Es Dhammo Sanantano #79

Bhagwan Buddha was staying in Shravasti. The townsfolk, after listening to the Dhamma from Sariputta and Moggallayana, were praising them. Unprecedented was the flavor in their speech, unprecedented the awakening in those two disciples of the Blessed One; unprecedented their Samadhi—and their words would awaken people—the sleeping were roused, the dead seemed brought back to life. To sit near them was to take a dip in nectar.
A monk named Laludayi stood there, listening with great anger. He felt deeply offended. He never acknowledged anyone wiser than himself. He would bow at the feet of the Blessed One, yes—but only outwardly; within, he did not regard even the Blessed One as superior to himself. His ego was blazing, intensely ablaze. And whenever an occasion arose, he would not fail, indirectly and by devious means, to criticize—even to disparage—the Blessed One. At times he would say, Today the Blessed One spoke wrongly; sometimes, The Blessed One should not have said that; at other times, For one who is the Blessed One, such words are improper; and so on, and so on.
That Laludayi said to the lay devotees, What pointless babble is this? What is there in Sariputta and Moggallayana? You have mistaken pebbles and stones for diamonds! If you want appraisal, ask the appraisers. If you wish to have jewels identified, ask the jewelers. Ask me. And if you must praise, then praise my religious discourse.
His domineering voice, his forceful tone—at this the townspeople were stunned. They thought, Surely, Laludayi must be a great religious teacher. They requested a Dhamma discourse from Laludayi. But he kept evading. He would say, I shall speak at the right time, in the right season. The wise do not preach to everyone at every moment. First, the listener must be a fit vessel. Nectar is not poured into any and every container. The point was a good one. His influence grew among the people.
Then he began saying as well, The knower remains silent. Is it not written in the shastras that the one who speaks—where does he know? Only the one who remains quiet knows. Do the supremely wise speak! Among the townsfolk his prestige rose—and a great curiosity too was aroused. They kept praying, requesting more and more. Meanwhile Laludayi was busy preparing his lecture.
When the lecture was memorized word for word, one day he ascended the seat of Dhamma. The whole village came to listen. Three times he tried to speak, but he faltered and choked. Only the form of address came out—Lay devotees!... and then the voice would stick. He coughed and cleared his throat, but nothing came. He was drenched in sweat. The fourth time he tried, even the address did not come. All his wits deserted him. He tried to recall, but nothing returned. His hands and feet began to tremble, and he was tongue-tied. Then the villagers recognized the reality.
Laludayi fled the platform. The villagers, saying, He cannot bear to hear the praise of Sariputta and Moggallayana, does not hesitate even to criticize the Blessed One—and yet he cannot say a thing of his own, gave chase. While running, Laludayi fell into a pit of feces and urine and was smeared in filth.
News reached the Blessed One. The Blessed One said, Bhikkhus, not only now—this Laludayi has been falling into such filth birth after birth. Bhikkhus, ego is filth, excreta. Bhikkhus, half-knowledge is dangerous; word-knowledge is dangerous; scripture-knowledge is dangerous. This Laludayi has learned a few words. Without experience, words do not bring liberation; they bring bondage. This Laludayi has learned a little religion; but he has not truly done swadhyaya. He has not digested it—otherwise such a plight would not have occurred today. Bhikkhus, learn from this. Criticism is easy, self-knowledge is difficult. Destruction is easy, creation is difficult—and self-creation is even more difficult. Ego generates competition; from competition arises jealousy; from jealousy, hatred and enmity are born. And then how will inner vision awaken? Do not concern yourselves with the other—the time is brief; awaken and shape yourselves; otherwise you will keep falling again and again into pits of excreta. Bhikkhus, you tell me: again and again falling into the womb—if that is not falling into a pit of feces and urine, what is it!
And then the Blessed One spoke these gathas—
असज्झायमला मंता अनुट्ठानमला घरा।
मलं वण्णस्स कोसज्जं पमादो रक्खतो मलं।।
‘Not doing swadhyaya is the grime upon mantras; not sweeping and cleaning is the grime upon a house. Sloth is the grime upon beauty; heedlessness is the grime upon the guard.’
ततो चला मलं अञ्ञं अविज्जा परमं मलं।
एतं मलं पहत्वान निम्मला होथ भिक्खवे।।
‘Greater than all these grimes is ignorance, the supreme grime. Bhikkhus, abandoning this grime, become immaculate.’
सुजीवं अहिरिकेन काकसूरेन धंसिना।
पक्खन्दिना पगब्भेन संकिलिट्ठेन जीवितं।।
‘The life of the shameless—of the crow-brave, of the plunderer, the depraved, the verbose, the sinful—seems to pass in comfort.’
हिरिमता च दुज्जीवं निच्चं सुचिगवेसिना।
अलीनेनप्पगब्भेन सुद्धाजीवेन पस्सता।।
‘The life of the modest—ever seeking purity, alert, restrained in speech, earning a pure livelihood, and seeing—is seen to pass in hardship.’
एवं भो पुरिस! जानाहि पापधम्मा असञ्ञता।
मा तं लोभो अधम्मो च चिरं दुक्खाय रन्धयुं।।
‘O man! Know that lawless, unrestrained deeds are of this very sort. Let not greed and unrighteousness hold you long in suffering (therefore be alert, awaken).’
Before we enter the sutras, it is necessary to understand this story precisely. The story is simple, not at all complex—yet it is of immense importance. Truth is indeed simple. Man makes truth complex; otherwise truth is very easy. That is why, to speak truth, small stories have always been helpers. What great scriptures cannot convey, what the tangled concepts of philosophy fail to say, these small stories—understood even by children—are able to express.
Understand this small, simple story layer by layer—
The lay devotees of Shravasti, after listening to Dhamma from Sariputta and Moggallayana, were praising them.
These were Buddha’s two foremost disciples—Sariputta and Moggallayana. Both were great scholars in their own right. When they came to the Buddha, each already had five hundred disciples. Their fame was widespread in the land. And when they came to Buddha, they possessed extraordinary scriptural knowledge. But when the Buddha said, This knowledge is of the scriptures, Sariputta, Moggallayana! This knowledge is not yours, they must have been men of tremendous courage—for they placed not only their heads at the Buddha’s feet, they put down all their knowledge as well. They said, We are ready to be ignorant. If we can remain with you, we are ready to be ignorant. From our own experience we know that with this knowledge we have attained nothing.
The disciples of Sariputta and Moggallayana were startled, because they had thought—great pundits; none like them. They had come with the hope that these two would defeat the Buddha and even transform Buddha into their disciple.
At a single word they surrendered at his feet. They had been great debaters. They roamed the land disputing, had defeated countless scholars. But in the presence of the Buddha, his words struck home. The Buddha said, What you know is not known by you. All that you are saying is borrowed. Has anyone ever arrived with borrowed goods? All this is stale. I will take you where the scripture within you begins to resound. In a single instant they bowed. Great courage is needed to bow. And after being a pundit, much greater courage is needed to bow—because the mind of the scholar says, I myself know; why bow! Before whom should I bow! Scholarship fortifies the ego; it builds a fortress around it.
