravings. You want beauty, a long life, wealth, position, prestige. Jesus’ miraculous economy of life attracts you. Only those who are weary of this life go to Buddha.

Those three men whose stories I told—if they had gone to Buddha, they would have found a path. Buddha would have said, “You are right—what is there in life? Life is suffering: birth is suffering, living is suffering, old age is suffering, death is suffering—everything is suffering. You are right.”

If Buddha had met Jesus, he would have said to him, “Do not do this. Awaken people. The compassion you are practicing is costly—harmful.”

If I were to meet Jesus, I would say the same: this compassion is dangerous. Granted, people like it because it caters to their demands—but if whatever people liked were the truth, what need would there be for you? Peoples’ taste has to be changed; their love of the pleasant has to be shifted to the truly good. They have to be shown that there is a real eye and a real ear and a real life—not life of the body, not life of the mind.

Your question is pertinent. I side with Buddha: he is the Great Compassionate. But I would be unfair to Jesus if I did not remind you that Buddha was born in a land with a history of enlightenment stretching back thousands of years; there were people who could understand the height of great compassion. Jesus began his work in a place where there was no such history. The Jewish “prophets” were half politicians. Among them there is not even one man of the stature of Buddha, Mahavira, or Krishna. That is why they crucified Jesus. We did not crucify Buddha. It is not that Buddha spoke no revolutionary words—he spoke words of great revolution, uprooted the very current of tradition at its roots. Yet we did not hang him. Even when we were offended, we did not hang him. If we did not like his words, still we did not hang him.

Buddha lived to eighty-two; Jesus had to die at thirty-three. Jesus worked among the Jews only three years—within three years he became intolerable. Those among whom he worked could not understand such heights. If they could not understand Jesus’ compassion, how would they understand Buddha’s?

Consider it thus: the class Jesus got was the first grade. If you explain Einstein’s mathematics to a first-grade class, you are mad. The class Buddha got was the last class of the university. There, if you begin teaching the alphabet and “two plus two is four,” the students will throw you out: “Go home!” The planes were different.

In understanding enlightened ones, always consider: to whom were they speaking? Even more than the speaker, it matters who was being addressed. The enlightened one clearly sees that what he says must not be too far beyond the listener’s grasp. A little beyond, yes—so he can stretch, take a step; but not too far, or he will not hear at all. You know—one climbs a mountain step by step; one does not leap a chasm straight to the peak. One step, then the next; in this way one travels a thousand miles.

Those to whom Buddha spoke were of another sort; those to whom Jesus spoke, still another; and those to whom Mohammed spoke, still another.

In this sense, Buddha is fortunate. In this sense, Mohammed and Jesus are not so fortunate. They were teachers in primary school; they had to use the language of primary school.

The taste of the Upanishads or the Dhammapada is altogether different. Read the Qur’an and it seems written for the very uncomprehending. There are few heights; once in a while a height comes, but mostly not. There are details of trifles—marriage and society, how one should get up, walk, behave. The Bible is in much the same situation.

The Dhammapada, the Upanishads, the Jina-sutras—these speak of vast skies, high beyond the clouds. When the Upanishads were first translated into Western languages, people could not grasp how these could be scriptures, for there is “no religion” in them as Christians conceive religion. Not once do the Upanishads say, “Do not steal.” How odd! What kind of scripture is this, which nowhere says, “Don’t steal, don’t be dishonest, don’t lie”? Moses’ Ten Commandments—no mention anywhere; “Do not commit adultery,” not said. Naturally the West wondered, “How can we call these religious texts?” For their notion of scripture requires ethical rules—what to do, what not to do.

People come to me and ask, “Why don’t you just tell us exactly what to do and what not to do?”

They do not know that on the summit of religion the talk is not of doing, but of being—of what one becomes. Doing belongs to the marketplace, to the lower world. “Do not steal”—that should be said to thieves. Those who sat with Buddha had left the world of wealth; they had already seen its futility. Forget stealing—these were people who had given up their own property. If Buddha then lectured them, “Do not steal,” they would beat their heads: “Whom are you addressing? We have given up our own—will we steal another’s?” The topic of wealth was finished; that chapter closed.

They had entered the world of meditation. To them Buddha spoke of something else: “How to awaken from thought. How to go beyond thought.” The Bible and the Qur’an say: how to think good thoughts. Buddha says: how to go beyond thought—even good thought. The Bible and the Qur’an say: how to do virtue. Buddha says: even virtue is a bondage; go beyond it.

Certainly, this is a very different level. The stairways are very different. The Upanishads speak only of Brahman, and of nothing else. Those to whom such words were said—Buddha still spoke to thousands, among whom there were all kinds, wise and unwise. The Upanishads were intimate circles—ten, twenty-five, fifty disciples. And not just anyone: one had been with the master ten years, another fifteen.