In that bowing, the revolution took place. The Buddha said, First, forget knowledge. Knowledge is an obstacle in meditation. What you have learned, unlearn it. Wipe the slate clean, make the paper blank. For only upon the blank does truth descend; this scribbled paper is of no use to truth. Become an empty slate, become as the void—into that very emptiness the Full will descend.
Both sat at the Buddha’s feet for years and meditated. Both attained the supreme knowing in the very lifetime of the Buddha. And when one attains the supreme, it is natural that nectar flow in his speech. Only those will fail to taste nectar in such speech who have sworn not to see. Those who are even a little willing to be thrilled, who are ready to open a small window of the heart, who allow that speech to enter within—their minds will begin to dance; flowers will bloom in their hearts.
Many lay devotees of Shravasti, returning after listening to their Dhamma discourses, were praising them. They said, Unprecedented was the flavor in their speech.
There is rasa where there is truth. Raso vai sah—that Paramatman’s very nature is rasa, essence. Where there is no experience of That, you may use as many words as you like—words will be empty, impotent. The scabbard is empty—there is no sword. However much it shines, however beautiful the scabbard may appear, at the needed hour it will be of no use. Hollow words are like spent cartridges—keep them carefully if you wish; they will not serve. At the crucial moment they will not protect. Protection is only from that word in which the ember of truth glows. Flavor is only where there is experience.
So they said—Unprecedented was the flavor in their speech, unprecedented was the awakening of the Blessed One’s two disciples, unprecedented their Samadhi.
The simple village folk were stirred. The simple village folk—seedlings of devotion were sprouting within them. The simple village folk—on hearing these disciples of Buddha—were trying to lift their eyes toward the sun. They were seeking the light.
But their words were wounding a monk standing nearby—also a disciple of Buddha—his name was Laludayi—probably a Lal-bujhakkad, a know-it-all. He was deeply hurt.
He too was a disciple of Buddha; yet no one praised him. No one said of him, There is nectar in your words, awakening in your life, Samadhi in your heart; no one said that his words raised the dead. He could not bear it. He became very restless. It was beyond his tolerance.
He never acknowledged anyone wiser than himself. Let alone others—he did not accept even the Blessed One as wiser than he. Deep down he knew: I am unique, incomparable!
Just so do all believe. Whether you say it or not—what difference does that make! Even if you do not say it—no difference. What you assert within is what makes the difference. You may bow at someone’s feet again and again—yet your ego stands stiff, it does not bend. You may display a thousand times, You are great—but inside you know: Who could be greater than I! Ego never places anyone above itself. The ego that can place someone above itself—that one becomes a disciple.
The ego that will not place anyone above itself can never be a disciple. The art of discipleship is only this much—placing your ego beneath someone.
For this very art, this land gave value to bowing at the guru’s feet. It is a symbol—an outer symbol of an inner happening. How to speak of the inner? So we speak through an outer gesture. No other country discovered the art of bowing at someone’s feet. They remained deprived of a unique treasure.
In the West no one consents to touch another’s feet—the thought does not even arise; it seems wrong, it appears humiliating. The West lives by the ego; the East lives by surrender. The West lives by struggle; the East by humility. The East discovered an art—the art of learning is not assault, the art of learning is to bend. And the more one bends, the more one is filled.
You are standing on the riverbank. The river flows; you are thirsty. If you do not bend, if you do not cup your hands, you will remain thirsty. The river is not going to come up to your lips. You will have to bend, shape your hands into a bowl, gather the water—then the river is ready to quench.
The enlightened ones are like rivers. If you are thirsty for truth, bend. It is not that by your bending the enlightened gain something. What can they gain from your bowing—you have nothing to give! Do not think you have bestowed a favor upon an enlightened one by bowing; no—he has allowed you to bow; it is he who has bestowed the favor. For by bowing, it is you who will receive. By bowing, you lose nothing—indeed, you have nothing to lose.
But the strange thing is: those who have nothing to lose—absolutely nothing—stand most rigid about bending. To receive, to learn—ego feels hurt.
So this Laludayi—this Lal-bujhakkad—must have bowed at Buddha’s feet, yet he had not bent. And when you bow with a divided heart, you take revenge here and there. You will have to take revenge; it is psychological. If your reverence for the guru is incomplete, hollow, shallow—you will take revenge. You will seek ways to insult the guru, to criticize—if not directly, then in some indirect manner.
Now to criticize Sariputta and Moggallayana is indirectly to criticize the Buddha. Because it was the Buddha who declared that these two had attained Samadhi. It was his declaration that these two had arrived; now they will not return, they have gone beyond the boundary from which man returns. Their re-coming is finished. They have become anagami—non-returners. They will not come back. These are the last flowers; this is their final fragrance. Whoever wishes to drink it, drink; whoever wishes to take it, take it. Once these birds take flight, they will not return to this world again. They will no longer build a nest on the tree of this world—the Blessed One declared so.
Perhaps because of this declaration Laludayi’s pain grew keener: While I am here, someone else becomes an anagami!
People come to me, sannyasins come, and they ask, Those to whom meditation has happened near you—why do you not declare their names? I say, This is precisely why I do not—because much envy will arise, much jealousy will be born. If I declare one by name that he has attained meditation, all the rest will become his enemies; much politics will arise, much tug-of-war; he will be needlessly harassed. The declaration of meditation will land him in turmoil. And those who were attempting meditation will stop their effort; they will set about proving somehow that this man has not attained.
It has always been so. Whenever Buddha declared, Mahavira declared, Jesus declared—great politics erupted. Therefore I have decided that I will not declare. Those who attain know; I know. The matter is between me and them, finished. No one else needs to know—otherwise many Laludayis will sprout. And nothing of substance comes of it. Declaration adds nothing; to whom it has happened, it has happened—what can a declaration add!
Why then did Buddha declare? There was reason. If people are good, there is benefit in declaring. Perhaps in those days people were not as perverted as today; thus he did. Perhaps out of a hundred listeners only one became a Lal-bujhakkad; ninety-nine gained courage. Ninety-nine felt, If it happened to him, it can happen to us. Let us give our all. If it happened to Sariputta, why not to us! For ninety-nine it became inspiration—thus the declaration. Ninety-nine gained strength, assurance, devotion—that it is possible.
And without the Buddha’s declaration, how could the ninety-nine know? The awakened one will know who has arrived; but how will the sleeping know? Only when an awakened one announces will they know.
So Buddha and Mahavira declared—but with reason. Out of a hundred, ninety-nine benefited; one Laludayi fell into trouble. But for the one, the ninety-nine could not be deprived.
Today the situation is reversed—today one may benefit; ninety-nine are Laludayis. Only one may gain devotion; in ninety-nine jealousy will blaze. Therefore do not ask me who has attained meditation or not—I will not say. Today the situation is worse. And do not think that there are no Laludayis here—there are in large numbers. It is difficult to save oneself from them; their number is increasing by the day.
Thus Laludayi had bowed outwardly, but he had not truly bent. And whatever little he had bent, he was taking revenge for it.
Understand this: the one you love is the very one you hate. Because your love is not total. Have you observed? The one you love is the one you hate. And the one you reverence—toward him inside you also run irreverence and doubt. You wait for an opportunity to throw off your reverence. If it gets proven that irreverence is right, you will not miss the chance—you will pounce upon it.
Consider: all societies, all civilizations have taught children—Respect your parents. The teaching is so ancient, the conditioning so deep—yet who respects their parents? Perhaps precisely because of this, all civilizations decided to teach children to respect their parents—otherwise, if not taught, they would never respect at all. Even taught, they do not. However much you explain, they do not. Within, a current of disrespect flows. Ego cannot respect. Ego cannot honor anyone, for honor requires bending. Ego can only insult, not praise.
So Laludayi bowed—outwardly; inwardly he was seeking revenge. How can you forgive the one who compelled you to bow at his feet—how! It becomes very difficult to forgive.
I see this daily. People come and bow at my feet; I know—another trouble has begun. This person will take revenge; he will never forgive me. Because the hour came in his life when he had to bow—because of me; he will take revenge on me. If not today, then tomorrow he will abuse me. He will find something against me—some excuse—and take revenge.
If you know a little of history, Mahavira’s own disciple Goshalak took revenge upon Mahavira. He was Mahavira’s disciple. He left Mahavira, and none worked against Mahavira as he did.
Another opponent of Mahavira was his own son-in-law. He too had become a disciple; he too turned against, and left with five hundred disciples of Mahavira. In our country the son-in-law’s feet are touched. At the wedding Mahavira must have touched his feet. Later, when Mahavira took sannyas, attained knowing, and the son-in-law also took sannyas, then he had to touch Mahavira’s feet. He took revenge; he could not forgive. He raised the first tumult in Mahavira’s sangha—the first politics.
Buddha’s cousin Devadatta took initiation from Buddha; he became a monk. But he was deeply pained—being cousin, he thought that after Buddha, at least number two should be mine; but he found he had no number at all. Others kept coming and attaining—and Devadatta kept falling behind, far back in the line. He was deeply wounded. He split and took a faction of bhikkhus with him.
Then he devised many ways to kill the Buddha. He loosed a mad elephant upon Buddha. While Buddha was meditating he had a rock rolled down upon him. The rock slid past the Buddha—he was saved by inches, by a hair’s breadth. Someone said, By chance you were saved. Buddha said, Not by chance—the rock is not my cousin! What does a rock have to do with me! When a mad elephant was set upon him by Devadatta, the elephant came and bowed at his feet instead of trampling him. Someone exclaimed, What a miracle! Buddha said, No miracle. The mad elephant is not my disciple—he has no reason to take revenge upon me.
This is a profound point of psychology—remember it: toward the one you revere you will harbor a desire to take revenge; you will look for it.
Thus Laludayi felt very offended. He would, whenever opportunity came, indirectly and by devious means, criticize even the Blessed One. He would say—Today the Blessed One spoke wrongly; he should not have said that; for one who is the Blessed One, such a thing should not be said; and so on.
You will find such sannyasins here too, and non-sannyasins as well, who say exactly this. The story repeats. It has ever repeated. Nothing new happens in this world. Almost all that has happened, happens again and again. The world is great reiteration. You will find people saying: The Blessed One said this—he should not have said so; wrong to say; it was not fitting to say; there is a hint of politics in it; why criticize anyone; why refute someone?
A Jain came to me and said, Everything else is fine—just do not criticize Sai Baba. Because being God…!
I asked him, Have you read Mahavira’s words? He said, Of course I have. Then have you read Mahavira’s criticism of Goshalak? He was a bit startled. I asked, Have you read the Buddhist scriptures? The criticisms by Buddha? The critiques of the Ajivikas, of Sanjaya, of Pakudha? If I have spoken against Sai Baba, it is not opposition to Sai Baba—it is necessary to awaken those who may be going astray; those who may get entangled in such confusions must be warned.
No, but he insisted, Being God, how can one criticize! I said, Then say directly—I am not God. Speak plainly! Is Mahavira God or not? Then he began to sweat—because Mahavira has delivered very sharp criticism. It had to be done. It was done out of compassion; it had to be. Because of Mahavira’s criticism many were saved from falling into Goshalak’s snares; otherwise Mahavira would have been responsible.
Understand: had he not criticized, had he remained silent—those who would have fallen into Goshalak’s net and those who did not because of his criticism—who would be responsible for their lives being corrupted? Mahavira would be. He did not wish to take that responsibility. Better to speak as it is. Criticism has no relish in it; there is no personal enmity.
Yet you will find people even here who say, Today the Blessed One spoke wrongly. They gather two or four, form a clique, and declare this was not to be said, this does not befit him. They are taking revenge indirectly. They bowed—and cannot forget it. They will hurt in some way. Beware of them—they are Laludayis.
That Laludayi said to the lay devotees, What pointless babble! What is there in Sariputta and Moggallayana? You have taken pebbles for diamonds. If you want assessment, ask the connoisseurs; ask me. And if you must praise, praise my Dhamma-teaching.
There is a very simple thing in this world—remember it. If someone says, The rose is beautiful—it is very difficult to prove that the rose is beautiful. How will you prove it? You may agree—that is another matter. But if someone says, I do not agree; give proof why the rose is beautiful—why is it beautiful, for what reason?—the one who said the rose is beautiful will fall into difficulty.
There is a famous tale of Turgenev. In a village there was a man considered the great fool; people often laughed at him. At last a fakir came to the village. The great fool said to him, You shower grace upon all—shower a little on me too. Will I remain a laughingstock all my life? People regard me as a great fool, and I am not.
The fakir said, Do one thing: whenever anyone speaks of something that cannot be easily proved, you take the opposing side. If someone says, By God’s grace—immediately catch the word: Where is God? What God? Prove it! If someone says, The moon is beautiful—catch him at once: What proof? I say—where is beauty? If someone says, The rose is beautiful; someone says, Look at that woman, how graceful, how beautiful—catch the tongue—do not let go. Wherever there is talk of beauty, of truth, of the good—catch hold. Because neither truth nor beauty nor goodness can be proved—these things are not provable. There is no proof for them. And when no one can prove, within seven days you will see—the whole village will take you to be a scholar.
He was a fool—so he set off with a stick behind the advice. He roamed the village; he shut everyone’s mouth. People would fall silent on seeing him: Do not say anything. Someone would say Shakespeare’s book is very beautiful—he would stand up: Who says so? Someone would say, Look at this painting—how lovely! He would say, What is in it? He has daubed some colors. Any fool could daub. What do you see in it?
He made the whole village cautious. Within seven days a rumor spread: this man has become a great pundit. Not a great fool—a knower. We have not recognized him. He is the same man—but the village’s vision changed regarding him.
Laludayi said, What pointless chatter!
The simple village folk—how could they prove that there is nectar in Sariputta’s words? They were saying it; they could not prove it.
Most of what you say—you cannot prove. Even small things cannot be proved. You say, I have fallen in love with a woman. If someone asks, Where is love—show it? Love happens—has always happened—yet you cannot prove it. You cannot place it upon a scientist’s table for examination. If you say, It is in my heart, he will say, Come, let us do a cardiogram—will love appear in the cardiogram? It does not; then? Let the doctor check with a stethoscope—does it beat in the pulse? You will be in trouble. If he opens the heart and checks, even then love will not be found. Love is not a thing—it is a feeling.