Upanishad means “to sit near the master” (upa-ni-shad). The same sense as upāsanā—sitting close. They sat near the guru, soaked in him, swayed in his vibrations, tasted his state, drank his essence—years passed in such nearness; they could even understand his silence. In such a moment, a silent master, sitting quietly one day, says: tat tvam asi—“Thou art That.”

When this was first translated in the West, it sounded absurd: “Thou art That!” Is the man sane or mad? To whom is he speaking? What is he saying? Who is who? “Thou art That”!

These words arise after long experiments in silence, when the disciple has reached the place where the world ends and Brahman begins—where That begins. At that moment the master gives him courage: tat tvam asi—“Thou art That.” He says: “Do not fear; what is happening is you—your own vastness. You are not other than This. Go—dive in.” He is saying to the river, “Do not fear—the ocean is yours. Enter—tat tvam asi.”

If, at such a peak, the master were to say, “Do not steal; do not commit adultery,” the disciple would say, “Whom are you arguing with? Where is ‘someone else’s wife’ here? I have no wife—how can there be another’s? First there must be one’s own; then there can be another’s.” “Don’t lie, don’t steal”—such words are meaningless here. On this summit only the proclamation resounds: tat tvam asi; aham brahmāsmi—“I am Brahman.”

When such utterances were translated, Westerners said, “These texts cannot be religious; there is no instruction here to make a man religious!” There are only proclamations—and even these with no proofs or arguments. “Aham brahmāsmi”—and the matter ends. The master says, “I am Brahman,” and no disciple asks, “On what grounds? What proof?”

Yesterday I was reading an incident. A saint sat with a few disciples. The bliss of silence was flowing—the saint was silent, the disciples silent. A stranger, a logician lacking faith in God, stood watching. He had come only to ask, “What is the proof of God?” But there was only silence!

He could not bear it. After a while he blurted: “This is beyond me—say something meaningful! Why sit like this?” The saint looked at him and said, “Speak.” He said, “I have come to ask: What is the proof of God?” The saint’s answer was wondrous: “The proof of God is in the eyes of his lovers—nowhere else. Look into their eyes. Go close to each of them—peer into their eyes.”

The man said, “Spare me such talk of eyes; I want logical proof.” The saint said, “Then go elsewhere—for there is no logical proof. Love has none; prayer has none; God has none. There is proof, yes—but it is in the eyes of the devotee. If you would seek God, seek him in the lover’s eyes.”

The sages of the Upanishads sat with small circles—there was a great intimacy. In that closeness much was exchanged; at times, a word would slip out. Hence the aphorisms of the Upanishads do not even seem connected—because the bridges between them are of silence. The Upanishads are short.

Ātma-pūjā Upanishad—its content could be written on a postcard. It must have taken years to ripen. And sometimes a single Upanishad did not arise from one man but from several seers: one guru said something and died; a disciple became guru and added something; his disciple added something; thus an Upanishad came to be. It is not the painting of a single hand. Yet all who contributed created from a single state of consciousness—so it is not disparate; neither is it accurate to say different ones made it, nor that one did.

These are works of another order. It is this country’s fortune. As the West today is fortunate in science, so this land has been fortunate in religion. After the winds of a thousand years, there come such moments when we can lift our eyes to those heights, those peaks beyond the clouds.

To see Buddha’s great compassion you have to understand. Otherwise, it seems simple enough to say: If that mother, whose child died, had gone to Jesus, he would have revived the child—you would call that compassion. What did Buddha say? “Bring mustard seeds—bring mustard!” What kind of thing is that? “If you can do something, do it!”

Buddha too did something—but a far greater thing. The son, if revived, would have died in twenty, fifty, or a hundred years—in any case, he would die. What had happened would be postponed, that is all. What is a hundred years worth in the river of infinite time? They pass like moments. Your thirty, forty, fifty, sixty years—how did they pass? So too that hundred would pass; then the son would die—and before the son’s death the mother would die; and if, despite the company of a Buddha, not a drop of immortality were tasted—would that be compassion?

Buddha showed great compassion—great compassion indeed. He said: “Go, find out and return.” He gave her a chance for awakening, an opportunity for bodhi. Going door to door, asking, she began to understand that death is certain; that it had not happened only to her; that no special calamity had befallen her—this calamity comes upon all. And in asking, another thing became clear: “The son has died; I too will die. To ask Buddha to revive my son is pointless; better to ask him for a path by which, dying, I do not die.”

That is sannyas.

Even so, I will not be unfair to Jesus—I have an affection for him. So keep this in mind: the people among whom he worked could only understand in a small way. They had no experience of the heights of religion—no air, no atmosphere, no culture of that kind. Had Buddha been there, he too would have had to do what Jesus did. And had Jesus been born in India, he would have said what Buddha said—there would be no difference. For the state of consciousness of both is the same; only the circumstances differ.

Exaggeration is possible only in unconsciousness. Exaggeration can happen only so long as the mind is capable of going to extremes. Where one has gone beyond the mind, there can be no exaggeration. There, what is, as it is, is said. So instead of thinking that the awakened ones might be exaggerating, consider rather that the error lies somewhere in our own thinking and understanding.

That is true. If it did feel so, revolution would happen in your life. That very seeing would lay the ember, the first spark would catch. There is suffering in life—much suffering—but a hope remains: today it is so; tomorrow all will be well. It is here now, but it cannot last forever. Just a little while more—endure it—surely a good hour must be coming. Someday there will be happiness. Because of hope, it never feels that life itself is suffering. Hope keeps it all going.

Hope gives great protection to life. Experience says, “Nothing but suffering.” Hope says, “Wait—don’t decide so quickly—life is still ahead. If it hasn’t happened till now, that doesn’t mean it won’t happen tomorrow. If you have failed so far, tomorrow you will succeed. Look, Mahmud of Ghazni came—he was defeated seventeen times and won on the eighteenth. A man may lose; keep courage, keep patience; keep fighting, keep struggling; if you lose today, you’ll win tomorrow; victory also happens—don’t panic.” Hope pulls you along. And hope always triumphs over our experience. This is our misery, our pain, our nuisance, our stupor.

Mulla Nasruddin was harried by his wife. Many times he had thought, “If only she would die.” Very few husbands there are who never think that. Wives perhaps don’t think it so clearly. They too think—but in a hazier way. Who does not think so, when the companionship begins to weigh heavy? So Mulla had thought it many times; many times he even made plans to kill her—but then he would be afraid: the court, this, that—all the entanglements.

Then, by coincidence, the wife did die. At her death he announced to his friends, “I will never marry again.” But three months later he started looking for a girl. His friends said, “Are you mad? Have you forgotten what you said three months ago?” He said, “Oh, let that go—hope is defeating experience. Not all women are like that. If it went wrong with one, it won’t go wrong with all. There are bad women; there are good women. Once I slipped by mistake; now I’ll place my step carefully.”

Thus hope keeps explaining and persuading. The same will happen again. With the second woman too, the same will happen. With the second husband too, the same will happen. What happened in this life will happen again in the next. But the mind says, “There must be some way; somewhere there must be a device to get out!” Experience belongs to the past; hope belongs to the future. The hope of the future keeps defeating the experience of the past and goes on protecting us. That is why it does not appear to you that life itself is suffering.

If you look rightly, what Buddha said is not exaggeration but a direct exposition of truth.

Though the whole city lies spread out,
there is nowhere fit to live.
We measure the limits of the sky,
yet we cannot find the road.
Our plans are like the Himalayan peaks,
yet there is not even a grain of “thus it is.”
How can anyone reach the goal,
how go to the very edges?
Heaps upon heaps of rays lie scattered,
yet as far as you can see, no morning.

Axle-less, all are whirling;
the only command is to keep moving.
In the fierce current of the river of Time,
we drift—dependent, helpless.
How can anyone plant his feet,
how make the proud ocean bow?
Heaps upon heaps of waves are piled,
yet there is no surface on which to swim.

Life’s momentary dreams
break even before they can be adorned.
Whoever came to lend support,
their bewitching drapes slipped away.
Who will console the mind,
who will untangle the breath?
There are a hundred thousand excuses for dying,
but there is no reason to live.

Though the whole city lies spread out,
there is nowhere fit to live.

If you look rightly—if you look with hope set aside—there is night and only night here; no dawn as far as you can see. If you look rightly you will find there is no way but to drown; there is no surface on which to swim.

There are a hundred thousand excuses for dying,
but there is no reason to live.

We are afraid—even to see thus makes our very life tremble; the ground slips from under our feet. We are frightened that if it is seen so, we will collapse right there. How then will we walk, how will we rise? If the thread of hope breaks, the support will break. Hope is the stick in a blind man’s hand. If it is gone, how will we walk, how will we rise? How will we breathe, how will we speak? Then it will be difficult.

So we are afraid. So we keep persuading ourselves. We say, “True, it hasn’t happened yet—but tomorrow it will.” On the crutch of tomorrow, the fact of life stays hidden. Till death, no happiness comes. Many times it seems, “Now I have it, now I have it,” and it slips away. Many times it feels, “Now we are close, the goal is right at hand; one more step,” and again it slips. The goal always stays ahead—yet it never arrives.

Life’s happiness is like the horizon. It seems to be “there—look!” Walk a little farther—ten miles at most—and you will reach. But the more you advance, the more the horizon recedes. There is no horizon anywhere. Earth and sky do not meet anywhere. The earth is round. They seem to meet. Mind and fulfillment never meet. The very nature of mind is non-fulfillment. Between craving and the fulfillment of craving there is never any marriage. Craving itself is non-fulfillment. The nature of craving is insatiability.

Buddha said, craving is insatiable; it cannot be filled.