When they said there was nectar in Sariputta’s words, they were saying little about Sariputta and more about themselves—what had happened within them. That word entered them and melted like nectar; that word went in and left a sweetness, a fragrance within. This fragrance is subtle; in the gross realm there is no proof for it. Truly they were speaking not about Sariputta but about themselves.
Laludayi too listened to Sariputta’s words—within him only burning spread, fire spread; only thorns sprouted. And these people say lotuses have bloomed within! Where have they bloomed?
Whatever is supreme in life cannot be proved. Those who try to prove will have to settle for the inferior; they cannot journey toward the superior. Hence the atheist is content with the inferior. The superior is not provable; what is not provable he does not accept. He accepts only what can be proved. What can be proved is gross. Love is not provable; stone is. If you deny the stone, it can be hurled at your skull—you will know whether it is or not. But if you deny love, love cannot be thrown at your skull. It leaves no bruise.
Remember: the higher the thing, the easier it is to deny; the lower the thing, the harder it is to deny.
This Laludayi said, What nonsense! What nectar-rasa? What awakening? What Samadhi? What are you talking about—are you in your senses? The simple villagers must have been startled. Then he said, You have taken pebbles for diamonds. If you want appraisal, ask the appraisers. To have jewels tested, ask the jewelers. You villagers are bumpkins—lived your life in farming; and you set to judge lofty matters!
The simple villagers stood dumbfounded. What could they say! And remember, not only villagers—however cultured a person may be—what is supreme cannot be proved; he too will fall silent. Even those who know God—if you stand to argue before them, they will be quiet.
Therefore all the saints have said: if you would know the supreme, the door is shraddha—trust. Through doubt, the doors of the supreme close. Where there is doubt you have decided to live in the realm of the petty; you have closed the vast.
Ask me—he said. Listen to me! I am a monk; I know what Samadhi is, what meditation is, what awakening is, what nectar is, what rasa is—for this I have given my life. And if you must praise, praise my Dhamma-teaching.
The villagers were impressed. They said, Surely, Laludayi is a hidden diamond—a ruby in rags. Until now none knew! Good that he reminded us—else we would never have listened to him. No one had any inkling of him.
They began to pray to Laludayi for a religious discourse, to explain to them. Laludayi was in trouble.
Criticism was easy—What nonsense! But to give a religious discourse—he had never given one. He knew nothing of religion. Where there is religion, one does not have to give discourse—the discourse happens. Where there is experience of religion, words flow from that very experience. And only the words that flow spontaneously from experience are true.
Laludayi must have been in great difficulty, but he stayed among monks—heard lofty talk; he was near the Buddha—heard great words. In those very big words he found a shelter for his petty ego. Remember, man is so dishonest that he finds shelter for his mean ego even in the loftiest words. What did Laludayi say? Listen—
Laludayi said, I will speak at the right time, in the right season. The wise do not preach to everyone at every time. First, there must be fitness in the listener. Nectar is not poured into any and every vessel.
He must have heard these words—perhaps from Buddha, or from other knowers. A very clever device. He said, First become worthy vessels. You have come to listen! Those who speak to you are ignorant—for the wise first examine the vessel. For pouring nectar, a vessel is needed. You bring this clay bowl! Shall I pour nectar into it? Prepare a golden vessel! A clever trick. In truth he was preparing his lecture. Till then he had to keep the people convinced and quiet—so he took refuge in great aphorisms.
Then he also began to say, The knower remains silent.
Whereas the Buddha was speaking daily—morning and evening! This too is revenge. Indirectly he is saying that the Buddha cannot be Buddha.
The knower remains silent! Have you not heard—it is written clearly in the Upanishads: the supreme knower does not speak.
Now this is a great joke! If the Upanishads are the utterances of the supremely knowing, then the supremely knowing spoke—else how did the Upanishads get written? If the knower does not speak, those who wrote the Upanishads were not knowers. Socrates says, The knower does not speak; but at least this much must be spoken: that the knower remains silent. Who is speaking this? Who says this? Who wrote these marvelous Upanishads? And the Upanishads say, The one who speaks does not know; the one who knows does not speak. What then shall we think of the rishis of the Upanishads—did they know, or not?
Only two possibilities: either they knew—and if they knew, they should have remained silent, and the Upanishads would not be. Or they did not know; and what the not-knowing wrote—how could that be true? The not-knowing wrote that the knower does not speak; and the one who does not speak—he alone knows. There can be no value to the words of the not-knowing.
But the matter is something else. It is not that the knower does not speak. The knower can speak. But what he has known—this can never be spoken. The knower can speak abundantly; yet about what he has known, he can only indicate—what is known cannot be spoken. How will you speak it? It is the dumb man’s sweet. Yet the dumb man can point toward the sweet—you cannot stop him from that.
Imagine I am dumb—I have eaten the sweet, I am filled with its sweetness; I am ecstatic. You come and ask, What is happening? I am dumb, I cannot speak—but I can point: There it is—at Manik Babu’s shop—buy the sweet there. I can indicate where the sweet will be found. This thing kept there—eat it. The sweet cannot be spoken—this is clear. How can my speaking make the sweet spoken! If you eat my words, will you get the taste? There is no juice of sweet in the word sweet—how will you speak the sweet—but the word sweet can point toward the sweet. The Upanishads do not speak Brahman—they point toward Brahman; they point toward the sweet.
So the Upanishads are right—that what is known cannot be spoken. Even so, the one who has known speaks much, in a thousand ways—he spends a lifetime speaking, that if not from this side, then from that; if not from the left, then the right; somehow, at any cost, to get you to that place where heaps of nectar lie, where you may taste it.
In truth, the one to whom knowledge has happened—how can he remain silent? Imagine someone has found a source of water, and you wander thirsty in the desert; your eyes bulge with thirst, your breath falters, your legs stagger; you wander dusty, under a burning sun—if I know the spring is near, how can I remain silent! I will shout.
Jesus told his disciples, Climb to the rooftops and shout from there. What you have received—many are in need of it; they have no inkling—and it is so near!
Otherwise the Upanishads would not be born; the Vedas would not be; the Quran and the Bible would not be. How would this Dhammapada be? Some climbed to the rooftops and shouted. They shouted knowing that shouting alone will not quench your thirst. But by shouting perhaps you will know in which direction the water is. Perhaps you will begin to move.
Buddha said, The enlightened point the way; walking you must do; arriving you must do. The Zen masters say, We point a finger toward the moon—please do not catch hold of the finger; the moon is not in the finger. But the finger can indicate the moon—know the moon is not in the finger; yet the finger can point. But man is cunning—many devices.