A fakir begged at an emperor’s gate. By chance the emperor himself was standing there. He asked the fakir, “What do you want?” The fakir said, “I want nothing else—this is my begging bowl; fill it.” The emperor asked, “With what shall I fill it?”—perhaps joking. The fakir said, “With anything at all—but I will go with a full bowl. If you are an emperor and have some pride of being, fill it even with earth, but fill it full. I will not go empty. It’s just a small bowl.” The emperor laughed and told his vizier, “Go, fill his bowl with diamonds and jewels—he’ll remember that he once begged from an emperor!”

The fakir stood there laughing. His laughter began to sting a little. There was great irony on his face. And when the vizier came and filled the bowl with diamonds and jewels, then the emperor understood that trouble had begun. Those diamonds and jewels fell into the bowl and disappeared; the bowl remained empty.

It is a sweet Sufi tale.

The emperor went mad. He said, “Even if all is squandered, the bowl must be filled!” Crowds gathered, the whole capital collected, people came running; the news spread through the villages: a fakir has issued a challenge and the emperor has accepted it—and the bowl will not fill. Diamonds and jewels were poured in, gold and silver, rupees and coins—whatever the emperor had, he poured—and the bowl remained empty. At last he was defeated; he fell at the fakir’s feet and said, “Forgive me—but before you go, tell me the secret of this bowl.”

The fakir said, “You haven’t understood? This is no ordinary bowl. It is made from the mind of man, fashioned from the human heart, woven from human craving. It is insatiable. You can go on filling it and it will remain empty.”

Do not laugh, because the story may not seem very realistic; it may seem utterly false. But I tell you, it is true. And it is your story. You too have been pouring into the bowl within—has it filled? First you thought, “Ten thousand rupees”—one day that happened, and you found nothing had filled. Then you thought, “Let it be a lakh”—that too happened one day—and still you found the bowl unfilled. You thought of a million—that too came one day...

Andrew Carnegie, America’s great multi-millionaire, died leaving ten billion rupees—yet he died dissatisfied. Ten billion! One ought to be content—what more could one want? But at the moment of death someone asked him, “Carnegie, you must be dying content, for you amassed such an immense fortune”—and Carnegie had come from a poor home; not a penny from his father; by his own strength he left ten billion rupees. Carnegie opened his eyes and said, “What are you saying? I am dying dissatisfied—for my plan was to gather a hundred billion. Ten billion—what does that solve? I am dying defeated by ninety billion.”

Carnegie dies defeated, and Alexander too dies defeated. All die defeated. This story is absolutely true. It may appear utterly false, and yet you will not find a truer story.

Search it within yourself and you will see. You thought, “If only this woman comes, if only this man comes, all will be fulfilled. Then we will build heaven; in this tiny hut itself heaven will settle.” The woman came—and now the noose is around your neck and nothing else is happening. You thought, “If only a child is born—a son—then there will be glee in the house, laughter and joy, flowers will shower.” A son was born—now you are beating your head. “Kabir begot a son, Kamal, in his old age.” Now this “Kamal” has arrived! And with him the endless troubles.

Whatever you have desired—if it did not happen, then perhaps the illusion remains that “had it happened, happiness would have come.” If it did happen, the illusion broke. The woman you didn’t get is still beautiful; the one you did get—her beauty has all vanished. Blessed are those lovers whose beloved never becomes theirs; that is why Majnun is at ease. Unfortunate are the lovers whose beloved does become theirs. The moment she is had, all is finished. Whatever you have desired, the moment it arrives it turns futile, because nothing fills—the mind simply does not fill. It is not the mind’s nature to be filled.

The day this becomes visible to you, that day you will not say, “There is much suffering.” That day you will say—“Life is suffering.”

O, you who wake me every morning,
O, you who lull me every evening,
if you had to weave so much sorrow into the world,
then do not give me eyes.

At whatever door I went, I found
want seated there, turned some into beggars.
In autumn’s house lay mortgaged
every garden that had ever charmed the heart.
Someone was destitute in the sun,
someone was grief-stricken in the shade;
from palaces down to huts,
sorrow was kin to every joy.
So the marketplace went on: the flowers were sold,
the gardeners took the price;
richer than all the lamps
was the finger that snuffed them.

Nor only this—hiding
behind golden thrones,
the dark night of no-moon
branded the full moon unchaste.
How strange a thirst—that
every goblet drank its own life away;
in the struggle to live,
every living one was dying.
By name, all were kin,
but they were leaves in a storm;
as soon as familiarity grew between them,
every garland withered.

O, you who paint every picture,
O, you who stage every revel,
if all the images were false,
then do not give a mirror to youth.

O, you who wake me every morning,
O, you who lull me every evening,
if you had to weave so much sorrow into the world,
then do not give me eyes.

But I tell you—where are the eyes? Who has eyes to see this sorrow? Even if God did give eyes to see sorrow, you have kept them shut. Out of fear you do not open your eyes and look. You abide by the same logic as the ostrich. When the ostrich’s enemy stands before him, he buries his head in the sand. His logic is straightforward—Aristotle’s very logic. It is this: what is not seen is not.