Once it happened: a gentleman traveled with me. He was a great devotee of a certain man. One day he dragged me to him: Come see once—he is a perfect paramahansa. I saw—he was no paramahansa at all; he had epilepsy. When an attack came he would foam at the mouth and fall—and people would say, Samadhi has descended. Half his body was paralyzed—he could not speak; when he did, it was all jumbled—whatever little he said made no sense. People would still derive meanings. Easy to derive meanings: one would extract a lottery number from his babble—he spoke in a muddle—another would take something else, another else; someone the date of a wedding—whatever you fancy. There was nothing in what he was saying—mere prattle. The man was nearly insane. Yet devotees served him food and then ate his leftovers; they would give him tea and drink half themselves.
This gentleman too was his devotee. I told him, This man is mad; he needs treatment; you have trapped him needlessly. He has nothing. He has attained nothing. He said, How can this be! Then why do so many worship him! I said, Come with me. I will have people worship you within three days—will you believe then? He said, Then I will. Who will worship me? I said, Do one thing—be silent; do not speak for three days. He said, All right.
He came with me to Calcutta. In the house where we stayed, there lived a very dear man—Sohanlal Dugar, now no more. I told him, Do not speak—just keep silent. As soon as Sohanlal saw him with me, he asked, Who is he? I said, He is a great paramahansa. The poor man was startled, a simple fellow. What is his specialty? I said, He does not speak—you have heard, haven’t you, that the knower does not speak. Sohanlal fell at his feet, Sohanlal—rich beyond measure—prostrated, saying, Gurudev, you have come!
My companion was amazed—What is happening! He was a simple shopkeeper. Sohanlal was a millionaire; to him, entering Sohanlal’s home was itself beyond imagination. Sohanlal fell at his feet, fed him, fanned him with his own hands. My companion was distressed. At night, when we were alone, he would plead, Save me—this is not right; this is improper.
More people began to come. When Sohanlal touches someone’s feet—he was renowned in Rajasthan—other Marwaris in Calcutta began to come, women too, flowers to be offered. At night he would beg me, Save me; this is wrong; this is sin. I said, It is only a three-day matter; if you remain three years, all Calcutta will worship you—just remain silent.
Man is foolish beyond measure. Within three days crowds were hard to control. When we returned, people came to the station to see him off, garlanded him with flowers, praying, Gurudev, come again. Some said they had benefited greatly; someone’s illness had vanished; someone’s kundalini had awakened; someone something else. As soon as the train moved, he grabbed my feet and said, My kundalini has not yet awakened—and theirs has!
Ninety-nine out of a hundred of your so-called saints are of this sort—existing by your belief. And scriptures can be cited in support of them all—no difficulty—a little clever argument, that’s all. Yet the gentleman benefited—he never again went to that ‘great man.’ When he saw people eating his leftovers, he said, Enough—I understand: this is possible; people are absolutely blind.
Hearing Laludayi’s words the villagers were greatly impressed. He said, Not at all times, not in every season; wait for the right time; when needed, when you become fit vessels, I shall speak. And in the meantime Laludayi was preparing his lecture. When the lecture was memorized word for word he said, Now the season has come, the time is ripe, and now the people have become vessels—the very same people! Once they were clay vessels; now they were golden. Once you had words to speak—who cares then about vessels! And until now he used to say, The wise do not speak—the wise remain silent. Now that was dropped—the wise began to speak. Now the wise was ready to speak.
Remember: whatever you speak from preparation will be false. What comes spontaneously—that alone is true. Truth is a spontaneous manifestation. It requires no arrangement. And when you arrange, you will be in trouble. Laludayi did not fall into trouble without cause. He used to speak anyway—ordinary talk he could do.
You have seen, everyone can talk—and quite delightfully. Even ordinary people can speak charmingly; it is enjoyable to talk with them and to hear them. But put them on a stage and trouble begins. Just below the stage they were speaking so delightfully—now on the dais something goes wrong. What happened? The tongue is the same; the throat is the same; the man is the same; what difference does a slight elevation make!
The difference is: in ordinary conversation there was no consciousness of I must impress people. It was straight talk. Now upon the stage, a thousand faces are before him, two thousand eyes fixed upon him. Now he is afraid: What if I fail to impress! As soon as this arises—What if I do not impress?—obstacles arise.
When Laludayi’s lecture was ready, memorized word for word, he ascended the Dhamma-seat. The whole village came. Three times he tried to speak—he faltered. A great desire to impress—that very desire became the block. Otherwise he could talk.
Remember: the disturbances in your life arise from the urge to impress. If you do not try to impress, you are impactful. If you go out to impress, you lose all impact.
You have observed: a woman, simply sitting in her house, playing with her child—she is beautiful. The same woman, when she paints and powders herself, loads herself with ornaments, wears dazzling saris, and goes into the street—she suddenly becomes tasteless. That simplicity is gone; the beauty is gone. Now she is eager to impress. Now she is not a simple woman—she is acting. The street is a theater; a crowd of onlookers is there. She has applied powder, donned a provocative sari, put on sparkling jewelry—amid all this she becomes vulgar.
Vulgarity is born of the urge to impress. In that urge the woman ceases to be a woman—she becomes a courtesan. What does courtesan mean? Only this: a powerful urge to impress others. This woman has lost her chastity, because she has lost her spontaneity. Beauty is beautiful only when one is utterly natural. With complexity, hindrances arise.
Laludayi could speak otherwise—he had already impressed these very people by saying, What nonsense! He had startled them—What is there in Sariputta! If you want jewels appraised, ask a jeweler—I am the jeweler, ask me. I know them all—they are nothing. This very village was impressed. This very village gathered to hear him. But facing the crowd—there he fell into trouble.
Three times he tried—he choked. Only the address came out: Lay devotees! … Lay devotees! … Lay devotees! … and then he stuck.
Reading this story I remembered an incident. When I was a university student, I loved to go to debates—still do. I traveled all over the country—wherever there was a debate in any university, I would go. I collected so many medals and trophies that my mother said, Will you leave any space in this house—or where shall we live? I kept collecting. Wherever news came, I went. My college was enthusiastic—for it raised their name.
In a Sanskrit college there was a competition. I went to participate. The Sanskrit students naturally did not know English well; it was not taught to them—only as a formal subject. And remember: when a Sanskrit student wants to impress, he will use English.
So the Sanskrit college’s participant spoke three or four words in Hindi—and then quoted Bertrand Russell in English. He must have thought it would impress—that we Sanskrit students are no village bumpkins; we know English, we know Bertrand Russell. And precisely there he fell into trouble. He spoke two or three words—at the fourth he stuck.
I was sitting beside him. Seeing his plight—he was in such difficulty! He must have memorized in exact order. The flaw of memorizing is that you cannot change the sequence—one word after another, like coaches of a train. When one fails to come, the whole train stops. It all jammed. To help him I whispered softly, Start again—perhaps it will come. He was so foolish—he started again: Ladies and gentlemen! People were amazed—what is this! Again the same words, again the Bertrand Russell quote—and again he stuck at the same place. Now he panicked.
Now even I began to enjoy it. I said, Again! A stuck man—what should he do? Nothing comes to mind; no way forward. He began again—Ladies and gentlemen. Then the whole group of students applauded, began dancing. It was going beyond limits. He went no further. For ten minutes—Ladies and gentlemen, three or four words, then three or four words of the Russell quote—and stop. There the train halted. The entire lecture remained at that.