You too walk by the same logic. People come to me and say, “If God is, then why does He not appear? What cannot be seen does not exist.” That is the ostrich’s logic. He closes his eyes, buries his head in the sand; the enemy stands before him, but he does not see; and because he does not see, he thinks, “He is not.” He is at ease.

In just this way we have hidden our eyes from life’s truths. Life stands before us, bearing a mountain of suffering; we do not look at life—we look ahead. We look in dreams; we weave imaginings; we weave dreams.

Gurdjieff used to say—and he was right—that as there are buffers between two railway coaches, and the work of a buffer is that if ever a strong jolt comes, the passengers should not be jolted—the buffer absorbs the shock; or as there are springs beneath a car—if a pothole comes, the springs absorb the jolt, and the passengers inside feel only a slight stir; the better the car, the better the springs; the more expensive the car, the better the springs—the very meaning of a spring is to swallow the blows and not let them reach you.

Dreams are our buffers. Because of dreams, life’s jolts do not reach us. The dream swallows the shock. Between us and life there is a wall of dreams. There life is, striking blows; here we keep dreaming. We live in dreams; we scarcely live in life. That is why it does not appear to us that life is suffering. And one who does not see that life is suffering will not enter the great Life.

When, bit by bit, gram by gram, it becomes one hundred percent proven to you that life is suffering—pure suffering, nothing but suffering; that “suffering” and “life” are synonyms—on the day this realization happens, that very day you will awaken; that day you will have to awaken.

A man came to Buddha and said, “If you say so, it must be true that life is suffering.” Buddha said, “Stop! By my saying so, life cannot become suffering. Even if you accept my words, life will not become suffering for you. You say, ‘If someone like you says it, it must be true.’ From your very words, it is clear you are not in agreement with me.” “No,” the man said, “when a man like you says it, it must be true.”

This is not a question of what Buddha says; this is a question of what you see. So Buddha said, “Fine—if it seems to you that what I say must be right, then now drop it; how long will you keep clutching at suffering?” He said, “Not now; I will come, surely I will come; I must come to your path—ultimately everyone must—but not now.” Buddha said, “If your house were on fire, and you saw the flames starting to leap and the house begin to burn—would you run out that very moment, or would you think, ‘I will go; I certainly must; everyone is running, I too will—but not now’?” The man said, “What are you saying! If the house is on fire, where is the time to think? A man runs out.” Buddha asked, “Would you ask someone, ‘From where should I exit—by the door, by the window, by the back door, by the front door? Shall I jump from the roof, from the terrace?’ Would you ask anyone?” He replied, “What are you saying! If the house is on fire, does anyone ask? Wherever one finds a way out, one goes out.”

Buddha said, “Just so—on the day the truth of life becomes visible to you, you will not be able to postpone even for a moment. You will go out. One simply cannot remain.”

The day Buddha left his palace, the charioteer who drove him out beyond the village was an old man, an old servant of Buddha; he had seen Buddha since childhood; Buddha was like a son to him. When Buddha told him there, “Now take the chariot back; take these ornaments of mine—your gift, your reward; and take these clothes of mine too, for I will have no need of them now,” and when he began to cut his hair, the old man said, “What are you doing?” He replied, “Take this hair too—for what need will I have now?”—his hair was very beautiful—“I am becoming a monk now.” The old man began to plead, “Son, wait; after all, I am your father’s age; I saw you grow up—what are you doing? Leaving such a beautiful palace, such a beautiful wife, and a son just born—where are you going? Are you in your senses? Look back once!”

Buddha said, “I keep looking back again and again, but I see nothing there but flames—my mansion is burning.” The old man said, “I do not see any flames.”

Buddha said to that man, “If the flames should become visible to you, then you too will not stop; then you will not postpone.” Postponement is possible only so long as the flames have not appeared.

On the day it becomes visible to you that life, in truth, is suffering, you will not be able to remain even a moment. And Buddha does not exaggerate. Where is exaggeration in Buddhahood! It may seem like exaggeration to us because we think: it is fine to say there is suffering in life, even to say there is a lot—but nothing but suffering! That frightens us; we do not want to accept it. “Somewhere there must be happiness; at least a little happiness!”

Yes, there is happiness—in hope. Never in the event. In the future—never in the present. Happiness is in the dream. And wrapped in that dream, we somehow endure this suffering; the blow of suffering cannot reach us.

If we break the dream, the shock of suffering will awaken us. It is the blow of suffering that sets a man upon the journey toward Buddhahood.

Neither hiding it will do much, nor revealing it will do much. Understand sorrow. What difference do hiding and revealing make? Understand, wake up, look; stare into sorrow, meditate on it. If there is sorrow, why is there sorrow? Where is its root? What is its cause? If there is sorrow, then in some way you are watering its root. If there is sorrow, then in some way you are supporting it to be. Analyze sorrow. Understand it with awareness. And as it becomes visible in how many ways I myself am holding up my sorrow, your hands will begin to withdraw from supporting it. The day you stop holding up your sorrow, the pot of sorrow falls by itself and shatters.