Something similar befell Laludayi. Three times only the address came; the fourth time even that did not. He was drenched in sweat. All sense forsook him. He tried to remember—nothing came. His hands and feet shook; he was tongue-tied. Then the villagers recognized the truth.
So much for this man’s awakening, this Samadhi! And he had come to preach religion! He who says, What is there in Sariputta and Moggallayana! And he did not hesitate to criticize the Blessed One. The villagers said, Drive him out. They began to chase him. Laludayi ran. The villagers shouted, This is rich indeed—one who cannot bear the praise of Sariputta and Moggallayana and does not shirk from criticizing even the Blessed One, and from himself nothing comes—this is fine Dhamma-preaching!
While running, Laludayi fell into a pit of feces and urine and was smeared in filth.
A man living by ego lives in filth. A man living by envy lives in filth. Only when there is no ego within, no envy without—then you become immaculate—freshly bathed. Then you are like a lotus—ever bathed—no dust clings to you. The dust does not come from without; it rises from within.
News reached the Blessed One, and he said, Bhikkhus, not only now—this Laludayi has been falling into such filth through births upon births. Bhikkhus, ego is filth, excreta. Bhikkhus, little knowledge is dangerous. This Laludayi has learned a little of Dharma, but he has not done swadhyaya; he has not digested it.
He has learned a few words—but he does not even know their meaning. He has collected some information of the surface; of the inner he knows nothing. He has never done swadhyaya. Swadhyaya means: you heard the word—there is no meaning in the word itself; the meaning comes through swadhyaya.
Suppose Buddha explained something about meditation—you heard the process, the method; these are only words. Meaning will arise when you meditate. I say something about love—you hear it; you write those words upon the page of your mind—but there is no meaning there; those are mere words. You will know the meaning only when you love. You have to pour meaning into the words. Meaning comes through swadhyaya. Swadhyaya means: what you have heard—live it. What you have heard—do it. What you have heard—walk that way. Bring a little into experience.
Swadhyaya is a marvelous word. We have badly misunderstood it. People take swadhyaya to mean study. If study was meant, why say swadhyaya? They knew the word adhyayan—study. A man opens a scripture and says, I am doing swadhyaya. Do you notice the ‘swa’—the self—in it? The book can be studied—but how will swadhyaya come from a book? Study the book—and then seek in yourself what you found there—that is swadhyaya. What can a book do? In the book all is written; but the book has not become liberated; the book has not attained nirvana; the book has not entered Samadhi. If you copy what is written in the book into your inner book—what will happen? You made a photocopy; you memorized exactly; you recite the Vedas word for word—this proves only that your memory is good, not that awakening has been born. Swadhyaya means: what you have heard, what you have read—examine it; bring it into life; walk a little with that ray.
I tell you: two miles away, turn left and you will reach the ocean. You sit here and keep studying this. You sit beside the milestone—it has an arrow, saying: Ocean—two miles. You keep worshipping the stone—this is study. You trust the stone and set off in the direction of the arrow—that is swadhyaya. The stone is not the ocean; drinking the stone will not quench thirst. The stone points toward the ocean. If you set off, it is swadhyaya. If you sit humming the words, it is study; if study becomes your life, it becomes swadhyaya.
Buddha said, He has not done swadhyaya—and he has not digested. Look, merely eating does not give nourishment. One is not strengthened by eating alone. Until food is digested there is no strength.
You eat—and if it is not digested, you will become weaker. If there is indigestion, if there is vomiting, you will be less strong than you were before eating. You will become weaker. The real thing is digestion. Even a little food—if digested—gives energy, strength, nourishment, power.
Know little—but digest. Often you know too much—but nothing is digested. Scholarship is a kind of indigestion. It is taking in so much that the system cannot digest. Prajna—wisdom—is the name of digestion.
So the Buddha said, This Laludayi does not know much, and what little he knows, he has not digested. Bhikkhus, learn from this. Criticism is easy.
To prove the other wrong is easy; to prove truth is very difficult. In fact, those who become slanderers and critics are those who find that they have no capacity to create truth. The poet who fails in poetry becomes a critic. When you cannot do something, at least you can declare that what others are doing is wrong. That is easy.
Come to meditate—if you fail to meditate, at least you can say: these people are mad. This is easy—no expense incurred. No color, no alum—nothing needed. You can say it with ease—what hindrance is there! Most people remain barren for this reason—their energy is engaged in the useless.
Destruction is easy; creation is difficult. If you create, there will be joy, there will be celebration. This Laludayi has created nothing; he burns to see Sariputta, burns to see Moggallayana—those who created something; and he created nothing himself.
Understand the distinction: there are two kinds of people in the world. The first—very many—do not make themselves great; rather they strive to make the other small. They think, When the other is small, by comparison we will seem big. In one sense their logic is correct.
You have heard Akbar’s story: he drew a line in court and said, Do not touch it—and make it smaller. The courtiers were troubled; they tried, but found no way. Then Birbal rose and drew a longer line beneath it—the first line became smaller.
This means there are two ways to be big in the world. One—make the other small; by comparison you will appear big. Most people do this—it is a cheap way, and it leads nowhere. Hence you cannot bear to hear praise of another. If someone says, So-and-so plays the flute beautifully—you say, What flute! I know him—he’s a woman-chaser! What has woman-chasing to do with flute-playing! Or, He’s a thief—how can he play the flute! What obstacle is there between theft and flute! A thief can play the flute too. What is the inconsistency!
Notice: when someone praises another, an itch arises in you—to refute. O, I have seen enough saints! All hypocrisy! How many saints have you seen—enough saints!
You cannot accept that someone could be in a better state than you. Because if someone is better, then you will have to do something—you will have to rise, to change, to transform.
So most die barren; nothing is born in their life—no flowers bloom, no music arises, no fragrance spreads, no lamp is lit. And they are responsible—they light no lamp. They are busy blowing out the lamps of others—thinking, When no one’s lamp is lit, what obstacle remains for ours! That is why people read newspapers in the morning—and feel peace. Read the Gita and you will not feel peace; you will feel restlessness.
Understand what I am saying—or you will say, The Blessed One spoke wrongly. Read the Gita—and you will be disturbed; for the Gita shows you where you crawl like worms—Rise! A mountain stands before you—climb it. Arjuna climbed—why don’t you? Unease is born—the Gita does not give peace. Those who find peace have not read it. If you read, you will be disturbed. Then you cannot run your shop so easily—when will you become Arjuna? When will you experience Krishna-consciousness? How long will you remain entangled in small matters? When will you call upon God? When will surrender happen? Time is flowing away.
The Gita will make you restless, shake you awake. It will say, Rise—much time has already passed; use what remains. A divine restlessness, a divine discontent will be born within you.
So I tell you—read the Gita and you will be disturbed. Reading the newspaper gives great peace. That is why people read newspapers, not the Gita. What peace comes from the paper? You read—So-and-so ran away with so-and-so’s wife. You feel great peace—See, I am faithful! I never ran off with anyone’s wife. Someone murdered someone—you feel better. I sometimes think of killing—but I don’t! Somewhere riot and arson—so many killed. The mind calms—We do not get into such trouble. Reading the newspaper you become certain you are the best of people. The paper gives peace.