There is sorrow because you are making it. Sorrow is like riding a bicycle. It moves only as long as you keep pedaling; stop pedaling and the bicycle stops. It may roll on a little from old momentum, but not for long.
Why? Because how will it move without pedaling? The wheel of sorrow—you are the one turning it. But somehow you have stopped seeing that you are turning it. You always play one trick: whenever you are unhappy, you think someone is making you unhappy.
The husband is unhappy; he thinks the wife is making him unhappy. The father is unhappy; he thinks the son is making him unhappy. Someone or other—you push sorrow onto them: “Someone is making me suffer.” This is your trick; through it sorrow survives. The day you look closely you will find: I am making myself suffer—how can anyone make me suffer! Who has the power to make you unhappy! No one can make you unhappy or happy; your freedom is ultimate.

Suppose someone insults you. On the surface it looks simple: had he not insulted, we wouldn’t be hurt. It’s not so simple. If someone insults you and you are not ready to be hurt, then even on being insulted you will not be hurt. You will walk away laughing. You will say, “Poor fellow, what’s happened to him! If abuse is bubbling in him, there must be great pain inside, great distress.” But you won’t be disturbed by it.
If someone abuses Buddha, Buddha is not disturbed. A reason to be disturbed arises only when disturbance already exists within you. When there is a wound inside and someone pokes it. If someone pokes and there is no wound, you are not disturbed.

Have you noticed—when someone insults you, the pain is because your mind had a longing for respect and you received disrespect. You wanted honor and you got dishonor. You thought this person would praise you, sing your glory—and he hurled abuse. Have you also noticed: an insult affects you in the same measure as the person is close to you. The blow lands from those who are very close, because from those very close your expectations are very big. If a stranger abuses you, it doesn’t hurt as much. But if a friend abuses you, it hurts more.
Why? The abuse is the same. But you had not expected abuse from a friend; from a friend you had wanted that he would never abuse. It is the near ones who wound us—have you noticed? What wound can a stranger give! If your own son says something, it stings. If another’s son says the same, it does not sting; what do you have to do with him! You had never thought anything better would come from him.

So the injury lies in your expectation. The cause is within you. Sorrow doesn’t come from outside; you are its maker. You pedal, the wheel spins. You give it motion, it moves.
One thing: stop shifting it onto others; and enter the cause. You will always find the cause within yourself. This is precisely what Buddha stated as the Four Noble Truths—there is suffering; there is a cause of suffering; there are methods to be free from suffering; and there is the state of freedom from suffering. These are the Four Noble Truths—the greatest truths.

There is suffering, and there is a cause of suffering. And the cause is not outside—because if it were outside, it would be beyond your power. If others are making you suffer, then until others decide not to make you suffer, you can never be happy. Then even nirvana becomes a bondage. Then my liberation would depend on you. Then there is no freedom, and the whole glory of man falls.
No. If I wish to be happy, no one can make me suffer. Because I can remove all the inner causes of sorrow. If dishonor hurts me, I can drop the craving for honor—then how will dishonor hurt me? If losing wealth hurts, I can renounce my clinging to wealth—then how will it hurt! If calling someone “mine” brings sorrow, I can stop calling anyone “mine,” become unattached—then how will it hurt!

Consider this: you are walking down a path and a branch breaks off a tree, falls on your head, and injures you. You don’t curse the branch. You don’t say it’s your enemy. There will be pain—because there is injury—but there is no sorrow. But suppose someone had picked up that same branch, made a stick of it, and struck you on the head—then there would be pain and sorrow.
A Zen monk was passing along a path. A branch fell from a tree and injured him. He stood there, looked at the whole thing, and quietly walked on; he said nothing. A man was watching all this. He cut that branch into a stick, and the next day when the monk came by, he went and struck the monk on the head with it. The monk again stood and looked, thought for a moment, then started on his way. The man said, “Wait! Now I must ask you something. Yesterday you walked on—I understood that: a branch fell from above, a coincidence. But today it is I who have struck you.”
The monk said, “For a moment I too was startled—what should I do now! Then I thought: this too is a coincidence—that such an idea arose in you. That the branch broke at that moment was a coincidence; that such an idea arose in you is also a coincidence. If I wasn’t angry at the tree, why be angry at you? I had no expectation from the tree; I have none from you.” Thinking thus, I went on my way. The matter is finished.

If you enter attentively into the cause of your sorrow, understand, something will happen.
You asked, “There is sorrow; should we hide it or reveal it?”
If there were only two options—hide or reveal—I would tell you: reveal it, don’t hide it. But there is a third option: understand, awaken, see. If only these two options exist, then I support revealing, not hiding. Because hiding only piles it up.

Someone dies in the house—the wife dies, or the husband dies, or the son dies—then there are three options. Either understand, which is the highest option. Perhaps you won’t manage it; it is hard. If you do, you start walking toward Buddhahood. Perhaps you won’t manage it, and then only two alternatives remain—hide it or reveal it? Then I say: reveal it. Then cry. Beat your chest. Roll on the ground; go without food for a couple of days; lie there like a corpse—this will help. It will flow out.
If you hold it in, it will stay inside like pus. It will torment you longer. It will accompany you far. What could have left in two or four days may take two or four births to leave—or may never leave at all; the wound may remain.

A woman was brought to me—a professor, an educated lady. Her husband died; she did not cry. And the people of the village praised her greatly; everyone said this is how the intelligent should be. Everyone praised her, so she held herself even more firmly. But three months later she began to have hysteria—fits, fainting. Someone brought her to me. I asked her all about it. I asked, “Did you love that man?” She said, “I loved him deeply. It was a love marriage; I fought with my parents to marry him.” Then I said, “You must have felt sorrow?” She said, “I did, but I didn’t express it. What’s the point of expressing it!”
I said, “That very sorrow has accumulated and is now causing fainting. Cry—cry with all your heart. Don’t suppress it.” She said, “What will that do? Will my husband come back?” I said, “Your husband won’t come back. Only this hysteria will go. I’m not saying your husband will return. If you cry, he won’t return; if you don’t, he won’t return; if you laugh, he won’t return. Nothing will change there. He is gone. But this hysteria—this tension you have piled up, which has become unendurable, which your brain’s nerves can no longer bear and so you faint—this will go.”
For three days she wept with her whole heart. She dropped all her cleverness and wept. She wept like a simpleton. And after three days the entire illness disappeared. It has been three or four years since then; not once has she fainted, nor had a single hysterical fit.

It’s simple: if a wound can heal, wonderful; if it cannot, then it is not right to keep the pus within—bring it out. And however much you hide, you won’t be able to hide it; it will come out somewhere—through hysteria, or in dreams, or as anger—somewhere it will come out.

Whether or not a man sings—how will pain keep silent?
The tear that spills from the eye will be a song of anguish.
The heart’s silent wail will be the music of life.
Whether the choked voice allows it or not—how will life keep silent?
Voices do not awaken in pleasures; it is pain that awakens poetry.
Some ache turns into a song; the wounded breath keeps singing.
Even if the instrument sulks—how will the throat remain silent?
Even if the lips are sealed a hundred thousand times—the eyes will speak.
Silence is the very language of love; all words are beggars.
Whether form speaks or not—how will silence keep silent?
Whether or not a man sings—how will pain keep silent?

Whatever is, let it be expressed. Do not keep it hidden. Do not suppress it. Let it come—in any form—let it come as song, let it flow as tears, let a wail arise—let it come, let it be released.
But I am not saying this is the supreme method. By this you will only remain ordinarily healthy. The supreme method is: understand why there is sorrow! And you can use the supreme method and also express the sorrow—both can go together; there is harmony between them. If you hide sorrow, you won’t be able to use the supreme method either, because what is hidden you will be afraid to look at—lest it burst forth just by being seen. You will keep pushing that matter away, shoving it into some dark corner of the mind.

Reveal it. And do not take mere expression to be the ultimate method. It will keep you healthy, but it will not make you self-realized. Along with expressing, add awareness. Along with expressing, add meditation. Let the tears flow, and within, stay alert and watch—why has this sorrow arisen? Do not condemn. Do not say sorrow is bad. Do not say sorrow should not have been. Do not judge. You simply observe: why has the sorrow happened?

If the sorrow is from a husband’s death, it only means you had become too attached, forged too many ties—hence the pain. So be alert in the future. In forming ties there is sorrow; in weaving attachment there is sorrow. Then do not go on manufacturing attachment. Live in the world, but live as if utterly unattached to it. Live like the lotus—in the water, yet the water does not touch it. Then there is no sorrow.

I never wished to make the world a partner in my sorrow,
yet unbidden, in my songs the ache of the heart rises.
Every pearl from my eyes is mine, yet moments of joy are always desolate;
when I plunged into the ocean of experience, Truth seemed to claim me.
Whenever, tormented by separation, I wandered, I saw you in each and every speck;
but if you came near me, even the familiar all seemed strangers.
I never wished to confine you merely within my eyelids,
yet, unawares, some form within begins to shine—
the heart’s pain wells up.

Some say there is no eternal essence in these songs;
they are but a scale of sorrow, with no sweet enticement of joy.
In every particle, pain smiles; even the eyelids of the sky are wet.
If the earth is weeping, that I should sing—this I cannot accept.
I never wished to leave the world distraught through these songs,
yet unawares, in restless notes, pain itself sings me—
the heart’s pain wells up.

I never wished to make the world a partner in my sorrow,
yet unknowing, in the songs the heart’s pain rises.
This too is an ego—to decide that I will not make anyone a sharer in my sorrow. This too is “I-ness.” The egoistic person does not express his sorrow.