On days when there are no bad news items, you say—There is no news today. The real news you seek is: how many ran away; how many stole; how many murdered; how many did wrong.
What is sensational in the news? That which proves within you that you are a better person. Compared to these—look, we are better! When the other becomes small…
Therefore you will see there is relish in slander. If someone comes slandering another, you drop a thousand tasks and say, Yes, brother, tell us more—what happened then? A craving arises. You drop even prayer if a slanderer comes—you say, Leave it; we can pray later; the slanderer may not return. Such people are supplied with tea and cigarettes—for whoever they find holds them for hours—Tell us, what news?
There are walking newspapers too—living newspapers. And naturally, their news is more exciting than printed papers—the printed are under certain controls. These living papers—no control—no lawsuits, no court cases, no need for proofs.
One woman was telling another woman slander about a third. The first listened with great joy. When the story ended, she said, O, tell a little more! What happened then? The other said, Enough—what I know, I have told you twice over already.
People exaggerate slander—and you enjoy slanderers. Kabir said from a different intention, Keep the slanderer near—build him a hut in your courtyard. You too keep a slanderer—but for a different reason. Kabir said, Keep the one who slanders me—so I am constantly corrected. You like the slanderer of others. You build him a hut. Come live in our house, sir—eat with us—and then we will gossip!
Remember: the one who slanders others to you, slanders you to others. He will. What does he have to do with you or others! He slanders impartially. Whoever he goes to—he slanders someone, drinks tea with pleasure, smokes a cigarette, and moves on.
There is another class—very small. One in a thousand, one in a hundred thousand—who does not want to become big by making others small—who wishes to become big himself. Only such a person undertakes sadhana. He will not go to God and say, I am a good man because my neighbors were worse. No—he will say, Look within me—without comparison. I stand as I am. The greatness born of comparison is false; the greatness born of your own refinement is true.
So Buddha said, Destruction is easy; creation is difficult—and self-creation more difficult still. Ego engenders competition; competition births envy; envy births hatred; hatred creates enmity—and then how will inner vision arise? All your energy is spent there; the river is lost in that desert—how will it reach the ocean? Do not think about the other at all—the time is short; awaken yourself, shape yourself; otherwise you will fall again and again into pits of feces and urine. Bhikkhus, tell me—falling again and again into the womb—if that is not falling into a pit of excreta, what is it!
What a stunning thing Buddha said! What is the mother’s belly? A pit of excreta and urine. What else is there? The child lies smeared in excreta and urine for nine months. To take birth again and again is to fall again and again into that pit.
The enlightened take deep pointers from small incidents. From Laludayi falling into the pit of excreta—see where the Buddha took it! To what incomparable depth! He said, This Laludayi has been falling birth after birth—speaking of this very thing: he wandered thus again and again. He never made himself; he spent his energy in slandering others—the same energy could have become self-creation. With the chisel of that energy he could have carved his own statue—become a Buddha. He did not—and fell into pits again and again—the pits of wombs.
This is the only land on earth where we have known the womb as a pit of excreta. It is profoundly true. Nowhere else has this been said—because it frightens us: The mother’s belly—a pit of filth! But it is—whether you are afraid or not. Truth is truth. To be born again means again for nine months you lie in that pit.
And what is life afterward for most? They produce only excreta and urine—nothing else. They eat here—defecate there. If you understand their entire work, it is as if a pipe—food poured in one end—food discharged at the other. What else do they produce? Is something like soul produced? Something like consciousness?
Note the difference: you eat food; Rabindranath eats; Kalidasa eats; Mahavira eats; Buddha eats. From that very food, songs arise in Rabindranath’s life; from that very food, poetry arises in Kalidasa; from that very food, ahimsa blossoms in Mahavira; from that very food, Samadhi flowers in Buddha. What flowers in your life? Only excreta.
This is strange—transform this energy.
So Buddha spoke these sutras—
‘Not doing swadhyaya is the grime upon mantras.’
You learned the mantra; you parrot it—and you did no swadhyaya; dust settles upon the mantra; it becomes soiled. Clean the mantra—polish it. The mantra has power—like a mirror can reflect your face, but remove the dust. As dust settles on the mirror, so Buddha says it settles on mantra, on scripture, on words—dust them. How? By swadhyaya. What the word says—bring it into life—refine it, recognize it, test it, experiment with it.
‘Not sweeping is the grime of the house.’
And as a house accumulates dust when no broom is used, so within—if no broom is used—dust accumulates. What you call thoughts are nothing but dust.
There is a Zen story.
A youth lived for years with his guru—and the guru never told him anything. The disciple would ask again and again, Give me instruction—what should I do? The guru would say, Watch me. Do what I do; do not do what I do not; understand from that. He said, I cannot understand—send me elsewhere. In Zen this happens—the disciple can ask to be sent elsewhere to learn. The guru said, Go—there is an inn a few miles away—stay there; twenty-four hours—and the innkeeper will give you much understanding.
He went—reluctantly. How could I get from an innkeeper what I did not get from a great guru! He went grudgingly. Seeing the innkeeper’s face he was even more dismayed: What can I learn here! But he had to stay twenty-four hours. The guru had said, Watch—he may not say anything—watch attentively.
He saw: all day the innkeeper dusted only—guests came and went—new room, old room—he kept dusting. In the evening he washed dishes. At eleven or twelve at night he was still washing. The youth fell asleep. When he rose at five he ran to see—what is he doing?—again washing dishes. Dishes washed at night he was washing again. He asked, Sir, everything else is fine—though I do not expect much knowledge from you—tell me at least this: why are you washing the already washed dishes? He said, Dust settles even if you leave them sitting. Dust settles not only from use—just by sitting, dust settles. By the mere passing of time, dust settles.
He returned. There is nothing to learn there, he told the guru; the man is mad—he keeps scrubbing dishes—till midnight and from five again—scrubbing scrubbed dishes. The guru said, Do precisely this—you fool! I sent you for this. Scrub at night till sleep overtakes you—and in the morning begin again. For at night too, because of dreams, dust settles. As time passes, dust settles.
Thoughts and dreams are the dust of the inner mind.
So Buddha said, ‘Not sweeping…’
असज्झायमला मंता अनुट्ठानमला घरा।
मलं वण्णस्स कोसज्जं पमादो रक्खतो मलं।।
‘And sloth is the grime upon beauty.’
Beauty means aliveness. The more alive you are, the more beautiful. The more alive you are, the nearer you are to the divine—because life’s current will flow through you—so the more beautiful you are.
‘Sloth is the grime upon beauty.’
So Buddha says, Do not be lazy.
‘And heedlessness is the grime upon the guard.’
Stupor—falling asleep, dozing—this is the grime upon vigilance. Stay awake; keep the lamp of awareness lit within—whatever you do, do with awareness.
‘Greater than all these grimes is ignorance—the supreme grime.’
To not know oneself is called ignorance—avidya.
‘Bhikkhus, abandoning this grime, become immaculate.’