Have you noticed this difference between women and men? Women readily express their sorrow—something hurts, they weep. Therefore women are light; men are very heavy. You will be surprised to know that, in the world, twice as many men go mad, and twice as many men commit suicide. And if we include all those men who go to wars to kill and be killed, then the number would be much higher, for they too are mad. And every ten years some great world war seems to be required so that the mad among men get culled.

What could be the reason? Man has forgotten the art of crying. A man’s ego—how can a man cry! A little boy starts to cry and you say, “Hey, you’re a boy, and you cry! You’re becoming like a girl—doing girlish things! Don’t cry.” They do not allow even little boys to cry. Slowly the art of crying is forgotten. And the art of crying is great: it is the natural method to ease and lighten the mind. Therefore women are healthier—mentally. Women live five to seven years longer than men; their average life span is greater. Women’s endurance is greater.

Just consider: if a man had to carry a child in his belly for nine months, the birth of human beings would already have come to a halt. Or if a man had to raise an infant—just imagine!—every day the courts would have cases that a father strangled his son. The child doesn’t let him sleep at night—when will he scream, when will he call, when will he cry! Spend a day or two at home taking care of your child and you will know: he will drive you mad.

A woman’s capacity is great; her endurance is great. And behind all that, psychologists say, the reason is that a woman does not hide her sorrow; she lets it be expressed. Therefore the sorrow flows away.

The man holds it back. Who taught you this madness—“Don’t cry, because you are a man!” Nature has made equal tear glands in the eyes of both; there is not the slightest difference. A man’s eye has as much capacity for tears as a woman’s. So nature has made no distinction. Nature intended that you too should sometimes cry. But human society has made the distinction. It has filled the man with stiffness: “No, this is women’s work; you must not do it.” A woman cries, becomes light; the tide ebbs, the fever subsides. Therefore there is a softness, a beauty in woman. In man there is a hardness. This hardness can diminish if your eyes learn the art of shedding a few tears.

So I would tell you: if the choice is only between hiding and expressing, then express. But the choice is among three: hiding, expressing, and watching with awareness. The great thing is to watch with awareness. That will bring freedom; that will bring a revolution at the very root.

Taru has sent these lines. If such a feeling, such a prayer surrounds you, what you long for will come to be. Prayer is an extraordinary power. And if you are to ask of the Divine, do not ask for anything petty. If you must ask, ask only this—
“Unfold my inner being,
O Innermost!”
If you must ask, ask for something of consciousness. If you must ask, ask for something of liberation. And if this prayer surrounds you, if it settles into each breath, there will be results. This prayer will not change God; it will change you.

Keep this in mind: many people think that if we pray, God will change and will do what we ask. There is no such God anywhere. Your prayer is not going to change God; but the one who prays is changed by prayer. If day after day you keep humming:
“Unfold my inner being,
O Innermost!
Make me pure,
make me radiant,
make me beautiful, O!
Awaken me,
uplift me,
make me fearless, O!
Make me auspicious,
make me selfless,
make me doubtless, O!
Unfold my inner being,
O Innermost!”
If this becomes a resonance in every breath, if it settles into every heartbeat, if it becomes the vibration of every pore of your being, then it will begin to happen. Not that some God will do it—there is no one somewhere doing it—but your prayer will transform you. Your sentiments will transform you; your feeling will transform you.

“Join me with all,
free me from bondage”—
if a flame like this keeps burning incessantly in your life-breath, you will not remain as you are. Small ripples of feeling bring great revolution.

“Join me with all,
free me from bondage;
let movement pervade all deeds,
let your rhythm be peace;
at your feet make my mind utterly still, O!
Delight me,
delight me,
delight me, O!
Unfold my inner being,
O Innermost!”
Thinking thus, reflecting thus, humming thus, you will be gladdened. You will be filled with bliss. The veena will begin to play within. The veena is already there within; if you hum like this, the veena will hum along with you. The strings are present; they need only be set vibrating.

Prayer changes the one who prays, not God. Prayer, one day, makes the supplicant into God. And there is no other God besides that. Therefore do not think that we have prayed and the matter is finished—“now You take care!” Do not dump responsibility on God. From that, only laziness is born; life does not transform, and one falls into more and more pits. Whatever prayer you make, also make efforts in the direction of transforming your life in accordance with that prayer. Only when prayer becomes effort do you bear witness that you truly asked for it.

If you have truly asked—
“Unfold my inner being,
O Innermost!
Make me pure,
make me radiant,
make me beautiful, O!”—
then drop whatever is ugly, one by one. For what you have asked of the Divine, at the very least, give it to yourself; when the Divine gives, He will give. So, drop whatever is misshapen; drop whatever is not luminous. Embrace whatever is luminous. Move yourself toward whatever is pure.

“Awaken me,
uplift me,
make me fearless, O!”—
then awaken yourself. Prayer does not end when you have prayed; give proof that you truly prayed. And the one who gives such proof finds his prayer fulfilled.

That’s all for today.