ततो चला मलं अञ्ञं अविज्जा परमं मलं।
एतं मलं पहत्वान निम्मला होथ भिक्खवे।।
He says, O bhikkhus—when you know yourselves, only then will you truly become immaculate. Then you will never again fall into pits of excreta. Then there will be no coming and going.
‘Shameless, crow-brave—cawing loudly…’
Brave only in cawing—in making noise.
‘Shameless, crow-brave, plundering, depraved, verbose, sinful—their life passes comfortably.’
A very unique thing Buddha said: if you want to live in convenience, the sinner’s life is convenient. Pleasure means convenience. The dishonest man lives conveniently; the thief lives conveniently. Strange words.
सुजीवं अहिरिकेन काकसूरेन धंसिना।
पक्खन्दिना पगब्भेन संकिलिट्ठेन जीवितं।।
The hypocrite’s life is convenient; the true man’s life is inconvenient. But that inconvenience leads to the supreme bliss. If so many have chosen the life of hypocrisy, it is not without cause—there is some apparent pleasure, some convenience. Who would get into trouble! Speak truth—and you fall into trouble. Here falsehood runs smoothly; be dishonest—and all is well; be honest—and you are troubled.
I once took a post in a university. Within a few days fellow teachers said to me, You are not doing rightly. I asked, What is the matter? They said, You take four periods daily! This is a government job—no need to take four daily. If you take four, it creates difficulty for us. One or two is enough—sometimes this excuse, sometimes that—and sit in the staff room gossiping—that is everyone’s work. They were annoyed with me: Do as we do. We pretend to work—no need to work.
If you work in an office and work honestly, others will instruct you: That’s not how it goes. If you do not take bribes, others will say, You’ll create obstacles for us—this will cause trouble for all of us. Here things go a certain way—go along. In this world falsehood is customary.
Thus Buddha says, The shameless life is easy, smooth, convenient. He has no shame—he becomes whatever the occasion requires. The opportunist’s life is convenient. If you have a principle, if you have sadhana—you will always find difficulty. Always hard.
No sadhana, no principle—shameless, opportunistic—he watches which way the wind blows and moves accordingly; whoever seems to help him, he goes along—crow-like cawing people—the hint is toward the same monk—the Lal-bujhakkads, the Laludayis—people who only caw; no ray of truth in their life—mere words—their life is convenient. The scholars’ life is convenient.
‘Plunderers, depraved, verbose, sinful—their life goes by with ease.’
‘The modest—ever seeking purity, alert, restrained, of pure livelihood, and seeing—their life is difficult.’
हिरिमता च दुज्जीवं निच्चं सुचिगवेसिना।
अलीनेनप्पगब्भेन सुद्धाजीवेन पस्सता।।
The more purely you wish to live, the more difficult it will be—because climbing a mountain is hard. The ascent is always hard; to rise is hard; to descend is easy. Evil is easy; good is difficult.
Therefore do not avoid difficulty—difficulty elevates. We call sadhana tapas—austerity, walking the razor’s edge. Only the courageous set out in search of truth—in inquiry.
‘O man—know that unrestrained sinful deeds are of this very kind. Let not greed and unrighteousness keep you long in suffering.’
In this sutra the gist of both is contained.
Buddha said, When something appears pleasurable on the surface—be careful; it is because of this very pleasure that you have remained in suffering for lives, and will remain. And when something appears on the surface as pain, as difficulty—take heart; pass through this thick forest, climb this peak. What is hard today will become the cause of eternal showers of bliss. Only on those heights is light. In those heights is radiance. The dark valleys—however convenient they seem…
Have you noticed, speaking falsehood always seems convenient. In the long run it puts you in trouble—but while speaking it is very convenient; it saves you. To speak truth brings difficulty in the moment; ultimately it is bliss.
Ultimately truth wins; falsehood loses. Satyameva jayate. What wins in the end—that alone is truth. The victory of truth is certain. But the journey is long. Falsehood wins quickly—Falsehood says, Now—I give you cash comfort. Truth’s comfort is long. That is why we say, after life, in moksha. The peak looks distant—tomorrow, someday—will it come, or not.
Buddha said, Suffering deceives by the mask of pleasure. I say again and again: if you see a signboard reading Heaven—do not rush in. The devil is clever—he hangs the board of heaven upon hell. Do not enter in haste—or you will be in great trouble. Often hell, seen from outside, looks very pleasant; inside the trouble begins.
A man died—he went to hell. The devil welcomed him. He was surprised—he thought the beating would begin—but he was welcomed, garlanded; the devil’s disciples danced and drummed. He was delighted—beautiful surroundings—he asked the devil, What will I have to do now?
The devil said, Choose. False rumors have been spread about us—because we never had a chance to speak. God has had so many avatars—tell me, has the devil ever had an avatar? God kept speaking—one-sided talk. He explained; no one heard us—no chance. See with your own eyes. The man thought, Right—everything looked beautiful—like heaven. Then he was taken inside. The devil said, Choose—there are three places—choose where you will stay. He said, Freedom of choice here? Absolute freedom—choose. He was taken to the first section—there vicious flogging—people bleeding. He said, This won’t do—take me to the second. In the second, great cauldrons boiled; people thrown in, roasted, burned, crying. He said, No—this won’t do either. Now he was nervous—what will the third be! There are only three—and I must choose. In the third, he found something agreeable: muck and excreta knee-deep—people standing—some drinking tea, some coffee—whatever they wanted. Only knee-deep filth.
He said, This will do. People chatting, sipping tea, coffee, Coca-Cola—it’s fine. A little discomfort—knee-deep muck—but it will do—better than fire and flogging.
They gave him tea—he too drank—very pleased. Just then a loud bell rang—and a voice: Enough—now stand on your heads. The tea time was only a short reprieve. He said, Finished—now on our heads. In the pit of filth the real time had come—to stand on the head.
Buddha said, Hell deceives with the face of heaven. Suffering wears the garb of pleasure—beware. Do not choose merely by what seems pleasant now—have a far-seeing eye. If today there is hardship in climbing—do not fear. If truth puts you in difficulty today—fall into it. If on the journey to truth there is insecurity, difficulty, thorns—pass through them; for one day this very difficulty will take you to those peaks where there is eternal peace—where truly there is heaven.
एवं भो पुरिस! जानाहि पापधम्मा असञ्ञता।
मा तं लोभो अधम्मो च चिरं दुक्खाय रन्धयुं।।
‘O man, know—unrestrained sinful acts are of this very sort.…’
They deceive as pleasure—what you get is suffering.
‘Know this. Let not greed and unrighteousness keep you long in suffering.’
Awaken! And this awakening will not come by merely hearing words. For this awakening the knots of unconsciousness must be cut—wherever there is stupor, delusion—free yourself, become unknotted.
Contemplate these sutras—do swadhyaya. Why? Because not doing swadhyaya is the grime upon mantras.
असज्झायमला मंता अनुट्ठानमला घरा।
These too are mantras—do swadhyaya upon them—otherwise dust will settle upon them too; they will be of no use. Do not become a pundit by hearing these things—awaken prajna, awaken awareness. Only when these words become your experience do they bring liberation.
Enough for today.